Authors: Elle Lothlorien
“Seelonce Feenee” is transliterated from the French:
silence fini
. Like its opposite, Seelonce Mayday, it has been co-opted as an international radio call, signaling the end of an emergency.
Literally, it means something else entirely: The silence is at an end.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
November 6
th
The ceiling fan is on in the bedroom. My steps are lost in the endless drone of the circling blades as I creep in through the balcony door by the bluish light of the full moon.
Brendan’s stretched out diagonally across the king-sized bed, face-down on top of the covers, his face turned away from me. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s wearing dress pants and a long-sleeve shirt. He’s definitely wearing shoes, no doubt about that.
It’s while I’m standing there, still as a statue, listening to Brendan breathe, that it happens. It’s so unexpected, so odd, that at first I think I’ve imagined it.
No way
, I think.
There’s just no way. And how would you know anyway? You wouldn’t
.
I wait, not moving. After awhile it happens again. This time I’m so surprised that I stop breathing. I stop second-guessing myself or explaining it away, and just believe it.
I drop on the bed next to Brendan with no pretense of stealth, knowing he won’t wake up. Four years of medical school, four years of residency, post-residency fellowships–all involving shifts as long as eighty hours under high-stress situations, and the knowledge that every decision you make could result in the death of a human being–has resulted in the ability to sleep like the dead anywhere, anytime, and under any conditions. The only other occupation I can think of that finely hones this particular talent is a combat soldier in a trench.
I roll on my side, moving as close to him as I dare, my forehead almost touching his shirt sleeve. I inhale deeply, hungry for the familiar scent of him. Against my better judgment, I reach for his hand in the darkness and close my eyes. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts.
A wild, choking noise–and the feeling of my body being violently bounced up and down– shocks me awake. The crash that follows–dozens of objects, some of them glass, all of them hitting the floor simultaneously–ensures that I won’t be drifting back off anytime soon.
I sit up, bleary-eyed and disoriented in the bright light of mid-morning. Brendan is splayed out on the floor in the bedroom of Andy’s guesthouse, an overturned nightstand beside him. The crystal lamp has exploded across the hardwood floor around him in a halo of glass shards.
Without thinking, I clamber off the bed to help him.
“Get away!” he shouts, holding his hand up in warning.
“Brendan, I–”
“Just stay back!”
His face becomes distorted through a thick curtain of my tears. I blink them away, just as I feel his hand on my arm, pulling me backwards.
“Are you hurt? Did you step on the glass?”
I shake my head, stalling for time before he notices me sniveling. “No, I’m fine.”
He grabs me by the shoulders and looks me up and down. “Why are there blood stains all over your clothes? What happened to you?” He releases me just as suddenly, like he just remembered what happened the last time he touched me.
I take in his red-rimmed eyes, the circles under them darker than ever, his rumpled clothes. Everything I’d rehearsed, all the questions I wanted to ask, all the things I wanted to say are like the lamp on the floor: scattered in a thousand pieces that won’t ever fit back together the same way.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s not my blood. It’s a long story…”
He takes a step backwards. “What are you doing here?”
“I need…”
I need to tell you that I know what happened
, I think.
I need to tell you something important
. “I need some clothes,” I say lamely. “Most of mine are still here.”
His brow creases. “How did you get here?”
“I borrowed Andy’s boat yesterday. I had to bring it back to the marina, so he had his driver bring me here.”
He looks out towards the dock, then back at me. “You came all the way from Manhattan Beach to Malibu in the middle of the night…for a change of clothes?” He twists his mouth to one side. “Claire,” he says, his tenor a gentle reproach. “You can’t be here. Things are so…” His face falls, and he presses his thumb and index finger into his eyes. When he pulls them away, his lashes are wet.
I sniff away the saline that’s drained into my nose, and look away. “Listen, can I just–can I just use your shower?”
