Parallel

Parallel

Becka Ashcraft

“Nobody can hear a scream in space, or so they say.”

The ruffle at the bottom of her skirt caught in the escalator as she neared the top of the second level. Desperate fists with white knuckles held tightly to her waistband as the fabric began to grow taught and stretch, fighting against her grip to escape into the metal step that disappeared into an unknown world.

Panic washed over her. Oh no, oh no, oh! no! OH NO!, she was screaming in her head. Why did I go commando? Mortified, realizing the inevitable, at Lord and Taylor of all places! There was nothing she could do. She glanced behind her to see two people stepping onto the escalator. They were preoccupied with each other for the moment, thank God. Whirling her head around, she neared the top. Looking down, she was letting her skirt slip to her knees due to a desire to still save it somehow. Quickly bending her knees while staying erect to be discreet, she gave a determined pull and it began to rip! Relief flooded her body as she brought the waistband back to its proper place. Uneven shreds of silky fabric freely danced and tickled her legs. At least I won’t be skirtless!.... A fashionable mini skirt. Maybe I’ll start a new trend, she thought, adrenaline pumping.

She combed her hair with her hands, turned her head straight and stepped off, ignoring the last of the ripped material disappearing into the metal grinds. She cleared her throat, head up Marion, she thought, feeling she had escaped a near catastrophe. A deep breath left her. Why does this kind of thing seem to always happen to me? she thought. Can’t I get a break somewhere? No use in pretending to be something she’s not. She isn’t a Lord and Taylor girl.

Marion walked to the first rack of clothing composing herself. She had lost her desire to do what she had planned. She stared at the blouses and pants hanging on the rack and began mindlessly flipping through size five. She walked over to a white table with folded, color-coordinated shorts and shirts. She looked down at them with little enthusiasm. She didn’t like shopping anyway. She gave an anxious smile at the lady in a casual business suit standing behind the customer service desk. “Can I help you find something?”

“No thank you, just looking.” Marion called back smiling again while moving away from the woman’s scrutinizing gaze. The escalator mishap had left her wanting to go home, so she did.

Her house was small and comfortable. Walking up to the door she passed the patch of green lawn shadowed by the tall cottonwood tree. Roses she planted two summers ago bordered the cement porch. She paused, smiling at them. So beautiful, she thought. They were a bright reddish strawberry color. The petals seemed to glow against the gray concrete during the hour before sunset, her favorite time of day.

Up the steps, the blue trimmed screen creaked as she opened it to unlock the dark walnut door. She breathed a sigh anticipating getting inside and stripping off her blouse and shredded skirt.

The house was dark and cool, the old arts and crafts style home had allotted her thick walls that held in the night air. Walking through the living room, she sat her keys on the built-in half wall that divided the two rooms, she took notice of the sheer long curtains blowing softly. I could’ve sworn I closed all the windows this morning, she thought. Dismissing concern, she turned right and mounted the stairs to her bedroom.

Down the hall, familiar creaks echoed off the walls as she neared her bedroom door. Her breath caught in her throat and her body stiffened, staring at her door. Something’s off, she thought. Glancing around, she looked at the picture of her two daughters and son from a recent camp trip. They were sitting around the campfire, white teeth gleaming in the night. John had a teasing smile fixed on Annabelle while dangling his stick with a roasted marshmallow over her head. Her arm was raised, hand grasping the stick to block him from putting it in her hair. She was turned sideways with her other arm bent, hand pointing at him, mouthing the word, STOP! with a smile. Emily was looking at the camera laughing. Another picture, her parents sitting in crowded stands at the rodeo. Her dad was smirking under his tan cowboy hat tilted back, arm around her mother pulling her in for a squeeze. His mustache was still red then. Her mother’s eyes, sky blue, and high cheekbones accentuated her relaxed smile. Silla turned her gaze to the other wall fixing her eyes on a landscape picture she had taken. The summer mountains still had snow on their peaks, a forest blanketed their slopes below the peaks and a grassy meadow stretched out in front of them framing a pink and purple pond reflecting the late day.

Everything seems fine. she thought, beginning to relax. Why do I have such a strange feeling? A movement caught the corner of her eye. Startled, her head immediately swiveled back to the camping picture. There was a movement in the reflection of the glass frame. Her eyes blurred out the images and she concentrated on the glass. Nothing. “Am I imagining things?” she said to herself out loud. Her voice brought her back to life, breaking the silence of the moment. “Silly,” she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Her voice increased her confidence and she walked on entering her dark bedroom.

