Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  “Cattery Two is for cats that aren’t ready to be adopted yet,” I explain.

  “Petals does seem loving,” she says. “Let me think about it.”

  I nod, discreetly crossing my fingers for luck.

  It’s a busy afternoon and my shift goes by quickly. Mrs. Brooks lingers, holding one cat and then another. She doesn’t say anything when she walks out, and I can only hope she’s thinking over which cat to take home. I’m washing my hands when the cattery door opens and Gavin, the guy from the bookstore, walks in.

  “Hey!” I inwardly cringe at my overly cheerful voice. “Are you ready to meet some cats?”

  “Okay.” He runs his hand through his hair as if he’s nervous.

  I introduce him to Petals, Cinnamon, who was named for her coloring, and the others. He scratches behind Cinnamon’s ears, but doesn’t seem anxious to hold any of them. What’s up with this guy? When Milo rubs against his leg, he almost looks panicked. Does he even like cats? We spend an awkward fifteen minutes together before he clears his throat.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want to get too attached to any of the animals, because I haven’t quite convinced my parents to let me adopt yet. I think I can persuade them, but I need a little more time.”

  His parents let him get a tattoo and dye his hair. It seems like a cat would be an easy sell. But if he’s not ready to adopt, I’m tempted to ask why he’s here.

  “Of course,” I say. “A parent would have to sign off on the adoption anyway if you’re under eighteen. You live in Hoboken?”

  “For the summer, with my cousin. Then it’s back home to Parsippany for senior year.”

  That explains why I haven’t seen him before.

  “I’m sorry if I wasted your time,” Gavin says.

  “It’s fine. I’m glad you met the animals. Petals is really my favorite. She’s older, though, and some people are superstitious about black cats. It’s been tough to find her a home.”

  “You seem enthusiastic. I’m sure you’ll inspire someone to take her.” He kneels to pet her, avoiding my eyes for a moment. “I should be getting to work soon. Is your shift almost over? I can walk with you as far as Hoboken Hardware and Locks.”

  I hesitate. He’s not being entirely honest, I can tell. His attitude is off. I’m missing something—something below the surface. Then it dawns on me: Maybe he’s not interested in visiting the cats at the shelter. Maybe he’s actually visiting me.

  “Okay. Let me finish up, and I’ll meet you out front.”

  After rechecking the water bowl, I try to fix my hair. It’s futile. As I sign out at the desk, Mrs. Brooks is filling out adoption paperwork. I discreetly take a peek. She’s adopting Shakespeare. It’s not Petals, but at least one of the older cats finally found a new home.

  I head outside to meet Gavin. “Ready.”

  He has long legs but I keep pace with him.

  “Do you like being in Hoboken for the summer?” I ask.

  “It’s easier to get a job here and I can walk wherever I need to go. I’m trying to save for a car. You work at the bookstore?”

  “Yes, it’s our family business. I’d like to help at a vet’s office next summer if they’ll hire me. For now, I volunteer at the shelter.”

  “You must really love animals.”

  “Definitely.” As we walk, an unsettling thought wriggles in my mind. “How did you know I live in this direction?”

  He shrugs. “Just a guess. I figured you live close to the bookstore. At least you get to work with family. My manager is a grouch. The hours are good, though, even if I spend my days making keys and stocking boxes of nails.”

  We near the ice cream shop. “I need to be at the hardware store soon,” he says. “But I have time for ice cream. Should we stop here?”

  “Sure.” The invitation makes me nervously happy. We enter the shop and get in line.

  “Waffle cone, raspberry sorbet,” he orders. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll have the same thing. Raspberry sorbet is my favorite.”

  He smiles. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

  I smile but can’t think of a flirty comeback. “Maybe” is the best I can do.

  We sit outside at a table with a striped umbrella and eat our matching cones. I steal glances at him when I can, wondering what a guy with blue-tinged hair going into senior year would find interesting about me. I suddenly feel self-conscious about licking my ice cream in front of someone I barely know. A cup with a spoon would have been better. When he’s not looking, I stuff the rest of the cone in my mouth and chew.

  Once we finish and start walking again, something is still bugging me, something that doesn’t make sense. “I’m glad you got to meet the shelter cats,” I say. “You bought those books so you’d be prepared. But would you adopt the cat in Hoboken, and then take it with you when you leave? Why not adopt when you move home?”

  He smiles, sheepish. “I guess I haven’t thought it all the way through.”

  His voice isn’t convincing. I try to interpret his expression and nearly walk into a stroller in front of us. Before I collide with it, he takes my elbow and steers me clear. His hand is firm but gentle, and he doesn’t let go right away.

  “Maybe it seems crazy since I never had a cat,” he says. “I read this book about an old cranky guy, not that I’m usually cranky, but his life is transformed by this cat he rescues. It’s such a cool idea, to save a life and bond with a pet. I’m not used to being around animals, but I can’t stop thinking about the ones that are stuck in shelters. And HACC is a kill shelter, right? So I wanted to save a cat from there.”

  “Oh!” I’m nearly speechless. We’re reading the same book and he feels the same way about rescuing animals as I do. Wow.

