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the lurker
She stood in the middle of the attic and closed her eyes. She could still smell it. It was orange peel blended with rosemary and lavender, and the faint scent of it still lingered in the room. Even now, the joyful sound of her mother’s laughter could fill Parker’s ears when she listened for it. The room had been one of her mother’s favourite hideaways; where she would retreat when she needed to think, or merely required a moment alone. There were so many things Parker couldn’t remember about her mother, but the stolen intervals within the attic that they had shared, remained engraved in her mind.
She opened her eyes as a creak from behind, caused her to start. She turned, expecting to find someone there, but there was nothing save for the small flicker of light from the candle she had set on a table near the top of the stairs. Parker inhaled a large gulp of air and shook her head. The number of years gone by didn’t matter; the fears of the little girl she’d tried to leave behind still followed her into this room.
The hours she had spent as a grieving child in the room which had been her mother’s haven, had done nothing to comfort her then, and even now, the room seemed to feed every irrational fear she could muster. Parker looked at the overstuffed chair sitting against the wall near the small window. She could still see her mother sitting there, reading a book by candlelight.
As far as she knew, her father had not so much as set foot in the attic after her mother’s death. She had always wondered if it had been too painful for him, or if he simply didn’t care. She smiled wistfully, knowing that she would never be privy to his reasoning; the subject of Catherine Parker had been off limits since the day she was found dead in the elevator. Miss Parker had been made painfully aware of it then, and nothing had changed in thirty years.
Parker ran a finger across the frame which held the wedding photo of her parents. They were standing on the steps of a church, smiling. And yet there was something in her mother’s eyes that Miss Parker couldn’t read. It was a tinge of sadness; but no, that wasn’t quite it. Fear? No, that wasn’t it either. Parker picked the photo up and studied it for a few minutes.
Acquiescence. That was it.
Parker set the photo down, and looked at the painting hanging on the wall. It was a water colour which her mother loved, and had been painted by her mother’s grandmother in the late 19th century. It was a landscape of a large home at the end of a road. The chimney had smoke billowing from it, and a man walked down the road, toward the house, with two dogs following him. The muted colours of the sky cast a slightly eerie sense of foreboding all around it, but just above the house, the sky turned to a welcoming orange and pink, like the perfect sunset above a beach. Parker moved closer to it, still able to hear her mother’s voice......
“Your great grandmother painted this in 1894. You see the house at the end of the road? That was where your great grandmother grew up. The man walking toward the house is her father. She always said that at the end of every road, there was a sunset to watch, and a place one could call home.”
Parker blinked away a tear which had formed in the corner of one eye. She hadn’t thought of it in years. She had always wondered where the house was located, her mother had never said. She thought perhaps it might be in Maine, but the location of it was something her mother had taken with her.
She walked over to the small makeshift bookcase next to the overstuffed chair near the window. Gently, she fingered the spines of several old books, now dusty and cracking from age. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, as she read the titles of her mother’s favourites: A collection of poetry books from Dylan to Browning; Anne of Green Gables; The Diary of Anne Frank; Dracula and an old worn copy of Frankenstein. Parker couldn’t help but wonder what her mother’s fascination with Dracula and Frankenstein had been; or was it that her mother was comparing them to the Centre’s research projects? That thought made her shudder.
The scent of orange filled her nostrils once again. How the smell could still permeate the small space thirty years after her mother had last been in it, was beyond her. She sat down in the old chair, and a memory rushed her mind: Her mother holding her in her lap, comforting her. Parker frowned, unsure of the significance it held, or even why she recalled it.
Then it hit her. She had left one of her favourite toys in the middle of the living room floor. Miss Parker had been taught from a very early age that when finished with her toys, they belonged in the chest in her room. However, that particular day, she had been distracted by the special delivery that had arrived at the house. It had been a package for her, a birthday present. She had been so excited to receive it, she forgot all about the doll she had been playing with in the living room.
Her father had come home, called her into the living room. She had known the depth of her mistake as soon as she saw his face, but still had not been prepared for his anger. He had grabbed a hold of her roughly, and yelled at her so strongly, she fought back tears of panic. He then let go of her, picked up the doll and proceeded to smash it to pieces. Miss Parker had been terrified to the core, and couldn’t utter a sound. She had merely stood there, watching him shred the doll into oblivion, fearing that perhaps she was next.
After he had stormed out of the room, Parker had picked up the doll’s pieces, and retreated to the attic, to hide. Her mother had found her there, hours later, still crying over the broken remains. Catherine had picked her up, and cuddled her in the chair until she had fallen asleep, exhausted from her ordeal.
Parker’s breaths were caught in her throat as the memory had its way with her. Tears streamed down her face in hot rushes of emotion. She had long ago forgotten about the doll, but had never forgotten the cruelty of the moment. It was four years later that her mother had died, and Miss Parker knew that there was no one to protect her. No one to whom she could run for cover; she had been truly alone since the moment the gun had gone off in the elevator.
She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Totally alone. At least that was how it had felt. She had faced the rest of her childhood years living in the house with a father who didn’t really know what to do with her. As an adult, she knew that the death of her mother had on some level, devastated him; but as a child, all she knew was that she needed him, and he was emotionally unavailable to her. It had been Sydney who had tried to fill in the void left by her mother’s death; he who had attempted to comfort her that day at the Centre, and Sydney who had held her hand at the funeral. It was ironic really; the man who had never been given a chance to raise his own child, had to raise three others at the Centre. And his reward had been hatred from Jarod, disdain from her, and not so much as a nod from Angelo. She doubted that the poor empath was even capable of realizing that Sydney was his protector, much less anything more.
Parker’s eyes moved toward the far end of the attic, and the locked chest sitting there. It was covered with a thick layer of dust. It hadn’t been touched in 30 years. Neither she, nor her father had ever mustered the courage to open it. Maybe it was time. She stood, taking a step toward the chest, when she heard a car door slam in the driveway. Parker glanced out the little window, and saw her father making his way toward the front door. She looked back at the chest; it would have to wait until another time.
Picking up the candle on her way, Parker went down the small stairwell leading out of the attic. The smell of sweet orange lingered in the wood beams, the rosemary on the pages of the books, and the lavender in the fabric of the chair. As she closed the door, she thought she heard the sound of dulcet laughter from above her; but knew that it was only the sound of her memories.
fin
