I kept thinking about how she’d died on my lap, Christiana had told him in her calm, expressionless voice. As I was stroking her fur. I hadn’t been able to protect her…
Shane shook his head, as if to dislodge his nagging, worrisome thoughts. Ghosts can’t hurt the living, he told himself, everybody knows that. And then, a remnant of a nearly forgotten dream, a whisper: boundary lands… rivers and valleys, shores and cliffs… here, the line is a lot deeper…
Christiana poked her head out of the back door. She had a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She was ready.
Later, at the cottage, she said she would sleep on the couch, but Shane refused. He insisted that she take his bed again, and that he would camp out in the sunroom. He told her that he had, in fact, slept the entire night away there, konked out on the big couch, on the night she had arrived. That was probably why he hadn’t heard her pounding on the front door. She eventually agreed, reluctantly, and after a light dinner (pasta with olive oil and sautéed onions and garlic), a half glass of wine (a cheap Shiraz Shane had found in the basement), and an hour’s worth of an old Hitchcock movie on AMC (Vertigo), Christiana had headed off to bed.
Shane listened while she got ready. When she went into the bathroom and closed the door, he ducked into the bedroom and changed into a pair of old sweats and a tee shirt. The bedroom was a safe place, Shane was sure of it. He’d never seen Marlena there, only in the doorway as she passed by, heading silently up the studio stairs. Christiana would be safe from her there in his bed, or so he truly believed.
He finished dressing, and by the time she came out of the bathroom, he was sprawled on the big sunroom couch with one of his pillows and a spare blanket. Christiana stood in the opening of the French doors for a long moment, merely looking at him. Shane smiled wanly up at her.
“Are you going to be all right?”
She shrugged weakly. “I guess. Sure. It’s all over, at least. I wouldn’t have chosen for it to happen like this, but…”
“It’s just the buffet of life,” Shane said. “You can’t control what the kitchen serves. You just have to take what comes.”
Christiana shook her head slightly, wonderingly, and smiled. It was the first genuine smile Shane had seen on her face since her arrival. “That’s one of the cheesiest things I’ve ever heard.”
Shane laughed. “So cheesy it’s true?”
She shrugged again, still smiling. “Maybe. Maybe all the truest things in life are like that. So common that they seem silly. Too obvious. Simplistic.”
Shane nodded.
“Goodnight, Shane,” she said, and behind her, a shadow swooped. It looked like a wing, or a shawl, tattered, billowing in a sudden gust. Shane gasped and sat up, but whatever it was, it was already gone.
“What?” Christiana said, frowning.
Shane shook his head, looking over her shoulder, into the darkness of the library beyond. It occurred to him that it might, in fact, have been a lot safer for Christiana to sleep in the sunroom. “Nothing,” he answered, trying to keep his voice even. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I guess,” she sighed. “I just wanted to say thank you. For letting me stay. You didn’t have to, especially now. It feels better, though, just being around somebody. So, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Shane replied, his heart still thumping hard in his chest. “Goodnight, Christiana. Sleep well. See you in the morning.”
She nodded. A moment later, she was gone, the tail of her nightshirt swishing as she crossed into the dim glow of the kitchen.
Shane stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor of the sunroom. Quietly, he approached the French doors and stood there, looking out into the dark library.
Was Marlena there? It was cold, but that was probably simply due to the descending chill of autumn, seeping into the stone of the cottage, hinting at winter to come.
“She’s just a friend,” he whispered, barely audible. “She just needs a safe house for the night; to be around someone normal and sane. That’s all. It’s just for tonight. All right?”
Shane couldn’t see anything in the darkness. There was no movement, no sound. He felt a little silly. Finally, he turned around, crept back to the couch, and lay down.
It was, in fact, a surprisingly comfy couch. He reached and clicked off the light. He was worried about Christiana, but only a little. He wondered if it might be a good idea for him to stay awake, to watch over Christiana. Maybe he could creep up to the studio and paint. That might distract Marlena, if nothing else.
