by J. M. Barlog
After an hour of light reading, Jenny tired and switched on the television to the Cable News Network. Warren returned at noon with Jenny’s lunch only to find her sound asleep. His attempt to leave her undisturbed seemed to awaken her. She lifted drowsy lids to stare at him.
“I’ll check back in an hour.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jenny drifted into a deep sleep aided by the surrounding quiet and a breeze floating in from outside.
“...pressure...slipping...I can’t,” came a gruff, demanding voice. The words were like explosions inside her head.
“We’re doing...it’s below sixty,” a female voice shot back.
“Can’t sus...tain the...” another urgent voice cut in, sounding like a scratched record.
“Damnit...pump...up...bag...”
Jenny’s heart pounded out of control. She felt herself reaching out to grab onto something beyond her reach.
As quickly as they arose, the strident voices evaporated. But they left Jenny sweating, frightened and confused. Awake now, she sought to recapture what she had heard, but gave up moments later and turned to the refuge of ‘Judge Judy.’
This night’s dinner was heavenly. Steamed halibut in a delicate lemon butter sauce and crisp—not flimsy—oriental vegetables. Warren had hid well his culinary talents over the past five years. He had feigned complete ignorance of the workings of the kitchen. Jenny expected canned soups, those newfangled boxed meals, or prefab microwave dishes that looked and tasted like the cardboard they came packaged in. Instead, she was being treated to gourmet food meal after meal.
“So where d-did you learn to cook like this? A-and more importantly, how c-c-come you never told me about this?”
“That must mean you like it. And if I had told you, you’d have enslaved me in your kitchen. I’d rather be your bedroom slave. Jenny, baby, you get the full treatment until you’re back on your feet.”
“How’d your day go?” Jenny asked, indicating the den with a slight nod of her head.
“Don’t ask.”
Jenny grimaced in sympathy.
Later that evening, as an ocher sun set outside their window, Warren read Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame to Jenny. He had a wonderful bass voice suited for storytelling, and though he hated to tell stories, he did enjoy reading the classics to Jenny. They locked hands the entire time, releasing them only when Warren needed to turn the page. Before leaving, Warren made sure he emptied his ashtray from the night stand and banished it to the bureau.
“I need to meet with a client this evening. Two hours tops. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’ve got everything I need right h-here by the bed. I’ll watch an o-old movie on cable.”
“Promise me you’ll stay in bed.”
“Promise.”
Warren leaned down, kissed Jenny first on her lips, then on her cheek, and finally on the forehead. His hand clung to hers until distance forced him to release it.
“I love you, princess,” he whispered, just before letting go. He turned away quickly to hide wet eyes.
“I-I love you, too,” Jenny said, concealing an edge of confusion that seemed to creep more frequently into her voice. Those words seemed so difficult to say, and not because of her stutter. She almost felt guilty in uttering them.
Jenny heard the door close. The empty house became soundless. Mr. Chips lay dutifully beside her bed, forcing his eyes closed, snoring gently, but ever-vigilant.
Twice the telephone rang in the den. Jenny fought down the urge to answer it. She would have enjoyed talking to anyone, but knew better. After the fourth ring, the answering machine took over. Both times Jenny heard faint voices leave behind a message.
Warren returned two hours later just as he had said he would. He informed Jenny that Bridget was one of the two calls. She’d said she’d call again tomorrow afternoon. Jenny seemed excited. Maybe she was ready to return to her old life? As he tucked Jenny under her blanket, Warren decided to re-install the telephone in the bedroom. Jenny’s stutter was almost gone, and she certainly seemed ready to talk to her close friends.
Besides, they would certainly understand her little rough spots after all she’d been through. Sooner or later, Jenny had to face the real world again. Warren hoped it would be sooner, even though it was something Jenny feared.
