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Ruel eased the Phaeton to a stop in my driveway and turned off the ignition. He walked around to open my door and offered me his hand. I accepted his help even though I continued to think he was mad. He walked me to my door in silence with no trace of emotion on his face. I fished for my keys and unlocked the door. Ruel was standing behind me, slightly to the right. I turned to face him.
“I didn’t lie, but I know that’s not why you’re mad,” I told him.
“You really are the peculiar one, you know,” he said.
“Good night, Ruel.”
“Good night, Emma.”
He reached up and stroked my upper arm briefly. I pulled away in a defensive action instilled in me from an early age.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly with his face still hard. “This is more confusing for me than you.”
“You can’t know that,” I said and narrowed my eyes. He laughed and lightly brushed my cheekbone with the back of his fingers. A shiver shot through my body and I held my breath. I wanted to look away from him, but I didn’t want to lose my direct line of sight; I couldn’t bear to part with my strongest sense. My entire body refused to relax. I felt danger in this situation, though I wasn’t sure why.
“How conflicted are you?” he asked me.
“I have no idea what you mean.” I said, followed by a bewildered expression.
“You really have no idea?” He dropped his hand. His voice was angry again. “What are you Emma Bhiel? You can see in the dark, you must know what you are.”
“I can see in the dark?” I challenged. It was true though, I could see quite well in the dark.
“October twenty-third. You told me in an email. Referencing some past night you wrote, ‘I used to breath fire and that night I could see in the dark. I don’t like to think of that night. I still can see in the dark. Is that human?’ You must remember writing that to me.”
I inhaled sharply at Ruel’s precise recollection. Though I probably should have expected this after the memory exercise at the restaurant. My mind raced back to the bloodstain on my dress. To that night. I stopped the memory there. I still had enough control to keep it locked away in one of the many deep and hidden compartments of my mind, far away from whom I was currently striving to be.
“I’m human,” I whispered. “At least I am now.”
Ruel looked at me hard before speaking again.
“Will you still come to Russia?” he asked with harsh eyes.
“I don’t see any other option.”
“What does that mean?”
I relinquished my sight, looked downwards, and blushed. Did he really not realize that I had to go where he went? “You must know,” I murmured towards the ground.
“I hope I do,” he said in a distant voice.
“Are you still mad?”
“No. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
“Why did you? Do you not trust me?” I asked, jerking my head up and studying his expression. It was pained, the same as that split-second in the restaurant. My heart fluttered as I realized he was holding the expression now instead of trying to hide it. Something in him had changed. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, but I refrained.
“I do trust you. More than you know,” he replied.
“More than you’ve ever trusted anyone else?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I feel the same for you,” I told him simply.
His face suddenly brightened. “You’ll come to Russia with me, then?”
“Without hesitation. You knew that.”
“You are not easy to decipher,” he said and shook his head with a frown.
My body was still tense, but inside I was soaring. Ruel trusted me as much as I did him. I wasn’t sure that was even possible, but I would hold on to the notion nevertheless. I could feel that my composure was about to give. My head was spinning with thoughts of Russia, and of Ruel. I told myself I needed to be alone to think. I knew that if he didn’t leave right then, I would lose control of myself. I did not like to lose control.
“I think I should go now.” Ruel said as if he read my thoughts.
“That’s a good idea,” I told him.
“Good night, Emma.”
“Good night, Ruel.”
“Be safe, please,” he said.
I chuckled. I would probably spend the bulk of the weekend alone inside my house. That seemed safe enough. I felt myself leaning towards him; he was doing the same. My mind took over reminding me how close I was to losing control. To regressing. I quickly pulled away. At exactly the same moment, he did the same. It was as if we were dance partners performing a routine, completely in sync with one another. He took a step backwards off of my stoop with his eyes locked on mine the entire time. He smiled and hurried to his car. I went inside. I didn’t hear him drive away until I had closed the door and turned on the light inside.
I dropped my purse on the bench in the foyer and walked into my living room in a daze. I closed my eyes and started to replay the recent scene in my mind. I felt my cheek where he had touched me and imagined his hand still being there. I remembered the way Ruel had said yes when I asked if he trusted me more than anyone else. His voice had dropped, sounding very earnest and kind. His face lit up when I told him I felt the same way he did. All his anger had vanished in that quick exchange. I realized it was startling how quickly his mood had changed. I was too wrapped up in my own emotions to really recognize it at the time, but the contrast was stunning.
I sat on the couch. Ruel’s mean expression now replaced his kind one in my head. I thought of how he said the situation was more confusing for him and asked how conflicted I was. What did that mean? I thought longer. Also, why did he ask me what I was? Was it because I could see in the dark?