She always pulled the shades in the morning to keep it cool. The room was her refuge, quiet and welcoming holding all of her favorite treasures. Books were stacked on the side tables for easy access depending on what she was in the mood to read. Green leafed geraniums were in pots across the underside of her window. Vines grew up on the sides of the window due to the careful placing of small hooks to encourage their decorative border. Her iron bed had a white down comforter with a crocheted throw at the foot and puffy pillows at the top. A small desk sat angled out in the far corner, providing natural light for writing. Her dresser was antique maple and sat along the wall facing her bed. It matched a standing mirror that was angled in the other corner next to her closet.

Walking to the closet she was already pulling off her blouse and shimmying out of her skirt. She paused at the mirror and smiled at her lanky, curved body. I’m so lucky to have good genes, she thought. Her body was well proportioned and remained youthful in spite of the 44 years it had seen. She had tan lines from her swimsuit. In the closet, she took off her bra and pulled on jean shorts then slid on an oversized Violent Femmes t-shirt. That’s better, she smiled. Returning to her bedroom she drew back the shades and slid open the window, a cool evening breeze and fresh air billowed into the room. As she crossed back to the doorway she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different, a feeling of an unwelcome presence. Maybe I just feel off because of what happened today, she thought as she walked down the hall descending the stairs.

On the main floor, she went to her living room to retrieve the remote and turn on the news. The familiar voices of the newscasters filled the quiet. “Local authorities have called off the search for Jerry Gallaway, he was reported missing on June 8th after his daughter, Jane Gallaway had stopped at his house to pick him up for their weekly breakfast….” Marion listened as she sliced Havarti cheese and tomatoes for, according to her, the best grilled- cheese on earth. Durkee mustard was the secret ingredient, something she had learned from her mother.

She remembered the day Jerry went missing. It stood out to her due to the odd circumstances. His daughter had come to the house as she always did and found no sign of forced entry. Everything inside was as it always was, nothing disturbed. Jane had said to interviewers that it looked like he had gotten up and dressed that morning, the shower had been recently used, still wafting smells of soap casting humidity in the air. “It felt like he had vanished.” Marion remembered her saying. “It felt like” is what stuck in her mind. A strange choice of words.

That night in bed Marion lay looking at the soft moving moon shadows on the wall from her cottonwood. She loved the peace darkness brings. Her uneasiness from earlier had been smothered by a sleepy veil. She drifted off.

Eyes snapped open, a knowing was already there. Heart vibrating against her breastplate, breath shallow, sweat-soaked sheets, and hair clinging to her face. Marion lay frozen on her mattress, staring now at a dark wall, the moon shadows were gone, black night and muffled silence in the room. She wasn’t alone. No need to look anywhere, she knew there was a presence, she felt it moving through the cells of her body. Instinct? Intuition? Her ears felt hot, grasping at the sound, heightened awareness, heart pumping. Afraid to close her eyes, attentive to every detail. She could feel it under her bed, An elongated body lying on its back, face up, parallel with her footboard taking up the gap between the floor and her bed frame. It was confident and relaxed. She sensed its patient, anticipating eyes motionless and steady fixed on her profile above.

Its head must be sticking out from under the bed, she thought. She sensed it smiling. “It?” Why am I so sure it’s and it? That's not possible. Her mind was reeling trying to make sense of what she knew, what she should do. Her ears picked up a slight sound, a rhythmic deep tone, at first barely audible, then slowly gaining volume, a gutteral panting turning to something laughing. The sound jolted her out of her frozen state as she swung her right arm across her body, turning to her left side and switching on the lamp. She sat up on her left elbow frantically looking down at the floor at the foot of her bed. Nothing. There was nothing there. She moved to the center of her bed as she sat up, panting herself, glancing around the room. Everything was as it should be, nothing changed. She could hear the echo of the sound in her mind. Was I dreaming? Was it my panting I heard through a nightmare? Marion began to catch her breath, taking deep inhales she felt her heart begin to slow. She looked out the window seeing the half moon peeking out from behind a cloud. Throwing back the covers she reached for her phone from the end table and returned to the center of her bed sitting cross-legged. “Mom” was the first name in her favorites and she tapped it.

“Hello?” came the groggy familiar voice, “Marion? What time is it?” Laura said.

“Hi, mom. I know it’s the middle of the night. I just had a terrible dream and I still feel it.” Marion wanted to cry hearing her mother’s voice. If only she could be there. Her parents lived in her childhood home and had left her room for her to do with it as she wanted over the years.

“I see.” her mom answered, slightly clearer now. “What was the dream about?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know if it was a dream. It felt real, I thought I was awake, I can still hear the sound in my head. I don’t know what to do.” The words tumbled out of her and as she heard them she felt ridiculous.

“Take a breath and calm down.” her mom’s voice is alert now. “Where are you?”

“In bed.” Marion breathed. “I have the light on.”

“What’s the matter?” Marion heard her father’s voice.

“It’s Marion, she had a nightmare.” her mother said. Marion began to relax. It was beginning to seem comical. What had gotten into her? She sighed.

