Forgotten (2 page)

Shamus
looked at me with a quizzical expression. I guess he had every
right to. As if reading my mind, he reached into his back pocket
and pulled out his mobile. The cover was psychedelic, bright enough
to emit its own lighting. With a few presses, Shamus shone a
brighter one directly into my eyes. I blinked.

He threw me
a cheeky wink, swung on his zebra-striped boots and casually
wandered to the door. He tapped it open with his free hand,
propelled his phone inward with the other. The golden glow from his
phone haloed him and leaked into the corridor where I was uneasily
waiting. Then it disappeared along with Shamus.

And for the first time, I remembered the
lock.

Something alien churned my insides.

A few
seconds
passed and Shamus returned. I
noticed wrinkles creasing the corner of his eyes. “Shit, Claudia,”
he said in a disturbingly offbeat tone, “what happened?”

What happened?

Snapshots
ravaged my
head. Snapshots of scattered
cushions, smashed furnishings, my well-loved book collection tossed
about…
a possible dead body
or two.

My knees
buckled. I skidded down the wall and landed with a blunt thud. I
heard the unmistakable pounding of running feet, felt strong hands
grip my shoulders.

“I was just kidding.” Shamus’ very
apologetic voice.

Kidding?
He was just kidding? One
doesn’t kid with someone like me. Even the good Sister Iglesias
would attest to that.

He helped me to my feet, my legs still shaky
and balancing on four-inch heels. “Thought I’d just mess with you.
No idea you were that worried.”

Of course,
he wouldn’t. He didn’t know me; at least not that well.

He didn’
t know my
past.

What about the smell, I wanted to ask? But
my voice was still stuck deep in my throat. I managed a small nod
instead.

Several furrows creased Shamus’ normally
smooth brow as I wobbled free of his grip. “What’s really going on
here?” he said.

I heaved a
heavy sigh. How do I answer that with a few simple words? How do I
explain the irrational need to leave my loving family, the
beautiful township I grew up in, in the hope that by doing so, by
moving interstate my absurd anxieties may actually
disappear?

I recalled
Papa’s saddened voice.
Sydney, Carino. So far from the people who love
you.

I know,
I said,
but you can always visit.

And he did, quite often, sometimes with
Mama, sometimes not.

Sometimes just to surprise me.

“Trust me, Shamus. There’s something not
right,” I repeated in a brittle voice. “And… I think there’s
someone dead in there.” I gritted my teeth to the point they hurt,
screwed my face tight and waited for the expected belly laughs to
roll out.

They
didn’t.

I tweaked
open one eyelid. A pair of wide non-humorous eyes stared back. In
fact, a decent dose of shock and disbelief seemed to darken them.
He cast a swift glance towards the apartment then back at me.
“You’re shitting me.”

I shook my head.

“H… how do you know?”

How do I know?

I moved in,
smel
led the aromatic scent of Shamus’
cologne, a pleasant change to the previous invasion of my nostrils,
heard his shallow breaths. “Because,” I whispered, “it leaves its
distinctive stench on everything it touches. Particularly in one’s
memories.
And I
remember
.”

Shamus blinked repeatedly. His mouth dropped
open. And the sudden paling of his skin made him appear unwell. He
glanced at the door again, began furiously rubbing his hand across
his mouth. Beads of sweat bubbled above his top lip. “When’s Simon
due home?”

I thought of my Simon working away at
another journalistic assignment. Only a week earlier, I had
convinced him that I’d be fine while he was gone, that he needed to
stop worrying about me.

Yet
here I
was.

“Not until the weekend.” That was a
disturbing five more days away.

Shamus took
a moment. “Ok
ay. Stay here, I’ll be
back.”

“
Like the
Terminator?
” I laughed
nervously.

He stared at me.

Crazy?

I
possibly
was. Crazy with fear.

Always the fear.

Without another word, Shamus strode down the
corridor and disappeared around the bend.

I was alone again.

Me and the palm.

***

I wrapped my
arms around my body, tried to rub away the freshening goose bumps.
Shamus would be back soon
and this whole
absurd mess sorted.

I felt useless. It was crippling me, this
fear born from unexplainable roots. I rubbed my arms just a little
harder. The sound reminded me of sandpaper against soft wood.

From the clammy air surrounding me, I heard
Papa again.

Remember
Nonna,
he said.

Nonna
?

Just the mere thought of my grandmother took
me back to a time when I was ten, back to….

Old, chunky photo frames haphazardly crowd
the marble mantelpiece, some oversized, some so tiny I can barely
make out the faces. But I know they are photos of family, of
blood.

It is the Cabriati way.

A smiling toddler dressed in a perfectly pressed sailor
outfit and clutching onto a green, toy battleship is my favorite -
Papa seated on Nonna’s lap. Not far from the mantelpiece stands a
faded floral settee. Nonna’s precious patchwork quilt lies crumpled
over it. Unlike the settee, the quilt shimmers with a rainbow full
of striking hues. I recall Nona stitching it; I recall it wrapping
me many times into its caring, exquisite warmth.

Papa bends on one knee, looks down on me; his large, sturdy
hands press into my small, fragile shoulders. I feel frighten but
not of Papa.

“
Tell
me what you just
said,” he whispers. Even at that age, I know urgency when I hear
it.

“
Someone is dead,” I repeat.

His hands tighten; they almost hurt. “Why do you think
that?” There are lines on his face, not ones I
recognize.

“
I just know,” I answer honestly. “I know
the smell.”

Papa’s gasp is loud. He draws in his breath before saying
more. “Claudia, tell me what you remember.” Papa’s eyes look dark,
almost black. It scares me because I know he is frightened
too.

“
I don’t remember.”

