Hologram

by James Conroyd Martin

  Meg didn’t question it. In hospitals you often lose your roommates when they go home. Not here.

  Bath, Meg thought, as she moved along an obstacle course bustling with morning activity and crammed with wheel chairs—many occupied—walkers, and carts. The woman had said bath as if it had been a daily ritual. Meg knew if a ninety-some woman got a full bath once a week, it was a luxury.

  The place was as noisy as a psych ward. The nurses and aides, eager to get their morning duties done, barked out directions. Many of the residents were hard of hearing or senile and therefore they were loud, confused, demanding, whining. A virtual din. No wonder morning visitors were not encouraged.

  Meg heard now a woman’s blood-chilling scream. She looked up to see a woman in a wheelchair whiz across the intersection of halls ahead, mouth open, volume maximum.

  She was out of sight and quiet for a few seconds, then as Meg neared the intersection, the woman rolled across again, screaming an encore.

  Meg paused for a moment. No one paid the slightest attention to her, it seemed. Meg continued on, and when she came to the intersecting hall, the woman was gone.

  To recuperate, Meg guessed, and to get ready for an afternoon performance. The thought was Meg’s flair for black comedy coming to light if just for the moment, then guiltily put away. She continued down the hall.

  Room 120. The door was open. The bed parallel to the hall was empty and stripped. If there was a waiting list, Meg thought, no doubt someone was even now being apprised of the vacancy.

  The other bed was along the outer wall facing the street; a window near the foot of the bed allowed for some natural light.

  The woman in the bed lay quietly, her eyes at half-mast.

  Meg cautiously entered, stopping a few feet away. “Excuse me. Are you Bernadine Clinton?”

  The woman’s head turned now, the crinkled eyelids lifting to reveal startlingly blue eyes. “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat and drawing herself up a bit. “I still am. Much to everyone’s surprise.” A smile played on thin lips beneath a birdlike nose. “Not going anywhere just yet.”

  Meg smiled. Feeling a little more at ease, she moved closer.

  The woman was studying her. “They told me I was to have a visitor—put me in my best housecoat, but I— ”

  “You haven’t a clue as to who I am.”

  “No, should I?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a great relief. I don’t want to get like some of the others you’ll find around her—crazy as loons.”

  “Really?”

  “Trust me. And they’re not just the residents, either!”

  Meg laughed at the woman’s joke. “I’m Meg Rockwell.” She stepped forward and took the woman’s slim, bony hand.

  Meg wasn’t good at guessing ages, especially when the subject was over seventy-five, but this woman’s face did not look like it had weathered a hundred years. Her skin was quite good, practically free of wrinkles, and there was a vital sparkle of life in those blue eyes that made her—well, beautiful.

  “I’m Bernadine Clinton, but I guess you know that.”

  “I do. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course not, dear. I don’t have any pressing appointments this morning. Just shove that contraption out of the way and draw up a chair.”

  Meg pushed the wheelchair to the foot of the bed and pulled a cushioned chair to the side of the bed.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. Clinton.” Meg knew how important manners were to women of a certain age. She went on to explain her connection with Miss Reidy and touched briefly on the research she was doing on the Springfield Street house.

  Bernadine Clinton seemed pleased. “Just got a card from Millie a few days ago. Is her hair still as red as a fire engine?”

  Meg couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, it is.”

  “Bless her heart, wonder it hasn’t fallen out. She’s a good one for sending cards. Doesn’t come visit, though—oh, I won’t fault her for that. You know she’s not that many years behind me.” She laughed. “She’s probably afraid that if she did come we’d find a place for her.” Her eyes shifted to the empty bed.

  “You lost your roommate, Mrs. Clinton.”

  “Call me Bernadine, my dear. Yes, Elsie was one of the few sane ones, too. And young! Seventy-six. Stroke victim. Struggled here for two years, but just didn’t have the will, you know.”

  “I see.”

  “Imagine, seventy-six. Come and gone. And here am I nearly a hundred. Can’t trust the legs anymore, though. All swelled up.” She shrugged. “I just wait.”

  Meg could see through to a vulnerable soul and instinctively reached for the old woman’s hand, held it.

  The woman’s blue eyes flashed at Meg. “Oh, go on,” she said drawing in a deep breath and withdrawing her hand. “Good to see a young person for a change, at least one that’s not here to see about one bodily function or another—or are you?”

  “No.” Meg smiled. She had taken an immediate liking to this woman. “Do you have any children, Bernadine?”

  “No, and that’s a regret my husband and I had—but too late. And sometimes they kid me around here, you know, about the President, but I’m no relation to Bill, either, if that’s crossed your mind.”

  Meg laughed. “No, it didn’t.”

  “Not that he was such a bad fella.” Bernadine Clinton fired off a variety of political opinions as Meg sat in amazement. This was a woman who read and kept current. She finished by commenting on a senator who had recently run for re-election in his late nineties. “Too old,” she declared. “Too damn old!”

  “Bernadine, I want to ask you something.”

  “What? Of course! I have been going on. Ask away! That’s why you’re here.”

