Unspeakable (14 page)

Collin still couldn't fathom how he'd lost ten minutes like that. It was scary—and maddening the way Gail and Fernando acted as if it were all a joke. He kept insisting to his friends that he hadn't faked anything.

Before heading to the car with Fernando, he turned to Gail one last time on the Pelhams' front porch. “Listen, I'm totally serious,” he whispered. “I don't know what went on down there. Can't you tell me?”

Frowning, she crossed her arms in front of her. “I think you need to stop,” she said quietly. “I mean, enough is enough. It's not funny anymore, Collin. It wasn't even funny when you were acting like that. In fact, it was kind of disturbing.”

Collin wanted to tell her that it was no joke, that he was scared and confused. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he decided to shut up. He turned away and started for the car.

 

 

As he drove Fernando home, all Collin could think about were those lost ten minutes. But he didn't mention anything to his friend—and he didn't ask about the video.
Enough is enough
, Gail had said. Obviously, Fernando felt the same way. The two of them were quiet—until Collin turned down Fernando's block.

“Just so you know,” Fernando said, at last. “You drive like an old fart.”

Collin wasn't taking any chances with his shiny red Ford Taurus. Though last year's model, it was new from the dealer. “Thanks a lot,” he said, pulling into the Ryans' driveway. “You can walk home next time. Listen, seriously, I just have one question for you.”

Fernando opened the car door. “What's that?”

“Can you hear the drums?”

Fernando rolled his eyes. “Oh, up yours, like that's the first time I've heard that.” He gave Collin's shoulder a punch. “By the way, that was a pretty good act you put on back there in Gail's basement.”

Collin worked up a smile. “Thanks. See you later.”

His smile waned as he watched his friend head inside the house. Collin backed out of the driveway and drove to the stop sign at the end of the block. There wasn't any traffic tonight. Shifting to park, Collin let the car idle while he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He had to see the video now. He couldn't wait until he got back to his grandparents' house. He tried to power on the phone, but realized the battery was too low. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Heading for his grandparents' house, Collin became even more anxious about the video. What had gone on during those missing minutes? His foot got heavier and heavier on the accelerator as he sped down Viking Way. He hoped Fernando's email came through okay. He'd go nuts if he didn't get to see it tonight.

His grandparents had left some lights on downstairs for him. Collin came in from the garage, locked up, and checked the front door, too. The digital clock on the kitchen stove read 12:20
AM
. He crept up the back stairs to his room, and then quietly closed the door behind him. Clicking on the computer, he saw Fernando's email at the top of the mail listing:

The icon showed an attachment. Collin clicked on it. Aside from the subject head, Fernando hadn't written any text. Collin ignored all the standard warnings, and downloaded it. A few moments passed before the window appeared with a frozen image—showing him on the sectional sofa in Gail's basement. His eyes were closed. The picture was a bit fuzzy. From the lighting in the room, everything looked slightly murky with an orange/brown tint.

Collin clicked on the arrow to play the video. He waited another near-unendurable half-minute for it to start playing. He watched himself sitting there with his eyes still shut. He heard Gail, off-camera, murmuring something to him. Collin tuned up the volume, and listened to her ask, “Are you in your safe place?”

He nodded in response. Collin remembered that much. He glanced at the counter at the bottom of the picture, and saw the number of minutes and seconds left for the video: 6:57.

“You're very sleepy . . . so tired,” Gail was saying. “You're in your safe place, and all you want to do is drift off to sleep. But you need to listen to me and stay awake just a little longer. I'm going to count down from five, and then you can go to sleep, all right?”

Collin watched himself nod again. He'd seen her go through this procedure with Fernando, but didn't remember her doing this with him. His eyes were still closed. Gail started counting backward from five. By the time she reached
one
, his head gradually tipped back and his mouth dropped open.

The image wobbled a bit. He guessed Fernando hadn't been able to keep the iPhone steady. On-screen, Gail quietly asked if he could hear her voice. Did he understand what she was telling him? Was he comfortable?

He lifted his head slightly, and then nodded in response to every query.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked.

He nodded again. “The safe place, the hideout . . . Shilshole Bay . . .”

Bewildered, Collin leaned closer to the computer monitor. The voice that came out of him wasn't his own.

The image went out of focus for a second. “What the hell?” Fernando said.

