The Possessions

by Sara Flannery Murphy

  “Viv,” I say, “I should really be going.”

  Uncertain, she stands, bouncing the baby on her hip. “I’ll see you later?”

  “Yes,” I say. “If you like.”

  Outside, in the Damsons’ driveway, the strangeness of pregnancy is all I can think about. Sharing a body with an unseen being, crowded aside to make room for a separate mind. I place my hand on my lower stomach. There’s a single shudder somewhere inside, and I yank my hand away as if I’ve been pricked.

  Did you ever finish that book?” He strokes his hand through my hair. I’m lulled by the movement.

  We’re in his backyard; a high fence surrounds the property. Trees grow close to the border, offering enough coverage that we could be alone, except for the rising second-story windows and small balcony of his next-door neighbor’s house.

  With effort, I remember which book he means. “Not yet.”

  The patio chairs are scabbed with rust. Patrick had to wipe away a soupy layer of stagnant rain and dead leaves from the hollows of the seats. He excused himself by saying he hadn’t been back here since last summer. Though the yard holds the lingering shape of something planned, it’s overgrown, grass shabby and higher than my ankles. Flowers brim over the edges of the beds.

  I was worried when I came over this evening; worried that our time together was a singular moment, unrepeatable. That Patrick would lose his nerve, or I wouldn’t be able to reenter Sylvia’s bed. But we’d barely greeted each other before he was kissing me, my neck, my shoulders, with a hunger as keen as my own.

  A creak catches my attention. Turning my head so that Patrick’s wrist presses my ear, I look toward the neighbor’s house. A woman stands in the balcony doorway, her face framed in the shadows. She’s youngish, about my age. Pretty in an expensive, upholstered way.

  “I should try to turn this place around,” Patrick says.

  He hasn’t followed my gaze. I turn back, face tight with embarrassment. It’s as if Sylvia is gone, somewhere across the globe, and this woman, her ally, has spotted me with Sylvia’s husband’s hand in my hair.

  I dip my head until Patrick’s fingers slide free.

  “Sylvia was always out here in the evenings. With a book and a drink.” He inhales. “I’d love to see this place thrive again.”

  The balcony door clicks shut.

  “When we first looked at this house,” he says, “I remember Sylvia saying we could put a swing set in.” And he points, closing one eye, at a corner of the garden. The spot suddenly looks lopsided and bare, crudely excavated.

  “You wanted kids,” I say.

  “One day,” Patrick says. “You ever thought about kids?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I was with someone when I was much younger and we—” I hesitate. Talking about this is prizing open a half-healed wound, picking at the tender edges. I force myself to speak casually. “We joked around. Named our future kids.”

  “What names?”

  “Lucy,” I say after a pause. “That was his favorite.”

  “Pretty.”

  “We weren’t together long,” I say.

  “That’s the point of people you date when you’re young,” Patrick says. “You build futures with them knowing it won’t work out. I had a girlfriend like that. The last one before I met Sylvia. We invented a dozen futures. Living along the Seine. Famous artists in New York.”

  I try to imagine this precursor to Sylvia. If she had Sylvia’s relentless, unshakeable beauty or if she was more like me, saved from ordinariness only through exhausting effort.

  “I still think of her sometimes,” he says. “Wonder how she’s doing.”

  “Why did you end things?” I ask.

  There’s a long silence. I’m on the verge of repeating the question when he speaks. “She ended it,” he says. “But it was my fault. My relationships before Sylvia, I was too jealous. Once I liked someone, I put a lot of pressure on her. Asked for too much.”

  A quick shiver runs through me. I rub furiously at my forearms.

  “We should go inside,” he says. “It’s getting dark.”

  In the house, the chilliness and the silence wrap themselves around me. A contrast to the fading heat of the day. It’s like hanging at the edge of a drop-off: the warmth still clinging to one half of my body while the rest is steeped in the coldness of what’s ahead. I close the door, trying to forget the neighbor’s expression as she watched us. That lack of surprise, as if she was used to seeing Patrick with unfamiliar women. As if I’m just one more body in a long line of them.

