Chapter 3--Melanie's Song--First Verse

Imagine sending a casual e-mail to inform your husband of sixteen-years you wanted a divorce. And, by the way, his dinner was in the refrigerator, the housekeeper was off for two days, and unfortunately, you would not be there to warm it for him. Instead, you would be at the summer home at Tressel Lake, and you preferred he not call, or write, and especially, not show up in person.

Imagine you did this without thought or forbearance. One minute you were dictating a memo to your assistant and the next you were hitting the send button at the top of the screen.

Imagine a man with whom you had shared your life since the eleventh grade. A man who had never given you a reason not to love him. A man whose devotion to you and your three children had always been flawless. A man who supported you both financially and emotionally during college and then through your career in the pharmaceutical industry. A man committed to your desires, and a man who made all the concessions you needed of him, even as your position of Vice President of Sales competed for your time.

Imagine that only the day before you hit that send key, you had discussed plans to spend three weeks traveling the European countryside. You laughed and kissed, and had every intention of going. You held your husband’s face with love and longing, and you breathed deeply the satisfaction your life with him had brought.

Imagine that when you woke only that morning, you made love to him, as you never had before. You couldn’t get enough of him, and even though you had been with him for twenty-years, your love for him had never diminished. You were certain that he had always been faithful, and you trusted he had never thought about not being so. And you had been faithful to him, even though more chances than you could remember had presented themselves.

Imagine that in the first half of one second, you knew exactly who you were and what you wanted from life, and then, in the next half of that second, you doubted everything, questioned every emotion, and knew you had made a mistake somewhere in your life. The path you were on was not your intended course. Somewhere along the line, you had gone astray. And that somewhere was very early on.

Perhaps, you lost your way even before you met the boy in the Porsche, the one who flashed such a cute smile, the one who became your husband.

Perhaps, you were living the wrong life, a life intended for someone else, a wonderful fulfilling life, but still, a life that was not actually yours.

Perhaps, hitting the send key on your computer had been a mistake, but when have you ever second-guessed your decisions?

I didn’t need to imagine it. I had done it, and I still didn’t know why.

#

Rending light struck my eyes through a pair of open shutters that faced Tressel Lake. I turned my head, shading the assault within a velvet pillow and pulled a discarded afghan back over me. The surface smelled of my sweet patchouli candles and the faint musty tang of winter’s non-use. The nighttime chill ached in my bones and my mouth held a residue of the wine I had been drinking the night before. A two-hundred dollar bottle of cabernet, which I had shared with me and myself, and the three of us had happily, drank from the bottle.

I had fallen asleep in the solarium, listening to an old David Sanborn recording and watching the silvery reflections dance on the lake. There was nothing like the mournful sound of a saxophone to make a sullen emotion sink even deeper.

A prism of light refracted through stained-glass steeple windows, reflected around the room, and shone with all the intensity of a cathedral. The colors radiated with no less panache, forming intricate patterns of crimson and gold about the room.

The sun peeked over the distant pines and spilled across the mirrored water in a scarlet blaze. Loons sang to each other with joyous longing. I wished I shared in their optimism, but my mood didn’t even approach indifferent, never mind cheerful. Instead, the old saying “Red sky at morning” finally held meaning.

I stood and stretched, feeling the heated rays warm my stiff body. The sofa may not have been my best choice, but had seemed more than comfortable the night before. My body just didn’t recover the way it had when youth was on my side.

I pushed up my hair where it had half-fallen from a silver jade-encrusted hair clip. I had purchased it on an anniversary trip to Mexico with Daniel three years prior. Memories flooded over me when I reached to re-clasp it. Instead, I tossed the piece of jewelry into a nearby drawer, closed the memory away, and let my hair’s length fall back over my shoulders. Having it down felt good, but it was a rare occasion when I had the opportunity to wear it like that. I delighted in its silky texture and let it sway, caressing my back. I studied its length as it swung up over my shoulder and across my breasts. Auburn had replaced the golden highlights, but for the most part, it was still as close to the strawberry-blond of my youth.

I knew my first day of separation was going to be trying, and I dreaded all the questions, which I knew were headed in my direction.

Of the three of my children, Jennifer, my oldest, would be the most upset and she would display it with anxiety. She had just turned fourteen and was in her first year of high school. She was at an age where she needed me, but at the same time, she outwardly tried to prove her sovereignty. This tact worked for only brief periods before she would come into my room and cuddle in my arms, asking my advice on what to do. I wasn’t sure how to explain all this to her, I just prayed she would understand.

