Consequences (5 page)

—Margaret Fairless Barber,
The
Roadmender

 Chapter 3

She contemplated her situation as she ate. She didn’t take the napkin discussion seriously. Anthony probably expected that. She didn’t prepare to move from her Atlanta apartment or even consider the possibility. His recollection of a document that legally bound them was a complete surprise. Claire’s gut told her it wasn’t legal, but what recourse did she have to fight from this room? She searched high and low for a telephone, computer, or some way to call for help—nothing.

She actually thought she would walk out of this twisted nightmare. However, it wasn’t a nightmare, twisted or otherwise. It was her reality, and her mind searched for a way to survive and escape.

Claire relished the warm oatmeal, fruit, bacon, perfectly brewed coffee, and juice. She devoured every ounce, even checking twice for more coffee in the carafe. Yesterday she hardly ate. She was thankful that starvation wasn’t part of his plan.

Standing to go to the shower, she moved carefully, experiencing the same aches and pains of the day before, except intensified. Claire wasn’t sure if she wanted to see herself in the mirrors as she cautiously stepped into the generous bathroom and slowly approached the dressing table. The reflection that looked back was scary. Her hair messed and tangled, and her face sported various shades of red and blue. The worst image had to be her lips, looking as if she had received Botox injections. This time, there were no tears. Instead, she stared and considered.

Grandma Nichols told her more than once she was an unusually strong young woman. In Claire’s mind, Grandma was always strong. Grandpa’s work in law enforcement took him away from home, and Grandma never complained. Instead, she was the heart of the family—always there for everyone and often giving advice such as, “It is not the circumstances that make a person a success. It is how that person responds to those circumstances.” Grandma believed every situation could be made better by the right attitude. Claire dropped the robe. Looking at the vision in the mirror, she believed Grandma never anticipated a situation like this.

After the shower, Claire decided to
not
dress appropriately in expectation of an Anthony visitation. If he were to walk in her suite, he would find her in jeans, a T-shirt, and fuzzy socks. Furthermore, there would be no makeup and no hair primping. It may be a small act of rebellion, but Claire didn’t have many rebellious options, and every bone in her body told her to fight. She tried to fight during the past two nights, but that didn’t work out well.

Entering the grand closet/dressing room, Claire realized that she hadn’t truly appreciated all it had to offer yesterday. First, she began to look for underwear but remembered that it didn’t exist in any of the drawers. So Claire searched for jeans. There were multiple pairs, different shades of blue with different leg styles. Wearing jeans must not break any rules; if it did, they wouldn’t be there. The brands she read on the labels she had only seen in stores like Saks: Hudson, J Brand, and MIH. She never in her life tried jeans like these on. They were soft, amazingly comfortable, and fit perfectly.

Now she wanted a T-shirt. Feeling a chill as she removed the robe, she decided a sweater would be better. The choices were countless and fashionable. She decided on a Donna Karan pink fuzzy cashmere sweater. Before putting it on, she looked for a bra. Apparently, bras were against the rules too because she couldn’t find one. However, she did find a drawer full of various colored camisoles; she chose pink.

Searching the drawers and cabinets of the closet was like a treasure hunt. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths reminded her of a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn’t comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes belonged to her. Truthfully, she didn’t want them.

Driven by curiosity, she read the labels on the evening dresses: Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan, and Emilio Pucci. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night’s dress. Its tag would remain a mystery. It disappeared when the room was cleaned.

Next she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons—all with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses: Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade, and Yves Saint Lauren. Never really a
shoe
person
, Claire usually wore casual footwear, Crocs and sneakers—rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.

Her mind slipped back to high school. Ten years ago, she would have done anything for a closet supplied like the one in which she stood. Back then, her sister helped her
fit
in
despite her parents’ modest income. Emily took her to consignment shops, bargain-hunted, and shopped sale racks. It worked. She was part of the
in
crowd, wearing the right clothes, shoes, and carrying the right purse. As she turned slowly and took in all the clothes, she wished she didn’t have the closet or any of the memories.

She heard the beep, and the suite door opened. Her heart raced. Who was here? And how long had she been in the closet? Stepping into the suite, she saw lunch being delivered by the same young man that brought dinner the night before. Claire hadn’t notice last night, but he appeared Latino. She asked him about the food. He smiled and said, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” She asked about Catherine, if she would be coming up. He replied, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” Other questions seemed senseless. Claire smiled and thanked him for the lunch.

Each response and smile the young man offered was unaccompanied by eye contact. Claire thought about his job, bringing her food. Obviously with the lack of makeup, he could see her bruises. Hell, he opened a locked door to bring her food. What did he think of her, of the situation? The idea of seeing her plight from someone else’s perspective weighed heavily on her chest. Sadness intensified at the realization that she once again was completely alone.

Instead of going to the table, Claire sat on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Staring into the fireplace, she contemplated turning it on. Time passed without record. She didn’t remember sleeping. Her position didn’t change. The unbearable quiet and isolation combined to create a kind of time-and-space continuum. It was after three on the bedside clock before she moved from the sofa. It was then she realized that the food remained on the table, untouched.

The subtle glow from behind the curtains reminded Claire that she hadn’t looked out the windows since she awoke yesterday morning. She checked for a means of escape the first night, and everything was locked tight. But then it was dark, and she couldn’t see past her own reflection.