Jenny settled into her pillows and listened in the darkness while down the hall Warren talked on the phone. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but not from any pain in her body. Something was missing inside her. She felt it when Warren was close to her. She could hide it from him, but never from herself. He was her husband; she loved him. So what was wrong with her? Why did she have to tell herself she loved him? Why? And why did their contact feel so foreign and strange? This was not the way she remembered love to be.
At eleven, Warren came in to kiss Jenny good night. Jenny opened sleep-laden eyes, stroked his cheek, then held his hand tightly. When their lips parted, she motioned him onto the bed.
“I love you so much, Jenny,” Warren whispered, lowering himself gingerly beside her, burying his face into the soft warmth of her neck. His kisses worked passionately up to her waiting lips.
“I love you too, Warren.”
His gentle kisses showed the utmost concern for her injuries. He never pressed against her, though she could feel his excitement building against her thigh.
“I was terrified that I was going to lose you. I don’t want to face my life without you, Jenny.”
“I’m not going to die now, Warren. That’s behind us. I’m going to be here with you.”
Warren’s kisses grew more urgent. His need had become more insistent.
Jenny felt the fired passion in his breath and the six weeks of abstention bottled up in his manhood. He needed to release all that had built up inside him. He needed her. She sought deep inside herself for her own passion, but came up empty.
“You can touch me, honey. But I can’t make l-l-ove yet.”
“It’s okay, Jenny. I want to wait until we can both enjoy our lovemaking.”
“I d-don’t know how long that will be,” Jenny whispered, fighting back her tears.
“I’ll wait until the last sunset if I have to.”
Warren drew himself from their marriage bed, hastily wiping away tears. He snatched up Mr. Chips, switched off the light at the wall and eased Jenny’s door closed.
“Sleep well,” he whispered; then he was gone.
In the quiet solitude, Jenny fretted over the melange of emotions churning helter-skelter inside of her. Why was there no spark when Warren kissed her? Passion’s fire had all but faded inside her. She felt fraudulent, as if she wore a facade to spare Warren. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
In the lightless still, Jenny awoke, gasping for breath. Immediately, she turned toward the corner. Her door was ajar, but no light entered from the hall.
He was sitting there.
“Come hold me,” Jenny whispered, then shifted carefully onto her side.
She waited. No sounds arose. No sweet caress from her husband contacted her skin.
Then an icy hand brushed her cheek.
Jenny turned.
Her own face, luminous against the night, hovered inches away. The eyes were black and sightless.
Jenny screamed.
The apparition vanished.
Seconds later, a confused and stumbling Warren tumbled into the room, slapping on the lights.
“Jenny, what is it?”
“Warren, there was...”
“It’s okay, Jenny. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Jenny trembled in Warren’s tender arms. Holding her closer did little to quiet the trembling.
“Jenny, what happened?”
“She was in here.”
“She?”
“Warren, I-I saw her. I saw m-m-myself. There was a woman in here, she looks e-exactly like me.”
“Jenny, there’s no one in here. There’s no one in this house but you and me. There’s nothing to be
afraid of.”
“Warren, last night, were you sitting in that chair watching me?”
Jenny’s voice overflowed with consternation; her eyes were penetrating and serious.
“No. I told you, I went straight to bed. I promise you, Jenny, I was not in here last night.”
“Then she was here. She was watching me from that chair.”
“Jenny, what do mean she? You saw a woman in here?”
“I saw me...I m-m-mean...she touched me. I felt her touch me.”
“Honey, sweetheart, it was just a bad dream. It wasn’t real.”
Jenny struggled to sit up in bed, struggled to make sense of what she had seen and what she was saying. She locked her hands in Warren’s. Her trembling worsened.
“I never told you...b-b-because I wasn’t sure that I really saw it. But in the hospital when I first came around, I thought there was someone standing across the room staring at me.”
“Jen, you were really drugged up. It could have been a nurse...”
“N-n-no, listen to me. I know what I saw. There was this woman standing in the shadow staring at me. When she moved forward, I saw the face. Warren, it was me!”