  We reach the hardware store. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking uncertain. “Maybe we could get together again sometime?”

  Even if Blake hadn’t encouraged me to be open-minded, Gavin’s shelter speech won me over. Of course, I’ll owe Blake twenty dollars, and I’m tempted to say no, just to win the money. But not very tempted.

  “That would be nice.”

  I float home because Gavin is sweet and interesting and wants to spend more time with me. Then I remember the weird handprint and the sunshine doesn’t seem as cheerful. As I get closer to my street, tension bunches in my shoulders.

  I’m relieved to see Blake sitting on the steps leading to our building. He has his head down, checking his phone with a beach towel slung over his shoulders.

  “Why are you out here?” I ask.

  He looks up, smiles. “Lost my keys, remember?”

  “Oh, right. This is an odd question, but did you do any cleaning today?”

  “Um, no. Was I supposed to?” he asks.

  “I wondered if you did anything to get dirt all over your hands.”

  “Just sand.” He stands and stretches. “Why?”

  I lead the way inside, push the elevator call button. “Something weird happened this morning. I was out for a little while and when I came home … there’s something I need you to see.”

  12

  THE DEAD

  Blake and I stand in the bathroom, staring at the muddy handprint on the mirror.

  “Tell me again,” he says. “You came home …”

  “Yes, I walked into the bathroom to wash my hands, and the handprint was there.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t touch the mirror?” Blake looks perplexed.

  “Positive. I thought maybe you did it.”

  “I’m not left-handed.” He leaves for a second, returns with a wet paper towel to clean up. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. I wouldn’t worry about this.”

  I can tell he thinks I somehow did it myself, accidentally touching the mirror without realizing it.

  “It’s creepy because …” I still don’t want to tell him about the cemetery, about visiting Dad. “I mean, could someone have gotten in? Why would anyone do this?”

  “From a
psychology standpoint, it would be a bizarre thing to do. Who else has keys?”

  I recite the list I’d compiled in my head: Mom, Stanley, Norma. “Oh wait—Grace has a key, too. We traded years ago. But don’t tell Mom. We did it in case one of us got locked out. Our moms wouldn’t let us keep one under the mat.” I pause. “There was nothing on your key ring that would give our address, right? Could someone have found your keys and used them?”

  “To sneak in and leave a handprint? I don’t think so,” Blake says. “Besides, they wouldn’t know where we lived.”

  “Right, of course not.”

  I give up on solving the mystery for now and try to push thoughts of the cemetery visit out of my mind. Blake and I order pizza and watch TV until it arrives. Mine is cheese-less with vegetables.

  “Was the beach crowded?” I assume he was with his girlfriend, even though he hasn’t mentioned her specifically.

  “Not bad. How was volunteering?”

  “I owe you some money.”

  “For what?” he asks.

  “The guy from the bookstore? He came into the shelter today and asked me out.”

  “Ha!” Blake says. “Not to say I told you so, but …”

  “I know. You were right. Hey, he works at the hardware store. We can take my keys in and make a copy. But it could seem stalkerish if I show up there tonight.”

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow,” Blake says. “It’ll give you an excuse to visit him.”

  After our dinner, Mom calls me. She’s still not sleeping well, and I wonder if it could be her guilty conscience. Although, since she doesn’t realize that I know about Dad, it’s most likely the time adjustment. She tells me about a quaint French bookstore they visited.

  “Everything’s okay?” she asks.

  “Yes. The building seems so quiet.”

  “The Heins are visiting their grandchildren,” she says. “I think Dave down the hall left on a cruise. The Whiteleys mentioned they were going to Hawaii.”

  That would explain the lack of noise.

  “Are you and Blake getting along?”

  “It’s been nice having him here.” I go into my room and close the door. “It’s Dad’s birthday, you know.”

  “Right,” she says, but I can tell from her voice that she forgot.

  “I’ve been thinking about his death. A car accident—it was so sudden. It must have been hard on you. You never speak about it.”

  “It was horrible, El. But maybe we can talk about that another time?”

  Obviously, she wouldn’t open up about this now—long distance, during her honeymoon. I’m being a jerk.

  “Of course,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Miss you, too,” I say. Especially with the handprint incident. But that doesn’t lend itself to a phone conversation, either.

  Later, I do get a chance to talk about it with Grace. During our sleepover, I tell her what happened, trying not to sound delusional.

  “There must be a connection between the handprint at the cemetery and the one on my mirror,” I say. “And my father’s birthday is today, the eighth.” Eighth month, eighth day. My lucky number. “It’s also World Cat Day.”

  She ignores that last tidbit. “How could the handprint just appear? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know.” I try to sound casual. “Hey, maybe we could have that séance tonight?”

  “I was hoping you’d forget.”

  “His birthday is the perfect time.”

  “All right,” she says. “Help me set it up.”

  While she goes to find matches and a candle, I clear off Grace’s desk and move it to the center of her bedroom, with her chair on one side and a beanbag on the other. I pull down the shades, then turn out the lights. It’s not really dark enough, so I cover her two windows with blankets. It will have to do.