“If you tell me why you’re covered in–”
“I will,” I say. “Right after I wash all this blood off.” I head for the closet, grateful to have a reason to stall. Inside, I grab a blouse, jeans, panties, a bra from the shelves and throw them into a pile on the floor. It takes a little more rooting around, and a precarious balancing act on top of a plastic clothes basket, but I find my duffel bag on the top shelf.
I hold it by the straps, surprised at the vividness of the memory it provokes: me in the sleep lab, staring at the same bag on the couch, chiding myself for flirting with my doctor:
Get it together, Claire-Bo. This is a sleep lab, not Match.com
.
I jam the clothes into the bag, zip it up, and head for the bathroom. I’m thrilled to find my toothbrush still in the holder, and all my toiletries in the cabinet. When I come out, thankfully dressed in clean clothes and smelling like mango body wash, I see Brendan’s upgraded his appearance as well, changing out of yesterday’s clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is still wet from a fresh combing, and he’s more closely shaved than I’ve ever seen him before.
“I should’ve told you and Wendy,” I say, dropping the bag on the bedroom floor.
“What?”
“About the hypersexuality stuff.”
“You don’t need–”
“As much as I thought you were a jerk, I also knew that you were smokin’ hot.”
“Claire, nothing that–”
“And I knew that within the next few days, the cataplexy attacks would end, and the KLS episode would start. Davin took me to lunch the same day that I met you, did I ever tell you that? When he found out that I didn’t tell you guys the truth, he chewed my ass pretty good.” I smile wryly. “You know Davin–he was happy to provide all the lurid details of my other hypersexuality attacks.”
Except one
, I add to myself.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “If I’d been honest from the start, at least with Wendy, there’s no way we would’ve ended up in the sleep lab together that morning.”
“What they say I did, it’s not true.” He inhales slowly, like he’s frantic to explain, but he’s fighting to control himself. “The video…” He trails off, like he’s giving up before he even gets going. “I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am for what I’ve done to you.”
“What have you done?”
He looks confused. “
Nothing
,” he says, “I haven’t done anything, but that video…it looks so damn bad. And the fallout for you…I don’t care about the trial, or the jury or lawyers or the public,” he says. “I just want
you
to believe me, and I know that you don’t. I want you to fight for ‘not guilty’ because you think I’m innocent, not because it’s a good career move.”
I sigh and look at the floor. “You’re right. When Lucinda Gaelic showed me the footage, I really did think that you, well, you know…” I can’t bring myself to say the word “rape,” even now that I know it’s not true. “I
did
think you were guilty. Then they didn’t charge you with
that
. So then I thought that maybe you’d just lost your horny mind for a whole thirty seconds, and I felt better about what I decided to do.” I look at him. “And just so you know, it wasn’t just a career move. I had
other
things to think about, things that you didn’t.”
I expect he’ll grab right onto the hook I threw on there at the end, but he just stares at the floor, like he’s so exhausted he just can’t hold up his head anymore.
“Some days I feel like it would be better if I had just pled guilty,” he says, “put an end to this, save you and my parents and everyone else from this embarrassment.”
“Will you listen to yourself? You’re so wrapped up in some sort of guilt for something you didn’t even do that you’re not thinking straight.”
“I could’ve handled it better. I should’ve waited until there was someone else in the sleep lab before I went in with you.”
At this point we start yelling over each other.
“For a guy who says he didn’t think he did anything wrong, you’re awfully gung-ho about ruining your life over nothing!” I say.
“The trial isn’t going to end well, Ben’s already told me. And I know they’re going to call you–”
“And
my
life!”
“Why do you think I’m–”
“And it’s like you don’t want to listen to what I came here to tell you!”
This brings him up short. “What? What did you come here to tell me?”
“Look, I can’t tell you how I know, but I don’t believe it anymore. I don’t think you hurt me, or drugged me, or any of the other preposterous crap they’re claiming. The problem is that nothing is what it looks like. So, even if what I do from here on out doesn’t seem to make any sense to you, I want you trust me.”
He stares at me, looking relieved and confused. He drops onto the mattress next to me, so close that I can see where the dusky green of his irises sharpen to jade. He takes my hand. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.”
