Figure Eight Read online

  Figure Eight

  Copyright © 2017 by Calia Read

  Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  Cover Design by Cover Couture

  Editing by Marie Piquette Editing

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  PART II

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  PART III

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  PART IV

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To the real Sam and Noah.

  I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted within me.

  —Psalm 22:14

  “BE HONEST WITH me. How’s my hair?”

  Those are the first words that Claribelle Sandoval asks me.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. When she was contacted about the one-year anniversary taping of the small city tragedy, the first two things she asked were: would she get paid and would she get a wardrobe?

  The answers were no and no.

  That didn’t stop her from agreeing to have us to interview her. Who could possibly pass that up? The tragedy surrounding Selah Kerrington was severe enough to catch nation-wide attention. Front pages for weeks. Journalists from local newspapers all the way to The Wall Street Journal were running stories about this elusive woman from central Illinois.

  And now it was almost the one-year anniversary. We knew that if we wanted an authentic take on the story we were going to have to go to the very place it happened. The crew and I arrived two days ago.

  “Now, I’ve always been told that my left side is my best angle. Feel free to tell me differently.”

  I nod, barely listening to her rambling. This woman was going to make me take up smoking, and I quit five years ago. Right about now she was starting to turn into one giant cigarette. Besides, the truth of the matter is the camera will love this lady. She’s a beautiful person. Even if she wore no makeup and a trash bag for a shirt she’d be beautiful.

  Her dark brown hair has caramel highlights—which I’m willing to bet a pack of cigarettes were done yesterday; her eyes are amber; and she has the kind of pale skin that make her red lips look bold and daring.

  Her interview isn’t for another ten minutes but she sits primly in her seat, sipping on a Diet Coke. Every time she takes a sip the makeup artist had to redo her lipstick.

  The only tell of her nerves is her right leg slightly bouncing up and down. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she’s nervous, which can mean one of two things: she’s camera shy or she has secrets that she doesn’t want getting out.

  There are a few orange ladders around the room with people standing on top of them as they fix the portable light stands. Multiple cameras are being angled her way. Cables are running to and fro yet no one trips. Claribelle is sitting on a single stool watching everything. The longer she stares the paler she becomes.

  “Do you prefer Claire or Claribelle?” I ask.

  I already know the answer from executive producers and past interviews.

  “Claribelle,” she replies.

  “Pretty name. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  She perks up at the prospect of conversation being focused in her direction. “Oh, yes. All the time.”

  I smile and she smiles back.

  “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. You have to pretend that the cameras aren’t here. Don’t look at them. We’re just having a normal, easy conversation. Alright?”

  She swallows before she nods.

  In a perfect world we’d get this shot in one or two takes, but the film crew and I both know that’s not going to happen. Claribelle may look good for the camera but she’s not used to the camera.

  We do a sound check in which everyone on set eleven, including Claribelle, stays silent. Her hands are laced together so tightly it looks like she’s cutting off her circulation. Audio and video switchers are studiously working in the makeshift control room.

  I glance down at the questions on the page in my lap. I give her one last smile. “Remember. Don’t look at the screen. We’re just talking one on one, right?”

  She nods just as a crewman walks into the shot with a clapperboard. Written in the title line, in white messy handwriting is, ‘The Selah Kerrington Story: Victim or Villain?’

  “You ready, Claribelle?”

  She lifts her chin up a notch and gives me a brief nod.

  “Take one!” I shout.

  The clapperboard snaps together.

  There is a brief moment of silence, and then I dive into the questions. “Claribelle, how well did you know Selah Kerrington?”

  Her lips purse into a thin line. “I hardly knew Selah. I’d met her only twice.” I watch as she looks away momentarily and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Right then, I knew she wasn’t telling the complete truth. I could push, but it’s too soon for that.

  “And what are your thoughts about her?” I ask.

  Claribelle surprises me by completely ignoring the camera and looking me dead in the eye. “She’s an evil, manipulative bitch who can’t be trusted.”

  DO YOU REMEMBER me?

  Of course you don’t. So I’m going to give you a refresher course.

  I’ve known you for years and years. We used to have beautiful conversations. There was no one that knew you better than me. Right now, if I told you that we used to be close, chances are you wouldn’t believe me.

  But it’s true. You have to believe me on that.

  Selah, not so long ago you needed me. You relied on me. I was your comfort. Your escape. But you left me. Patiently, I’ve been waiting for you to come back.

  You haven’t.