But what, really, can she do? Shane reminded himself, beginning to doze. She’s only a ghost. Ghosts can’t touch things. They can’t hurt the living. Marlena’s just confused and lonely. She doesn’t understand what’s going on. And besides, she’s never been in the bedroom. It’s just one of the places she doesn’t go, for whatever reason. Christiana will be all right.
Thinking this, thinking that he’d wake and check on Christiana in a few hours, thinking of Percy the rabbit, and of flashing lights and glittering glass out on the River Road, Shane settled slowly into a deep doze.
Some hours later, in the silent core of the night, he awoke to find something heavy and warm pressed against him. Sleepily, he assumed it was Tom the cat, and then he heard her breathing, felt the tickle of her hair on his cheek.
Christiana was deeply asleep, squeezed onto the couch next to him, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. She had snuck out in the middle of the night and come to him. She seemed very small, pressed up against him. Her breath was so soft, so slow. It had been a long time since Shane had awoken to the sound of a woman’s breathing. It was, to be sure, sweetly wonderful. He was glad that Christiana was there, glad that she had come to him. He slipped an arm under her and curled it around her shoulders. She snuggled in her sleep, moaned softly, and then resumed her deep, long breaths. Shane smiled, content, at least in the moment, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim blue shadows of the sunroom.
The French doors were open. There was nothing there, nothing floating in the darkness of the library beyond. Or maybe there was. Shane looked, already sinking back into sleep. There seemed to be two dark points in the air, hovering in the entry to the sunroom. They looked like blind spots, like the ghostly after-images burned onto one’s eyes after you’ve inadvertently looked directly at the sun. He couldn’t focus on them. Maybe they were the eyes of Marlena, her dead black stare, watching, simmering, calculating. But then again, maybe they weren’t. Shane was too sleepy and too content to worry about it. It was too nice to have Christiana there with him, to hear her slow breathing, to feel the tickle of her hair. Shortly, without even realizing it, Shane drifted back to sleep.
Without moving, without blinking, the eyes in the doorway watched him. She watched them both.
Shane finally realized what was happening between him and Christiana on the day, a week later, when he found her in the cellar, scrubbing the chalk image off the floor.
She’d been around a lot in the days following the night she’d crept to join him on the sunroom couch. She’d gone back to sleeping at her apartment, but whenever she wasn’t at work or managing her personal affairs, Shane could usually count on her to be there at the cottage, sitting on the back patio, or watching Mets games with him.
They ate dinner together sometimes, and when they did, she helped him clean up afterwards. They didn’t talk very much, at least at first. After her initial cathartic disclosure of the details of her relationship with Randy, Christiana seemed to need to be quiet for awhile. She needed time to think, to feel, to steep in the knowledge that it was all over. Shane could imagine it. All those pent up emotions and fears, harbored for so long, would take a while to go away, even if they had stopped being relevant.
Watching her was like watching a block of ice melting in the sun; you couldn’t rush it without breaking it. Shane would be patient. It was very nice having her there, no matter what it meant. He assumed that she was simply accepting the generosi
ty of his hospitality, gratefully using the cottage and his presence as the backdrop for her slow rejuvenation. It couldn’t be any more than that. Not yet, at least. Shane was the safe guy. He refused to take advantage of her vulnerability, or to assume that her presence meant anything more than friendship and the strange kinship of shared experiences. He was happy with that, even if it did mean that she’d eventually leave.
On Saturday afternoon, he’d returned from a bike ride to find Christiana’s Saturn parked next to his truck. He peered in the car’s windows as he pushed his bike toward the shed. She wasn’t in the car, nor was she on the front porch. He expected to find her on the back patio, watching the river, bundled in a sweater, but she wasn’t there either. He unlocked the sliding back door and entered, calling her name curiously. She was in the kitchen opening a can of tuna.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder. “The door was unlocked. I thought you’d be hungry. I know I am. You like tuna salad?”