“
Are you absolutely certain?”

I nod my head quite vigorously. The unfriendly lines on his
face vanish. A wide, gentle smile takes their place. His strong
arms squeeze me, almost too firmly but I don’t complain. I then
feel his soft breath tickle my ear and I hear him
whisper….

“Claudia, I’m back.”

I instantly
snapped to the present and turned to Shamus. He was armed with an
iron golf club, a shaky-looking bike helmet that covered most of
his face, except for his broad eyes, and a crooked grin. His
flatmate, Clinton, lumbered alongside him.

Built like a
healthy Spanish bull, Clinton appeared ready to charge at anything
resembling red. Clothed in once-white coveralls and heavy-duty
boots - both dotted with various splashes of color - he marched to
the door, stood stiffly with his back to it and crossed his arms. A
strong odor of paint followed him.

I wanted to laugh.

But another
memory flooded back.

Papa is beating his chest with woven fists, wailing as if
in pain. He crumples to the floor like a roll of discarded paper
just outside my
Nonna’s
sewing room. “Mama,” he cries out repeatedly, “not yet, Mama…
nooo….”

My own mother immediately runs to him, gently cradles him,
soothes him with comforting
words. And she stares at me with glaring eyes. “You knew,”
she whispers. “You knew Nonna was dead.”

I instantly cower amongst the large leafy parlor palm that
decorates the entrance. “I didn’t, Mama,” I say truthfully. Tears
well in my eyes.

She grunts a few Italian curses and ignores
me.

Remember
Nonna
.

And in doing
so, it reminded me that the past is inevitably the expert. And that
same past now crowded in on me.

Another icy shiver chilled my veins.

Shamus
noticed, curved a friendly arm around my shoulders. “You
okay?”

Not really.
But I nodded, anyway.

“Clinton and I are going to check out your
place,” Shamus added. “You can stay here if you want.”

I didn’t
want; I needed to know. And the old saying – safety in numbers –
eased my fear somewhat and stubbornly encouraged me on.

Shamus strode to the apartment. He pushed
open the door and confidently stepped in. Clinton, having never
been in my apartment before, trailed behind him. I followed
last.

The swift
burst of fluorescent lighting made my eyelids flicker. Shamus
tilted his nose slightly upwards and sniffed the air. “I don’t
smell anything,” he said.

I wanted to
say,
that’s because you
hadn’t smelled it before
, but
didn’t.

Crazy had
its limits.

“
I
smell
something,” Clinton
said.

I should’ve
felt shock. Not simply because Clinton backed me up, but because he
usually responded with grunts, not actual words.

We
took a few more steps until the foyer ended and
the living area began. Shamus flicked on another light.

I gasped and
instantly clapped my hand over my mouth. The entire area was as
immaculate and as orderly as a Saturday open home display causing
me to wonder if I was even in the right place.

“
Is your
mother
visiting?” Shamus sidled up to me
with an amused expression.

I ignored
him and moved forward. Something greater than fear wanted to
examine this madness further. The kitchen sink was conspicuously
shy of the dishes left there that morning. The outdated burnt
orange bench tops, the stainless steel surfaces of the oven, the
similarly surfaced fridge, all glistened.

The
cream-
colored ceramic floor tiles were so
clear I could practically see my reflection. Cushions stood like
soldiers on the faux leather lounge, plump and perfect. Magazines
lay in straightened piles, as did the newspapers. CDs rested in
their allotted slots on the black stand. Scores of my students’
essays sat neatly arranged on the glass dining table, the table
also a victim, smudge free and dustproof.

In its
center, a glass vase filled with long, olive stems. Their tips
snipped of floral life. Creepy now took on an entirely new
meaning.

I spotted
the tea towels next. The sight of them religiously folded and
hanging in perfect formation made my belly do backflips.

Troubling
pictures of uniformed
cans, alphabetized herb jars and parceled packets stopped me from
opening the pantry doors. I grabbed Shamus’ hand, noticed his
smooth, soft skin. “This isn’t right,” I said. “We have to get out
of here.”

I dragged
him past the newly polished twin wooden elephants - I had no idea
that Simon’s obsession could look that good - past Nonna’s ancient
silver platter of hand me downs, looking very silvery, very
un-ancient and a large, second hand ceramic pot, disappointingly
seeming no different.

Clinton’s
thundering footsteps trailed behind. Before we reached the exit,
Shamus stopped, gripped my arm and made me stand rigidly still.
Beside me, an octagonal mirror eerily sparkled. I lowered my gaze
to avoid looking in it.

“Why do we have to leave?” Shamus
whispered.

“
Our place
is never this clean except in the school holidays,” I explained.
Well, not even then. Teacher plus travelling investigative
journalist - who has time to clean? And cash for a cleaner? Not at
our budding career stage.

Shamus shrugged his shoulders. “So? A friend
helped you out.”

I scoured my list of friends. Of course, any
one of them would, but only if they thought I needed the help.

I didn’t.
And it still didn’t explain the smell.

Shamus took a few steps forward, stopped,
then turned to face the hallway leading to the bedroom. Clinton and
I tailed him. The hallway was naturally unlit but it drew enough
energy from the living room light. Unwelcomed shadows danced along
a mishmash of photo frames and artificial pot plants. The
screeching silence pierced my eardrums.

“I think I can smell it now.” Shamus’ voice
was strangely quivery. “Someone’s shit themselves.”

I hoped not,
but I was also glad he finally recognized an out of place smell.
The fact that it was more a bodily excretion was comforting. Always
better than the dead person alternative.

“
I’m going
to check out the rest of the place,” Shamus said, as he centered
his club before him. Clinton loyally followed. I wasn’t as
brave.