  “I am hoping you can tell me a little about the Reichart family. As I said, I’ve purchased the Reichart house.”

  “Oh, the Reichart house! It was the talk of the town, I can tell you. A stunning home. First one on Springfield Street. It’s still lovely, I imagine.”

  “It is, though it’s seen some changes, some remodeling, over the years.”

  “It’s had its share of tenants, too. No one ever seemed to stay long after—after the Reicharts. But to me it’s still the Reichart home.”

  “You knew Alicia Reichart?”

  “Goodness, yes.”

  From her purse, Meg withdrew the picture she had copied. “Here’s the photo, Bernadine. You see, there you are in the pinafore, front and center.”

  Bernadine put on her glasses that had been lying on the bed near a Bible. Meg made a mental note to tell Miss Millicent that Bernadine evidently had found her faith again. Not an uncommon thing, Meg had learned, as people came closer and closer to the other side.

  “Sakes alive, you’re right! Why I can remember the day this was taken. Just like it was yesterday. I was praying the posing ordeal would be over with quickly. There was to be ice cream afterwards, you see.”

  Meg chuckled. “It looks like everyone was in the same frame of mind.”

  Bernadine laughed at the humorless faces. “True enough, but you see, picture taking was a serious thing. One dasn’t smile.”

  “Can you tell me which one is Alicia Reichart?”

  “Let me see. Yes, of course. Here she is, big as life.”

  Meg looked to where Bernadine’s crooked finger pointed.

  Alicia Reichart was the woman in the front on the left, the one with the mole on her cheek, the one who was attempting to hide smugness or a smile, or both.

  The woman validated Meg’s intuitive guess. She felt victorious. She was making progress.

  “Did you know her well, Bernadine?”

  “Well enough. She was a strong woman.”

  “I rather guessed so.”

  “I was always a bit afraid of her.”

  “How did you happen to know her? Through church?”

  “Well, of course, there was the church connection. But I tended the twins on occasion t
o free up their nanny for an afternoon. But that was after the accident, you know.”

  “Accident?” Meg pulled her chair closer to the bed.

  “Yes, they lost little Claude. Tragic, just tragic.”

  “Was he older or younger than the twins?”

  “Oh, older. Claude was a year ahead of me in school. A real talented musician at nine. You probably read about him in your research.”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been working forward, year by year.” Meg’s mouth had gone dry. “Bernadine, what did Claude play?”

  “Piano. Like he was born to it. Lordy! Like he was Chopin reincarnated. He was a prodigy, he was.” Bernadine paused, as if to catch her breath. “Oh my, they had grand plans for him!”

  “His parents?”

  “Yes, but especially the missus—Alicia.”

  “He was that good?”

  “It was eerie, he was so good. He was to go abroad to study and compose.”

  “At that age?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Meg sat stunned. A child had died, one who had so much promise, so much talent. A child who played the piano.

  Is Claude my ghost?

  Later, Meg would wonder whether thinking about her dreams induced one now or whether it came of its own accord, but she fell into a trance-like state that must have lasted two or three moments.

  She could hear the piano music. She could see a little boy in white skillfully playing at an upright Steinway.

  Beautiful, beautiful music. Mahler, she thought.

  The piano sat under a trio of stained glass windows, windows familiar to Meg. The piano was in the former music room, the room that was now Kurt and Meg’s bedroom. It was warm in the room, very warm. The chamber, relatively small, was crowded with chairs and well-dressed women. Meg, it seemed, was sitting there, too. People looked to her occasionally, nodding and smiling. The women fanned themselves, but no one seemed to mind the heat so engrossed were they in the music.

  Meg found the experience oppressive. She was perspiring, growing faint. Others were lifting cool drinks with mint leaves to their mouths, but she had none.

  Suddenly, something blessedly pulled her from the trance now.

  A hand tightly gripped hers.

  Meg’s eyes focused on Bernadine and her heart tightened. Dear God, the woman’s had a stroke!

  Bernadine had pulled her head up from the pillow, closer to Meg and held on to her hand as if to a lifeline. She was pale and frightened. Her hand was cold, clammy.

  “What is it?” Meg asked. Her free hand instinctively reached for the nurse’s call button.

  “I saw . . . sitting there . . . at the end of the bed. It was . . . it was— ” Bernadine’s eyes moved from the end of the bed to Meg, wordlessly imploring— ”

  “What was it, Bernadine?” Somehow, Meg thought she knew what the woman had seen. “Was it a boy—all in white?—Was it Claude Reichart?”

  The blue eyes that had so sparkled were dim now. “No,” she gasped. “Not Claude.” Her grip on Meg’s hand grew tighter. Her mouth opened again, but the words found no way out.

  Meg was in a panic. Where was the nurse? She thought she should run out into the hall to find one, but didn’t want to have to pull free of the terrified woman.

  Bernadine groaned. Meg was certain she was having a heart attack.

  “Rest a moment, Bernadine. We’re getting you help. Do you hear?”

  Bernadine’s nails dug painfully into Meg’s hand. “A—Alicia,” she said.

  “You saw . . . ” Meg started to say.

