Fugue

By Ashley Michel

“Fugue” is the story of one woman’s quest to remember her past, while, at the same time, on the run from it. Hillary wakes up one morning in a motel room she doesn’t recognize, next to a child she doesn’t recognize. It is five years later than her last memory, and strange clues in her bags do not add up to where she has been and what she has been doing. She doesn’t understand why she doesn’t remember, but the secret might lie in her three year old son, Cayce, who seems to demonstrate pyschic ability. But when Cayce is nearly kidnapped by strangers who seem to be following them, Hillary knows she must find a way to remember, to save herself and her child from danger, before she loses him forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312430822

Book preview

Fugue

Fugue

By Ashley Michel

Copyright © 2013 by Ashley Michel

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-43082-2

Acknowledgements

This, my first novel, would not be the reality without the help and support from so many people, I could never list them all. To my grandmother, Rita Dardenne, in whose footsteps I followed into the library, not just as a patron, but as a librarian, from which I developed my love of reading. To my mother, Mary Michel, whose expertise as an English teacher taught me the rules of grammar and how to produce readable work. To my high school English teacher, Mrs. Drusilla Balkom, who recognized my writing talent and taught me to hone it. To Shannon, my editor, who took my mess and made it so much better. To my late father, Edward Michel, from whom I got my storytelling talent and stubborn streak that made me push on through the difficult parts. Finally, to my husband Russell and son Garrett for without your love and support, this novel would not have been possible.

Chapter 1

I came awake slowly, but I fought it. A ton of lead presses down on me, right on my chest. I feel a little queasy, with the kind of heaviness felt from sleeping much longer than I should. My eyelids aren’t cooperating. They flutter open, and then sag again, and my head felt very strange. A strange pressure, not painful, but noticeable, settles between my temples. My head buzzes slightly, like having a hangover. I stretch and turn on to my side. Finally, I force my eyes to open, and I am stunned. I don’t know this room.

I struggle with keeping them open. This isn’t the room I remembered going to sleep in. It seems to be a motel room, and a dingy one at that. The carpet looks like it had been matted down some time in the 1980’s, and the TV was a model that was probably discontinued fifteen years ago. The remote control and an ashtray are attached to the nightstand, and the folding closet door doesn’t close all the way. Sunlight leaks in from the holes in the threadbare draperies at the window. I hoped the sheets under me are at least clean. I stretch and manage to sit up.

How did I get here? Where am I? I shake my head slightly to clear it. What is the last thing I can recall? I don’t remember yesterday, or the day before. I notice my clothes. I don’t recognize them either. Worn boxer shorts and a faded, oversized T-Shirt that says Donate blood today! with an address for a blood bank in Milwaukee, hang on me. I’ve never been to Milwaukee. I don’t recall receiving or getting these clothes. Oddly, they feel familiar, as if I have worn them many times. Then, I hear a light snoring next to me.

Skin cold and heart racing, I turn to my right. I am not alone in the bed. A small form pushes up the thin sheets. Just a tuft of dark hair was visible on the pillow next to mine. I pull back the sheet and blink when I see a small child, sound asleep. Pulling the sheet back a little more, I notice short hair and Spiderman pajamas. It must be a boy. I don’t recognize him. He appears to be around three or four years old, but I can’t tell for sure.

I am thunderstruck.

My brain refuses to function. I have awakened in a motel room somewhere, wearing clothes I don’t recognize, sleeping next to a small child I don’t know, and I have no idea how I came to be here or why.

Think I tell myself. What is the last thing you remember?

Nothing comes. I start a mental inventory. Name. Hillary Coulton. Age. Eighteen. Senior in high school, but I’m not sure where. Parents. Todd and Diane Coulton, my dad dead from a car accident when I was fifteen, but my mom is still alive. Last known memory? Lying down in my bed in my room in my house. I don’t know if it’s the very last memory I have, but it’s what comes to mind. I recall watching the play of shadows on my wall from the tree outside before drifting off. It is the last fully formed memory I have. But what happened after that? There is absolutely nothing. It is as if someone had thrown a switch in my brain and simply turned me off and then switched me back on just now. I shiver at the thought. Goosebumps lift up on my arms.

The child next to me stirs, jostled by my movements no doubt. He stretches and rolls towards me. His eyelashes flutter and his eyes open slightly. They focus on me, gives me a sleepy smile, his eyes closing contentedly as he whispers, Mama, and drifts back off to sleep.

I scramble out of the bed and stare at the sleeping boy.

Mama? Mine?

No, no, that can’t be. I don’t have a kid. I’d certainly remember if I did. He is confused. Yes that’s it. He barely woke. I must look like his mother. I stop and wonder if that is why I am here. Is someone mistaken, and thinks I am this child’s mother? That doesn’t explain why I have no memory of coming here or why I would have in the first place, though. I lean in closer and examine the child’s face. He looks familiar. I can’t quite figure out why. It takes a few moments and then I realize with another chill that his eyes, the shape of his cheekbones, his hair color, are all features that look remarkably similar to pictures of me at that age. This child looks like me.