“Jenny, baby, your brain is just healing right now. You can’t always trust what you see or hear.”
“I saw her more than once in the hospital. Now she’s h-here...a-at home.”
“Jenny, try not to think about it. It’s just a dream. You don’t have to be frightened.”
“Warren, it’s not a dream. I felt her touch me. Don’t you understand?”
Warren stared into Jenny’s terror-stricken eyes. With pupils fully dilated, Jenny stared back. She grasped his arm desperately. He felt terror in her touch.
“Warren, stay with me, hold me.”
5
Warren’s morning began as a disaster and was about to get worse. Mr. Chips heaved up his breakfast all over the kitchen floor, right after wolfing down a full bowl of canned dog food. The stench drove a retching Warren to the bathroom. But dutifully he returned, pulled a mop from the closet, and though weighted down with lethargy from a near sleepless night, set about the task of cleaning up the animal’s vile mess.
Jenny’s bizarre story had kept him tossing until dawn. It had to have been a dream—Jenny’s claim that she saw a ghost of herself. The very notion stretched beyond all reaches of rational thought. And Jenny had always been rational. How could the accident have changed that?
But Jenny’s insistence regarding what she saw left an indelible mark on Warren’s mind. Not only did she claim to have seen it in her bedroom, but also that it had touched her. The only real, sane answer was that Jenny’s head injuries were more severe than the doctors originally thought.
A punishing headache scraped at Warren’s already frayed nerves. Things were deteriorating all around him. The market had been open for more than an hour, and he still had yet to get the opening numbers for the day. But Warren sucked in a deep, calming breath, composed himself, put Mr. Chips out into the yard, and then finished scrubbing the floor.
“If I’d known you were going to do that, I’d have only given you half as much, you stupid shit,” Warren scowled while a whimpering Mr. Chips looked on morosely through the glass.
Thanks to Chips, the Belgian waffles became carbon chips and had to be dumped down the disposal. Even before he could start breakfast anew, he had to dash for the ringing telephone in the foyer, beating the answering machine by no more than a second.
“Thanks for returning my call so promptly,” Warren said. His eyes immediately went toward the upstairs bedroom door.
“Sounded urgent,” Dr. Sy Rosenstein said. “If not a little cryptic.”
“Sorry, but I figured it best to speak with you directly. I hope your secretary understood.”
“She understands. But what is this all about, Warren?”
“I’d like you to see Jenny. She’s having...problems.”
“What kind of problems? Medical?”
“Not medical. Can you fit her in, say in the next day or so?”
Shifting papers filled the silence on the line.
Warren was cashing in a chit and couldn’t discern whether it came begrudgingly or not. Rosenstein had left Warren with an open invitation to call on him any time he needed, as a result of a solid 26% annual return portfolio Warren had set up for the doctor a few years ago. At the time, Warren never dreamed he’d have reason to use that invitation. Now he hoped a psychiatrist could help Jenny.
“I’ll shuffle. We’ll get her in. Tomorrow at five good for you?”
“Great, Sy. I really appreciate this.”
By eleven, Warren departed the now immaculate kitchen. Jenny had enjoyed her Belgian waffle breakfast, never realizing what had preceded it, and Warren settled down in front of his computer to get some work done. Almost nothing was following his plan. He had already lost out on two important trades today and was now scurrying like a starving rat to make up the deficit. Corn was down, live hogs up. Warren watched lumber go limit up before noon and now further regretted his month-old decision to unload his lumber contracts. That was another load of money he’d never see. He mentally tallied up the lost revenue opportunities and realized he was quickly running out of options.
Everything had been much easier when Jenny was in the hospital. Now, he got only half as much done as he needed, and his business was suffering more than he dreamed it would.
Nerves of steel, he told himself as the light played off the sword, Excalibur, he kept on the wall near his computer.
It wouldn’t take much more to go belly up at this rate.
