Chapter 4
Through the spring and into summer, my battle with melancholy continued. I missed Grandpa terribly. That was the issue to which people who knew me attributed my blues. I was so glad that no one knew the other half of my problem: heartbreak over someone other than my grandpa. Even I knew it was stupid. How could someone who wasn’t my love break my heart? It wasn’t like Gray and I had broken up. And that was the key. We had never really been together, at least not like the way I had daydreamed (and night-dreamed) about over and over. Yet we had spent a considerable amount of time in each other’s company—the best time of my short life—where I worked every minute trying to understand his moods, his comments, and the looks he gave me. The signals were always mixed.
Grandpa had been very keen for us to meet, though he warned me that Grayson (he always called him Grayson, though nobody else did) could be a bit on the serious side at times. From what I could tell, Gray and his father were very much like family to Grandpa. He’d spent a lot of time both professionally and socially with them, working on projects, lending his expertise, and guiding them on trips to some of the more exotic places he had experienced over the course of his amazing career. I had heard a number of stories about the inquisitive and precocious young boy named Grayson, told with pleasure and pride like a doting grandparent. When I saw him with the Gregorys, I realized that he had given up more than his career when he came to be with us in Louisville.
If it were possible for me to be objective, I’d have to admit that, overall, Gray had treated me more like a little sister than anything else. Still, in softer moments between his bipolar bouts of incessant teasing and stern lecturing, he had also managed to work in holding my hand, hugging me tight, and staring into my eyes. There was never any kissing—much to my disappointment and relief—but those more tender moments had still felt very romantic. Of course, I had no experience to draw on; perhaps being hit over the head with a stick by a handsome guy also felt very romantic.
I could definitely understand Gray’s initial irritation with me. His opportunity to take the reins from his father and manage a small mineral extraction project had been pulled out from under him and replaced with a glorified babysitting job. And it was all at the recommendation of my grandpa, whose role as chief advisor, mentor and best friend of the CEO of Gregory Geologic Resources, Daniel Gregory, Gray’s father, had unquestionably played a significant part in the outworking of the project’s assignments. Gray’s summer holiday off from University had taken a totally lame left turn. Gray was clearly disappointed and I was deeply mortified.
To my surprise and his credit, he took the change of plans in stride and pulled me along for the ride—literally in some cases. And to my extreme relief and thankfulness he did not take his frustrations out on me. I fully expected (and probably deserved) some variation of the cold shoulder treatment. Instead he took the time and considerable effort necessary to draw me out as we moved through the excursions that comprised his revised assignment of showing me around the land of ice and fire. I found myself talking to Gray more than I could ever remember talking to anyone, even Grandpa. He eventually broke down my barriers so that I felt comfortable enough to let my sense of humor loose. That had never happened to me before, and it felt absolutely, singularly amazing.
My sense of humor was my most secret and precious possession. As though it were a baby bird, I guarded it fiercely, so that no one could harm it, accidentally or on purpose. It was tied up with who I really was, and I had always been terrified to expose it or damage it in any way. In the past when I had revealed it, very often it had offended my mother, and it was generally totally lost on Hoyt or Grandpa. My dad had nurtured it, but it was still in very early bud when he died. I had no other close associates with which to exercise it, so it had been locked deeply away for safekeeping until I met Gray.
Although he seemed to take great pleasure in teasing me, he also seemed to intuitively understand the need to be very careful with that particularly vulnerable soft spot of mine: my humorous sensibilities. When he laughed at my jokes, it didn’t feel like I was being humored. It just felt as if he understood and appreciated my brand of humor as borne out by his reactions and responses. It was a kind of emotional intimacy I never expected to have with anybody, let alone someone like him: intelligent, handsome, and amazing.
Eventually I came to an understanding about why my feelings for Gray and the loss of my grandpa seemed to be so strangely connected. The loss was connected. Losing Grandpa meant losing my connection with Gray.
I wasn’t going to be invited to join any more survey expeditions because of what I could bring to the table. Mr. Gregory had given me his business card at the funeral and seemed sincere about helping me pursue a career in geology. But his son said three words to me that day, which, incidentally, were not ‘I love you’, and I never heard from him again.
I thought I’d rather die than insinuate myself into the Gregory family circle again. The implication of rejection was far more tolerable than its confirmation, though I had to admit, the effects were identical.
So our association was over now. I was grieving over Gray’s loss like a widow, except he wasn’t dead. I suppose because no one had ever expressed a romantic interest in me, not even Gray, for that matter, I was totally blindsided by the new experience of unrequited love and had mistakenly assumed that his ability to draw me out was connected with a purpose for doing so. It was embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I had actually thought that I would be married to him some day. I even had dreams in which we talked about that ... and did other things. So even sleeping through my depression didn’t offer the kind of solace from pain and disappointment that I dearly wished it would. In addition, it felt petty and disloyal to my grandpa to split my sadness over his loss with some guy I had known only briefly but misinterpreted so completely.