Susan, my middle child, was eleven months younger than her sister and the two were opposites. Susan would probably just cry and seek comfort in her boyfriend’s arms, a boyfriend we forbid her to have, and if she did ask any questions, she wouldn’t listen to my answers anyway. She had always been independent and rebellious. I even believed that in some ways she would accept my actions.  

Kevin was the one I worried about the most. He would take this as an attack on his Dad, regardless of my reason or any feelings involved, although it had nothing to do with the way I raised him. He was a product of his environment and his dad. Daniel’s bond with our son and our position in society, had always forced me to make difficult choices in regards to discipline.

I, on the other hand, had been born to a poor family. I grew up possessing relatively little. However, we had each other, and we had each other’s love and respect. That was until God stole my parents away from me at the age of fifteen during a violent winter blizzard. I had no other relatives, which I knew of anyway, and Daniel’s parents took me in as a part of a new foster care program a close friend of Daniel’s father had begun. The rest, as one might say, was history. And though the first two years Daniel despised me, by eighteenth birthday, we were deeply in love and by my twenty-second birthday, we were married. I had never looked back—until yesterday.

My husband Daniel had grown up only two towns away from me, but the distance might as well have been the distance between planets. His parents were from old money, and Daniel never wanted for anything, that was, until I hit that send-key. I knew my husband, and I knew what his reaction was going to be.

For now, I refused to ponder my actions, nor to think about any reason or motive, nor to worry about anyone’s reaction, including my children’s. Instead, I was going to enjoy the early June day as if it were the first day of my life, for in essence, that was exactly what it was.

#

I walked the edge of Tressel Lake nestled in the deep woodland valleys of Northern Vermont. It was late in the spring. The air smelled so fresh it made my head reel with intoxication. Unfortunately, that simplicity would be short lived, as was any of the life I had previously known. Evil dwelled within the shadows of an approaching storm, evil that would send its talons through my soul. However, if only for a few moments, I enjoyed the company of nature.   

I strolled down a woodland path that circled around the lake, taking the time to mull over my ascending confusion. For no apparent reason, I had left my husband, and my children, leaving no explanation. I just wished to Christ that I had one.

Spring carried the warm, moist, scent of fertility; the emergence of green life surrounded me with spicy scents, melodic sound, and humbling beauty.

From the bustling thicket, the whippoorwills and sparrows sang a carefree serenade. Bees hummed a constant drone in search of nectar, traveling from wildflower to wildflower in a balmy spring waltz, and for a minute, their simple tone allowed my mind to put aside my irritating bewilderment. Cicada beetles cried a shrill chainsaw-like whine that lasted much longer than seemed natural.

The bright morning sun had dipped behind the clouds only a few minutes after I began my walk, and against better judgment, I had continued. Dark clouds began to gather on the western horizon, their smoky-grey mass accented by the fiery-red blaze of the morning sun.

Somehow, I had wandered off my normal route, lost in deep thought, fighting off tears. The narrow path had closed in around me, overgrown with briars and delicate ferns each as contrasted as my rampant emotions.

A saturated mist clung to the air and the day’s outlook, which had begun with such optimism, withered like any belief I once fostered in myself.

Almost by second nature, my thumb stroked the base of my ring finger, and though in sixteen years it had always reassured me that the ring was still there, this time it found the finger empty and my heart sunk.

I promised myself not to think about it until I was ready, but had I made a serious mistake in leaving? How could I answer that? I wasn’t sure why I did it, never mind view it as being right or wrong. I walked away from a happy life for no apparent reason, yet there was a reason and it hid just beyond my grasp like a hawk gliding over a field while the unsuspecting mouse ponders a safe path across. There was a reason, and now it stalked me within every shadow, behind every tree.

I stopped and spun on my heel. Although I had walked that lakeside path for many years, everything had become unfamiliar, foreign.

The panic of being lost raked its claws across my spine and I turned in circles trying to gain my bearings.

My mind refused to focus and the clarity I felt when my walk began had dissolved into a dense fog.

Perhaps I had become psychotic. Perhaps I had contracted a disease that affected reason and action. Perhaps I was stuck in a dream, unable to wake. Perhaps I had struck a telephone pole with my Lexus and at that very moment, I was laying in a coma in a Boston hospital with the reality of my descent merely fantastical daydream.