“I’m sorry I woke you both, tell dad I’m fine.”

“Well, why don’t you get up while we’re on the phone and check things out a bit? Get a drink. Do you want one of us to come over?”

“Of course not! I think I just had a weird day, I”m fine.” Marion hitched across to the other side of her bed and began telling her mom about the escalator fiasco as she stepped down and went to the bathroom. Turning on her overhead light, the hall light and the bathroom light seemed to be enough to evaporate “the knowing feeling” as she saw that everything was normal and heard the familiar creaks of her house. Her mom gave a sympathetic laugh to the story.

“I'm okay now, I guess a daughter never stops needing to hear her parent’s voices.” She smiled.

“You’re father is coming over.” her mom answered. “He already has his pants on.”

“No! Please don’t! I feel silly already for waking you!” Marion said. “Please don’t, really. Things are fine here. I’m fine.” She had convinced herself.

“Your dad says he won’t be able to sleep until he knows your house is secure. He’s pulling out the car. I’ll talk with you on the phone until he gets there.” Laura said.

Marion smiled with a defeated sigh. “Okay.” She was secretly relieved. Laura began telling her about her day.

George pulled up behind Marion’s car in the driveway, lights briefly illuminating her front entryway, then dark as he turned off the engine. He was surprised she hadn’t turned on the front porch light. As he walked to the door he could only hear the soft tapping of his shoes on the concrete path that led up to her porch. A more audible, deep tone when he stepped onto the wooden front porch. He began to knock. Nothing. ‘Maybe Laura has got her talking.” he thought. He rang the bell. Silence followed. “Marion!” he called out while knocking again. He tried the door knob. Locked. George walked back to the car to get his cell phone and dialed Laura. She picked up immediately. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know” George stammered. “I’m here, but all the lights are off and she hasn’t come to the door. Were you talking to her?”

“Yes, Laura laughed softly. We hung up when she saw your lights turning in the drive. She wanted to run down and open the door.”

“Well, she didn’t.” George said flatly. He noticed his heart had started to pound.

“What?! Really?” Laura didn’t know how to respond. Speechless she sat in the dark on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

“I’m going around back. This doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m sure she’ll be right there, I wonder what could’ve happened.” Laura stayed on the line. She could hear George walking through the grass and opening the gate to the back yard. It was a small, but well landscaped little retreat. Laura loved sitting with Marion and looking at the two old trees shading the yard with canopies of leaves. Marion had planted a vegetable garden that trimmed the fence line all the way around and put in a she-shed at the far end that had a wooden bench and trellis full of purple morning glories winding upward. She also had a fire pit surrounded with rot-iron chairs off to the right of the back porch.

“The back door is locked and it's dark in the kitchen”

“Really?!” Laura answered startled by the sound of George’s voice. Blood was draining out of her face.

“I’m going to break down the door, call the police.” George hung up.

Laura immediately went into auto pilot, dialing 911.

George turned and grabbed a large stick of firewood and jammed it through the square framed window in the back door. He shaved the glass from the bottom pain with the wood and reached in to unlock the door and entered. “Marion!” he continued to call as he walked through the kitchen and started up the back stairs to her bedroom. The house was silent. He walked down the lighted hall past the pictures and entered her room. Her bedside lamp was on, covers thrown back, no sign of anything out of order. Her cell phone was laying on the bed. He grabbed it staring blankly at the screen. He walked back to the hall and down to the bathroom. He could see the light on under the door. “Marion?” he knocked with his ear to the door. No sound. “Marion?!” he stated louder and tried the handle, it gave way and he opened the door to an empty, clean bathroom. Confused, he walked back to her room calling out her name then back down the stairs. He could hear sirens in the distance quickly growing louder.

The rest of the night was a blur of flashing lights, strange faced uniforms moving about him and talking at him. Nothing made sense. All he could do was answer their questions and keep walking around, checking and checking again. George felt as if he was grasping for something that didn’t exist, standing in an unending dream.

Marion began to flood his mind. In 8th grade he came to the school to pick her up after basketball tryouts. She was standing in the rain, lanky in her uniform, backpack held slack at her side. She was crying. She hadn’t made the team. Her eyes were glassy and searching him for understanding, consolation. He had patted her shoulder when she sat in the passenger seat and put her backpack in the back seat. She was four and he was reading Goodnight Moon. Innocence and trust lying deep in the covers, a tiny hand draped across his forearm. Standing in the parking lot in front of the dorm. On the verge of becoming a young woman, hugging him good-bye. His heart beating with pride and sorrow. He could hear her voice in his ear. “Thanks dad, I mean it. I’ll miss you.”

George was sitting at the kitchen counter in a daze when Laura came in, dodging through the officers on the scene she went to him. He stood as she embraced him and they both began to cry.