Beloved Evangeline Read online

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any reference to real persons or places is strictly for fictional purposes.

  Copyright© 2012 by W.C. Anderson. All Rights Reserved.

  Midway upon the journey of our life

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

  Ah me! How hard a thing it is to say

  What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

  Which in the very thought renews the fear.

  So bitter is it, death is little more;

  But of the good to treat, which there I found,

  Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

  I cannot well repeat how there I entered,

  So full was I of slumber at the moment

  In which I abandoned the true way.

  The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto I

  Prologue

  October 31, 20—

  Dear Nicky,

  When I close my eyes, a dazzling kaleidoscope of warm color envelops me—color and warmth I am now certain I will never actually see or feel again. We both know what ultimately brought me to this—waking dreams of what could have been had left me broken-hearted. But I am not mad. I hope you can believe me. I know for some time I’ve been distant and strange, and yes, even utterly and stupidly reckless. But that doesn’t make me crazy.

  For some reason, and I wish with my entire soul it weren’t so, I’m a poison to those around me. I know you know that’s true but would never admit it. (Remember Mr. Bailey, our fifth grade teacher?) Only now, for the first time, I finally know what to do. The problem is that no one else believes I’m here in this psychiatric hospital by mistake, that all my injuries were accidents. No one else believes I never tried to kill myself.

  I know this is a little weird because we haven’t been as close as we used to be lately. Again, obviously, that’s my fault. Once I was determined to live an extraordinary life, filled with adventure and the fantastic. The price for reaching too high and failing was higher than I could’ve imagined—the bitter lapse into everyday life.

  I won’t lie; looking back is difficult—my memories are tinged with hollowness and shame. Still, I wasn’t suicidal. I mean, obviously, this last time, I did drink the poison—I just didn’t think it would kill me! And it didn’t. But psychiatry, like alchemy, is a very inexact science. You’d think the psychiatrists—of all people—would have a sense of humor about an occasional lapse in judgment like taking a few drops of poison.

  They don’t.

  Having just reread this note, it’s… not coming out the way I’d hoped, or on paper, the words aren’t expressing themselves the way I imagined.

  Returning to the point, dear Mr. Fernwood is telling me I have to escape—through the window—tonight.

  It’s ten stories down, I told him. His only response was, and still is: he’ll take care of it. Of course I asked him how he planned to do that, and he told me I needed to have a little faith.

  Faith. That was his answer. I’ve been in a psychiatric hospital for however many weeks now, I’ve lost all of my friends, probably my job, and I have felt more lost and alone here than you can possibly imagine. Clearly, conjuring faith out of soul-sucking lunatic asylum air is more than just a little difficult, I told him. Then I remembered a few nights ago, when I was confined to a strait jacket and needed his help, and he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help me out of it. When I asked him how he could possibly get me safely down a ten-story window when he couldn’t even loosen a goddamn strait jacket, he just laughed hysterically. He’s laughing again now as he reads this.

  Who is Mr. Fernwood, you’re probably wondering? He’s a friend, and the only one I have left, most likely. He sort of came to visit me one particularly melancholy day and never left. For all of his faults, he’s proven himself a true friend to me. I trust him now, for the most part.

  Anyway, should things… not go as planned tonight, I’d like you to know that I didn’t commit suicide. It’ll have been another accident.

  Also, before I forget, thank you for visiting me in the beginning. I can’t tell you how much it meant. My soul seemed to brighten on the days you were here. I know I didn’t seem happy to see you at the time. I was embarrassed. I am embarrassed still. I just don’t have time for that now.

  More time would be nice, in case things don’t work out, but I guess that’s what everyone says in the end. Though, at other times, I must admit, I feel the grim satisfaction of the condemned, knowing that with death comes relief. No more invisible anchor around my neck or unsolvable labyrinth of the unknown. Sometimes, when I close my eyes I feel weightless. But I can never escape for too long. The evil begins to tug on my soul, reminding me that I will never really be free. That place, wherever I went after my accident—when I died—it wants me back. And I know the haunting won’t stop until it has me.

  Again, I think this note is really not saying what I want it to. I don’t want to kill myself. End of story.

  One last thing—you are, and always will be, the best friend I have ever had. I’ll miss you, wherever I end up.

  Love,

  Evangeline

  Hospital Staff:

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I can no longer bear it. I want to be at peace. Tell my father and brother that I love them with my whole heart.

  Evangeline Johnson

  Mr. Fernwood took the notes from my hand as soon as the pen had left the paper. He folds more neatly than I do, I suppose. He led me down the long corridor, to the perpetually empty room at the end of the hall, where he bowed and gestured toward the window, the partially unhinged suicide screen swinging slowly in pendulum-like fashion. Although I knew he was clever enough to obtain a key and unlock the screen on his own, he had, instead, ripped off the screen at one of the hinges. He has an irrepressible dramatic flair that simply unleashes itself at moments like these. I don’t believe he really has much control over it. He’s just one of those people (or whatever he is) who literally cannot help themselves. This thought made me smile, and Mr. Fernwood along with me.

