Stevan Mena - Transience

“ Try, Rebecca , what is this place? ” Rebecca sobbed, her emotion palpable.

“ There’s a light ,” she said sniffling, “ a window .”

“ Can you see out the window? ” A brief silence.

“ I see a road. ”

“ What else? ”

“ It’s getting dark. Church bells ,” she said, her voice now soft as a whisper. Jack made mental notes of every word, every detail.

“ Where are you? Can you see a location? ” There was another brief silence. Again Rebecca’s voice was replaced by a lower, more raspy sounding one.

“ Bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.”

Leonard put his glasses back on and scanned his notes, “…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now…and at the hour of our death.”

“ The fruits of our labors … find Jesus on the hill, ” Rebecca said in English, her voice groggy, hoarse.

“ Rebecca? … Rebecca? ” Leonard stopped the tape.

“She just kept rambling prayers after that.”

“What does it mean?” Jack asked.

“You’re the detective.”

“She never gives a name? Something specific?”

“In one of our sessions, she only responded to the name Carmen. She never names her attacker. But I believe she knew him.”

Jack’s legs had stiffened from sitting too long. He placed his hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed himself up. He took a few steps, deep in thought. Outside the window, the sun had set, the street lights were starting to turn on.

“Doesn’t amount to much more than chance,” Jack said finally.

“No. That’s too dismissive.”

“A bizarre coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences,” Leonard said firmly, a little frustrated.

“The mother, Laura, she knew the victim. They were friends.”

“Some believe there’s a synchronicity between birth and death, life and loved ones, remaining within the same circle, changing roles, learning, growing. Who are we to know these things?”

Jack turned to Leonard, “Why burden a little girl?”

“Perhaps Rebecca is God’s way of rectifying an oversight.”

Jack wondered, would God ever rectify the oversight on him? He wasn’t so narrow-minded as to think his life — and life as a whole — was some cosmic mistake, a random event. He honestly felt there was a plan. He just felt slighted, out of the loop about what that plan was. Jack took full responsibility for his lot in life, but some things were out of his control, and it was those events, the ones that were left up to the fates , that always seemed to land penny-head down. He could have used a little help then.

But what about innocence? If we’re all part of a bigger picture, then why allow harm to a child like Rebecca? Maybe it was a second chance to right a wrong ? For Rebecca’s everlasting soul to find justice. Could it be possible? If she was working through emotional baggage that spanned lifetimes, then she had been given a second opportunity to understand it, learn from it, even grow. If so, then maybe there was a chance for Jack too. To learn from this life. Jack was intrigued, not just for justice — unprecedented, supernatural justice — but for all the other aspects the concept opened up. He started to feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

“So what now?” Jack asked.

“If it is the same killer as the evidence suggests, then you have to dig deeper. Find Carmen’s killer, you’ll find Angelina.”

Jack turned from the window and moved to the table. He popped the tape from its player. Leonard didn’t protest. He grabbed Rebecca’s sketchbook. “I’m taking this too.” Leonard pushed his chair out.

“Jack, if word of our discussion, the nature of it, were to get out, it could… my practice would be—”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of humiliating you. Or myself.”

Laura held the tea bag between her finger and the spoon, squeezed the last ounce of flavor out, and tossed it into the waste basket.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen and pulled her white robe about her, thoughts of a hot bath in her future. She leaned against the edge of the countertop and took a sip of her tea, savoring it. She felt a pinch in her shoulders and shrugged, trying to release the tension a little.

Atop the refrigerator sat a bottle of rum. She jokingly considered spicing her tea with a little spirits to take the edge off. Jokingly, because Laura didn’t drink alcohol. Ever. It was how some people dealt with problems. How her father had dealt with them. It wasn’t how she was going to deal with them.

The rum wasn’t hers. Like many other remnants left behind after her father passed away, she hadn’t gotten around to clearing it out. Yet, she did consider it for a moment. It was a sign of how dark things were getting. How desperate.

After they’d returned home from the hospital, Rebecca spent the majority of her time up in her room, painting. She burned through all of her supplies — twice, sending Laura running back and forth to the art supply store.

Rebecca’s artwork seemed unusually abstract lately. Random splashes of color, with no thoughtful structure or purpose. It was odd, since her work was normally so intricately detailed. But the last few days, she just dipped and waved at the canvas.

Laura thought maybe it represented the confusion in her head, putting on paper what she couldn’t verbalize. Random thoughts and emotions that made no sense, the canvas some kind of cathartic outlet.

The screams were still keeping her awake. Laura knew something had to give soon, her nerves were redlining.

Laura entered the living room, sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. Another news report; Carmen’s murder was being discussed in detail. They showed a smiling picture of Carmen, her high school photo, then ran images of her body’s discovery, the ongoing police investigation. Laura sniffed and swallowed audibly. She dabbed at a tear, not realizing Rebecca had entered the room. She fumbled for the remote, zapping it off.

“What was the name of the girl they were talking about?” Rebecca asked. From the look on her face, Laura could tell she’d heard it, she was just looking for confirmation.

“I didn’t hear,” Laura said, getting up to move to the kitchen. She picked up a dish in the sink and began rinsing it. Rebecca followed her.

“Did you know her?”

“Who?”

“The girl? The one on TV?”

“…No.”

“Then why were you crying?”

Laura poured dishwashing liquid onto a sponge, nearly scrubbing a hole in the already clean plate. “I wasn’t crying. My eyes itch. It’s the dust in this old house. I have to get to that.”

Rebecca opened the freezer and nearly climbed in to grab the tub of ice cream, dropping back down on the linoleum floor with a loud thud.

“You didn’t finish your dinner.”

“Yes I did.”

“You just pushed it around your plate.” Rebecca scooped some chocolate into a bowl. “You can scoop that right back in the tub, it’s too late for ice cream. I’ll warm some milk for you instead.”

Rebecca sneered and turned up her nose at the mention of it. She took a clean glass, still dripping from Laura’s hard work, and leaned over the sink, brushing Laura aside. She filled it with tap water and headed for the staircase.

“If you want water, sweetie, there’s cold water in the fridge.”

“It’s to clean my brushes.”

“Then you could have taken a dirty glass.”