I could see in the dark. Pretty well, too. Not as well as in the light, but still better than most. I frowned, trying to recall why I was able to do this. Initially, I thought it was just something I was born with, like blonde hair or brown eyes. In time, though, I decided it was something different. All my youth I had been a recluse. I never really got along with anyone in school, and college was very similar. I rarely went outside during the day; the night was a different story.
—
It was during my freshman year at Georgia Tech that he first contacted me. He called himself Ronaldo. “Like the Brazilian footballer,” he said. But this Ronaldo was not Brazilian. In fact, I don’t know what he was, besides a thief.
He sat down across from me while I was reading inside a busy cafe in downtown Atlanta. I looked up at him expectantly, with a touch of annoyance—I was reading, after all. He grinned and said, “I see they’re right. I heard nothing surprises you, that you have no fear.” I kept silent and stared at him.
He continued, “They also say you’re the best car thief in the South. Is that true?” I said nothing. It was true. I was the best. “I’m not a cop, Emma. Quite the opposite, actually. You see, the police take things away from people, like their freedom and money, in order to enforce justice. But more often than not, they get it wrong. Good people are cheated of their lives and fortunes for no reason. The cops create injustice.”
“If you want to stop wrongful incarceration, why don’t you just attack the legislature?” I replied, and looked back down at my book. Ronaldo didn’t leave.
“That’s not enough. People deserve to keep what’s theirs, and those who take without regard deserve to be punished for their trespasses.”
“And I suppose you’re headquartered in the Sherwood Forest?” I continued, looking at my book. I heard him laugh.
“I’d like for you to come work with me. I know that you’re good at heart, but also skilled. I could use someone like you.”
“I work alone.”
“I thought you might say that,” he replied. “I brought this for you to contact me in the future, if you change your mind. We’re the good guys, Emma, please remember that.” He slid over a blank business card and stood up. “My apologies for interrupting your reading.”
I waited ten minutes after he left to look at the card. The front was blank, completely white. I flipped it over to find a phone number hand written in pencil on the back in crisp, legible numbers.
For the next month I was constantly paranoid that one of his people was following me. But no one was. The semester came to a close, and nothing happened. Spring semester began, and I was getting bored again. I stole a couple cars, but there wasn’t anything in it. I was restless and classes were too easy. In March, I dug up the card from the box I’d stashed it in and dialed the number. Within a week, I was on my first heist. For the next five years, I worked with Ronaldo, mostly stealing diamonds. The work was exhilarating, and I was constantly expanding my skill set. I could fire almost any weapon, and I became completely proficient with a knife. Martial arts were undeniably my best asset, though. I had a knack for stealth, which seemed to come naturally, due to my eyesight. In fact, it all felt innate. It seemed that I had learned how to do these things before, though I knew I hadn’t. At first, it struck me as odd that I would need fighting skills to be a common thief, but, in the field, I did actually have to fend off quite a few people. Plus, it was fun to train, so I quit wondering about it.
Then that night happened, and I finally learned the truth about Ronaldo, about exactly what he had turned me into. I killed him.
—
The shrill ringing of my house phone made me jump. I answered it quickly and was brought out of my dark memories again. It was Maria, my one friend, or the closest thing I had to a friend.
“What are you up to for the long weekend?” she asked, her bubbly voice chiming. The sound was a welcome change from my thoughts. She reminded me I was no longer the person from back then. I actually had changed.
“Oh, the usual. Maybe I’ll mow the lawn tomorrow. You?” I asked.
“Ha ha. So funny.”
I smiled. Maria hated that I was such a recluse.
“But seriously,” she said, “there’s this great party tonight at my cousin Tony’s. You should come.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” I said. Tony wasn’t actually her cousin, just some guy who was a close friend of the family. His parties were famous for their copious amounts of alcohol and college-aged girls. I had only been to one.
“Oh, don’t be a party pooper! Just come. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone you like.”
“Technically speaking, I’d have to go to the party in order to be the pooper. Besides, I just got home from a date.”
Silence filled the other end of the line, and I immediately regretted telling her. A loud squeal sounded from her end, making me hold the phone at arm’s length. An excited slur of words followed—what I deciphered to mean “spill it”. I sighed. I knew I could backtrack and play it off as a joke, but why not tell her? Wasn’t that what normal girls do—swap boy stories?
“I’m going to assume that wasn’t an intentional attempt to blow out my eardrum,” I said. My new “careless” attitude ignited my adrenaline. I grinned as it flowed through me like a drug. I had been withholding for quite some time.
“Dios, Emma! Just tell me!”