Gail shushed him. Collin watched the shot come into focus again. His eyes were open now, and he stared off camera at Gail, whose shoulder was at the very edge of the frame.

“Okay, Collin,” Gail said. “You're somewhere near Shilshole Bay, and you're safe. You're listening to my voice right now—”

“I'm not Collin,” he said. “I'm Wade. . . .”

With a hand over his mouth, Collin stared at the screen. He didn't remember any of this. None of it made sense.

Gail leaned in close to him. “What's your last name,
Wade
?”

“Grinnell, Wade Grinnell,” Collin heard himself say in that strange voice.

Grabbing a pen from his desktop, he scribbled the name,
Wade Grinnell,
on the Post-it pad. He put a question mark after it.

On screen, he scowled at Gail and then at Fernando behind the camera phone. “Who the hell are you? Is this another goddamn police interview? You guys don't look like cops. . . .”

“The police have interviewed you?” Gail asked.

He smirked at her. “Yeah, don't you know? I'm a dangerous character. . . .”

“What are the police accusing you of,
Wade
?” Gail put a sarcastic emphasis on the name.

“Well, they say I've been an awfully bad boy to some girls like you—and their mommies, daddies, and little brothers. That's all I'm going to tell you, baby.” He turned to squint at the camera. “What do you have there, José? A transistor radio?”

“Collin!” Gail said, scandalized.

He was shocked at how racist he sounded. But Fernando just chuckled, and the camera shook. Bewildered, Collin stared at the video, and kept shaking his head. It was like watching someone else entirely.
Wade
pointed to something in front of him—off camera. “What the hell is that, a TV?”

“Oh, give me a break,” Fernando muttered.

“Of course it's a TV,” Gail said.

“Is this your place?”

“Yes,” she replied impatiently. “Yes,
Wade
, I live here with my parents and my younger brother.”

“Shit, you must be loaded. Are they here now?”

“Yes, everyone's upstairs, asleep.”

“So where does your old lady keep her purse?”

“You're not serious,” Gail muttered. The camera panned over to her, shaking her head. “You know, that really isn't funny.”

“Hey, cool it, bitch,” he grumbled. He turned toward the camera again—and Fernando. “Who are you listening to on that thing? Chubby Checker? Elvis? Y'know, I saw Elvis while he was shooting that movie at the fair a few weeks back. Talk about nuts, it was a goddamn mob scene with all those screaming, fainting chicks. . . .”

“You saw Elvis,” Gail repeated skeptically.

“You mean he hadn't left the building yet?” Fernando cracked. The camera wobbled. “God, you are so full of shit!”

His fist clenched, he shot a lethal, threatening look toward the camera. His eyes were so cold. “What the fuck did you just say to me, asshole?”

“That's enough, Collin!” Gail said.

For a moment, it looked like he'd lunge at the camera—and Fernando.

“Collin?” It was Gail's voice again.

He watched himself on the screen, and a chill raced through him.

His eyes rolled back, and his mouth fell open.

Gail snapped her fingers. “Okay, c'mon now, Collin. Cut it out. . . .”

He suddenly focused on her. “What?” he asked, in his normal voice.

“Bullshit artist!” Fernando said, off camera.

The video abruptly stopped and returned to the first, grainy image of him with his eyes closed—from seven minutes before.

Collin sat there in a stupor. He couldn't understand why he'd acted like that. It was so bizarre to hear a stranger's voice coming out of his mouth. The things he'd said about Elvis Presley, Chubby Checker, and transistor radios made absolutely no sense. Collin wondered if watching that old movie had triggered those sixties references. At least now he knew why Gail had found the whole session pretty disturbing.
“I'm a dangerous character,”
he'd said with a smile, but it looked like he'd meant it. He'd seemed proud of it.

It wasn't him in that video. It was somebody else.

Collin glanced down at the name he'd scribbled on the Post-it:

 

“Oh, the hell with it,” Olivia muttered.

She threw back the sheets to her four-poster bed and switched on the nightstand lamp. She'd thought
Saturday Night Live
might help take her mind off things, but it was a rerun. She'd watched part of it anyway, and then gone to bed depressed—only to toss and turn for an hour.

Olivia put on a robe over her faded University of Washington nightshirt, and then wandered over to her purse, which hung on the back of the desk chair. She dug out her cigarettes and took an ashtray from the desk. Opening the window all the way, she sank down in the stuffed easy chair beside it. The chair had a pink, green, and white flowery pattern that matched her bedspread.