Then again, perhaps I just woke yesterday and realized that I didn’t know who the real me was anymore.

I knew that sounded like some kind of new age bullshit or the result of reading some obscure self-help book written by Guru Whatshisname or a page out of a Christian Science newsletter or a revelation during one of a thousand motivational seminars. However, it was none of those things, not even close.

Yesterday’s morning I had stared into a mirror and it wasn’t me looking back anymore, but yet, it was. The reflection had shown me, Melanie Stanton, yet there had been no trace of Melanie. Where had she gone and when had I lost her?

 A voice somewhere inside my mind whispered, so faint it was barely discernable, urging me to leave, to run, to run now and never stop.

Morning rain began to fall over the forest, coming down more consistently the more I circled, trying to find my way back.

Was I really lost?

I felt unseen eyes follow me, and a voice inside cautioned.

He wants you dead Melanie, the woman’s voice warned. He believes that you know about him, so he’s coming to kill you. He can’t let you live, not anymore. He needs to clean things up and you’re evidence. Run Melanie … Run.

For no reason at all, I listened to the warning and began to run. Branches snapped and whipped at my skin. Within minutes, I had become even more disoriented than I had been only minutes before.

I paused, attempting to catch my breath.

The oak-musk fragrance of decayed leaves and the earthen scent of the muddy black hillside intensified with the eroding force of the rain, covering my feet in a thick, fertile, sludge. The tall forest trees, so majestic and reverent in the crisp sunlight, had become ominous, sullen, dour, towering giants of myth barring my way.

My panicked jog had taken me away from the lake and I found myself on the edge of a vast swamp. Driving rain transformed its surface from a flawless silver mirror into a writhing plane, dimpled with white-tipped swells and confused ripples. It was as if the water itself had gained life and struggled to lift itself upright.

I turned in a circle, but my sense of direction had been lost with my sense of reason—my way back was not so clear. My head dizzied and unrealistic or not, the world had yanked my emotions down to the most basic form, survival.

Something was behind me. I heard it moving through the dense brush just beyond my sight. Within the shrouded canopy of the wood. The shaken rustle of a shrub. The dry-bone snap of a foot across a fallen branch. The leafy shuffle of darting feet.

I had to stay ahead of it.

I had to run . . . run now.  

In the amplified downpour, I searched for any sight of the lost shoreline, which was my only true landmark. Verdant branches thrashed at me as I rudely sped past them. I felt the aged claws of dead braches rake at my skin though my flailed arms attempted to clear my way. The bass rumble of heavy pounding feet vibrated within my chest.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Before long, my clothes became chilled sponges, and they dragged heavily on my body, drenched and uncomfortable.

Something hooked the collar of my thin blouse and I felt the material tear. I spun to face my pursuer. Stretched behind me, a thorny briar gripped at the fabric. Tiny crimson dots speckled my fingers as I attempted to tear myself free. As the abhorrent vine fell free, a dark form darted across the corner of my vision. I spun. Hemlock boughs dipped and danced with the laden wind.

I held my nerve, refused to panic. It was just rain after all, and even when the lightening began, and soon after the explosions of thunder, I refused to keep running. Yet adrenaline coursed through my veins and my muscles of my legs quivered like compressed springs, each ready to explode. I knew more was gathering than just a storm. A congregation of evil stalked me; and I wasn’t sure how I knew, but it was as real as the rain.

I contemplated the voice I had heard and tried to dismiss it to an overactive imagination. Yet, she had sounded as real as the rumbling thunder shaking the very ground I stood upon.

The day had turned so quickly, I scarcely had time to accept that my peaceful beautiful first day of a new life had turned so sour. The sky mirrored my gloom and with the engulfing storm, the dense forest grew even darker.

He’s close now Melanie, the voice shouted in my head. Wide-eyed, I searched around me, searching for the source of the voice, yet I knew I wouldn’t see anyone there. Don’t let him catch you. He’ll kill you if he does. Yes, without a second thought, he will kill you. Run away, run away from everything you know. Run so far that he’ll never find you. Run and hide. Go where it’s safe, where no one knows who you are. Oh my God, he’s so close now. Run now Melanie. Run.

The voice was so familiar, and spoke with such sincerity, that I listened to every word as if God had spoken to me.