  But there was no need. The head fell back, the hand loosened and slipped away.

  It was another five minutes before a nurse’s aide came in, chattering mindlessly about her busy day and wasn’t it nice that Bernie had a visitor and my wasn’t that the smell of dead flowers in the room but how funny that there weren’t any flowers at all in the room.

  The young woman was fully up to the bed before she realized Bernadine Clinton was dead.

  SIXTEEN

  It was Wednesday and Kurt hadn’t spoken to Meg since she dropped him at the train station Monday Morning. He sat at his desk now, listening to the phone ring in Hammond.

  Where the hell is she? The message machine came on and he hung up. He had left the shrink’s information on it on Monday night. He had called several times Tuesday, but she didn’t pick up or call back. By calling the house to access messages on the machine, he could tell that she had gotten them: they had been erased.

  Until now, a day had not gone by without their speaking. He would try again later.

  Kurt felt as though things were spinning out of control—as if he were losing control of his own life. He didn’t like it.

  His wife had become obsessed with this house—and now it was dawning on him that it might even be a threat to their marriage.

  He was too practical to spend time regretting having bought the damn thing. How was he to have known? Or Meg? Or anyone?

  Now is what mattered. Dump it—even at a loss—and move on without looking back. It was the proverbial white elephant.

  On the third try of the day, about 1:30 p.m., Meg picked up.

  “Meg?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God, Meg, I’ve been worried! Why haven’t you called back?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?—But why—?”

  “I’ve been busy, Kurt.”

  He was taken aback by her coolness. “This is crazy, honey. I’m your husband.”

  “Oh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. I’ve been upset.”

  “About putting the house on the market?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Mrs. Shaw called to say the For Sale sign disappeared overnight.”

  “Did it?”

  “You know it did, Meg.”

  “I didn’t know. It was there yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t take it down?”

  “No.”

  Kurt sighed in exasperation. He would get nowhere on this subject, he could tell. “Okay, listen, Meg, I know moving is upsetting you. Believe it or not, I like that place, too.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, of course. But it’s—it’s not for us. You’ll get past it, sweetheart. You’ll rebound.” He heard what sounded like a long sigh at the other end. “Meg?”

  “A woman died yesterday, practically in my arms.”

  “What? Oh, my God, Meg!” He drew in breath. “Who?”

  “Her name was Bernadine Clinton and she was a wonderful soul. She deserved a better end.”

  “I’m so sorry. It must have been a terrible experience.”

  “It was. And I’m to blame.”

  “You! This was one of your calls, right? And you just happened to be there. Shitty luck, that’s all it was.”

  “No, she wasn’t one of my calls.”

  “Well, who was she?”

  Kurt listened silently as Meg told him about the research and the lead that took her to Bernadine Clinton.

  “Well, it is terrible, Meg. But you couldn’t have known. And the woman had to be old, yes?”

  “Nearly a hundred.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “But she was fine when I went into her room. She felt something—saw something. Just like Juan did. That was my fault, too.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Now listen to me, Meg. I want you to pack some clothes, get in your car, and come into the city now.”

  “I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got unfinished business here. I’ve started something, and I intend to finish it. There are two.”

  “Two?”

  “Spirits. Ghosts.—Whatever! It’s not just the boy; there’s a woman, too.” She spoke quickly and with precision, as if the words had the power to hurt him. It wasn’t like Meg at all.

  “Meg, please get out now. Today. You can’t stay there alone.�
��

  There was a pause at the other end. He thought for a moment she was going to agree.

  “You could take a day or two off,” she said.

  “God, no! I wish I could, but it would cost me my job. Seriously. You have no idea how intense it is here. You thought there was a money crunch when you left? You should see it now. I’ve been working overtime, sans pay, thank you, every night. There’s unbelievable pressure for me to perform.”

  “You mean to cut.”

  “You got it.”

  “Was a time when hospitals were about people, sick people in need.”

  “I know that. But we can’t always go back. Listen, I’ll be out Friday as usual—unless you’ll reconsider and— ”

  “No.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “See that psychoanalyst for one thing. See where that goes.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Damn it to hell. Kurt just wanted the house with its spirits to go away, just go away. And he felt somehow that George’s friend would not be a step in that direction. If only he hadn’t told her—

  “I don’t know what good she might do,” Meg was saying. “I’ll let you know afterward.”

  Kurt knew that tone: Meg would not be dissuaded from staying at the house. He glanced at his watch. He was already five minutes late for a board meeting.

  “Listen, Meg, I’ve got to run. Big pow-wow. Listen to me, we’re taking only what we need and moving back to Chicago this weekend.”

  Silence.

  “Meg?”

  “I heard you.”

  “That gives you two days. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay. Good luck with the psychoanalyst. Really. Bye, Meg.”

  “Bye.”

  “Love you, Meg.”

  He listened now, but the wire had gone dead.

  SEVENTEEN

  Most people live—in a very restricted circle of their potential being. They make use of a very small portion of their possible consciousness, and of their soul’s resources in general, much like a man who, out of his whole bodily organism, should get into the habit of using and moving only his little finger.