Olivia's father had kept her room the same as when she'd moved out—back in 2000. Above the double bed, there was a framed movie poster from
Titanic
, which she'd adored at age nineteen. After college, even though she'd outgrown the movie, she'd left the poster up there. She'd decided not to change anything in her room—so she couldn't get too comfortable living at home with her father.

How in the world could she have known she'd be moving back here at age thirty-four?

With the ashtray in her lap, she lit up her cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled toward the window. She used to put away nearly a pack a day in this room, and thought nothing of it. But for this return stay, she'd resolved not to smoke in her father's house—even though he'd claimed he didn't mind at all. She usually stuck to these self-imposed restrictions and stepped outside to smoke. But tonight she was making an exception.

Olivia surveyed the room again. In addition to Kate and Leo “flying” at the front of the doomed luxury liner, she had a framed print of some ballet dancers by Degas. There were also about twenty box-framed photos of her with her high school and college friends at various functions—all pre-1999. She'd been a bridesmaid to several of the girls in those pictures. But she'd fallen out of touch with most of them. Some still sent Christmas cards—or hit her up for a present with the occasional birth announcement. A few still lived in Seattle, and were single—like her. She probably should have reached out to reconnect with them, but she just didn't have it in her right now. She hadn't even told any of them that she was getting a divorce. What had happened to her was so utterly humiliating, she didn't want anyone to know the details. It certainly would have made a juicy, ongoing story for the Internet: S
HOOTING
S
PREE
S
URVIVOR
T
ORMENTED BY
H
USBAND'S
P
REGNANT
G
IRLFRIEND. A
brief article about it had made it to
The Oregonian.
That was as far as it went, because she'd agreed not to press charges against Corinne Beal. Clay had paid her for all the damage. Olivia had taken everything that was hers and moved back in with her dad in Seattle. That had been eight weeks ago.

But it wasn't until tonight that she'd actually changed her Facebook status to
single
.

Facebook—that was what had plunged her into this dark, dismal mood tonight. She'd made the mistake of checking Facebook—and clicking on a photo from a ten-year anniversary party for Barb and Jim Church. They'd been friends of Clay's in Portland, nice people, too. She didn't want to un-friend them just because she and Clay had split up.

Olivia had known by clicking on that Facebook photo for more pictures from the party she'd been setting herself up to get hurt. The party had been yesterday. Of course, Clay had attended, and of course, Corinne had gone with him. Olivia just hadn't counted on them both looking so tan, healthy, and happy—goddamn them. Every photo of Clay had Corinne beaming at his side. They appeared to be having a great time. Though Olivia had found one shot of the two of them with Barb Church in the background, and Barb seemed to be giving Corinne the evil eye. Olivia had liked that shot. It had been the only picture of her husband and Corinne that didn't make her feel like someone was stabbing her in the heart.

Olivia had been tempted to “like” every photo from the party—except the ones with Clay and Corinne. But that had seemed silly, so she hadn't “liked” any of them. She had, however, commented on Barb's post:
Happy Anniversary to a Cute-some Twosome!

And then she'd changed her status to
single
.

Olivia stubbed out her cigarette, fanned at the air, and got up. She switched on her laptop computer. She wanted to see if anyone had commented on her new status change on Facebook. Not yet, but then she'd posted it only four hours ago. And with eighty-six friends, she figured there might be a wait.

However, she did have a new email—from her sixteen-year-old niece. She was on Clay's side, his sister's daughter. This was the second email she'd sent since the breakup. The subject head was: What's New, Buenos Aires?

Slouched in her desk chair and staring at the screen, Olivia actually found herself smiling a bit. She clicked on the REPLY icon:

She quickly sent the email—so she wouldn't spend the next thirty minutes reworking the paragraph that mentioned Clay.

Olivia shut down the computer and then plodded back to her four-poster bed. Shrugging off her robe, she glanced at the
Titanic
poster above her headboard. She wasn't going to change a thing in this room, because she was determined to move out on her own—and soon.

She thought about her email to her niece.
Actually, I'm doing great and have no complaints,
she'd written.

Crawling to bed, Olivia reached for the lamp on the nightstand. “Yeah, I'm doing great,” she muttered to herself. “I'm king of the world.”

She switched off the light and hoped for sleep.