000

I look out the window through a crack in the curtains. Rain drenches the world from a solid gray sky. I have a red spot on my arm where I repeatedly pinch myself to ensure I am awake. I know I am, but I can’t seem to focus. I turn on the television, with the volume turned down, to what seems to be a news channel. It only adds to my confusion. The man on the screen says the date is five years later than my last recollection. This makes me twenty three, not eighteen.  My thoughts jump from one thing to the next, and back around again like a frog on a hot plate. Eventually, my thoughts slow and I come to one conclusion.

Amnesia.

Obviously something happened to me and I have forgotten, and by definition, that is amnesia. Maybe I took a crack to the head. I feel for a lump but find nothing. Maybe it is long enough since the hit that I no longer feel any pain. I don’t know why I have come out of it now, but I now consider my next move. The child still sleeps but stirs and will probably awake soon. I take the opportunity to search the room for clues to my situation. I find nothing except an odd backpack. It actually looks to be a carrier meant for a child. The backpack part comes off leaving straps for a child to sit in. A small tag on the side shows it can be worn on the front of a person or on the back, sort of piggy back style. Another tag says Ergo on it. It looks like it’s been used several times.

Inside the backpack I find more mysteries. Two changes of clothes for me and the child. Four cloth diapers for the boy, a pair of socks, but little else, like a jacket.  Thankfully he had shoes. Simply put, it doesn’t appear as if this bag is packed for a long trip. Perhaps I packed in a hurry? Three granola bars and a packet of dried fruit fill one of the side pockets. In another pocket, I find a small, black billfold type wallet. Inside is four hundred dollars in cash, a small thumb drive, and a California driver’s license with my picture on it. However, the name says Ellen Seaver. I don’t recognize the address. That is now feeling old, and I press my lips tight with frustration. Ellen Seaver? The name is meaningless although it feels as if it should be familiar. I certainly don’t remember taking this picture or ever getting a driver’s license from California. I can’t remember where I am actually from, but I know it isn’t California. Or Milwaukee, as my shirt says.

A small, Velcro wristband next to the wallet looks as if it is made for a child. I have seen similar wristbands. They carry information about a child to tell people about him in case he becomes separated from his parents. I pull it open and sure enough I find, in a small inside pocket, a strip of waterproof material with lined spaces for information.

The name line says Cayce but nothing else. It’s an odd spelling of a name and again the tug of familiarity pulls at me. It takes me a half hour to remember to pronounce it as Casey. It is spelled the way famous psychic Edgar Cayce spelled his name. I find this odd. Mysticism isn’t something I am completely familiar with, only enough to recognize this name. If this child truly is mine, why did I name him this? Or did his father name him? Who is his father? The address is blank, as are the lines for information about a pediatrician. Surely I would have put those things down, wouldn’t I? The address on the wristband is the same as my driver’s license with the same wrong name under the line for parental information. Thankfully, a birth date is also on the band, which, by doing some quick math in my head, prove he is about three and a half years old. I recognize the handwriting as mine. This is not good.

I flip over the strip over and the world tips as my head goes light. The list of allergies is long. This kid was allergic to everything a human could react to. Peanuts, wheat, strawberries, bees, dairy, shellfish, pollen, dust, latex and nickel. I at least remember one thing: a friend of mine growing up had so many allergies that her parents worked overtime to make sure she never ate or touched anything lethal to her. Much to everyone’s relief, she seemed to grow out of most of them over time, but this list includes everyday stuff that can kill this child. Some rooting around in the backpack showed that I, or whoever had packed this bag, had thought to include an EpiPen for rescue relief of allergic attacks. I let out a breath and close my fist around the pen. But it was only one.

I tuck the strip back into the wristband and set it aside and dig around more. I find a vinyl bank bag like the kind I used to keep pens and pencils in for school. I unzipped it and freeze. Sweat pools on my upper lip.

The bag is stuffed with cash. This is not just four hundred, but a lot of cash. I pull it out with shaking fingers. All one hundred dollar bills. I lay it out in orderly piles. My breath grows more and more shallow as I count out thirty thousand dollars. Knees going weak, I sit on the edge of the bed. My head spins. Whatever amnesia is keeping from me about my life, I know one thing--this kind of cash never means good things. Why did I have so much money with me and not in a bank? Have I committed a bank robbery? If I didn’t earn it myself, it will be missed by whoever did earn it. That means someone is probably looking for me. It means I chose this motel for hiding.

I go through all our belongings again. I can’t find any further clues. Although I can remember my name and certain aspects of my life before the age of fifteen, the memories are hazy. I knew I should be a senior in high school, but I remember nothing of the year. When I try to recall more, a sick, panicky feeling settles in my stomach. Before I throw up, I think of something else. My immediate problem is, of course, the child.