Without a second thought, I ran across the swamp, trudging and stumbling aimlessly. I knew that I needed to keep moving, I needed to stay ahead of the unseen man, the unseen evil.

I scrambled with as much direction as my life enjoyed at the present. The confusion over my actions had me wondering about how it had twisted so quickly.

Who was I . . . really?

Now more than ever, I knew I wasn’t the woman who I thought I was. It was as if I had been playing a part for the last eighteen years of my life and had lost track of who I used to be. Something had changed and the truth of my past struggled to break free.

The realization hadn’t struck me like those thoughts you sometimes have as a married woman. It had nothing to do with identity, in terms of, was I Melanie Stanton or Mrs. Daniel Stanton. I still maintained my identity, Mrs. Melanie Stanton, formally Melanie White, a mother of three, a faithful wife to a prominent Massachusetts’ lawyer, a Vice President of Sales for Breckinridge Pharmaceuticals, a longtime member of the Southbridge Country Club, and an active member of the Republican National Committee.

Still, who was I really?

I knew there was more to that question than I had the courage to know. Because to answer that question would mean the voice in my head was real, and the man it warned me about was an actual threat to my life.

I shielded my eyes against the rain, trying to see which direction to turn. Left had become right and up had become down.

I was lost—totally, and absolutely, fucking lost.

The falling rain developed into a downpour and the destructive wind ripped through the tall pines tearing away boughs and long-dead branches. Driving torrents forced me to scramble on my hands and knees, climbing through the brush for a sense of direction, trying to reach higher ground. Twice I slid on the wet leaves and scraped both my arms in the process.

How a peaceful stroll had become so sinister was beyond my comprehension, and it crossed my mind that this was God’s reprimand for what I had done to Daniel.

Was I paying some twisted penance for my action?

Was the voice inside my head a result of my guilt?

I stopped, even though my heart pounded, tears and snot clung to my face, and every muscle in my body wanted me to keep moving. I found it hard to believe that I was listening to an imaginary voice in my head. I had never been that far away from reason. I forced myself to calm down.

My legs lost balance and I began to slide. I ended at the bottom of a narrow ravine, and instead of striving to find my way, I decided that I would climb under a stand of nearby hemlocks and wait for the storm to lighten.

My arms and legs trembled with the fright of a yearling deer, although my mind tried to offer a rational explanation.

I backed under the deep green limbs and found the ground still dry, comfortably and invitingly dry. The pungent resin scent of pine pitch choked me at first, but became quite pleasant the longer I huddled there. I pulled my legs into my chest trying to preserve any of the warmth I still possessed.

Branches broke free and the cavernous sound of pounding feet headed directly at me. Uncontrolled, a bit of urine spread between my thighs. My breathing stopped and an overpowering terror struck me.

A dark form approached at a full run and I cowered with my hands over my head.

Run, the voice echoed in my mind. He’s coming. He’s coming. Run.

Rising to my knees, I tried to quell the familiar woman’s warning.

I screamed aloud just as three wild turkeys, wings beating the thick air like an Abenaki war drum, passed over me in false alarm.

I collapsed and cried. I tried to listen to the wood, but the falling rain was all I heard.

I lamented over the ordered life I had enjoyed.

If I were at home, I’d be setting out an evening gown for a Saturday-night dinner-party, devising a defense for any discussion I’d lost control over the previous week—I despised losing a battle of wit. On Wednesday, I would meet my best friend for lunch at Kendrick’s. Thursday afternoon, after meeting with my managers, I would go for a massage, a pedicure, and a manicure. If I felt the urge, I would shop late on Friday afternoon with a good friend of mine, Selma, and I wouldn’t arrive home past 7:30. Daniel and I went out to dinner on Friday evenings, and we always went alone, we never turned our Friday nights into meetings or discussions. And then would come Saturday Night entertaining. Saturday night always turned to business or politics, and I can’t say that I wasn’t right there to lend my views, nor had I ever regretted or disliked those nights. In fact, I rather enjoyed the heated debate. Sundays I slept late and read in the afternoon, always in the same chair, and drinking Earl Grey tea, just as I had for many years. Mondays and Tuesdays were simply for hardcore work, and frankly, I made my best decisions on those days. I never made an important decision on a Friday, and if I did, I always regretted it.

Yesterday had been a Friday; perhaps I should’ve waited to hit that send key.      