  If you don’t remember me, then you certainly can’t miss me, but sometimes I feel a certain tug in your direction. And I know you feel it too. It’s like extending your arm for something out of your reach. The muscles in your arms burn but you keep going and going until at the last minute your arm gives out and drops heavily to the ground. Instead of giving up, you keep reaching. And reaching. And reaching.

  This shows me that you have hope. And that you’re also a fighter. I like that about you. But it’s achingly obvious
that you’re miserable.

  It covers your shoulders and drapes itself across your figure. A few times, you’ve tried to fight it off. But it’s hanging on for dear life and now you’ve realized that it’s no use to try and put up a fight. So it starts to pull your body down with every breath you take. Pretty soon your shoulders will hit the ground, but by then it will be too late.

  You deserve light. The brightest colors out there. Your mouth needs to smile and laughter needs to spill out. Your hollow brown eyes need to be filled with hope and the promise of tomorrow. No matter how many times I try to tell you that, you’re slowly breaking apart. Everyone around you sees your suffering, but they’re not willing to help you.

  But isn’t that how it always goes? There for the happiness, but never the hurt.

  Cowards.

  They’re too afraid that what you’re feeling is contagious and they’ll catch the darkness that whirls around you. But I’m not afraid, and I know I’m stronger than your agony.

  I like you; there’s something special about you.

  I might love you; your heart is just like mine.

  So I’m going to make you something special. It’s something that I’ve been working on for months. And it’s something that will obliterate your pain.

  If you want, I’ll wrap it in a pretty package and hold it out to you.

  Please, go ahead. Take it.

  But if you take my gift, you’re accepting me, too. Don’t worry, we’ll become fast friends. We’ll pick up right where we left off.

  You seem to forget that I’m your figure eight. Your infinity. You try to run but I will always find you.

  I BLAME FEBRUARY.

  It’s such a pathetically small month, wrapped up in the comfort of hot chocolate, snow angels and candy and flowers from your very own Valentine. But that’s all smoke and mirrors so you don’t notice the Antarctic winds and frosty pavements. Then you blink and you find yourself wondering, How is it already March?

  February… it takes away your opportunities and chances. It leaves you with nothing.

  Yes, that’s it. That’s why I haven’t got a job. It’s all February’s fault.

  I pull back from the screen and rub my eyes. Picking up my pen, I cross out office manager. Another job down the drain. The sad part about all of this is not my pathetic attempt to blame my calendar, but the fact that this office manager position was the most promising one I’ve seen in days.

  I’m trying to keep an optimistic attitude. Tomorrow, a new job might pop up. And who knows, it might be the right fit for me. But I thought that yesterday morning and the day before that. The selection is getting smaller and smaller, each job sketchier than the last one.

  My pen taps against the notepad as I pick up the newspaper on my lap and re-scan the job ads, as if I’d missed a good one the first few read throughs. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, reminding myself to take a deep breath in. Deep breath out. Everything’s okay. There’s no reason to panic.

  Another deep breath in. My left hand forms into a fist. I drop my chin onto my knuckles and glance out the window and stare at the backyard. From this angle I have a view of both neighbors flanking our house. The one on the left have two kids, but you’d never know it judging by how spotless their backyard is. The other has one but it looks like a Toys R Us warehouse blew up in their backyard.

  Snow is steadily falling, like sprinkles of sugar. A little girl dressed in a leopard pink snowsuit builds a snowman with her daddy. She laughs at something he says. It’s so picturesque. So charming, I’m almost tempted to open up the window and shout out to them that moments like this won’t last forever. Sooner than later life bites you in the ass and when it does it bites hard.

  A new e-mail pops into my inbox. I sit upright and turn my attention back to my laptop. I squint at the screen, staring at the e-mail address: [email protected].

  Curiosity gets the best of me and I click on the e-mail even though there’s no subject line and I have no idea who it’s from.

  The e-mail only says on word: Hello.

  Instinctively, I click delete and continue on with the job search, which, if I’m being completely honest, is just a futile attempt. In the four weeks I’ve been home I’ve had a total of two interviews. Both of them were teaching jobs. I came out of the interviews telling myself that I did well. I’ve had a steady career as a second grade teacher for years now and good references. Well, I used to have good references. But that’s a whole other story.

  Yet the call backs never arrived.

  My next interview is tomorrow. And even though it’s only my third, I still feel the beginning of panic creeping in. It’s the fear of the unknown, treading on uneven ground, that scares me, because all I can see is the money that isn’t coming into my checking account and the money coming out of my savings. Things may be okay for now, but my savings is quickly turning into a well that’s about to run dry.