Of the multiple golden draperies, the largest covered a section of wall near the sitting area. Claire moved toward it, looking for something to pull to make the draperies move and reveal the secret of the other side. After minutes of searching, Claire found a switch. She lifted the switch. The draperies opened and revealed tall French doors leading to a balcony.

In her hysteria the other night, she didn’t notice that these were doors, not windows. She definitely didn’t see the balcony. Her mind raced with possibilities: maybe from the balcony, she could climb down. Alas no, the French doors were locked and bolted. The key was nowhere to be found. Claire had a good idea who possessed it.

The view beyond the doors revealed a massive uninhabited countryside, for miles only trees—thousands and thousands of trees—on very flat land. Once she stopped seeing the magnitude of unpopulated land, she realized that the trees weren’t green, and the earth wasn’t red. When she and Anthony made their
contractual
agreement
, they were at a bar, the Red Wing, in Atlanta.

What she saw from her locked balcony doors didn’t look like Georgia. She yearned for her home in Atlanta. Even though she wasn’t from there, her career path had taken her to WKPZ, a local affiliate out of Atlanta. That path started with a major in meteorology at Valparaiso University in Indiana. Being born and raised in Fishers, outside of Indianapolis, college in Indiana was expected. Her dreams almost ended when both of her parents tragically died during her junior year. Miraculously, she received a scholarship. That, with her student loans and bartending, allowed her to continue her education. After graduation, her path took her to a one-year unpaid internship in Upstate New York. Being in the weather business, she should have realized how much she would hate the weather in Albany. However, it was the ability to live with her sister and brother-in-law that made the offer easy to accept. Recently married, Emily and John were very willing to help Claire any way they could. Emily taught school, and John recently started practicing law with an esteemed firm in Albany. Since the two were high school sweethearts, Claire knew John most of her life. Living with them was easy. In hindsight, maybe not for the newlyweds; but for Claire, they were her only family.

When the offer came toward the end of her internship for WKPZ, Claire willingly followed her path to Atlanta. She figured the Vandersols needed some time alone, the weather was better in Atlanta, and the job was everything she prayed for. As the years continued, she learned more and more about the business, earned respect, notoriety, and a growing income. The station manager told her more than once that her willingness to learn and work made her a rising star.

The path hit a roadblock in April of 2009 when WKPZ was purchased by a large corporate network. Claire wasn’t the only person to lose her job. Actually, over half of the veterans and most of the interns and assistants were
let
go
. By then, she had student loans, an apartment, car and credit card debt. Honestly, that credit card and bartending kept food on the table while she looked for new employment. She considered leaving Atlanta. But she liked the city, the climate, and the people.

In Atlanta, she could depend on indigo blue skies and rusted red dirt. The vision out
her
window was black and white, like an old photograph. The ground, trees, and grass were colorless. The cloud-covered sky hung low and endless. The word that came to mind was “cold.” She could be in Indiana, Michigan, or anywhere in the Midwest. They all looked alike. She hated the winter, the darkness, and the lack of color. Now she was staring at it through the windows of her prison.

Claire wondered if she should have opened the drapes. Her discovery made her situation direr. If she wasn’t in Atlanta, where was she? And how did she get here? She looked at the stupid switch and considered shutting away the bleak outside world. It wasn’t helping her attitude. Claire decided the switch didn’t help her attitude or the non-English speaking servant, the expensive clothes, or the lavish surroundings. She was being held prisoner by a crazy man who somehow believed that he now owned her. Her location, luxurious surroundings, fancy clothes—none of it mattered. She could have been in a cinder block cell. She was still a prisoner, and the stupid stuff wouldn’t help that.

As hours and days passed, Claire had nothing to do but think. She mostly thought about escaping, fantasizing about running through the massive wooded scene outside her window. In her fantasy, salvation was through the trees. But she couldn’t get outside the room, much less to the trees. After a few days, in a moment of heated desperation, Claire took one of the chairs from the table and tried to break the panes of glass on the French doors. The damn chair bounced off the glass. She searched the suite for anything heavy. The closest thing was a thick book. Even with repeated strikes, it had no effect on the windows.

The hours and days spent alone made her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the Red Wing. She wondered about the regulars and her coworkers. Had anyone reported her missing? These thoughts usually resulted in tears and a headache. In an attempt at self-preservation and sanity, she began to think about the past. Was there something in the past that led to this?

Liking Earth science and weather, meteorology seemed a natural choice. She loved the unknown. As a teenager, she experienced her first tornado. The power and unpredictability of the storm fascinated her. It exhilarated her to watch warm and cold fronts collide. She loved to learn more about it and the whys. The computers could help you predict the weather. But it is such a small part. Why do some fronts stall and create floods when days before the models predicted only an inch of rain? How can a warm sunny day suddenly turn stormy? She wanted to understand it better, to control the outcomes in some way, perhaps minimize its destructive forces. But now a degree in meteorology was useless.

Near the end of March . . .

He’d been in the apartment on multiple occasions. Thankfully, this would be his last visit. Looking at his TAG Heuer watch, he knew the movers should be there in thirty minutes. He slowly walked around the small rooms. Starting in her bedroom, he surveyed what remained of her belongings. Everything else, the clothes and household items, had been placed in boxes labeled for donation. The full-sized bed was stripped. Only the mattress, boxed springs, and frame remained.