Stevan Mena - Transience

Just then a loud crash jolted them upright. Laura leapt from her chair and ran out of the kitchen. Jack followed.

Laura raced up the staircase so quickly she’d scaled it before Jack could even reach the bottom step. “Rebecca?” she cried out.

Laura burst into Rebecca’s room, but she wasn’t inside. “Rebecca?” She listened for an answer. She heard water running and moved quickly towards the bathroom, passing Jack on the staircase.

“Is she okay?” Jack asked the blur racing past him.

Laura opened the bathroom door. The shower was running, steam filling the room. The mirror was shattered, shards of broken glass littered the sink and floor. The striped blue plastic shower curtain was drawn.

“Rebecca!” Laura threw back the curtain, taking a few rings off the rail with it.

Rebecca was curled up in the corner of the tub, half naked. There was blood mixing with the water. Laura traced the bleeding up to Rebecca’s hand.

“What did you do?” Laura cried.

Jack stood in the doorway. “Can I help?”

Laura held Rebecca’s bleeding hand under the water. “Why did you break the mirror?”

“I don’t want to go to any more doctors.”

“Come on, stand up.” Laura helped Rebecca stand. She reached over and turned off the water, then grabbed a hanging towel and briskly dried off her trembling daughter.

“I’m not crazy,” Rebecca said, as Laura wrapped one towel around her body, then grabbed a smaller one to wrap around her bleeding hand.

“No one said you were crazy.” Laura pressed the makeshift bandage tightly. “It’s not that bad, hold still. What were you thinking?”

“I heard you talking,” Rebecca said, looking past Laura at Jack standing in the doorway, watching them through the steam.

Laura looked over her shoulder at Jack, then turned to Rebecca. “No, that’s not what we were talking about.”

“I don’t want to go to any more doctors,” Rebecca spoke softly, but defiantly.

“Detective Ridge was just asking for our help.”

Rebecca pulled her hand away. The look on her changed, a darkness suddenly consumed her.

“No one helped me,” Rebecca muttered, staring right at Jack.

“Rebecca?” Laura asked, again wondering who had just traded places in there with her daughter.

“No one helped me! No one helped me!” Rebecca shouted. Laura threw her arms around her, trying to comfort her. It only incensed Rebecca more. Rebecca shrieked, “Don’t touch me!”

Jack took a step inside. “Laura, can I help?”

“Maybe you should go. I need to be alone with her. I’m sorry.” Jack respectfully stepped backwards through the wafting clouds of steam and closed the door.

He moved down the hall, passing Rebecca’s bedroom. He stopped to peer inside, briefly admiring her artwork. A portrait of a little girl caught his eye. The girl was smiling, a simple smile, the detail miraculous. The serenity of the child’s expression in the picture contrasted the wrenching shrieks coming from the bathroom. It prodded him to keep moving.

As Jack walked downstairs, he heard Rebecca’s voice change, the same way it had done on the tape. “Nadie me ayudó!” he heard her shout. She repeated it over and over. Jack knew enough Spanish to translate: No one helped me.

Jack felt as if the words were directed at him personally, verbal daggers in his spine. As he neared the front door, he wondered if Angelina was screaming the same thing at that very moment.

He exited the house, letting the silence of the night air wash over him. Not too many things stressed Jack out, but he was shaken. He exhaled, watching his breath form clouds in the cold night.

He made his way towards his car, the frozen grass crunching beneath his shoes. He looked back at the house, two silhouettes struggling behind the upstairs blind. This wasn’t finished. Laura wanted the truth as much as he did.

Jack opened his car door, steadying himself as he eased his body into the seat, the pain especially harsh tonight. He wasn’t sure if the discomfort he was feeling was from illness or guilt, but it ached in his shoulders, ribs, and heart. He shut the door and dropped his head back against the headrest.

“…Christ.”

He closed his eyes, trying to meditate the pain away. He turned his head left and right, shifting his body to find a comfortable position until the pain subsided. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Rebecca’s sketchbook on the passenger seat. He reached for it and flipped through a few drawings. There was a sketch of what looked like an angel hovering over a small sleeping child. The jagged lines made it appear rushed, but its entirety was exquisitely detailed and brilliant. Jack ran his fingers along the drawing, tracing the outline. It wasn’t just her talent that he found incomprehensible, it was the depth of her expression, the layers of substance within each of her renderings. Her talent was unquestionable, but it was the inspiration behind the hands that moved him, the breadth of her spirit. Her drawings reflected experience, understanding, maturity.

Jack closed the book. He knew his next move.

The hallways of Monroe’s College For the Arts were lined with brand new tile and brick. Sculpted archways connected each intersecting hallway. It smelled new, Jack figured it must have been recently renovated, the school having been around for generations.

What Jack found it curiously devoid of was — art. Nothing hanging on the walls. Nothing to say this was a building for creative types, no examples of their work. Maybe that was more for elementary schools, something for the parents to admire during meet the teacher night. This was a respected establishment of cultured artists who didn’t need to hang their masterpieces along hallway walls. Jack searched for room 17.

He stopped and asked a student, who pointed back the way he came. He had passed it.

Jack entered a classroom with a dozen work stations, each with an unfinished sculpture sitting on top. The room itself was filled with all types of artwork — abstract, modern, classical — all demonstrating various degrees of skill. Some clearly didn’t belong, others were quite good.

A teacher was replacing paper on painting easels. Her brown hair was up in a tight bun, though a few rogue curls had broken loose around the temples. Jack guessed her age at about 35-36. Another teacher was washing paintbrushes at the sink in the back of the room. He had on a very worn striped flannel shirt that was stained with paint and clay. Jack pegged him at about 10 years older.

Class had just filed out, Jack would have to move quick or they’d have the perfect excuse to cut short his visit when the next group arrived.

“It’s never too late to discover your talent,” she said to him, smiling, pulling paper through and latching it on each station at a hurried pace.

“I’m not a student,” Jack said with a foolish grin.

“I know. In order to take my class you have to be accepted. The trials are rigorous and if you possessed the talent, youd’ve known…already.”

“You were about to say long ago?” Jack said. She stammered a moment. “It’s okay, I have no ego left to bruise,” he said with a grin. Once she realized she was off the hook, she smiled back.

“How can I help you?”

“Helen Strauss?”

She nodded. “Mmm, that’s me.”

“Detective Jack Ridge.” Jack flashed his badge and her smile turned upside down. Jack saw the other teacher approaching, surely curious as to the nature of his visit. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about a former student of yours. Carmen Muniz?” Helen nodded, understanding now why he was there.

“Carmen…” she said, full of sorrow.