  NINETEEN

  Eurydice,” Mrs. Renard says. “I’m glad you could find the time to see me.”

  I stand in front of the desk, hands clasped. I’m aware of all the traces of Patrick that remain on my body. My sleep last night was thick, waking up a pleasant struggle. I barely had time to splash water across my sleep-rumpled face. Now, the sheen of sweat drying on my neck, his saliva lingering on my lips and body: it all feels like it’s glowing, lighting a detailed map of my transgressions.

  “I plan on meeting with each employee individually,” she says. “It’s not what I’d prefer to spend my day doing. Playing at principal, meeting with naughty students. It’s a waste of time. But unfortunately, I don’t have much choice.”

  I keep my shoulder blades tucked back, my gaze calm.

  “Naturally, I’m aware that Mrs. Fowler approached you first,” Mrs. Renard says. “I’m also aware that you reported her to Jane. You’re not on trial here, Eurydice. But I need your help. You’re my eyes and ears.”

  Behind her desk, a bird flies past the window, a rush of darkness.

  “The others will see this as merely disciplinary,” Mrs. Renard says. “It’s true that I don’t tolerate employees who break the rules. Whoever worked with Mrs. Fowler is dragging us into the media frenzy and misrepresenting what we offer.” She laces her fingers together. “But it’s more than that, Eurydice. Whoever did this, whether she knows it or not, she could need my help.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Mrs. Renard tilts her head, squinting at me. “You know what happened in Room 7?”

  I didn’t expect this question. “Yes,” I say after a second. “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve heard that there was a client who lied about his wife’s death,” I say, reluctant. “The version I heard was that he claimed she’d fallen down the stairs, broken her neck, but in reality it was his fault. He’d been abusing her.” I look to Mrs. Renard to see if she’ll confirm this, but her face stays immovable. “When the body swallowed the lotus in Room 7, everything went wrong. She smashed the water glass. She attacked her own body. She attacked the client.”

  Hearing the story in my own voice, it sounds overblown and childish. A retroactive cautionary tale attaching itself to a detail as innocuous as using paper cups instead of glass. But there’s something inside the exaggerated details that’s unnervingly real, like glimpsing the coldness of human eyes behind a gaudy Halloween mask.

  “That’s all I’ve heard,” I finish.

  Mrs. Renard nods. “When I was a young woman, there wasn’t anywhere like the Elysian Society. A safe, respectable place to reconnect with your loved ones. Channeling was a dirty secret. A disgusting act for desperate people. And dangerous. Terribly dangerous. I heard stories of clients mistreating the bodies in horrible ways while they were gone. Bodies channeled for far too long, vast stretches of time. They’d end up broken, more often than not. I looked around at all this and I wondered why such a gift had to be so dangerous. So illicit.”

  It’s not the first time Mrs. Renard has sketched out the history of the Elysian Society. She paints its origins in misty terms, dotted with flowery details. The same ones every time, like a well-worn fable. But I listen today as if I’m hearing it for the first time.

  “Establishing the Elysian Society took trial and error,” Mrs. Renard says. “Years of heartbreak and hard work. I had to fight to
oth and nail to make people take this place seriously. For twenty years I’ve poured my energy into this place. I’ve helped thousands of grieving people. Healed thousands of broken hearts. But I lie awake sometimes and wonder if I’ve overstepped. Perhaps I’ve made things too safe. I’ve declawed the monster. Now people look around and they don’t have the consequences breathing down their necks. The rules start to seem old-fashioned.”

  Her voice has a closeness that turns back in on itself, not extending to me. I could be overhearing a private conversation.

  “In a perverse way, I’m grateful that story about Room 7 has survived,” Mrs. Renard goes on. “Crude though it may be, it’s an effective warning for the new hires. The clients are a different matter. We’ll always have to guard against the questions: Why do we turn our backs on the souls most desperate to communicate?”

  A flash of the lake. Sylvia’s naked body curled up like a sleeping child, wrapped in weeds. Her dark hair glittering with a million tiny bubbles, eyes unseeing.