A persistent doorbell brought a growling Warren up from his scrolling computer screen. More damn distractions. He bantered around the notion of just letting it ring until the caller eventually gave up and went away.
“Just go away, you shit,” he groaned to himself.
No such luck.
“This better be friggin’ important,” he grumbled all the way down the stairs and to the front door.
“Just a minute,” Warren yelled when Mr. Chips issued a low, angry growl at the shuffling that seeped beneath the door.
Interruptions were the one thing Warren had no patience for.
With Chips safely locked away, Warren returned to the door. Mr. Chips had become strangely protective since Jenny’s return and exhibited aggressive behavior at the most inappropriate times. Warren chalked it up to the dog’s advancing age. Though he learned—much to his dismay—that these little shits could live to be fifteen years old. Another three years of the little bastard.
“Can I help you?” Warren offered in less than a neighborly tone, staring at the backs of a neatly dressed man and woman.
“Hello, Mr. Garrett, I’m Detective Rick Walker, and this is Detective Vicki Chandler. I was hoping we might have a few words with Jenny?” Rick flashed his shield and ID without waiting to be asked, though Warren ignored them. At that same time, Rick observed Warren’s face. Was there surprise? No, more like irritation.
People tend to react spontaneously when suddenly face to face with the law: A constricting jaw muscle, a furtive glance, something the trained eye catches that can be very revealing. Warren’s stone face and lack of gestures seemed impossible to read at the moment.
Rick’s linebacker shoulders and towering frame consumed the doorway on his entrance. His gray-flecked hair gave him a seasoned authoritative appearance. His eyes never left Warren. Warren’s eyes never left his. Vicki remained motionless waiting for Rick to enter.
“She may be sleeping. If you want...”
“You don’t have to wake her. Her recovery is much more important than what we have. We’d be more than glad to come...”
“No. Come in. I’ll see if she’s awake. Is this about the accident? I told the police everything I knew about the accident at the hospital and during their follow-up.”
“It’s just routine, Mr. Garrett. We just need a few more details about that night, that’s all.”
/> Warren’s smile was slight. He stared at Rick’s steel-gray eyes a moment longer than appropriate. Was he sizing up Rick?
Warren showed them to the sitting room while he climbed the stairs.
Rick scanned the room with a careful eye and poker face, cataloging the lavish and meticulously maintained furnishings. A floor-to-ceiling mahogany book case covered the entire far wall. It held both the classics and numerous objects d’ art. Rick tallied the numbers in his head. Tens of thousands in furnishings in this room alone.
Vicki whistled and shook her head as she ran her fingers along a peach-colored Victorian sofa. The Persian rug alone under her feet had to cost thirty to forty grand.
“We’re not talking K-mart stuff here,” she murmured, careful to keep her comment from rising to Warren’s ears.
Standing deep in the heart of Yuppieland, Rick flipped through the pages of his notebook to review the questions he had prepared on the drive over. On a blank page, he scribbled a large dollar sign, then a question mark to indicate he needed to look deeper into the Garrett’s source of money.
“She’s awake, Detective Walker, you can come up.”
“It’s Rick. Call me Rick.”
Rick and Vicki entered the bedroom to find Jenny sitting up in bed in her fuchsia robe. Her smile was slight and uncertain, and her hand went immediately to cover the scar on her face when she spoke.
Rick could see the hasty measures Jenny had taken to primp her hair. There was no mistaking the confusion in her eyes, and the discomfort Jenny felt at facing visitors.
Both Rick and Vicki avoided the scar on Jenny’s lip, instead maintained what they thought to be friendly eye contact. However, Rick’s fixed gaze only served to make Jenny more self-conscious and nervous.
“The detectives said it’s just routine,” Warren offered, taking Jenny’s hand.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Garrett?” Rick started.
“I’m g-g-getting b-b-b-better.”
Jenny’s jaw tightened at her sudden regression. Her heart hammered inside her chest. Why were they here? What was happening? She could feel the sweat in her hand as Warren held it.