Cid closed her eyes and stretched her arms up in a luxurious, feline stretch. She’d been sitting still for too long, grading writing assignments from her honors English freshmen. She glanced at the high row of windows across the back wall of her classroom, surprised to see the peachy rose light of dusk. She’d been sitting a really long time.
She packed up the graded papers and logged out of her desktop. She walked down the dim hallways of the old high school, inhaling the mix of floor wax, dampness, and mold. The school was originally built in 1928 and had so many additions added to the main structure that the entire campus architecturally spanned over 100 years. Cid’s room was in the oldest part of the school, a hall simply known English hall, a place that had beautiful, if worn, oak floors and pockmarked paneled walls. Telephone, Ethernet, and other various cables and wires ran in haphazard random through rough holes in the paneling.
Cid walked into a section of the school that had to have been added in the 50s, as it transitioned to ribbon windows and asphalt tile that undoubtedly had asbestos under the layers of wax. She pushed open the old steel doors and hit a wall of heat and humidity that, even after a lifetime of experiencing southeast Texas summers, still never failed to shock her. It was like opening an oven door, and sweat immediately began to dew on her forehead.
She gratefully entered her truck and turned on the AC. She leaned her head back on the headrest, letting the air cool her heated face. As her mind settled into quiet calm, a restless tug forced her attention again. The strange, slightly frenetic energy that pulled at some undefined spot in her chest became increasingly insistent. An uncomfortable tension that made her want to writhe in her seat. Like a poison ivy rash she was not allowed to scratch. Persistent. Consuming.
She jerked her eyes open and turned the volume up to blare music, welcoming the distraction from the strange sensation. It started about a week ago. She’d awakened suddenly from a delicious dream. Unknown hands stroked their way up her thighs. An unknown mouth rained soft kisses around her navel. She’d awakened feverish and damp and restless and with that pull. The intense arousal front he dream went away. The pull did not.
She shifted her truck to reverse, an old International Harvester Travelall, a 1967, that was the color of homemade vanilla ice cream. It had been her grandfather’s and was fully restored and was one of her prized possessions. The rich chocolate brown leather interior was buttery soft and besides the hominess of the leather smell, the faint aroma of her grandfather’s cigars remained. The sharp bittersweet tang of nostalgia distracted her as she thought of Charles Ronald Reiche, her grandfather and one other most brilliant men she’d ever met. He’d been an engineer, the lead engineer, in fact, who had created many of the processing units in the many chemical plants that dotted the coast of southeast Texas. He’d also had an artist’s soul and painted beautiful renderings of ships and sailboats, as well as carvings of creatures. Cid even had her grandmother’s engagement ring, carved of wood from a stick in her own backyard since her grandfather had been too poor to buy her a real diamond at the time.
Cid listened to the blaring music and the throaty, rhythmic sound of the truck’s old V8 engine. The pulling sensation was still there, but dulled as she allowed her mind to wander. She needed to finish grading essays, then she’d need to create the final exam, oh and a review for the exam since the year was quickly coming to a close. . . suddenly, the tug in her chest gave a violent yank. It didn’t hurt exactly, but her breath stole from her lungs and she felt a deep frustration and longing that she could not account for and that was not her own. She clutched her chest, letting the old truck slow to an idle and finally to a stop. By this time it was dark, the peachy rose of the sunset having given way to a velvety darkness and a crescent moon, just a hint of black-softened light on the horizon. No one was with her on the dark road. Her school was in a rural area and her journey home was filled with long stretches of forest and pastureland. Cid’s head swam as that thread in her chest yanked again. She needed in a way she’d never needed before. She was swamped with the desperation of it. She tried to calm herself and push the feeling away, wondering if it was some kind of anxiety attack. Suddenly the desperation turned to utter joy, such that ears sprang to her eyes. And then the emotions overwhelmed her and she knew nothing.
Cid gradually awoke, her brain sluggish and her body faintly sore. There was an insistent pounding in her head. Bang, bang, bang. . . wait. It wasn’t her head but frantic knocking on her door.
“Cid? CID??”
Bang, bang, bang.
She jerked her head up. What the hell? She looked around in confusion, shocked to find herself in her own bed with the familiar voice of her principal and friend, Cerys, shouting her awake. Cid threw back her duvet and stood, fighting a wave of dizziness, and stumbled through her house to the front door.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Cid, if you don’t open up I’m calling the cops!” Cerys screamed in the soft Scottish accent dulled by years in the states.
Bang, bang, bang.
Cid pulled the door open and squinted at her friend. “Stop banging! You’re going to break my stained glass!”
Cerys stared at her in shocked disbelief. “What in the absolute HELL are you on about? Have you any idea how worried I’ve been? Did you oversleep? Are you sick? Don’t worry. We got you a sub and your classes are covered but, but what the HELL?”
Cid stared at her friend. “What are you on about? It’s Saturday!”