With the passing of a season the pain finally started to fade. It still flared once in a while, but I felt as if I had the emotional issues mostly under control. I had been working up to this so that I would be able to face school again—my senior year which would start before I knew it. Yet there was still one strange, negative feeling that constantly hounded me. It was weird because it seemed as if it had nothing to do with grieving, but over time it had emerged as the dominant feeling, beating out the sadness and emptiness that had been so overpowering at first. It was the feeling that I was being watched; a strange and indefinable sixth sense; the certainty of unseen eyes, observing me from somewhere close by.
I had only a vague notion of the sensation after the funeral, when it started. But as spring phased into summer, and I began to spend more time outside the house, sometimes riding my bike, sometimes hanging out in the tiny tree house in our backyard, it became impossible to ignore. I felt it on the back of my neck constantly. Of course, I didn’t dare mention it to my mom. She already wanted to have me committed. Telling her about this would be like calling the paddy wagon to arrange the pickup myself. No, just like everything else, I had to find a way to deal with it on my own and get past it.
Early into the summer break something happened and I realized that I was not a victim of irrational scopophobia (the fear of being watched) after all.
It was a very warm and sunny day late in the week. Mom and Hoyt had left for work. I had gotten up late, which was normal for me. I was hungry and in the mood for cereal. After pouring myself a bowlful, I grabbed the nearly empty container of milk from the door of the fridge.
I’ll be the first to admit that I have some obsessive-compulsive behaviors, and one of them is checking the expiration date on everything, even nonfood items—go figure. Milk is no exception. So before any milk was poured, I examined the blurry print on the front of the carton. This was wasted effort though, since I didn’t actually know the day’s date. But a sniff of the opened carton communicated very clearly the milk’s expiration. It smelled like something had expired, all right. I experienced a
brief moment of sadness as I considered that not so long ago I would have just headed next door to Grandpa’s house in search of drinkable milk. Now if I wanted fresh milk, I was going to have to ride my bike to the new drugstore on the corner and purchase it.
I got dressed and rolled off. The store was less than a mile away, but the late morning sun was scorching. By the time I got inside the building, I didn’t feel like drinking milk anymore. I needed a bottle of water instead. How ironic, I thought. If I’d just stayed home, I could have had all the free cold water I could drink. To save face with myself, I purchased a small bottle of milk along with a larger bottle of water and a chocolate bar too, since it was calling to me. The cashier offered me a sample packet of a new kind of gum, which I certainly couldn’t refuse. I accepted it gladly and tucked it in my pocket after concluding my purchase.
Walking back out the door into the sunlight, I was slightly distracted with trying to open the bottle of water. The cap was on unusually tight. I set my bag with the milk and candy bar on the sidewalk once I reached the far side of the building where I had left my bike and tried again to loosen the cap. My feeling of accomplishment at opening the bottle was cut short when a man suddenly came up holding a piece of stiff paper out toward me.
Though I didn’t have time to stare at his face because he was so fast, I did notice that he was swarthy and kind of hairy and that he had a huge gold chain around his neck. I was absolutely certain I’d never met this man, yet there was something oddly familiar about him.
He was smiling at me, but it didn’t feel like a friendly smile; it felt like something else, and the danger alarm started to ring in my mind.
He spoke to me in an overly friendly tone and said, “Hey, do you like perfume?” It was an odd sounding accent.
That was weird. He didn’t look as if he would work behind a perfume counter.
I hesitated in my confusion and growing panic. He had come from the van that I was now standing in front of because another man, who could have been his twin, started to get out of the passenger side and walk toward me as well. This must have been by design. It drew my attention, just for a second, and that was what he needed to rudely shove the paper with the “perfume” sample under my nose.
“Smell this! I think you’ll like it,” he said with an unpleasant-sounding one-syllable laugh at the end.
“What? No…no, thanks.”
But he had surprised me with his quick move, and I did get a whiff of whatever was on the card. And it did smell nice. Just as I was thinking that, my knees buckled, and I dropped my water. It took a big bounce and splashed all over Mr. Perfume’s midsection and down his legs while he cursed a blue streak in response.
Whatever I had just smelled was obviously more than perfume. It made gravity stronger and everything move in slow motion.
I tried to apologize about the water (polite to the end), while at the same time I could see the partner coming for me, his hand outstretched to catch me before I hit the pavement, having lost my ability to stand up straight, though now I realized nobody was actually concerned for my safety.
Was this really happening in broad daylight in front of the store? The accomplice was all business, no pretense of false friendliness. He grabbed me roughly and started to haul me back toward the van. I realized, with sickening awareness, that the van door was wide open, ready to swallow me whole. There was a hollow ringing in my ears, and the edges of my vision were turning dark and blurry.
Then the situation took the craziest turn. A gray-haired lady, whom I realized was no larger than me once she got close, had gotten out of her car, which was parked across the lot directly behind the van, and came sprinting over with impossible speed, while everything else around me was moving slowly, caught in a time warp. She approached from the passenger side, cutting off the approach to the van door, while both of my abductors were facing me, trying to corral me back to my feet and over to the vehicle.