My thoughts began to wander to Daniel, and I instantly stopped them. I refused to ponder what had been. I needed to start thinking of what would be. I needed to run and not stop until it was safe.

I trembled as the cold seeped into me or was it that my heat had deserted me. Either way, I knew I needed to start moving before he found me. The rain had slowed to a serene chorus of snaps, ticks and drips. Along with the storm, the imposing threat had also subsided and I felt alone, dauntingly alone. I climbed out from under the brush, crawling on my hands and knees. Pine needles glued themselves to me with pitch and mud, and eroded make-up stung my eyes. I must have been quite a wretched sight standing there.

“You’re a long way from home Mrs. Stanton,” a gruff old voice called from beyond my sight.

I tried to scream but fright had stolen my voice away. My body froze and my eyes darted side to side, looking for a direction to run.

Run! the voice pleaded. Run Melanie, he’s going to kill you, run, run . . .  for God’s sake run.

“Stay away from me. Get back,” I screamed finally. “Get away. Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me. Why are you doing this?”

 “Whoa, please, don’t be frightened.”  The shadow backed away, arms raised. “Are you okay Mrs. Stanton?” The voice conveyed a passive intension. “Please believe me; I’m not going to hurt you. Where would you’ve got that notion? Storm’s a bad one, and you’re going to give yourself pneumonia if you don’t get warm and dry. Let me help you.”

I sensed honesty in his voice, but the fear I felt, the warning words in my mind, left me unable to move out of my refuge.

His shadowed form edged closer. He was dressed properly for the weather, but all I could see from where I knelt was his khaki poncho, until the weathered hand of an aged man reached down, offering assistance.

Hesitantly, and I still don’t understand why, I took his hand. It felt warm and solid, and though outwardly the hand of an elder man, his arm pulled me upright with definitive strength. Even in the rain, I smelled the remnants of Cavendish pipe smoke on him, the same brand my dad smoked until the day he passed.

“Th—th—thank you,” I managed, though my words quavered with obvious fright and chill. His voice held a familiar timbre. “Do … do I know you?”

“Can’t say that you do, can’t say that you don’t.” He spoke with a friendly musical tone, and I tried to discern where I’d heard his voice before, but it eluded me.

“You … you know me though?” I questioned. His calm voice and demeanor allowed me to compose myself.

“Certainly do. Listen, I’m headed up past your place. Would you mind accompanying me? I hate walking alone, especially in a rain like this one. Don’t you?”

At the time I hadn’t wondered what this man was doing so far off the road at the bottom of a remote woodland ravine, or how he saw me cowered below the dense hemlock cover. Had I wondered, I may have heeded the voice’s warning.

“I would be delighted,” I accepted, coughing. My throat was already beginning to burn—the cold had taken its toll. “Call me Melanie, and you are—?”

“Pleased to meet you,” he finished.

I wanted to scream how thankful I was, but I held back, still unsure of this man. I detected, though subtle, his awareness of my predicament. And whether done on purpose or not, he shielded me with himself as he we moved quickly down the path, wrapping his poncho over my shoulder. His body radiated heat and felt rigid, muscular.

I realized that I had traveled much further than I had guessed. Without the old man, I may never have found my way out of those woods. I had never been that far past the lake, and there were hundreds of miles of empty forest north of the lake, leading somewhere into Quebec.

The voice in my head had finally ceased its warning, and I felt safe in the presence of this man.

How or why he was there, or more importantly, when he was there, was both a blessing and a mystery. The walk back was silent, even though it took what had to be the better part of an hour. More than once I opened my mouth with a question, only to swallow the words and enjoy the complete safety I felt beneath his arm. I’m not sure I’d ever felt that secure. He led me right to my doorstep, bade me a swift farewell, and to my chagrin, left without ever giving me his name, without looking back, without hesitation.

As soon as I made it through the front door, both the wall phone and my cell phone were ringing. The questions had begun, but before I spoke to anyone there would be a hot shower, a large mug of cocoa, and a comfortable change of clothes behind me.

First, I needed to shake off the remnants of the voice in my head. Was I actually going mad? Was that what the voice meant? Was this the infamous voice that crazy people have spoken about for centuries? Had the diseased mental menace set its ire upon me midday Friday?

Then, with nagging familiarity, and with persistent realism, a distant muffled cry beckoned me, Run Melanie. He’s going to kill you, run, run, run and never stop running.