Shane nodded, happy to find her there, and yet puzzled. “The door was unlocked? The front door?”
“Yeah,” she said, a note of scolding in her voice. “You should be careful about that. You may live in the boonies, but that doesn’t mean bad guys might not try to steal your stuff. Your paintings alone are worth thousands. You know how mad at you I’d be if they got stolen before I had a chance to produce my next show?”
“I shudder to think,” Shane replied smoothly. He walked to the front door and tried the knob. It rattled in his hand but didn’t turn. She heard him.
“I locked it when I came in,” she called. “Force of habit. Funny thing is, I was sure it was locked when I first tried it. It wouldn’t turn. I started to go around to the back, but then I heard the knob click behind me. I assumed it was you, so I went back and tried again. The door opened, but you weren’t here, so I knew you’d forgotten to lock it after all.”
“Uh huh,” Shane said, still looking down at the door knob. He always locked the door when he went on his bike rides. It was like Christiana had said: force of habit. He carried a house key zippered into the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts, even washed them with it inside, just so he wouldn’t ever forget it. It had become so ingrained that he never even thought about it. He shook his head, thinking.
Had Marlena let Christiana in? Could she do that? If so, why? No answers seemed to be forthcoming. Shane dismissed it.
He ate lunch with her, showered, and then went up to his studio. He still hadn’t started the new painting. He’d decided to wait until he finished the Florida series completely, fearing that once he got started on the new work, he’d find it hard to focus on his contract. The Florida paintings were done now, leaning against the short wall opposite the easel, underneath the low angle of the ceiling. They’d be dry by Monday morning, latest, and then they could go to Greenfeld for shipment. Christiana would probably take them herself, transporting them in the white Sprinter van he had first seen her in. Then he’d start the painting, the last one in the series.
The portrait of Marlena was still there, sitting on the smaller easel in the corner. Shane looked at her, marveled at her. Her face was perfect, blank and stunned, her eyes shining, just beginning to widen as she studied the note in her hands. Dear M…
Something was wrong with the painting. Shane didn’t know what it was, but it nagged him, tried to hook him. This time, however, he didn’t allow himself to be hooked. Whatever it was, it could wait. Shane had other concerns now. He shook himself, tore his eyes away from Marlena and her note, and turned toward the stairs.
Christiana was nowhere in sight, and yet Shane could hear something, a sort of dull, repetitive scratching. It made him think of Christiana’s story, of how she’d heard the new rabbit scratching in its hutch. Shane followed the sound.
The cellar door was hanging open. The light was on. A thrill of worry shimmied down Shane’s spine. He hadn’t been down to the cellar since the day he’d gone down in search of wine, almost a week earlier. He’d forgotten all about the chalk drawing. How could that have happened? How could such a thing have slipped his mind?
He approached the stairs and descended them slowly, looking for her.
Most of the chalk drawing was gone already, reduced to very faint pastel smears on the old concrete, dark where it hadn’t already dried. Christiana was kneeling in the corner by the front window, leaning on a large scrubbing brush with both hands, working it back and forth with swift, businesslike strokes. She saw him and stopped, leaning back on her haunches and blowing her hair out of her face. Her expression was calm, unreadable.
“You found it,” Shane said. He didn’t know what else there was to say.
She nodded, letting her eyes roam from him to the remains of the drawing on the floor. She sighed.
She thinks I drew this since he died, Shane thought. She thinks this is how I deal with life’s unexpected curve balls. She must. She couldn’t know that that drawing was here before I even knew who Randy was, that it had predicted his death like some kind of chalk voodoo doll. She especially couldn’t know that before it had been him in that picture, it had been her.
But she looked up at him again, and he wondered. She knew something.
After a moment, she set back to work again, scrubbing out the last of the markings, turning them into pale blurs, washing them away with soapy water from a red plastic bucket.
