Flight Into Reality

Garrick Thomas edged closer to the rim, looked over the cliffside to the crashing sea far below. One more step and he would sail from this tropical island asylum, suspended—free from all restraints until the outcrop of boulders broke his fall. He wondered what he would feel in those first moments of freedom? Release? Regret? “Hello, my name is Irene.” Startled by the soft voice, Garrick lurched backward from the precipice to grab the iron rail. As he turned, he looked into the pert, upturned face of a tiny, seventyish woman. “You must be more careful,” she chided. “You might have fallen.” “Uh . . . yes.” Caught mulling his demons, his yearning for oblivion, Garrick ducked under the railing, embarrassed. With an ungainly wobble, he reached to grip the seatback of an ornate stone bench set alongside the path. His knees buckled, and he landed hard on the bench. “Oof!” After a moment to compose himself, he patted the seat. “Come, sit beside me, Irene. Tell me who you are while we share this magnificent view.” He looked into her tranquil blue-green eyes, eyes the exact shade of the sea stretching across the immense horizon. The woman smiled and settled on the bench, leaving a modest space between them. “It is lovely here, isn’t it? Simply lovely.” A yellow warbler watching from atop a nearby Cayman thatch palm tittered and fluttered away. Garrick’s eyes followed a flock of graceful black skimmers as they flew low over the lapping waves along the beach below, diving for small fish and insects. He took a deep breath, fought to shake his spirits free from the clinging depression that so weighed upon his thoughts, his soul. “Irene, you say?” He forced a smile. “Are you Irene, as in ‘Goodnight, Irene’?” “No, Irene as in Irene Dunne.” “Really?” He squinted for a closer look. “I guess you do resemble the actress somewhat.” “I don’t have to look like someone I want to be. All I have to do is just feel like her, and today I feel like Irene Dunne when she starred in the film The White Cliffs of Dover.” “We have the cliffs, certainly, though we’re a bit off from Dover.” He waved toward the edge of their rampart overlooking the Caribbean. “I guess you could call the cliffs white, whitish, anyway. Dover’s cliffs lack the dense jungle growth at the bottom, however. We’ll just ignore that little detail.” He could play along, welcoming any amusement her fantasy offered. He felt better already. “They don’t have to be white,” she said. “You have a jolly good imagination at work, Irene. Are you new here? I don’t recall running into you around our ‘campus’.” He nodded toward the crescent of resort-style white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, all lining the far side of a promenade dotted with tall coconut palms. Several small cottages beyond the green mall sat sandwiched between two-story apartment buildings, administrative offices and an infirmary. “Nor have I seen you in our one and only store, the so-called ‘company store’ where we’re allowed to shop. With the help of nurse’s aides, of course, to make sure we don’t pilfer emery boards or other valuables.” She ignored the bitterness of his words. “I wasn’t well when I first arrived, but I’m fine now.” The woman tidied her skirt and crossed her ankles before patting a loose gray-blonde wisp into place. “You sound British.” “I am.” “I’ll bet your name then is Trevor.” “A good guess, but you’re wrong. Try again.” “I thought all you Brits were Trevors. As in Howard.” “Trevor Howard, I see. You are into old movies, aren’t you, Miss Dunne?” “Some days, I’m Marlene.” She pronounced it Mar-LAY-nuh. “As in Dietrich?” “Of course.” “That should be interesting.” He gave a Groucho tap to his imaginary cigar and waggled his abundant white eyebrows. “Then Irene isn’t your name after all?” Her petite face turned up toward his and her eyes crinkled in a coquettish smile. “No, you’ll have to guess it. Like you’re making me guess yours.” “That’s easily resolved. My name is—” “No!” She stopped him with pressure on his arm. “No, don’t tell me. If I don’t know your name, I can continue the fiction. I can pretend you’re anyone I want you to be.” “Aha! It’s clear that you’re another of the famous mystery authors boarding in one of our, ah, vacation villas.” “Hardly vacation, more like retreat—from life.” The edge in her voice relayed the switch to bitterness he saw in her eyes. “Don’t be angry.” His hand brushed her smooth cheek and returned the errant tendril to its proper place. He marveled at how few wrinkles lined her face and wondered at her age. She identified with film stars of the Thirties and Forties, but anyone could do that if they watched enough old movies on TV—or were old enough to have seen the first runs. “Your eyes match the brilliant color of the sea. You should have your portrait painted with the ocean behind you.” She murmured, almost under her breath, “That was done in another life.” “Oh?” “When my husband was alive . . . before I became ill.” “And where is that painting now?” “My daughter has it at her apartment in New York, Manhattan actually.” Her voice lightened. “She—Lauren—is coming to visit.” “And I suppose that would be Lauren Bacall?” With a silvery laugh, “Irene” answered, “No, her name really is Lauren. Lauren Hale.” “What a pretty name.” “She’ll be here soon.” “Yes, they all say that.” “Lauren always keeps her word. She is a wonderful daughter. Do you have children?” “A son and a daughter-in-law, one grandson and one on the way.” “Don’t they come to visit?” He shook his head. “Let’s be realistic. Our families parked us here out of sight and out of mind.” He grunted. “Though it’s we who are out of mind, they contend.” She looked alarmed. “What do you mean?” He held her eyes, then looked away. “Why are you here?” “My daughter said I was sick for a long while. I guess I lost track of time. She said the doctor thought I needed to get out of the city’s stale air. Before that, Lauren insisted I live with her, but my home is in Arizona.” “How did you end up here?” “The doctor found this health spa with its therapists, so she brought me to Encantadora. She said it would help me return to my writing amid the beauty and serenity of the island while mingling with other writers.” “When was that?” She hesitated. “I don’t remember exactly.” “You said you were ill.” “When I woke up, I was here, and I feel wonderful now.” “I’m glad.” Her sweet calm voice soothed his soul. Garrick took her hand, but she quickly drew it away and glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s late. Mother is expecting me for dinner.” Her voice became light, agitated. “I must hurry now. She’ll be angry if I’m late.” “Your mother? Is she a pa—, a guest here too?” “Oh, no.” “Then you mean the Mother Superior of a Catholic convent? I didn’t know there was one on this tiny island.” “No! I mean my mother. She’s been cooking and cleaning all day, and I must help. She’s tired.” She rose from the bench without another word and hurried off along the pathway. His lightened mood sank as Garrick called after her, “I’ll see you in my dreams, Irene.” If only I could. His thoughts turned bleak again as a remnant of horror flickered through his mind, a relic from his afternoon nap. With the woman out of sight, he climbed again under the guardrail to walk to the edge of the cliff. He looked down at the swirling white foam. It would be so easy to end the terror here. A mere step could destroy the fiends overrunning his nightmares when the evil characters from his horror novels metamorphosed into composites to bring new terror, leaving him afraid to close his eyes, afraid to sleep. He was weary to death of battling these nightly, fragments of monsters he himself had created while reinventing themselves as his own personal, punishing demons, the worst Phelan Powell, the vilest, most loathsome creature man could have have summoned up in his imagination. He climbed back to the safety of the pathway. Maybe if I