Emily's Ghost

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  The senator caught the wayward lock in a feather's touch and slid it back behind her ear. "Emily," he said in a voice that was at once reassuring and infinitely sympathetic, "do you know what you're saying?"

  She felt simultaneously patronized and electrified. It threw her off completely, so she retreated to her usual defense, sarcasm.

  "Yeah. We argued. He walked out. The usual thing." She closed her eyes, wanting more than anything that he touch her hair again.

  "I mean, how incredible all this sounds to someone?"

  He wasn't going to touch her hair again -- for whatever reason. Stung, she pushed her chair back and stood up. "I've told you exactly what he said. I remember every word."

  "People do hear voices --"

  "Stop right there! Don't you dare call me a paranoid schizophrenic!"

  "I haven't called you anything. But documented apparitions tend to describe vague, mostly featureless, almost transparent forms that don't last long. Whereas you know this man down to his brass buttons. You mimic his accent; you claim to have seen his face flush, for God's sake. Think about it, Emily: a flush is a rush of blood under the skin. How can a dead man flush, Emily?"

  "I don't know and I don't care! He flushed! Repeatedly! How can you not believe me? Look, look here! I'll show you!" She dragged him into her bedroom and pulled her top drawer half open. A jumble of underwear exploded brazenly from it; she didn't care. "See this drawer? See it? That's where I sanded the name out!" she cried. "And then I waxed it!"

  "It looks like every other drawer," he said cautiously.

  "Of course!" she cried, absurdly pleased by the compliment. And then she comprehended what she'd done. "Oh." She bit her lower lip, amazed at her stupidity in destroying the evidence. "Well, it was there. 'Fergus O'Malley.' In a child's scrawl."

  The senator slid the drawer closed and said gently, "That doesn't prove it was a ghost who scrawled the name."

  "What? Do you think I --? What is this? I'm the skeptic. You're supposed to be the believer!"

  They were both hovering over the bureau, like opposing attorneys wrangling over a piece of evidence. She began to have a sick feeling in her stomach. If Lee Alden, Rhodes Scholar and spirit-connoisseur, didn't believe her, maybe she didn't have a case.

  She made a last-ditch effort to force him to believe. "I saw him there, I tell you, in the corner. And standing on my bed. And sitting on it. And in the living room. And in the kitchen; he wanted a beer. My God, why would I make him up?" she cried.

  "Stress?"

  "Stress, oh that's it! When anything goes weird nowadays, blame stress! I haven't been under any stress!"

  "You lost your mother, Emily; that's a stressful event," the senator suggested quietly.

  The arrow hit home. She'd been wondering herself whether there was a connection. She sat on the edge of her bed and said in a careful voice, "People lose their mothers all the time. But they don't make up ghosts to take their place."

  "Besides," she added, jumping back up, "Fergus O'Malley is nothing like my mother. He's desperate to come back again and start over. He's full of ambition and unfulfilled dreams and he wants beer, pizza, the works. He wants it all. My mother just ... didn't."

  She thought of her mother as she lay dying. Her mother used to say so little, just now and then a sigh, waiting to be done with it. No matter how hard Emily had tried, she could not make her mother want to stay. And now she was gone.

  "I don't know," Emily said, sighing heavily, "maybe you're right. Maybe Fergus has something to do with my mother ... some kind of wish fulfillment ... I don't know ...." Her voice trailed off as she struggled with the concept, her gaze drifting aimlessly around the bedroom, watching automatically for signs of Fergus. He'd been so real. Right down to the mole on his right temple.

  "No!" she said, shaking her head vehemently. "I did see him! I admit I thought I might have been hallucinating, but I wasn't. He's here! Somewhere!" She dropped down to her knees on the Virginia carpet and pulled up the dust ruffle of her bed. "Fergus! Damn you, show yourself!" She jumped back to her feet and threw open the trunk that held spare blankets. "Come out!" She ran to the living room, stopped, listened, ran into the kitchen area, opened the fridge, left the door agape, checked the oven, left that door hanging, flew from one cupboard to the next, opening each door in succession, whirled around once, twice, and finally came to rest, drained by her own hysteria.