  There was a small stack of bills next to the front door when I moved back in with Mom that crisp January morning. I remember stomping the snow off my shoes and staring at it as though it were a foreign object. Mom always kept the home in perfect order. Everything always had a place. She was the mom who, when you were finished with your food, would grab the plate from your hand and put it in the dishwasher.

  Yet that stack is turning into a small mound. This morning I attempted to open a few. I was determined to put a dent in the pile. But I became overwhelmed and put it aside to come upstairs. I’ve been upstairs ever since.

  Another ping. New message from the exact same person.

  Where have you been? is all it says.

  “Buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I mutter to the screen before I once again click delete and go to a different web page.

  “Selah? Honey? I need you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and push away from the desk. I miss the days when I could be relaxed and complacent at the sound of Mom’s voice. Now it just makes me bolt upright in alarm. My first thought is, What’s happened now?

  “I’m coming,” I holler.

  Before I walk out of the room I glance at the computer. The blinker taunts me, saying, Don’t leave! You need to keep searching! For a millisecond I’m tempted to stay. Then I think of Mom downstairs, by herself.

  She needs me.

  I suppose this moment was bound to happen. That period in time when the parent stops being the parent and the child does the taking care of. It’s part of life. I just always pictured this moment fifteen to twenty years down the road. Not now.

  At fifty-three my mom’s perfectly healthy. Happy. Hardworking. There’s no disease ravaging her body. That is, if you don’t count depression.

  No one saw her downward spiral. Especially me. Maybe if I did I would’ve been more prepared. But I’m not and now I’m back in my hometown, living in my childhood home and taking care of my mom.

  Quickly I bound down the stairs, my hand lightly grazing the bannister. When I reach the last step I stop and look to the right, into the living room. The green and white checkered chair that she always sits in is vacant. The TV is on. The couch is covered with wadded-up blankets, the coffee table littered with piles of Good Housekeeping magazines, newspapers, and old food wrappers.

  There’s been an aberrant odor wafting throughout the house recently, so even though it’s the dead of winter I’ve cracked a few windows open in the hopes it would find its way out. A few times, in a desperate attempt, I’ve sprayed some Febreze but it did nothing.

  The bay window behind the couch is cracked, causing the curtains to lift up lightly, as if ghosts are toying with the gauzy material of the curtain.

  “Mom?” I call out.

  She doesn’t reply.

  I step out into the hall. “Mom?”

  Panic, large and powerful, threatens to seize me. It doesn’t matter that I locked the front doors and repeatedly told her I’d be upstairs, she could’ve up and left the house and wandered down the street. She coul
d be anywhere.

  I walk through the dining room, but I know there’s no possible way she’s in here. There are boxes, opened and unopened, everywhere. About two weeks after I came back to my childhood home, I realized it was just too big for both Mom and me. I talked it over with her and she agreed that it might be time to downsize. Yet downsizing required getting rid of clutter and Mom had a lot of it. I wouldn’t call her a hoarder but she’s damn near it.

  There are light square marks on the wall from pictures that have been taken down and are now leaning against the wall. I’d packed up some photo albums and some fine china, but I still had a ways to go. Quickly, I weave my way through the maze of boxes toward the kitchen.

  Oh, God, I think, someone might find her and call the cops. And then they’ll take her away and I don’t know if—

  All my terrible thoughts come to a halt when I enter the kitchen and see her sitting at the table. A coffee cup is placed in front of her. Slowly she pours a Sweet’N Low packet into the cup. When it’s empty she gently places it to her left, where a neat stack is starting to form. She grabs another pink packet to her right and repeats the process.

  Loudly, I sigh in relief, not even caring that she’s making a mess. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  Slowly, she lifts her head. She shrugs and stirs her drink slowly. Mom has her good days and then some bad days. Today is a bad one. She may physically be here, but her mind is clearly elsewhere.

  Two months ago she was placed involuntarily in the psychiatric unit at St. Mary’s hospital for seventy-two hours. A stranger found her walking down the street in her robe and slippers. Later on, I learned that she was laughing manically and crying out in pain.

  Signing her out wasn’t hard. The doctors monitored her and saw no reason to keep her. They said she was in a depressive state, encouraged that she look for a therapist and we were on our way.

  Repeatedly Mom reassured me that she’d had a bad day when she was a found on the streets. That’s all. Doesn’t everyone have bad days?

  I agreed with her but told myself to check in on her more often. Call her to see how she was doing. But days later the very same thing happened and this time it was harder to sign her out. Doctors wanted her to stay for two weeks for further treatment. They thought it was more than depression. A ‘psychotic breakdown’ they’d said. They continued speaking, but I blocked them out because I knew my mom wasn’t psychotic. Depressed, maybe. But not psychotic.