He finally wakes. He sits up in the bed, sees me, and grins.

Mornin’, Mama, he says, rubbing his eyes.

Uh… I gulp down dryness. Morning, kiddo. Sleep well?

Uh huh. H looks around. Where’re we?

A motel. It’s just for a little while. I try not to let my voice shake. Want to watch some TV?

The boy’s eyes grow bigger. I can? he asks, disbelief in his thin voice. I don’t ever let him watch TV?

Sure, I say. We’re on vacation. You can do a lot of things on vacation you don’t normally get to do.

Using leading questions I get him to tell me his name. It is just the same as on the identity band. Cayce only he pronounces it Casey, as I expect. I let him watch PBS. He seems happy, and I don’t recognize the show. Must be a new one.  I head to the bathroom to shower. A good examination of my body reveals stretch marks on my stomach. I have been pregnant. How have I forgotten something like that?

There is a knock on the door.

Mama, I'm hungry, comes a little voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

Okay, I say weakly. I want to go back to bed and wake up and find this is a dream. I know it is not. I come out and dressed us both. The child seems comfortable with me, but I am at a loss. He is a total stranger to me, but I cannot let him know that. Not just yet. I have to make sure he has everything he needs, and to not upset him. But I operate on only a minimal amount of babysitting experience. With our belongings secured in the room, and the money hidden, I make sure the door is locked. There is a Denny's across the street and we head that direction.

As we sit in the booth and pour over the menu, I realize I am the parent of a child with food allergies. There is very little on the diner menu he can eat. My own stomach grumbles for some pancakes and eggs, but I settle on a bowl of fruit and orange juice for Cayce, which is the only thing he can eat here without getting sick.

I also ask the waitress for help. It turns out her niece is a food allergen as well. Under normal circumstances, her chattiness might annoy, but secondhand expertise is better than mine.

Oh, honey, I'm telling you, she says concern in her voice, that poor girl couldn't eat a damn thing. My sister about pulled her hair out trying to keep that child fed. Anything with wheat, nuts, or strawberries, nope, my niece can't eat it. What you really have to watch out for is the stuff that's cooked in peanut oil. Seems when I was growing up we didn't have all these kids allergic to peanut butter and we cooked everything in peanut oil. Not now though. Kids die from that. We don't cook anything in peanut oil here and now every place has got to tell you what oil they cook things in.

She goes on, just enough to make me nervous about the whole thing. I can see I will have to be very careful with him. Cayce himself seems a very quiet kid. I don't know much about children, but I know most three-year-olds are chatterboxes. Not this one. He looks around as if he has never seen the inside of a Denny's, or this many other people, before.

He turns to me. These don't seem like bad people, Mama.

I frown and poke at my fruit. Why would you think they are bad people?

Because Randall said so.

Randall? The name sends a small shock through me. It is almost familiar, but I draw a blank for a face or anything else. I almost asked who Randall is before I remembered the kid can’t know I don't remember anything, including him. I am going to have to be more subtle.

I'm sure Randall had his reasons for saying that, I say, choosing my words. But sometimes people can be wrong about things, even adults.

Cayce looks pensive for a moment. He shrugs and says okay. He goes back to eating his fruit. I want to ask more about this Randall, but I hope instead for answers to come to me on their own.

We finish eating and return to the motel. I take another inventory of our belongings. I need something to be something I know. The wad of cash bothers me the most.

Cayce seems content to watch TV. While he is distracted by Sesame Street, I must decide what to do. I can remember a little bit about my home address, and I figure the best thing is to head home. Mom can get me a head doctor and we can figure out what happens next. I think about calling her but I didn't remember my phone number or hers. I also do not have a cell phone with a list of numbers, as I was used to having.

I think about the time as well. It is five years later than it feels to me. What has Mom been through in those years? Did we lose touch? Would she be glad to hear from me, or would she think me back from the dead? I am left wanting to pull my hair out.

Another thing occurs to me. If I am carrying around cash because I don’t want to be traced or followed, waltzing into a bus station with the kid will attract attention. If someone is looking for me I need to make certain they don’t find me or Cayce. I need transportation. That means getting a car, and doing so without attracting too much attention.

Getting Cayce ready, we hike to the convenience store on the corner and buy a newspaper. The classified section lists automobiles for sale. I take the newspaper back to the room and scan it, circling a few promising contenders. Much of the afternoon is spent on the phone with people who don’t sound encouraging. I finally talk one into bring their vehicle to the motel. A man and a woman show up in two different cars and point me towards the black one.

Why are you selling it? I ask, staring at the black car.

Just don't need it with the truck I have at home, he says. It's just sitting under the carport, collecting dust. Hardly ever been driven either. Used to be my mom’s before she passed away.

I glance at the man and opened the car door. I slid into the driver seat. I remember taking Driver's Ed in high school, but I still am not very comfortable behind the wheel. The car shows about 50,000 miles on it,