  She managed, somehow, to come out of her daze and recognize the senator standing not six feet from her. "Lee," she said in a desolate voice, "I'm losing it." In a gesture of supplication, she held out her arms to him.

  And suddenly he was there for her, enfolding her in his warmth and rock-solid embrace, making up in every way for the phantom that was eluding her. "Shhh," he whispered through her tears, rocking her gently against his chest as he would a child. "Don't talk like that ... shhh, shhh." She felt his hand weave through her hair and pull her close as he murmured little words and half-phrases of reassurance. "Emily ... Emily ... it will get better ... it will."

  And somehow, she believed him. She let herself feel for one exquisite moment that she was safe from harm. Being in his arms, listening to his voice, was more comforting than sleep, more soothing than a soft lullabye. She needed so much to be able to let her guard down, and Lee Alden was making that so easy. Gradually her breathing slowed and her tears dried. She drew in an enormous breath, held it, and let it out.

  "Atta girl," he murmured close to her ear. He continued to hold her.

  She lifted her face, tight with fear, to meet his gaze. "What should I do, Lee?"

  A look of consternation, almost of pain, passed over his face as he beheld hers. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingertips; began to say something; stopped. After a moment he said, almost stiffly, "I'll stay on your sofa tonight."

  Though she hadn't dared to hope for his protection, it was exactly what Emily needed to hear. She'd been right in the first place: Lee Alden was the only man alive she could trust to see this thing through with her. And yet with the relief came guilt. The senator was a public figure, a man of reputation. He was taking a considerable risk for her sake. She should turn down his suggestion, but she wasn't feeling brave enough.

  "I shouldn't be doing this to you," she admitted sorrowfully.

  "No, dear heart ... you should not."

  His voice was rueful, and yet there was something ambiguous in it that sent a ripple of heat through her. She was in his arms, and his blue eyes were intense, and the moment was no longer about comforting. Worse, Emily no longer really wanted comforting. Suddenly it wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough. It seemed incredible to her that her mood could change so abruptly, and yet here she was: cheeks on fire, heart thundering in her breast, every nerve ending aroused.

  The senator was cradling her head in his hands and was lowering his mouth to hers. Her eyes were partly closed and her mouth had parted for the kiss that was to come -- when he stopped.

  "Oh boy; out of bounds," he said in a husky voice, bringing himself back under control. He took her by her shoulders and held her at arm's length. "Definitely out of bounds." His breath came with an effort.

  Confused and disappointed, Emily swayed dizzily and murmured, "No, you're not."

  But the senator smiled bleakly and shook his head. "Oh, Emily ... believe me when I say, this is not the time."

  "Because there might be a ghost in the house?" she asked, with a heartbroken attempt at humor.

  He hesitated. "Because there might not be."

  "Ah." The word, bittersweet, hung in the air between them. But one word didn't seem enough, so she added two more. "I see." She dropped her gaze from his and concentrated instead on the third button of his shirt. It was all too clear: Lee Alden did not make love to crazy women.

  "You're way too vulnerable right now," he was saying. "And as irresistible as you may be, it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair to you." He let go of her as if she were too hot to hold.

  Emily's
chin came up. "You talk as if you'd be stealing the kiss," she said, hurt and offended. "It would have been freely given."

  "It's been a long time since I've been with a woman," he explained, sidestepping the pain in her voice. "It wouldn't have ended with one kiss."

  "You're so sure!"

  "I could be wrong," he admitted with infuriating modesty. He went deliberately over to the sofa and sat on one arm of it, widening the gap between them, further offending her.

  He was in complete control of the situation. Emily had known confident men before, but Lee Alden was in a class by himself. The worst part of it was, he had every right to be. Who could resist him? Who of sound body or mind would want to? Was it his fault that women kept throwing themselves at him? That they ran to him for help all week long? Heck, it was his job.

  "You've been in this situation before," she said dryly, trying not to sound reproachful.

  He grinned good-naturedly, which was another one of those charming things about him she couldn't stand: he had a sense of humor about himself.