  The crisp fall air blew my hair and god-awful hospital gown gently as I stood in silent admiration of the city that first stole my heart. I took in all of the quiet beauty of the cypress trees along the St. Johns River, illuminated by the twilight, in those few moments. If Mr. Fernwood was wrong, or more importantly, if I was wrong about Mr. Fernwood’s intentions, this glimpse of the wilds outside Jacksonville would be my last.

  I inhaled deeply. My mind is made up, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m ready for the answer now, whichever it may be.

  Mr. Fernwood winked. I held my breath and… jumped.

  1.

  One year (or so) earlier...

  I have an insatiable desire for the bizarre—the truly outré—and am often plagued by fits of restlessness. I may for days on end whirlwind around until every last undone task before me is completed. The tasks can vary from anything as commonplace as reading Don Quixote in a single sitting, to as complicated as researching dark matter and dark energy, both of which I find absolutely fascinating. Other times I may spend days, even weeks composing music. Still other times, I become enraptured in something as hopelessly mundane as repainting my kitchen. While in the throes of these compulsions, I have forgone food, sleep, and company for days at a time—nothing else matters but the task at hand.

  Unfortunately, in between these fits, I freefall into unrelenting doldrums, during which I’m completely absorbed in my own thoughts and daydreams. I’m self aware enough to realize I can only be truly happy when I have a goal to reach, something to look forward
to and accomplish, but there are only so many times one can repaint a kitchen (in my case, eight). As an enigmatic man once said: My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. Only I have neither his brilliance nor accomplishments—nor drug habit—to see me through my own dark times.

  At the moment, as I stare dully at my computer screen, cheek in palm, wishing by some miracle this report could just finish itself somehow already, I’m obviously not going through one of my restless phases. As I stare, a dark shadow casts itself onto the screen—as though someone is standing behind me. I know better than to start or turn. No one is there. Nothing is ever there—just a fanciful invention of my wild imagination. I close my eyes and count to ten…

  When I open them, the apparition has departed.

  Compounding matters is there just seems to be no end in sight to the mountain of work on my desk, and no matter how hard I work the pile never gets any smaller. Just as my fingers grace the keyboard, the point at which I can usually imagine myself composing a delicate, ethereal, symphonic creation instead of another dry research report, I stop short, my fantasy evaporating before it even has the chance to take shape. Today I just can’t see the point to any of it. No one would probably notice if I dropped dead right now; my replacement would just step over my lifeless body and continue with the soul-crushing work.

  Even with my usually fool-proof music on, my dark playlist (currently playing Mistaken for Strangers by The National), I can’t drag myself out of it. Occasionally, I get so overwhelmed just thinking about how much I need to get done that I become sort of paralyzed and then can’t accomplish anything. Times like right now. I knew I should’ve called in sick today. Not that the work would disappear if I weren’t here or anything, but it often helps to just... give up on days like this. Once in awhile, giving up is nurturing to the soul.

  Anyway, it’s not like my work here is really that bad. Actually, that’s not true. I research and evaluate a variety of programs funded and/or sponsored by my company, Aviratia Corp., and write reports based on the findings, which entails loads of time spent poring over boring statistics. Enjoyment of the work really depends on the program being evaluated. If you’re evaluating crime statistics or the success rate of corporate-sponsored online dating services, it can be quite interesting. If, on the other hand—and far more frequently—you’re evaluating the mortality rate of food poisonings at corporate-catered events or the leakage rate of sewer systems installed at our facilities—or worse, sales trends amongst males 11 to 25—well, you get the idea.

  The main problem with my job is that after all these years I still don’t understand what Aviratia actually does. It’s a conglomerate of several other smaller companies that Aviratia “manages,” whatever that means. All of the smaller companies are really disparate, anything from restaurants to brokerage firms to semiconductor manufacturers. For doing whatever it is we do, Aviratia makes an obscene amount of money. I’ve seen the silver and golden parachutes for our executives, and everyone’s heard the rumors about the millions they made in bonuses last year. As for the rest of us, our last bonus was the warm fuzzy feeling of simply having a job in this economy. At every single Monday morning staff meeting, all of us sit on pins and needles to see if ours is the job that will next be slashed. Especially nervous are the employees like me, whose jobs are glaringly expendable.

  Their favorite closing statement after this torture is, “Be thankful you have a job.” The corporate officers then flee for Miami in their $4,000 suits and Maybach 57s.

  Yeah, thanks.

  I haven’t gotten a raise since the 2008 crash, and the last raise I got before that amounted to—after taxes—$13 per paycheck.

