Chapter 2
Simon
In the afternoon, after I cooled down a
little, the chief called me into his office.
“You remember that guy you caught two nights
back—Tony long?” asked the chief when I steeped through the door. He had an opened file in front of him—Tony’s
file. In no mood for words, I nodded.
“Well, he was sentenced yesterday.” The
chief looked at me to see my expression before continuing, “two years.”
I nodded emotionlessly. In truth, it was an honest judgement since my
report stated everything important.
“What’s troubling you, Thomason?”
“Nothing,” I replied coldly, “Just not
happy, that’s all.”
“With?” prompted the chief.
“Life,” I stated plainly.
“You need a counsellor?”
“Not necessary.”
“Sure ‘bout that?”
“Yes.” I emphasized the word.
“Fine, then take the day off.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.
I nodded and walked out. With the rest of the day off and so many
productive things that I could do, I decided to head home.
This time Simon was not at the door with
his empty bowl. Instead, the bowl was
only half-drunk and Simon was nowhere to be seen. I did not bother looking for him. He is a cat after all—when he is hungry, he
looks for you. I sat at my coffee table
after I made my coffee and wondered about that day I found Simon. It was my third year of consciousness and my
sixth month on the force. I was
examining the crime scene of the murder of Elizabeth Lee. She had been shot at point blank range in the
back. I was going through her room when
a cat came through the open window. I
recognized the cat as the cat in her photos.
The collar that Simon wears now is the one Elizabeth was going to give
him on his tenth birthday. I kept Simon
after I cleared up the paperwork.
The phone rings. Where did I put it? I made a mental note to get one of those
gadgets that has everything in it so I would not need so many things in my
pockets.
“Hello?” I said after finding my phone in
my left pocket.
“Mr. Thomason?” A woman’s voice answered.
I nodded.
Then I remembered that I was talking to the phone and said yes—I need to
focus…too much daydreaming.
“I’m Samantha Lee. Elizabeth Lee was my mother.”
“Yes?
How are you Samantha?”
“Umm…I was wondering…do you still have
Simon with you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I dreaded to say yes and hear her ask whether
she could have him…after all he rightfully belonged to her. I dreaded to say no and to come up with story
on where he is now. And most of all, I
dreaded to lie.
After a very awkward pause, I said yes.
“Great!” She answered and I felt
sick—figuratively, I have never been sick for as long as I can remember. I closed my eyes as she continued, “I am
around the neighbourhood and I saw a cat that looked exactly like Simon running
after a police car, and I thought that he should be with you…”
“I think that is him, Samantha,” I answered laughing a little, “You see, Simon
doesn’t like being in the house all the time, and he gets out here and then.”
I heard a laugh at the other end of the
line, and then I heard running and a siren as Samantha ran after the van
shouting Simon’s name. I hung up the
phone after all I could hear on the other end was heavy staccato footsteps, a
loud annoying siren, a woman’s effort in calling a cat’s name in the middle of
a run, and the annoying panting when she tires.
I check my phone again. The siren sounds still seem to be ringing. No, the call has ended. Now I hear a woman’s panting? I look at the window in time to see Simon
jump in through the window obviously exhausted.
He went straight for the half-drunk milk bowl before he spotted me and
jumped.
“Hi to you too, Simon,” I greeted, “how was
the little police chase?”
The cat gave me a curious look and went
back to his bowl.
I hear the lift. I sigh as I walk to my door. A fist greeted me as I opened the door. I had opened it one second to late for
Samantha to withdraw her knock.
“Sorry!” was all she managed.
I check my nose. Not to see whether it was broken, but more as
a cultural expectation.
“You can come in,” I said while I left the
door opened for Samantha, “Simon’s inside.”
Samantha rushes in to see her mother’s
cat. I sat at my coffee table and
observed. Samantha had changed from the
last I time saw her. She was more mature
in every sense, but her fashion sense needed improvement. At age twenty, media played a very important
part in her life. She dressed plainly
with a blue baby-tee shirt and track pants.
She was most likely jogging when she spotted Simon. I couldn’t analyze her face as it was blocked
with her long ebony hair.
I got up to get her a drink. One minute and twenty-four seconds passed
before she got up and sat at the coffee-table.
“He looks well,” said Samantha motioning to
Simon.
“He is fed twice daily, he has no
restrictions—he can go anywhere he wants, and he eats Miaowers the ‘ultimate cat chowder’.” I noticed she stared at me
rather strangely, but she laughed at my last statement. I wondered what was wrong with Miaowers.
Now I could view her face. She looked exactly like her mother, with her
father’s eyes. She looked at me and I
quickly turned away. The awkward silence
lasted for fifty-three seconds, until she began talking.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I got the day off.”
“Sick?”
“No, the boss didn’t like my attitude
today. Well, no one liked my attitude
today at the office.”
“Why?”
I looked straight into Samantha’s
eyes. Should I tell her my problems? Why
should I even confide in her? It won’t improve my condition, and I already told
the chief that I didn’t need a counsellor.
But she looked interested in my story, not the usual story that
everybody had probably already heard—the
man-recovered-from-the-river-now-works-in-the-police-force story—she seemed
interested in my story.
“I have been having disturbances in my
sleep.” I confessed, “I have been dreaming about the same dream for sometime
now and I think it has to do with my origin.”
“What do you dream about?”
I told her all that I remembered from the
dream. All she did was nod with
understanding, but what does she understand? She knows where she was born; I
don’t even know whether I was. That
A.D.A.M. 13 mark on my back is a constant reminder of the past I am trying to
recall, but all I have about my past is my dream and that mark. Is my life meant to be such? Am I supposed to
live like a vagrant for the rest of my life? Her eyes widened at the
description of one of the scientists.
“Green eyes and cropped brown hair?” she
clarified. I nodded. The description was
that of a plain man. It wouldn’t even
help in an investigation, but now as she sat puzzled, I recalled that there
were not many people with green eyes and brown hair in the city—in fact, only a
handful. “You can see colour in your
dreams?” Her question threw me off. I
thought she was thinking of all the men that could fit the profile, but she had
drawn her attention on something more important. She was right; colours in dreams meant that
the dream was of a real memory—at least that was one theory.
“What does that mean?” I asked. It was clear she was thinking a lot, but I
was not sure what she was pondering upon.
“It means that your dreams could actually
be concrete memories. Real memories suppressed
into your unconscious that it only manifests itself when you let your guard
down—when you sleep.” It was only then
that I recalled Samantha’s vocation. She
was a clinical psychologist. Great, I
told the chief I did not need a counsellor and here I am with one in my house,
but she knew about something that could help me in my hunt for the truth.
I did not know how to respond so I just
laughed.
“What did I say?” she asked blushing.
I laughed before replying:
“It’s just that I told the chief of police
that I didn’t need a shrink today.”
We both laughed together before we returned
to our cups of coffee. The awkward
silence was unbearable so I broke it.
“So, these dreams could be about my past?”
“There’s a possibility that they are, Adam,
but I can’t be sure. There are many
different theories about dreams, but as far as I can tell, it’s rare to dream in
such detail, let alone, remember all of your dreams. These dreams that you are having are
connected somehow with your history.”
After the conversation carried on for
another twenty-three minutes, Samantha took a look at her watch and decided
that she needed to leave. She took a
last hold of Simon and left. She left me
with something to hope for. Something in
my past manifested itself in my dreams.
Just how exact they are, I will never be sure, unless I
investigate.