  "I've been in a lot of situations, Emily, but not in this one. Not even close."

  She was becoming angrier, irrationally so, which she didn't mind a bit. Anger sometimes made her fearless; if this was one of those times, she'd make it through the ordeal without him. "I think you ought to go," she said coldly. "I'll be fine."

  "Do you have a spare pillow?" he asked, ignoring her bravado.

  Her eyelids lowered dangerously. "You're not listening."

  "Yes I am. You'd rather I left. I'd rather I stayed. I did fly up from D.C.," he reminded her. "You owe it to me to let me feel helpful. What are politicians for, anyway?" He tried an engaging grin.

  When she didn't respond, his mood became more serious. "Look, Emily, something -- anything at all -- could happen tonight. I've brought a briefcase filled with work. I'll catch up on my reading, and if nothing happens, I'll take the six o'clock back in the morning." He undid the knot to his loosened tie and tossed it aside. "I spend half my nights on my senate sofa anyhow."

  Hands on her hips, Emily glanced at the maroon silk tie draped over her sofa. It looked so decisive. Well. That's that. Whether I want him or not. She glanced at the tie again. I do want him here, she admitted. Just for tonight.

  The senator said, "My briefcase is in my car; I'll be right back," and headed for the door.

  But she intercepted him and held out her hand. "Give me your keys," she said gruffly. "I'll get it for you." She couldn't offer him much in hospitality; the least she could offer him was anonymity.

  He understood her perfectly and was grateful. "Thanks."

  Emily skipped down the stairs far more happy than she had a right to be. This was not the answer, having a man she considered a handsome flake conclude that she was an irresistible flake. She smiled at the thought and shrugged cheerfully. What the heck; it's a start. God, she must be punchy. She tried to keep things in perspective. The senator was there on business, and his business was the paranormal -- or, as those people liked to call it, "human potential."

  She noted with gratitude that his BMW hadn't been stolen, opened the trunk, and took out his briefcase. There was no overnight bag, which said good things for the senator's integrity but left her feeling a little stab of disappointment. Still, her mood on the whole was upbeat. Twenty-four hours with not a trace of Fergus O'Malley; and a big, strong senator to make sure he never came back. Things were definitely looking up.

  Emily stood aside on the landing while a rowdy group of seven or eight college kids pushed their way past her, laughing and hooting. She went in, then paused at the foot of the stairs of the ornate Victorian hall, trying to remember if she'd locked the trunk. Yes. She started up the stairs.

  Suddenly a shaft of cold pierced her body. It was so cold, so unexpected, so fiercely painful, that she staggered under the blow and grabbed the balustrade to steady herself. The shaft of cold seemed to dissolve into a mass inside of her, then expand and wrap itself around her, constricting her chest, stealing her breath, numbing all thought. She thought it must be her heart, but her heart knew better.

  Fergus O'Malley.

  Chapter 8

  The moment passed as quickly as it came. Emily waited for the adrenalin to subside, then fled up the stairs. She found the senator at the front window, staring out into the street. He turned, took one look, and said, "Good God, Emily, you look as if you've seen--"

  "I haven't seen a thing, Senator," she said quickly.

  "Baloney. What happened out there?" He moved closer to her. Taking her by the shoulders again, he tilted his head to meet her downcast look.

  Tired of seeming the hysteric, Emily lied outright. "I ran into the kids from the first-floor condo. They were loud, they were drunk, they were rude. That's all."

  "Emily--"

  "That really is all," she said, lifting her head and forcing a smile. "I think I'll turn in if it's all right with you. The sofa folds out; the bed's always made up. I'll get you a pillow. There's a new toothbrush under the sink. If you'd like a nightcap, hmmn, well, there's beer. There's milk."

  She slipped gracefully out of his hold somehow, leaving him to stare after her as she went into the bedroom for a pillow. Why don't I just tell him what happened downstairs? He came here to help. Why won't I let him?

  When she returned, she still hadn't figured out why she was refusing. "Here you go," she said lightly, tossing him the pillow on her way to wash up for the night.