  “Look at this whole sordid case,” Mrs. Renard says. “Laura Holmes. We know her name. Barely anything, but even that much is surprising. This isn’t the first time that clients have gone behind my back. They’re arrogant. Certain that they’ll sit down and hear a perfect confession: Professor Plum in the study with the knife.” She laughs. The sound curdles in my ears. “Our clients don’t realize what it does to someone, dying violently. Forcing the dead to solve their own deaths is like interrogating sleepwalkers at best. At worst, it’s awakening a monster.”

  “You think Mrs. Fowler’s information is false, then?” I ask, not sure whether this disappoints me or produces a grimy relief.

  “Whether it’s false or not,” Mrs. Renard says, “she’ll keep trying. That’s why it’s crucial to discover who worked with Fowler. Each time this body channels Laura Holmes, she comes closer to losing herself.”

  The sunlight has been creeping steadily up the windowpanes. Now it presses into my eyes like a searchlight.

  “None of the bodies have left the Elysian Society since the news broke,” Mrs. Renard says. “I suppose they know how suspicious that would look. That’s quite lucky for us. I need you to be vigilant, Eurydice. Watch the others for any unusual behavior.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Well, anyone who seems different,” she says. “Anyone who seems not herself.”

  I’m woozy from the light. Mrs. Renard turns into a dark shape in front of me, her features obscured. I can’t make out her expression.

  “The signs will be subtle,” she continues. “Room 7 serves its purpose well enough as a warning, but if you look for blood and gore, you may miss what’s right in front of you.”

  I can’t say anything. My mouth has gone dry.

  “Eurydice?” she prompts.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say.

  He walks through the dark hallway with the unthinking confidence of someone who knows every inch of this space. “Care for a drink?”

  “Please,” I say, keeping pace as if I’m also exactly at home here.

  In the kitchen, Patrick reaches to open a cabinet above the fridge, his shirt lifting to expose the surprising darkness of the hair at his navel. I look away, shy as if I’ve never seen him undressed before.

  When we pass into the living room, I instinctively straighten the edge of a tilted picture frame, pushing Sylvia’s brilliant wedding-day smile back into alignment.

  “How have you been holding up?” Patrick asks.

  I pull both my legs up beneath me on the couch, aware that my dress’s short hemline will slip up my thighs. “What do you mean?”

  Patrick sits next to me. I watch the purposefulness that comes into his eyes as he keeps them focused on my face, not edging downward to my exposed skin. “The publicity your place is getting lately,” he says. “This woman who’s gone to the authorities.”

  I lift my glass to my mouth to avoid answering. I hadn’t planned to broach any of this with Patrick. When I’m with him, I feel so separate from the rest of the world that there could be fires blazing outside the window, floodwaters bleeding up the road, and I wouldn’t notice.

  “You seem to stay away from the spotlight,” Patrick says, and it takes me a second to realize he means the Elysian Society as a whole, not me specifically.

  “I thought you said you didn’t watch the news,” I say.

  I was trying for mild teasing, but he doesn’t smile back. “Jenn mentioned it,” he says. “It’s been bothering her too.”

  “Patrick, it’s nothing,” I say. My whole body tenses, as if I’m preparing to run. “This story should fade any day now. We’ll protect our clients’ confidentiality.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Patrick reaches for me abruptly, running his thumb down the length of my hand. It’s more soothing than sensual, his warm, rough-skinned thumb stroking my skin over and over. I can’t tell which one of us he’s trying to calm.

  “This woman didn’t even know the dead girl,” he says. “Is that right? She brought back a stranger.”

  It’s so quiet on Patrick’s street. A steeping silence.

  “She’s breaking the rules,” I say.

  “Yeah, but it’s a possibility,” he says. “One I hadn’t considered. Is a stranger going to pay to bring back my wife?”

  “That won’t happen,” I say quickly. “We won’t allow it to happen.” But I’m thinking of the accusations I read, the careless sense of ownership that surrounded the speculation, as if these strangers deserved to know Sylvia’s story by mere merit of their curiosity.

