Convicted - Romig Aleatha (мир книг .TXT) 📗
Claire pulled back and looked into Tony’s eyes. “2015—why?”
“We have a child coming in January. I asked for one year.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said it wasn’t in his power, but that he wanted to know what I knew.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Only the tip of the iceberg—I told him about Simon’s plane and that I knew for sure who killed my parents. I told him there was more, but I needed my deal first.”
Claire lifted her brow.
“I’m supposed to call back on Monday”—Tony added—“Today’s Saturday, but it’s still Friday in Boston.”
Claire grinned; it was difficult to keep track of days. She leaned into his chest and listened to the strong steady rhythm of his heart. “One year?”—She felt him nod—“I hope it goes very slowly.”
There is no greater misery than to recall a time when you were happy.
—Dante
September 12, 2016
Shit! It’s the only word that keeps coming to mind! I have a meeting in two days with the Vandersols! I’ve done everything to avoid this—minus quitting my job. I’ve had sick children, dead grandparents—none of it real. I think I’ve finally run out of personal tragedies. Ever since Claire started making progress, they’ve wanted to meet the “aide” who works “so well” with her. That’s according to Ms. Bali.
I’m about to go in for my shift, and Ms. Bali will be there. I’m sure she’ll ask if I’ll be there Thursday. The truth is—I’ve run out of ways to avoid it. I don’t want this to end. Lately, I’ve gone beyond mentioning Tony’s name. I’ve done homework; at night I’ve read—my book and my notes. I tried listening to audio recordings of Claire’s recollections. Hearing her voice, full of emotion, was too difficult; however, reading has helped refresh my memory of Claire’s life.
Then over the past month, whenever we’ve been alone, I’ve shared my research. I’ve recounted the stories she told me. I started with good memories, talking about her wedding and honeymoon. Over time, as I talked, I watched the stress leave her body. She’s even started eating by herself—as long as I talk. If I stop—so does she. I have no idea what results the doctors are getting.
After not liking Claire’s initial reaction to this new regime, I was afraid the Vandersol’s were going to stop the new protocol. Ms. Bali said they almost did. Apparently, there was some big blow-up between them and Dr. Fairfield. She said that Claire’s “wanting” to go outside with me was the small sliver of hope which persuaded them to allow the treatment to continue.
I don’t know if they’re seeing the same positive results as I am. She goes to therapy four days a week, and I have no idea what they do there. Whatever it is, when she returns, she’s tired. I’ve tried to learn what it entails; however, the answer I continually receive is, it’s a “need to know” thing. I’ve suggested her fatigue affects her eating; therefore, knowing would help me. Sometimes I forget my job description—aides aren’t supposed to question policy. Long story—short, I still don’t know what they do.
After Thursday—it won’t matter.
I don’t know if I should go to the meeting and let Emily call me out, or if I should jump ship. It’s no secret—I don’t want to quit. Well, I need to go. As the weather has continued to stay nice, I’m hoping for a little walk outside and time to tell Claire more stories.
Meredith told Ms. Bali she’d be in Thursday morning to meet with Ms. Nichols’ family. The woman looked like she was about to burst with relief. For the last month, at the end of each shift, Meredith has been required to complete a patient assessment. It’s a simple computer form asking what she did and what the patient did. Ms. Bali said the Vandersols and Dr. Fairfield wanted to discuss some of her entries.
Meredith suddenly wished she’d kept copies for herself. She knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming. She also hadn’t padded her reports with false hopes. Everything she’d reported was true, minus the preceding stimuli.
Trying to keep the impending meeting out of her thoughts, Meredith went on with her daily duties. After Claire finished dinner, she helped her with a light jacket, and they went for an evening walk. Although each night seemed cooler than last, Claire didn’t seem to mind. As they traveled the paths of the facility, Meredith talked about the changing leaves. They were just beginning to turn with the start of golden and red hues infiltrating the normally green landscape. The air held the slightest scent of autumn filling Meredith with memories of Claire’s story. It was fall of 2010 when they had ran into each other in Chicago.
The meeting had been planned. The other reporters had posted pictures of Claire and Mr. Rawlings in Chicago. Even though Meredith lived in California at the time, she couldn’t pass the opportunity to get the story everyone wanted. At the time, she was so proud of using someone else’s story to further her quest. Another article had said Mr. Rawlings was spotted at Trump Tower with the mystery woman—Claire Nichols. It was sheer luck Claire decided to get coffee that evening. Meredith had been lurking with her photographer when they saw Claire enter—the rest was history.
Perhaps it was Meredith’s concern about the impending meeting that caused her to speak without a filter; whatever the cause, she did. Soaking in the impending autumn and feeling Claire’s hand on her arm, Meredith felt the unrelenting need to repeat the apology she’d voiced to Claire years ago in California. Of course, that time it was combined with shock at the consequences of her actions. Today, it was more heartfelt and thought out. After all, it’d been festering for years. “Claire, I know I’ve told you before, but I hope you know how sorry I am about your accident. I know you loved Tony, but what happened to you—because of me—I can never apologize for enough”—She didn’t expect a response. It felt good to say this out loud, and honestly, saying it to someone who may or may not understand, but wouldn’t interrupt, was comforting—“As a reporter I wanted nothing more than to get the big story. It’s no secret—you and Tony were big news. I hoped to use our familiarity to learn what you’d been so careful not to reveal”—Tears came to Meredith’s eyes as she realized her time with Claire was about to end—“I had no idea why you’d been so careful, and you didn’t say anything to me, but having you there—a picture of us—I could use the clues to infer what you wouldn’t say”—Sobs erupted from somewhere deep, somewhere that doesn’t exist in a truly hardened reporter—“How could anyone have suspected what you were living through? I mean, never could anyone know what was happening. Claire, he did such terrible things. I don’t know how you survived. I don’t know why you survived; most people couldn’t. I don’t think I could.”
They were deep into the wooded path, and the setting sun caused shadows to loom in every direction. Removing her sunglasses, Meredith wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pleaded, “I hope someday you can forgive me, as you forgave him. You may not realize it”—she snickered at herself—“I’m sure you don’t, but your ability to love him after all of that—well, it has been inspirational. I mean, my God Claire, the man almost killed you!”
“Stop.”
Meredith’s feet stopped moving by command. As if on cue, so did Claire’s. Inhaling her emotion, Meredith stood still, wondering if she’d imagined the one word. When she heard only the sound of leaves rustling in the gentle twilight breeze, Meredith questioned, “Did you just talk?”
Still wearing Meredith’s sunglasses, Claire’s face was downcast. Meredith couldn’t resist. She removed the sunglasses and lifted her friends chin, revealing tears streaming down Claire’s cheeks, overflowing her unfocused eyes. “You spoke,” Meredith whispered. “I heard it. Oh God! Claire, tell me I didn’t just imagine that!”