It was like watching a scene from The Matrix, a scene that was probably enhanced by whatever was knocking me out. In super slow motion, she flew through the air and connected solidly, elbow first, into Perfume Guy’s lower back. His eyes bulged hugely, as if they were the only part of him that had absorbed the impact. But then the rest of him caught up, and he flopped, face first onto the sidewalk away from me.
The grip around my arm tightened painfully as I was pulled behind the other man’s body, the way a predator might try to protect its meal from a competitor trying to steal the kill. Except that I was passing out now, and my body collapsed behind him, pulling his arm with me, and he was forced to either let go or hold on and turn with my inert weight. He let go, and I too flopped on the sidewalk, banging the back of my head slightly.
I viewed the rest of the fight from this angle. My rescuer used the brief distraction I had created to spray the man in the face with what my stoned mind at first thought was Silly String. But when he started screaming and jumping up and down, batting at his eyes, I realized it was something much better. Then she jumped up in a kung fu-like move and kicked him full in the chest. The screaming stopped, but I couldn’t see what happened to him after he fell out of my field of vision. For good measure, she turned and sprayed my felled fragrance adviser as well.
In a deeply menacing tone she said simply, “Smell this.”
He whimpered but didn’t fuss like the other man had. It was probably because there was damage to his rib cage or spine…I hoped.
Then she turned her attention to me. Initially, her face had been a mask of rage, but it had transformed into deep concern as she looked me over, her hands brushing my face and then exploring the back of my head. My vision was almost completely darkened now, even though the late morning sun was shining straight into my eyes. Someone else was there now too, bending over me as they were talking, but I couldn’t see. I felt fingers on my neck. Checking my pulse?
“Should we take her to the emergency room?” I heard a man ask quietly. His accent was strange too.
“I don’t want to stay around for a police report, do you? No, let’s just take her home. I don’t think she’ll remember any of this. She’s not hurt.”
I felt myself being carried now. My heroine’s voice was sort of gruff and distinctly German sounding. It reminded me of something; was she the Terminator’s older sister?
“We’ll just put her back in bed, and she’ll probably think she overslept.”
And that is exactly what I thought, at first. I woke up at three-thirty in the afternoon. I was fully dressed. But that wasn’t abnormal for me; I did that all the time. I had a terrible headache, and I was loopy from sleeping too much. I was also seeing flashes of an extremely vivid nightmare about being abducted and rescued. The recall made me shiver and breathe faster.
I got out of bed, a little unsteadily, and went to the bathroom. As I pulled my shorts down and sat on the toilet, something dropped onto the tile at my feet. I bent over to get a better look and was instantly rewarded with a head rush. When my eyes cleared, I refocused on whatever had fallen. It was rectangular paper packaging of some sort, with blue and white print announcing “New Longer Lasting Peppermint Flavor.”
My gum sample! Were my dreams leaving behind product endorsements and freebies? I wasn’t dreaming now, and the gum was real…which meant so was the part where I had acquired it…at the drugstore…this morning.
I puzzled over what had happened to me. It all seemed straightforward except for the part where I ended up back in my bed. Somebody was trying to snatch me. Somebody else saw it and stepped in (in a kick-butt kind of way) to help me. That was logical enough. But how did she know where I lived? My keys had been in my pocket, so I understood how they could get me in, but I didn’t carry any ID. I just had the keys and some loose change in my pocket, but nothing to indicate where my bed might be. Yet here I was, and I shuttered to think how different things might be for me at the moment if she hadn’t come to my aid.
Then I began t
o ponder the intervention. So someone was at the drugstore at the same time as me, and this someone had no trouble taking down two men twice her size. This someone also somehow knew where to return me while I was unconscious. And it wasn’t just a return; it was a cover-up. Why wasn’t I at the hospital or the police station filling out a crime report? Instead, I woke up under the covers of my bed as if it had never happened. If the gum hadn’t fallen out of the pocket of my shorts, I may never have thought about it again. So was it purely coincidence that kung fu Helga was there to save me? And if it wasn’t a coincidence, as suggested by her prior knowledge of my residence and the way the situation had been handled afterward, then what did that mean? Had she been watching me and followed me to the store? If so, why?
That was how it had started. Afterward, I was more aware than ever of that strange “someone is watching me” feeling. Only I didn’t think I was crazy anymore. Whether my mom would agree with my psychological self-assessment, especially if I told her what I thought had happened, offering only a sample pack of gum as evidence, I wasn’t so sure about.
I became far more observant of my surroundings and embraced my instincts more than I ever had before. I tried to concentrate and pinpoint the times when I would have that “being watched” sensation, because its intensity would fluctuate. It ebbed and flowed during the day, but somehow it was always there.
I had once heard the aphorism (a clever observation) that even though pieces of a puzzle make funny shapes, they fit together in the end, and the picture becomes clear. Believing in the truth of that, I set to work on gathering the pieces of this mystery and putting the bigger picture together.