A deep flush spreads over me, and I wonder if I’ll ever react any other way to the feel of his hands on me. “Do you trust me?”
“I do, but I don’t understand why you can’t tell me why the sudden change of heart.”
I shake my head. “My heart was never the problem, believe me.”
He kisses me then, very, very gently, holding my face in his hands, before trying to pull away.
Uh-uh, no way
, I think. I put my right foot on the floor and swing my left over his lap until I’m straddling him.
He leans backwards, away from me. “Claire, c’mon. What are you–”
I pull my shirt over my head, toss it behind me, and dive in, desperate to feel his mouth on mine, frantic to touch as much of his bare skin as possible.
He finally responds, falling backwards, taking me with him. Then he rolls over until he’s on top of me. After a few seconds, he pushes me away and rolls onto his back, breathing heavily. “We have to stop,” he says. “I can’t do this.”
“Other parts of your body seem to be indicating otherwise,” I say as I run my tongue along his earlobe.
Brendan groans and rubs his face. “This whole thing is such a goddam mess!”
“Hey,” I say, putting my hand on his cheek. He won’t look at me so I try again, louder. “Hey!”
Finally, he turns his head.
“Do I love you?”
His gaze softens and he watches me for what seems like hours. “Like I love you,” he says, finally.
“If you love me, then you can trust me. Do you trust me?”
“Claire, my attorney told me that I shouldn’t even talk to you.”
“You should definitely listen to your attorney,” I say as I pull his t-shirt up to his armpits. I tug, waiting for him to get the hint.
He sighs. “If I was going to listen to my attorney, then–”
“If you were going to listen to your attorney, you’d shut up and stop talking.”
Finally, he gets the hint.
*****
I look up at him over the plate of pancakes he’s made for me to find him studying me. “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting? For what?
“For you to tell me everything else.”
I put my fork down, my appetite gone. “Right.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, stalling for time. “I know you’re going to be shocked when I tell you this, and I don’t want you to be angry after I tell you, because I can’t go into a lot of detail at the moment–”
“Claire, just tell me!”
“Davin’s alive.”
“
What
? How do you know that?”
“Remember the dried blood?” I nod once. “That was his.”
“Where did you–how did you–”
I hold up my hand. “They flew him to a trauma center last night. That’s all I can tell you about that right now. Seriously.”
“Well, that’s fantastic news! When he wasn’t found right away, I really thought the worst, you know?” His smile fades away. “But that’s not all, is it?”
“Not exactly.” I pick up my fork and push my pancakes around on the plate.
“Well…?” says Brendan.
“The day that Davin took me to see my doctor…” I trail off, unable to finish. I drop the fork when I notice my hand is shaking.
“Your doctor did a urine test, and you had a UT.” He smiles. “Just like I thought.” When I don’t answer his smile vanishes. “Right?”
“No.”
“No?”
I start to shiver then, so hard that I’m practically vibrating. “I don’t know how to–I can’t tell you.”
“You obviously came all the way here to do it, so just do it.”
“I can’t do it here.”
“Well…” He exhales, sounding exasperated. “Where then?”
“Can we go down to the overlook?”
“We can do whatever you want.”
He leads the way through the house to the side entrance. I put my sunglasses on so he can’t see my eyes as we the cross the lawn and descend the stairs to the overlook. A stone apron opens out at the bottom where Andy has installed a curved, volcanic glass bench facing the ocean. It’s set too high for me; my legs dangle above the ground like a child’s unless I perch right on the edge.
“Are we going to sit down?” says Brendan after a few seconds of silence. It must be his doctor training kicking in. I would be jumping out of my skin with anticipation; he just gets calmer by the second, like he’s getting ready to saw into my skull and put it in a freezer somewhere.
He pushes his sunglasses onto the top of his head. When I don’t answer he reaches down and grabs one of my dangling, dead weight hands. “Claire, what’s going on? What’s wrong? C’mon, you’re scaring me.”