  Sylvia’s voice emerging from a different throat, her words sliding from a different tongue. Somebody asking her: What happened to you? Tell me. Tell me.

  You can trust me.

  His touch gains speed and pressure, almost painful. I resist the urge to move my hand.

  “It could happen and I wouldn’t even know,” Patrick says. “She’d be helpless. A stranger could say anything to her. Do anything to her.” He pauses. “Ask her anything.”

  “Patrick,” I say. “You’re worried for no reason.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “This woman is only bringing back Laura Holmes because it’s a murder case,” I say. “Laura’s a piece of a puzzle, something to be solved. It won’t happen to someone like Sylvia.”

  Though I keep my words flat, there’s a plea hidden inside. I want Patrick to agree. I want him to say: You’re right, you’re right.

  There’s no mystery to her loss.

  “How can you guarantee that?” he asks. He lets go of me. When he drops his head, staring at the floor, the bumps of his spine stand out beneath the smooth skin of his neck. Even this utilitarian part of his body excites me. I want to trace each separate knot. The desire presses up under the gravity of the moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I hate to think of you worrying.”

  He lifts his head, face bleary but slackening into a smile. “No,” he says. “I’m being unfair. You have nothing to be sorry for. God, you’ve done so much already. Don’t let me take my frustration out on you.”

  A jolt like an electrical current runs through my nerve endings. I ignore this; I reach for his hand again, intertwining my fingers through his, and then I move against him, pressing my face into his neck.

  “I want to protect her,” he says. “I failed once already.”

  “She’s safe, Patrick,” I say into the warmth of his skin. “She’s yours.”

  His grip on me tightens, his fingers move to the small of my back. He’s like a man under a hypnotist’s sway, accepting without fear or question whatever he finds in front of him. Patrick’s breath quickens. He murmurs a name, and I kiss him, kiss him again, not letting myself register whose name he said.

  I interpret my body differently with him. Before, I’d focus impassively on my flaws, the silvery stretch marks etched along one hip. Anything I could smooth or trim to blankness, I have, f
or years. Even the parts of my body that my clients never see.

  With him, my body turns complete. I admire the flatness of my belly, the raised tenderness of my areolas. Flaws transform into markers of who I am. When Patrick idly traces a small maroon birthmark on my inner thigh, when he cups the fullness of my hips, he’s experiencing a singular version of who I am. In these moments, it’s easy to think that nobody else could slip into his bed and take my place.

  There have been a few small, startling moments of panic or doubt. When I undressed in front of him, after the first wildness of being together had softened, I paused, suddenly exposed. If Patrick looked at my body more carefully, more critically, would he notice? Would he see the scars my past left on me? But he didn’t say anything, and I let myself relax again. The marks have nearly vanished by now; my fingertips know where to go by memory alone.

  Patrick’s body is completely familiar to me. I’m least shy, most bold and possessive, when we’re in bed together. I think nothing of taking him into my mouth, or of kissing the length of his thigh with its layer of pale hairs, soft and wiry at the same time. I crave the concentration that comes across Patrick’s face as he pushes inside me.

  When I wake into the watery darkness of the bedroom tonight, I turn my head to find Patrick awake. His arm is threaded beneath my cheek, his pulse against my skin, slightly out of rhythm with my own. “I’ll get her for you?” I ask.

  After a second, he nods.

  Leaving the bedroom, it strikes me again. A fleeting realization. How open the bedroom is, how different from the dark, low-ceilinged room in the photograph.

  At night, the shadows wash away the kitchen’s abrasive edges. I can pretend that the lights would work if I tried the switch. I can pretend that the refrigerator is brimming with food. Last night’s rinsed dishes are lined up inside the dishwasher. That there’s life waiting just beyond, like a stage before the curtain lifts. I fill a glass with tap water.

  he doesn’t love me anymore

  Someone slides his arms around my waist and leans his cheek against the top of my head. Fear moves through me. I hadn’t known he’d followed me. Then I relax into Patrick’s arms.