“Well, you can’t tell anyone. I’m serious. No one, agreed?”
“Agreed.” I didn’t fully trust Maria, but she would at least keep this a secret. After all, her job was somewhat dependent on mine, so there was no incentive for her to tell anyone at work. It wasn’t explicitly in the Leavitt code of ethics, but dating among colleagues in the same department was more than frowned upon, and I did value my job.
“Well, he asked me out on my drive home.”
“Who?”
“You won’t believe who.”
“Wait, is it Ruel?” she said in a very serious voice.
I froze. “Why?”
“Oh my god, it was!” Maria was back to the squealing voice, so I decided it was safe to proceed.
“Yes, it was Ruel.”
“Finally! You two have had it for each other since the moment you met. I actually thought you were having a secret relationship with him. Wait, are you?”
I laughed. If only. Of course, even if he and I were to have a relationship now, it would essentially be secret. Who was there to tell besides Maria?
“No, we’re not. This is the first time I’ve seen him outside of work.”
“So, where’d he take you?”
“We went to dinner in Mt. Dora.”
“Mt. Dora? They have restaurants there? Wait. Was it the kind of place where people throw their empty peanut shells on the ground? Please say no, because I’m imagining you walking through a sea of dirty shells crunching under your heels, and it’s not pretty. You did wear heels, right?”
“Black stilettos. And I had the same reaction to Mt. Dora, but its downtown is actually quite nice.”
“Huh, who would’ve guessed?” she said. “So, what was dinner like? Were you able to talk to him? I mean, he’s somewhat standoffish at work. Did he relax? Is that just a work thing?”
“It was interesting. I guess he was more relaxed than he is at work.” I realized mid-sentence that he had been relaxed for the first part of the evening. It was hard to remember that far back, the more recent events of the evening hung too heavily in my mind. I knew not to tell Maria about any of that. What would I say anyway? That Ruel and I completely trust each other? That would mean nothing to Maria. She was happy to trust people easily, a luxury that life had not granted Ruel and me.
“What’d you talk about?”
“Let’s see, there was a little about Norse mythology, but that was only because the restaurant was Icelandic. He’s really into wine, so I listened to him go on about that. It was interesting. He’s very knowledgeable.”
“Norse mythology and wine? This sounds like a internet dating site meet-up from hell.”
“No! Not at all. I don’t know. We just get each other. It feels very natural talking to him.”
“I see,” she said, “So what about after dinner?”
“What about it?”
“Oh come on! You have to tell me if Ruel’s a good kisser or not.”
“Well, I don’t know. We didn’t kiss.”
“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed.
“But, I did learn something exciting that pertains to you.”
“To me? Uh oh, what’d I do this time?”
“Nothing, well, nothing yet,” I laughed. “But knowing you, that might change in a couple of weeks when we’re in Moscow for work.”
“What?”
“Ruel said they’re sending us all to Moscow to seal the Russia deal. You, me, him, and Andrew.”
“Are you serious? That’s awesome! Free trip to Russia.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, sharing in Maria’s excitement.
“So, that was it for the date?”
“Yeah, not too thrilling. Then again, what were you really expecting from Miss Boring?”
“Oh, please, you’re not boring. Anyway, I need to get ready for Tony’s. You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, see you later, then. Call me if you want.”
“Will do.
The rest of the weekend was uneventful. When Tuesday finally arrived, I was a little nervous to see Ruel, and I wondered how would act around me. This was quickly addressed when he approached my desk.
“Nine o’clock?” he asked, referring to our morning meeting. I nodded and grabbed my notebook and pen. Our group worked well together. We kept things brief, and no one spoke simply to hear his or her own voice. Maria didn’t seem to be in yet, but this was a normal occurrence. She was not really a morning person. I was ready-to-go anytime, but I suppose sleeping very little can cause that. My insomnia used to be worse before I went on medication.
“Good weekend?” Ruel asked.
“Oh, so-so,” I replied nonchalantly and walked out of my cube into the hallway. “What about you? Do anything fun?”
“Only on Friday,” he said. Then I felt his hand on the small of my back, slightly pushing me forward. I smiled to myself as he dropped his hand as quickly as he placed it there.
Maria was in the conference room when we arrived, a giant mug of coffee in front of her. Once Andrew and Stanton, our department head, arrived, I started the meeting. The primary focus was on the Russia deal wherein Stanton announced that all four of us were going to Moscow next week. Maria acted appropriately surprised, which I was grateful for since I didn’t want Ruel to know I had spoken with her about the date. He didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, and when I looked at him to gauge this, he was smiling at me.