  But the truth is, my job has nothing to do with how I’m feeling today. The truth is I feel like crap because it happened again a few weeks ago. That’s the real reason for my black mood, and I should’ve known better than to come to work at all.

  On that particular Friday, after work, the ocean called to me. The sound of the waves, the sand between my toes—the ocean always seems to—temporarily—heal the wounds deep in my soul. And it was working that day. Taking off my heels and rolling up my work slacks, I had walked up and down the beach, soaking up the last rays of warmth from the sun and marveling at the delicate sea spray that’s like nothing else on earth. As I stood admiring the pureness of the blue, my mind was beginning to calm, my thinking becoming clearer. I felt the old wounds becoming less tender. It was at that moment that a man strolled up and began making polite conversation.

  I can’t remember his exact words, something pleasant and banal about it being such a nice day, that he used to bring his daughter here, along those lines. I was standing just a few feet from him, smiling and nodding, when it happened.

  A gigantic wave, at least fifty feet high, lashed out from the sea in an instant. One moment the man was there, talking politely, and the next moment—he was gone. It was as if the ocean had simply reached out and plucked him from the shore. Aside from a few droplets here and there, I was completely dry.

  I gasped, dumbstruck, mouth agape. Although onlookers jumped in and lifeguards combed the sea, the man was never found.

  When the police and paramedics arrived, Officer Jansen recognized me immediately.

  “Weren’t you the one on the scene when…”

  “Yes,” I interrupted in annoyance.

  “And the time when…”

  “Yes.” I interrupted again, gazing out into the sea, “Yes, I was.”

  The ordeal left me with a certain unwelcome feeling. Evidence or no, authorities tend to be suspicious of someone like me, someone who’s inexplicably at the scene of one too many strange and deadly accidents. Needless to say, it was a long, difficult night.

  With a deep sigh, I pulled a leather-bound notebook from my purse and jotted down a quick letter to my one-time fiancé, Jack Legrand. In this notebook, I have seven years’ worth of stories I’m dying to share with him—but no address to which to send them.

  “Knock, knock,” my boss, Mr. Gregorio Oxley, called from my office doorway as I was absorbed in these thoughts. Luckily, I saw him first and was able to take my iPod earbuds out before he tapped me on the shoulder and nearly scared me to death like he did last time.

  “Here are the revisions from your latest sales trend report. Great work, as usual, but... I’m afraid I’m going to need you to tone down your recommendations just a little bit. Can’t have you drawing too strong of conclusions and making any rash recommendations on public issues that could reflect on the company negatively.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re a brilliant researcher, Evangeline, just need to work on a more diplomatic presentation.”

  I used to get into debates with old Gregorio, but over time, I’ve sort of given up on that, too. Asserting myself in anyway has proven nearly impossible in recent years. Also—in my defense—it’s really hard to argue with him, resembling Leonard Nimoy the way he does (though I used to manage pretty well). On second thought, maybe his voice reminds me more of Peter O’Toole or one of the Carradines?

  He once stared at me for a long moment before finally commenting, “You have a lot of freckles.” Then he walked away. What was I supposed to say to something like that?

  And so today, instead of arguing, I just nodded my head, pulled a very small, extremely pained smile, and inhaled deeply. Great. Toning down this report will take even more time from the growing pile I already have. And, the best part is, now I actually have to put some effort into making my work even more bland. Gregorio really believes in this company and takes each report with the utmost seriousness. Though I disagree with him about the virtues of our company, I can’t help but admire and respect his convictions—and reluctantly work my ass off so as not to let him down, no matter how badly I may feel.

  By the time I managed to buckle down and get some work flowing, I was interrupted again. With just a quick glance beyond my doorway and toward the source of the annoyance, I contin
ued typing feverishly, afraid of losing the only momentum I’d managed to muster the entire day. I simply couldn’t put my earbuds back in. I don’t know if it’s just me or what, but even the extra soft spongy kind start hurting my ears after about an hour. Predictably, the chatter grew louder and louder, until I was able to tune it out no longer.

  “Hey, I got a riddle for you. What do you get from Oxley’s office that stays with you all day?”

  “You’ve got me,” was the breathlessly suggestive female answer.

  “Old man stink! I think the spice from his Old Spice shriveled up and died about 20 years back.”

  This is what passes for humor at my job; cruel jabs at the expense of someone whose back is turned—and who is much too nice to defend himself.

  Shrill, borderline hysterical female laughter followed.

  I recognized the male voice as belonging to John M., one of four or five of the Johns in our office. I think his last name is Maverly, or something similar. He’s one of a growing number of people that I find completely generic. Average looking—so average in fact that I honestly could not tell him apart from two other similar looking fellows who started working here about the same. Then again, maybe I have more in common with him than I give him credit for.