by Hamill, Ike
She slipped through the door and stood on the porch across the street. Her body wasn’t a solid thing. The moonlight cut right through her and she barely cast a shadow. Still, Robby knew it was her. Gordie came up alongside Robby and looked through the window too. When he caught sight of the ghost, he sniffed at the glass.
“She’s not real,” Robby said. “She can’t be.”
Robby and Gordie watched as she sat down on the porch and lit a ghost cigarette. The flame didn’t cast any light. The tip of her cigarette didn’t glow, but they could still see the ghostly smoke in the moonlight.
Judy was looking up at them—at least she seemed to be.
Robby glanced at the window. It was locked. By the time he put down the blankets and ran up the sash, she would be gone. That’s the way it usually happened.
“Come on,” Robby said.
He backed away from the window until he lost sight of her under the sill.
Gordie stood behind him, blocking him from backing up farther.
“Let’s go,” Robby said.
He turned to the door and saw what had stopped the dog.
✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪
The old man shuffled by the door on his way down the hall. He was wearing pajama bottoms that pooled around his feet and dragged on the floor. Like Judy, he wasn’t entirely there. Robby could see right through him to the bathroom door.
Gordie gave his tail a tiny, preliminary wag on the chance that the old man would turn out to be a friend.
Robby held his breath as the man shuffled by.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gordie moved forward, poking his head through the doorway. When the dog didn’t growl or bark, Robby came forward too. The man was gone.
“Let’s go,” Robby whispered.
Gordie led the way to the stairs. Robby was right behind, checking over his shoulder constantly to make sure they weren’t being followed. At the bottom of the stairs, he couldn’t help himself. He pushed himself up to his toes so he could look through the glass at the top of the front door.
Judy was gone.
Robby rushed through the kitchen and nearly forgot the bag. He snatched it and held that and the blankets as he angled through the back door. Gordie was already down in the tall grass, watering the corner of the porch.
“Come on,” Robby said.
They raced to the gate.
When they were safely back in the SUV and all the doors were locked, Robby checked through each window, looking at the houses. He saw no sign of any spectral images.
“We could move. You want to move?”
Gordie was busy sniffing in the bag.
“I forgot to get you a bowl,” Robby said. “And a can opener. Forget it. We’ll eat in the morning.”
Figuring out how to get the rear seats down without getting out of the vehicle turned out to be a puzzle. By the time they figured it out, Robby’s heart rate had returned to normal. His panic had faded.
“We have to figure this out, Gordie,” Robby said. Talking to the dog didn’t help. In fact, having a creature completely dependent on him was a real hinderance to figuring things out. Robby couldn’t shut out the rest of the world and really concentrate. Every time he tried, thoughts of Gordie would cloud his brain and force him back to reality.
Robby stretched out most of the blankets for a mattress. He only kept one thin one to pull on top of himself. Inside the closed vehicle with a dog, it would be plenty warm enough. He propped himself up so he could see across the street to the porch with the open door behind it.
“Are we actually seeing things, or are these images just in our heads?” Robby asked.
Gordie gave up on sniffing the bag and moved to the end of the vehicle so he could curl up.
“They reflect in mirrors, but I’ve never managed to catch one on video. I think it would though. I believe they are actually reflecting some of the light that comes their way, at least when the air is thick with humidity. They don’t emit light and they only leave footprints under water, like at the bottom of puddles.”
The dog was listening. Robby saw his dark eyes move and his ears perk up whenever he spoke. But the dog didn’t offer any insight.
“Okay,” Robby said with a sigh. “The ghosts are a distraction. The ghosts, the cars in the tunnel, and the various conflicting histories of the World Trade Center are all fascinating, but they’re just distractions from our real question: What is happening in the burned-out area?”
Gordie let out a long breath and flopped over onto his side.
The dog was surrendering to sleep. Robby thought it was a good idea.
CHAPTER 18: UPSTATE NEW YORK
“SYMOND?” ELIZABETH CALLED.
SHE pushed her way into her house. Everything was neat and tidy—just the way she left it. She closed the door behind herself and moved to open the window. Some fresh air would do her good.
“Symond?” she called again.
With a few windows open, a perfect breeze moved through her house. She went to the bedroom and pushed open the door. She saw her full-size bed and the single pillow at the head. She saw the glass of dusty water on the nightstand. She had forgotten to dump it.
“Sy…”
The name died on her lips. She lived alone here. She slept alone in that bed. Sleeping next to Symond was a difficult proposition even on a king-size bed. He tossed and rolled and pressed up against her.
…and he was dead…
This wasn’t the room that she shared with Symond. For the moment, Elizabeth forgot about her search and moved to the kitchen. She was famished.
She pulled out a ton of food to the table—way more than she could eat. She had enough tomatoes to make a sauce, a squash that would be delicious if she broke out the pressure cooker, and a huge mess of green beans that needed snapping.