Cerys looked at her like she’d just said something entirely irrational. “Cid. It’s MONDAY. It’s MONDAY and it’s almost 9:00 AM. School started an hour ago.”
“What?! No, that’s impossible.” She turned and stumbled into her kitchen, a glazed, unseeing expression on her face, and sank into a chair at her kitchen table. No way. There was no way. If that was true, she’d lost Friday evening, Saturday, and Sunday. She remembered staying at school late. She remembered the tugging becoming stronger and the rush of emotions. She knew she’d blacked out but how had she gotten home?
“My truck,” she said. “Where is my truck?”
“What?” Cerys asked, real concern clouding her features. “Your truck? It’s in the driveway. Did you drink? Or take sleeping pills? What’s wrong with you?” Suddenly Cerys gasped. “Cid, what happened to your neck?” Her eyes were fixed on the spot where Cid’s neck curved into her shoulder.
“What?” Cid touched the spot and flinched, a slight soreness. She arose and walked to a mirror in her pretty little living room. The soreness was caused by two tiny wounds, about three or four inches apart. Slight bruising surrounded them. Cid stared at them, no idea how they’d gotten there, how she’d gotten home after passing out in her truck, or how she’d lost two whole days.
Cerys had followed her into the living room and was warily watching Cid. “Look sister, I know you’re upset about your breakup with David, and I don’t know what kind of freaky shit you got up to this weekend, but this isn’t you. You don’t just not show up to work. You don’t just not leave lesson plans for your kids. You just don’t do any of this. I’m giving you the rest of today off to figure your shit out. I have to get back to school, but I’m coming by to check on you later. You ok right now?”
Cid was most assuredly not ok, but she didn’t even know what was going on herself, so she sure couldn’t explain it to her friend. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I’m really not feeling well. I’m sure a coffee and shower will help.”
“Ok,” said Cerys, still looking at her like she was the inmate of an asylum. “If you’re sure. I’m calling later. ANSWER!”
Cid nodded, her hand resting on the two small wounds, her eyes slightly glazed and far off. Cerys gave her one more cautious look, then hurried out the door, across the porch, and to her car. Cid followed her path with her eyes, noticing that her Travelall was, in fact, in the driveway. Cid blew out a breath. Ok. Some weird, alien stuff went down, but she wasn’t getting to the bottom of it without coffee and a shower.
Once Cid stepped out of a steaming hot shower and into an ivory tunic and soft gray leggings, she went to her kitchen, a cozy, well-appointed room that truly reflected the heart of her home, as any good kitchen should. The floors were broad cypress planks, worn and distressed but with the sheen and color of dark honey. She’d painted the cabinets, a new installation, as the old farmhouse had no built-ins, a green that was vivid but with a rich darkness, like the deepest recess of an emerald. She popped a pod into her coffee maker and then concentrated on the steaming thin stream as it filled her William Morris printed mug. Her favorite pattern: the Strawberry Thief. She was trying very hard not to freak entirely out. She was trying very hard to remember the last two days. She was trying to pretend there was no strange wound on her neck. But as she poured half and half and maple syrup into the steaming mug, the reality of her situation hit her. She was a woman who could not account for more than 48 hours and had no memory of returning to her home. Her heart accelerated and her breathing rasped in and out. Did she have early onset dementia or some other brain disorder? Had she been drugged? Was there some chemical release (she did live in the refinery capital of North America) that had disoriented her?
She drained the last dregs of her mug and set it in the sink. She braced her hands on the edge of the sink, thinking, and then grabbed her phone from the counter and checked her locations from the weekend. According to her iPhone, she had come home and been home all weekend. Next, she slid her feet into a pair of clogs and walked out to her Travelall. She opened the door and began to inspect the interior, running her hands under and a long the seams of the seats. She looked in her consoles and cargo bay. Everywhere. But no clues manifested.
She returned to her house and found her school bag on her dining room table. She filed through it looking for. . . she didn’t know what. Just anything to help her remember. Again, nothing. Feeling slightly frantic, she ran back up the stairs to her bedroom. At the doorway she slid to a halt and stared in shock at her bed. She slept alone and though she was generally a restless sleeper, the bed was a king and the other side never looked touched. But this morning, the sheets were rumpled and the pillow dented where a head had clearly lain. She slowly walked toward the bed, cautiously, as though she feared something would reach out of the disordered bedding and grab her, and gently traced her fingers over the indentation on the pillow. A single, dark hair lay in the center of the pristine white sheet. She carefully pulled it from the fibers of the pillowcase and held it to the light. The hair was dark, but when the sun from the window struck it, it shone with rich bronze. Frowning, she angled her head toward the mirror on her vanity table, watching the honey gold waves of her long hair drape over her shoulder. She knew the hair from her pillow was not her own. Goosebumps rose on her skin. Someone had slept in her bed beside her. Her hands trembling, she jerked the sheet back to examine the rest of the bed. Not a trace of anything else. Cid sunk to the floor and let her head fall against the mattress, still grasping the strange bronze hair between her fingers.