  When she came out from the bathroom she saw that the lights had been turned off except for the one at her desk, where the senator sat reading a bound document and making notes. She took in every detail: the light from the brass lamp, dancing on his thick, unruly hair; the left hand, shading his brow, which still bore a wedding band -- no doubt to ward off female molesters; the shirtsleeves rolled up over solid forearms. He looked so right. He looked so at home. It made something inside her begin to ache.

  And then she saw that his open briefcase was sitting smack on top of her yellow pads. So he hadn't bothered to delve further into her notes. The realization was a blow.

  He looked up, preoccupied, and smiled. "How're you doing?" he asked her in a comfortable, sleepy way.

  "Doing great. Good night, Senator," she said stiffly. "And thank you."

  For nothing, she thought bitterly as she closed the door to her bedroom. He was never going to believe her. It was incredibly insulting, that a believer in ghosts didn't believe in her ghost. She changed into a white cottony nightgown and climbed into bed.

  But who could sleep, with him in the next room? All at once she realized why she hadn't been able to tell him about her hideous moment downstairs: because she didn't want him to believe she was either crazy or haunted. Suddenly it had become imperative that Lee Alden regard her as one of his more normal constituents.

  And why? Because he'd almost kissed her -- and would have, if it hadn't been for Fergus. Because she wanted that kiss so badly that still, here, alone, she could taste it. Great. Her only option now was to deny the existence of Fergus on any level, real or imagined. Great. A knight in shining armor had come charging in to be of service and she, the fair but possibly nutty damsel, was being forced to decline. All because of an almost-kiss.

  Great.

  For the next hour or so Emily tried valiantly to sleep. A toss, a sigh, a kicked-off cover; she went through the motions a hundred times. But all of her senses were on red alert. Every little thing hindered sleep. Her hair tickled. The bed squeaked. Her toe itched. The pillow was too hard. Her gown was twisted. The pillow was too soft. Nothing seemed right; something was missing. And Emily Bowditch, twenty-eight, never married, not very experienced, was having trouble figuring out what it was.

  Sometime after two in the morning, when her mind was drifting in a feathery float between sleep and awareness, she heard the door to her bedroom open. She opened her eyes just enough to see the senator's form silhouetted by the dim light of the living room. He stood there a moment
, watching, and then he closed the door very quietly and left her in darkness. Her heart lightened immeasurably; and soon after that she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  *****

  But then the dream came, a brutal nightmare that left her clutching her throat and snatching at a rope that wasn't there. She dreamt that she was one of the crowd at Fergus O'Malley's execution. At first she hung back and let the gawkers and the curious push their way past her for a closer look at the gallows. She had the sense that someone in the crowd was completely evil, and she was afraid of him. Still, as the prisoner was led up the scaffold she found herself pressing forward, straining to make sure it was Fergus O'Malley. It was. But instead of being dressed in coarse trousers, a muslin shirt and a corduroy vest, he was wearing dark suit pants and a maroon tie, with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  The executioner, who looked like Jim Whitewood in a plain black suit, pulled a dark hood over Fergus O'Malley's head and slipped the rough hemp noose over his neck. She watched as the executioner stepped back, then grabbed hold of a rusty lever with both hands. She had her hands over her mouth, certain that she was going to be sick, when a bizarre diversion occurred: a small boy with only one arm somehow slipped past the guard and ran up to the top of the platform. Before anyone could stop him, he butted the executioner in the stomach with his head and swung at him with his one good arm. The boy was grabbed and carried off; he never said a word.

  Emily thought that the hanging would be stopped. But no: the executioner pulled the lever, the floor fell away, and Fergus O'Malley dropped dangling into the hole. It happened so fast; she had no time to scream, much less to prevent it.

  And then she bolted awake, choking and gasping for breath, fully convinced that she was being hanged. The door to her bedroom flew open and Lee Alden was suddenly at her side, holding her.

  "Emily, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

  She tried to talk, couldn't, cleared her throat, tried again. "It was horrible ... he was hanged ... but it was me all along ...."