Elizabeth didn’t stop with that. She remembered her secret stash of herbs, growing on her windowsill, and changed her mind. She could make a big stir fry, letting the vegetables simmer in a curry sauce and steam some rice at the same time.
“Sy…” she started to call again. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He would eat whatever she cooked. He always had.
…before he vanished with the rest of them…
The big knife and the cutting board joined the vegetables on the table.
Before she dealt with cutting, she should start the rice.
A knock on the door stopped her. “Elizabeth?” he called.
For a fraction of a second, she thought it was Symond. He could help her with lunch—not that he would.
Elizabeth chased the thought out of her head. That hadn’t been Symond’s voice.
“Come in!” she called.
Frank let himself in.
“You havin’ company?” Frank asked.
“No, just you,” Elizabeth said with a big smile. “Are you hungry for lunch?”
Frank pulled out a chair and sat down without asking if he could help. It was the same thing that Symond would have done. He always claimed that he wanted to help, and got offended when she accused him of not participating in chores, but Symond never volunteered. It was like she ran the house and he was just a guest.
“Elizabeth?” Frank asked.
“What’s that?”
“You were frowning. I thought maybe something was wrong.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what I want to make with these vegetables. How does a nice ratatouille sound?”
Frank rubbed the stubble on his head. Every couple of months, he shaved his head. He would look sick for a week, then decent, and then his hair would shoot every direction for a month and a half. Symond didn’t have that problem.
…because he was gone…
Symond was bald on top and the hair that came in around the sides and back was light and wispy, like a newborn’s hair. Even when it was too long, Symond’s hair simply curled out of the way instead of sticking out in jagged clumps.
“I’ll eat anything,” Frank said. “You know that.”
He studied her as she chopped. “A couple of us were worried when you didn’t come back to your house last night.”
She stopped chopping and smiled at him. “Have you been spying on me, Frank? You’re going to make people jealous.”
His stare was starting to make her uncomfortable. Symond wasn’t a jealous man, but she didn’t relish the idea of him coming home and finding Frank studying her like that. She used a match to start the stove and dolloped a circle of olive oil. When lines of heat started to circulate in the oil, she tossed in cubes of squash.
“Patrick said he talked to you yesterday and then you disappeared for a while,” Frank said.
“I meant to pressure cook the squash,” Elizabeth said. “It takes so long to cook it in oil, and the texture is not to everyone’s liking.”
“I’m not trying to pry, Elizabeth. We’re just a little concerned. Are you expecting someone?”
She was staring at the door. She could have sworn she heard his footsteps on the walk. Symond had a way of whistling to himself without producing a melody. It had always annoyed Elizabeth, but after so long without him, it would be a pleasure to hear it again.
That was how the man had convinced her that he knew Symond. He had said, “Symond walks around, looking for you, and he whistles while he walks. It’s not a song, exactly. He just… whistles.”
It had taken him a while to convince her that he knew Symond. It seemed so unlikely. With all the people who had been lost, what were the odds that she would meet someone now who had been friends with her husband? Then, after she finally believed that the man had known her Symond, it had taken even longer for her to accept that…
“Elizabeth?” Frank asked.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you were expecting someone. You keep looking at the door, like you’re expecting someone to walk in.”
“It was so good to see him again. I suppose some part of me never gave up on the idea that we would be together.”
“Who?”
The name was on her lips, ready to be spoken. Elizabeth pulled it back in. Symond was hers alone. She didn’t need to share him with anyone else. Frank had no right to demand a part of Symond.
Instead of replying, she smiled and changed the subject. “Do you miss cheese?”
Frank blinked at her and started to get up from his chair.
“I’d like you to come with me,” he said.
“I’ve just started making lunch.”
“I know, but this is important.”
“I can’t.”
✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪
After leaving Elizabeth to her cooking, Frank found Patrick and Mary at the small garden behind the gray house. It was a quick walk from where they lived. When he waved to them, they dropped their tools and hurried over.
“Did you find her?” Mary asked.
“I saw her when she came home a little while ago. I went over to talk to her. She’s not acting right,” Frank said.
“How so?” Patrick asked.
“She called to someone from the porch when she went inside. It was like she expected someone to be home even though she lives alone.”
Mary shrugged. “Strange, but not crazy.”
“She was cooking enough food for three people, and she kept looking at the door like she expected someone to come home,” Frank said.
“What else?” Patrick asked.
“I don’t know how to describe it. Her overall demeanor was just off. She wasn’t acting normal. I suppose you would have to see it.”
“Maybe we should,” Patrick said.
Mary still looked unconvinced.
“It was our idea that she talk to Cirie,” Patrick said. “If something went wrong and she’s gotten sucked into that cult, it’s partially our fault.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mary said. She started walking back towards the house. “I just don’t want to be too intrusive. I know that I was worried before, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I don’t want to invade her personal space.”
“What invasion?” Frank asked. “You’re just going to come talk to her.”
✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪
Mary took the lead on the short trip back to the house. She and Patrick lived in a ranch across the street from Elizabeth’s colonial. A lot of the avid gardeners lived on their street. It was convenient to several plots. They could walk to most of the fields without having to bother with a vehicle.
“Cirie’s people have very strange theories. That’s what I was concerned about. I thought maybe they had indoctrinated her or something. If she’s just acting strange, maybe she just had a hard day. It happens to all of us.”
“Let’s just talk to her and see,” Patrick said.
Mary shrugged as she crossed Elizabeth’s lawn.
When they climbed the stairs, they heard Elizabeth inside.
“Symond?” the woman called.
Patrick and Mary looked at each other.
“Who’s Simon?” Frank asked.
“Symond. He was her husband of twenty-six years,” Mary said. “He was lost in the capture.”
Patrick picked up the story. “She was making Thanksgiving dinner when he opened the kitchen window. She said that he got halfway through and then just vanished.”
Frank nodded. Most of them had stories like that. Some people never shared them. Other people shared their memories when they were working long hours together, pulling weeds. They called it “Dirt Therapy.”
Patrick knocked.
Elizabeth pulled open the door with bright expectation on her face. Her smile became a little sad as she recognized them.
“Come on in,” she said. “I was just sitting down to lunch.”
They followed her through to the kitchen. The aroma of vegetables simmering in curry filled the house.
Frank approached Elizabeth as she lifted the lid to stir the squash.
“We’d like you to come with us to the doctor,” Frank said.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “Lunch is almost ready.”
“We can talk for a second,” Mary said. “Do you mind if we sit down?”
Elizabeth smiled and showed them to seats around the table. From where they sat, Elizabeth could mind the stove and still chat.
“It sounded like you called for Symond when we were on the porch,” Mary said.
Elizabeth turned her vacant smile up towards the ceiling and then laughed.
“Did you?” Mary asked. “Did you think we were Symond?”
“I hope you like pepper,” Elizabeth said. She lifted the lid again to grind some pepper into the pan.
“He’s gone,” Patrick said. Mary shot him a look. “Your husband is gone, remember? Same as my girlfriend. Same as Mary’s kids. They’re all gone.”
“You don’t have to…” Mary started to whisper.
She was cut off by Elizabeth slamming the lid back down on the pan.
“I’ve had a very productive conversation with a man you should all meet,” Elizabeth said. “He explains things so clearly. I’ll forgive your ignorance. I was confused before as well. Now, everything makes perfect sense.”
“Who? Who is the man?” Frank asked.
They all held their breath as they watched her putter around her kitchen. For a moment, she seemed completely oblivious to their presence. Elizabeth stopped suddenly, turned an ear towards the front door, and then seemed surprised to find the guests at her table.
“Who explained it all to you?” Mary asked.
“He’s The Origin,” Elizabeth said. “That’s what they call him. It seems to me that he’s a pivot, you know? He’s a fulcrum. I think that’s the proper way to think of him. Although, I suppose I’m thinking of ‘origin’ as a point of origination, but really they’re speaking more mathematically. Do you know what ‘origin’ means in math?”
Frank raised his hand a little, like he was a kid in grade school. When everyone looked at him, he put it back down. “The origin is the place where the axes intersect, right?
It’s the place where everything is zero.”
Elizabeth pointed her wooden spoon at him so suddenly that oil flicked off the end and landed on the floor between them.
“That’s exactly right!” she said. “You understand why I think that pivot is a more appropriate word?”
Frank nodded. He glanced at the door too. Now that he had his gold star, he looked more than ready to leave.
Mary understood completely. Elizabeth’s new craziness was unsettling.
“Does he have a name?” Patrick asked.
“The Origin,” Elizabeth said. “That’s what everyone calls him.”
“And what did he explain to you?” Patrick asked.
She smiled and tilted her head. “I already said, didn’t I?”
The three of them shook their heads.
“He explained how Symond and I could be together again.”
Worry, sadness, and then panic all passed over her face.
“I wasn’t supposed to say.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted back and forth. “They said I could be confused for a few hours, and I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. Why did you come here? Why did you make me tell?”
She put down her wooden spoon and moved to the sink.
“It’s okay,” Patrick said. They were looking at her back as she stood at the sink. “We won’t tell anyone that you told us. It’s going to be okay.”
Elizabeth’s head dropped and she emitted a single sob.
“It’s okay,” Frank said, pushing to his feet.
Water dripped into the sink, echoing out its plink, plonk, plink to break the silence that had filled the kitchen.
Elizabeth’s head rose and her voice was thin as she spoke to the window over the sink.
“I forgot myself. It’s okay. Symond will find me, I’m sure.”
When she turned around, Patrick jumped to his feet as Mary screamed.
The dripping hadn’t been water. It was Elizabeth’s blood. As she stood, facing away from them, she had driven the big chef’s knife into her own chest. The blood was streaming down her hands and soaking into her shirt.