I left work a little early to make my five o’clock psychiatrist appointment across town. I used to go much more frequently after I ended my association with Ronaldo, but now I only went once a month, mainly to get a prescription refill. When I began my PhD program at Georgia Tech, my advisor told me I had to go see a psychiatrist and sort out my issues or else he wouldn’t continue to advise me. So I did.
I was quickly diagnosed with Type I Bipolar Disorder, which, my psychiatrist explained to me, is unlike Type II. Mine is the nasty kind dealing with extreme shifts in mood. This meant hallucinations, suicide attempts, feeling invincible or even immortal, excessive self-confidence, feeling able to accomplish anything and everything no matter what, participating in dangerous and illegal behavior, and experiencing blackouts or zero recollection of large chunks of time.
I started medication to get it under control, and my advisor, Dr. David Cohen, whom I just called by his first name, seemed pleased. He often commented on the drastic improvement of my work’s quality, attributing it to my progress in therapy. In the course of my studies, we formed a close relationship. He was sort of like a cool dad who had similar interests as me. After I graduated, he found me the job with Leavitt and proceeded to move to Boston to work as a professor at MIT. He called me once in a while to check in, but I hadn’t seen him since.
David and my psychiatrist in Atlanta were both very insistent that I was making a swift recovery from the bad event that had triggered my downward spiral. I never told either of them what actually had happened. I wondered sometimes if their imaginations were worse than what I actually had done. That was unlikely. Either way, I would end up in prison if I admitted the truth. No one who ever tried to help me ever asked directly about it, which certainly was more to protect them than me. After all, one can’t obstruct justice if he or she doesn’t know anything.
After battling traffic for thirty minutes, I pulled into the parking lot of my current psychiatrist’s office. Her name was Rachel. After signing in, I waited only five minutes before she came out of her office and smiled at me. “Emma, you ready?”
I nodded and entered the drab office. A dehumidifier served as a white noise machine, and the same mini-waterfall sat on her desk. She must clean it regularly; the rocks, in their soothing grays and off-whites, were always algae-free. I sat on the somewhat uncomfortable couch. It was a psychiatrist’s office after all, not a psychologist’s office; no place to dribble on about feelings for an hour.
“So, how have things been for the past few weeks? Anything new, or just the usual?” she asked me.
I hesitated. Should I tell her about Ruel? Russia? About having what many would consider a somewhat normal weekend? I never told Rachel anything but lies. Still, I had this new, emboldened attitude. I swallowed slightly harder than normal. “Did you want some water? Maybe some tea?” she asked, sensing my hesitation. I smiled and nodded. Rachel was sweet and caring. I’m sure she was good at her profession, especially with people who were honest with her. I only showed up for my medication. Without it, I would fall apart. I tried to go off it once, feeling indignant and overconfident during a manic stage. A few weeks into that, I woke up in Houston with a splitting headache and a stolen car. Not quite the recovery I was looking for. So, I went back on meds for good. A lifetime commitment of dependency takes a bit of swallowed pride, but it was what I wanted. After the incidents that drove me to getting help in the first place, it was what I needed.
I paused. “I went on a date.”
Rachel’s interest was immediately piqued. She attempted to smooth out her composure, but I could see the gleeful grin pushing itself forward from underneath.
“Yes, a date. You can be excited about it, I won’t consider it unprofessional.” I grinned. My smile was what did her in, and Rachel proceeded to follow the same bubbly track that Maria had gone down. I gave her some details, leaving out how exactly I’d met the guy. After I wrapped it all up, I debated telling her about Russia. After all, I was being honest for once. It felt refreshing; cathartic, even. But no, I decided. No need to let it all out at once. I bartered with myself: one truth per session.
“Are you still on your other medication?”
“The birth control, you mean?” I laughed. “Yes, but I don’t think it’ll come to that any time soon. He’s as weird as I am, so it may take a while to get there.”
“You never know. I just want you to be safe.”
“Always am.”
There was a longer than usual silence. We wrapped up early.
It wasn’t until a few days later while I was making a packing list for Russia that I realized Rachel had not prescribed my medication for the coming month. My current batch of pills would run out one day shy of the end of our trip. I gave her a call.
“Not to worry, just have your pharmacy give me a call when you need to get your next batch. You still have those samples I gave you in October, right?” Rachel asked. A new form of the medicine had come out, so the company sent samples to the doctors to push sales. They dissolved in your mouth rather than having to swallow them. I wasn’t a fan, but I still had all but one of the sample pills left, which was more than enough to get me to my next refill.
“I do.”
“Great. Well, just call me when you’re at the pharmacy,” Rachel reiterated. I could hear the reassuring doctor smile on her face when she added, “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”
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