Shane went back up the cellar stairs. He sat at the desk in the living room, beneath the painting of the Riverhouse. He didn’t turn the computer on. Instead, he simply looked out the window, watching the day fade, watching the sky turn red and pink, the colors brightening as the darkness pushed them downward, condensing them.
Fifteen minutes later, Christiana came upstairs. Shane heard her dump the bucket out in the sink. Her footsteps approached him from behind and he didn’t turn around. He was worried about what she might be thinking of him. Maybe she was going to leave him now and never come back. After all, it was bound to happen eventually.
He felt her hands touch his shoulders from behind. She gripped him, turned him, swiveling the desk chair around so that he faced her. She sat down on his lap, leaned on him and put her arms around him. Her hair tickled his cheek again as she rested her head on his shoulder. She was warm, slightly sweaty from her work on the cellar floor.
“If you want to leave, I understand,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to stay here. It’s all over now.”
She shook on his lap, once, then twice. Shane thought she was laughing. He felt her breath, hot on his neck. She convulsed silently against him, breathing harshly out through her nose. And then, suddenly and deeply, she sobbed.
Shocked, Shane wrapped his arms around her, held her, and she cried on his shoulder, huge wracking spasms that seemed to come all the way from her toes. This, he realized, was what had been buried under all that ice, thawing for the last week. Somehow, finding the drawing on the cellar floor—and the subsequent effort of washing it away—had finally broken the vapor-lock on her heart. The years of abuse, the wasted time, the shame and fear and lies, all of it was finally crashing to the surface, letting go, bursting like a dam.
Christiana sobbed on Shane’s shoulder, her tears hot and wet on his neck, and he knew enough to simply hold her. He stroked her back, her hair, held her against him and waited. Her tears poured out like rain, like a summer storm. And like a summer storm, they eventually softened to a mist, and then to a sort of exhausted, humid stillness. Shane still held her.
Eventually, some time later, she pushed back from him, sniffed, wiped her eyes, and looked at him. Her face was only a few inches from his. Her eyes were red, swollen, but bright in the dying embers of the sunset beyond the window.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said, not taking her eyes from his, studying him. She took a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to leave, Shane. I want to stay.”
And she did.
Chapter Fifteen
When Shane was eleven
years old, his parents had taken him on a vacation to the Grand Canyon. He remembered it as one of those crystalline, Polaroid moments of youth. He remembered the long, hot car ride, with all the windows rolled down so that air roared through the back seat like a wind tunnel, riffling his hair, flapping his tee shirt, making him feel worn out and beaten by the time they got to the various motels along the way.
He remembered breakfast at a crowded Waffle House adjacent to one of those motel parking lots, sitting across from his parents in the little booth, watching them drink black coffee while they waited for their pancakes and eggs, sipping orange juice from a miniature glass and listening to the hiss and clatter of the cook behind the counter. He remembered loving his parents very much in that moment, as they bantered about grown up things and studied the map unfolded on the table in front of them, remembered the warmth of that love, even though, being eleven years old, he himself felt awkward about showing it to them.
He remembered arriving at the Grand Canyon, suddenly and unexpectedly, after what had seemed like weeks in the car, remembered everyone clambering out into the hot sun, blinking, stretching, groaning contentedly.
They’d left their motel before dawn that morning, and by the time they’d arrived at the first lookout spot a thick fog was just beginning to burn away in the dawn sunlight. Where the fog remained, it was dazzlingly white, seamless, like an enormous movie screen.
Shane looked around, squinting in the brightness, wondering what the fog might do to the view. There was a low railing nearby, running in front of a line of parked cars. Shane stopped and looked at that railing, at the fog beyond it. In the warm morning air, he felt a sudden chill plait down his back. He’d never seen anything like it, never experienced such a sudden, delicious rush of mingled delight and fear.
His parents’ voices faded to silence as he drifted toward the railing, taking small, careful steps, reaching slowly out to touch the railing, as if to catch himself, as if he was running toward it rather than inching, mincing, feeling for the ground beneath his feet.
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