The Thirteenth Post

Wow. Post 13. I don't believe in luck, so I'm not the least bit superstitious about this being the thirteenth post, or that anything would come of it. I don't have any problem mentioning it, though. Heh.

Yesterday, I left the hotel and went to Rhema to walk through the Christmas light display. As I understand it, the Rhema display (which those of us in Broken Arrow take mostly for granted) attracts people from all over the place because of its size and....yeah, size. I walked across the light covered bridge into Rhema park to view the light covered trees and light people, animals, and vehicles even. There was a steamboat of lights and that sort of thing. I walked to the pond in the middle of the park, the railing around which was wrapped with lights, and stared at the fountain in the center.

I walked to the gazebo and noticed that they had done pictures with Santa, but along with the 5 dollar price tag was the note, "our camera or yours." Apparently, they must have had a problem losing money from people who didn't want to buy their pictures, so they'll just charge anyone. Santa wasn't there, of course. Christmas was over by then, and "Santa" was probably drunk on liquor or (given the location) fervent prayer...

After that discussion wthe Tara that evening, I wasn't waking up with a hangover, but I did have a bit of a headache. When I came to, I looked around the apartment and found her sitting on the balcony, staring across the common area between the four buildings. Our part of the complex was laid out so that four buildings formed a square between them that was referred to as a "common area" where people could mingle, but generally avoid each other as they cut across the complex between parking lots.

I walked up behind her and apologized. She shook her head and told me not to worry about it. I started to say something else, but she stopped me. She asked if I knew my parents. She knew by this time that I had been adopted, so I asked her which ones. She wanted to know about my birth parents. I told her I had never known them at all, and never worried myself to look for them. I knew they had their reasons. I asked her why she wanted to know.

She looked at me, and I noticed she had been crying. Her face was blotched and red. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, and tear lines streaked her face. It will be easier to me to relate this as a conversation. I remember it well (though you'll have to forgive if she sounds a bit like me in all this; it has been awhile).

"I learned something," she said. Before I could say anything, she quickly added, "don't ask me what it is. I don't want to tell you. Well, I do but I don't, you know?"

I really didn't, but knowing now what that was, and knowing how hard it has been for me to tell all to perfect strangers in complete anonymity, I can kind of understand her now. She had a secret. She had lots of secrets, but this one was new to her. She went on.

"When you told me about Chanda's email, I was a little upset, but there is more to her than you know. I went away to find out why she might be trying to communicate with you, and learned... Do you know why I sat with you that night?"

I was taken aback. I always held that our sitting together was an accident, but with all her secrecy, maybe there was more to it.

"No," I said. "Why?" I'm nothing if not talkative.

She sighed. "I was told to. I was told to keep an eye on you. You've had someone keep tabs on you your entire life, and you have no idea who or why. Your adoptive parents don't know about this either, so don't ask them."

"Why," I asked. "Why would anyone want to watch me? I'm no one."

She smiled. "You're wrong. I didn't know why I was keeping an eye on you at the time, but I do now. Oh God, how I know now." She stopped for a moment and sniffled. I could tell she was struggling to get this out, whatever it was, but like me and this blog, she was trying to will herself to go on. "It's the reason Chanda wanted to know my name. She knew the reason. She knew because it wasn't the same to her. They never told me."

"Who is they," I finally asked. I had to know this who "they" bit. I thought it might answer a few things. Yeah, no.

She laughed again and shook her head. "There are secrets everywhere, you know."

I shrugged. "Sure," I said.

She sighed. "There is an organization within some cities that serve as a sort of intelligence group. Their- Our purpose is to basically keep an eye on the city and act if the need arises. The bigger agencies call it a glorified neighborhood watch because each group is local to the town. They're funded 50/50 by a private donor and the federal & state governments."

I shook my head. This time it was my turn to laugh a little. "That's crazy," I told her. "Why would anyone want to do something like that. Especially in a little place like Broken Arrow?"

"Broken Arrow is not a little place," she corrected. "It's supposed to be up over 90,000 people now. That's not little. Someone has to keep it running behind the scenes. The police do their bit in public and we do ours in private. The safest cities in the U.S. have this group."

"Who are they," I asked.

"We've always had one name," she said. "We are called The Mist."