  I take out my favorite photo of Dad, which I’d carefully tucked into my overnight bag, and place it on the center of the wooden desk. The room is warm. I turn on the standing fan, sit in the chair, and wait.

  Grace frowns when she returns. She seems unhappy about my redecorating, but she only sighs. We’ve just lit the candle when Piper pops in to see what’s going on. Grace sends her to bring in another seat.

  “I’m babysitting,” she says, as if I asked about Piper aloud. “I have strict instructions to include her.”

  Piper returns, dragging her desk chair, then places it right next to mine.

  “I brought you some clothes and a few necklaces I don’t wear anymore,” I tell Piper. “I left the bag downstairs.”

  “Hooray!”

  “Shh!” Grace says. “Let’s get started. If we’re going to have a séance, let’s at least be serious like in the movies.”

  The fan rotates in my direction, then swoops away with a mesmerizing rhythm.

  “Are you ready?” Grace asks. The flame flickers each time the fan blows.

  I nod.

  “Me first!” Piper says.

  “Who do you want to communicate with?” Grace asks.

  “Sparkles, of course!”

  Her dead goldfish. I feel badly for Piper. I know how much I would miss Oscar if he died. He’s a special part of the family. Piper had Sparkles for more than two years, which is like a hundred in fish life.

  “Go ahead,” I encourage her.

  Grace presses her lips together in discontent.

  “I miss you, Sparkles,” Piper says to the ceiling.

  “You have to ask a yes or no question,” Grace explains. “One knock means no, two means yes.”

  I’m not sure why Grace thinks that’s the best way to communicate, but I’m not about to argue. If I tell her everything I’ve researched about séances, it’s sure to irritate her.

  Piper breathes deeply, closes her eyes. “Do you miss me?” she whispers.

  Silence.

  “Do you miss me?” she asks again.

  The only noise is the rhythmic hum of the fan.

  “This is stupid!” Piper yells, bounding from the chair. “Goldfish can’t knock, you big dummy!” She storms from the room.

  “She’s such a pain,” Grace says.

  “Shh. She might hear you. Don’t hurt her feelings.”

  “You have no idea what having an annoying sister is like.”

  “True.”

  “Let’s focus. Why don’t you ask a question?” Grace takes my hands with the candle burning between us. She gives me a nod.

  “Dad,” I whisper. “Do you watch over me?”

  I sound as foolish as Piper.

  “Ask again.”

  “Do you watch over me, Dad?”

  For a split second, the air shifts. It’s like someone has entered the room. I hold my breath, but can’t see anything. I’m afraid to be too hopeful, and honestly, I’m scared. The theory of ghosts and spirits is one thing. Experiencing a presence right next to me is another.

  A bang comes from above us. Then a second. Two knocks. My heart leaps in my chest. Could it be?

  The candle goes out. A stream of smoke swirls from the wick into the air.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness, but I don’t need any light to know goose bumps cover my arms.

  A faint giggle drifts from the attic.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask.

  “The knocks?”

  “No. Listen. It sounds like Piper laughing.”

  “PI-PER!” Grace yells her name in two angry syllables. “Get down here right now!” More giggles accompany the footsteps stomping down the stairs.

  “I thought for a moment …” I frown. “The knocking was Piper. But the candle?”

  Grace shrugs. “It must have been the fan.”

  “Why did it go out right then? The timing was surreal.”

  She flicks on the lights.

  I blink in the sudden brightness. I don’t try to explain the presence I felt to Grace. Even if I was afraid in that moment, it was wishful thinking that I could reach my father.
I can’t confuse desire with reality. Still, I spend a lot of time wondering about candles and handprints after Grace falls asleep.

  If I’m going to entertain the thought that there might be a supernatural cause for the handprint, I have to first rule out any logical way it could have appeared. Not many people had access to our apartment. Not many people could have seen me leave a handprint on my father’s tombstone.

  In the morning, I wake with a plan to talk to Norma, the only possible cemetery witness.

  Once I’m back at home, I carefully return Dad’s photo to its hiding spot, then shoo Oscar from my laundry basket. I push my bras to the bottom, but I’m still grateful the elevator is empty so I don’t have to feel awkward about my basket of dirty clothes. We have two coin-operated washers and two dryers for the whole building to share and they’re all empty. Mom taught me to do wash when I was thirteen, and although I’ve always loved the smell of detergent and the satisfaction of putting clean clothes away, I’ve never been a fan of the back-and-forth to the basement.

  After starting the wash, I survey the three lights overhead. The laundry basket is sturdy; flipped over, it’s the perfect height to stand on for part one of my plan. I turn off the switch, then use my flashlight app so I can see to twist two of the bulbs. When I flip the lights back on, only one works. Perfect.

  Norma’s apartment is on the first floor. I take the stairs, hesitating only a moment before I knock.

  “Who is it?” Her voice is old and weary even though she’s about the same age as Mom.

  “Ella Benton from the sixth floor.”

  She opens the door slowly. Her steel-wool hair is sticking up, adding a good two inches to her short frame. I get the sense she doesn’t spend a lot of time on her appearance.

  “Hi. I wanted to talk to you about a problem in the basement.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She doesn’t invite me in, but I discreetly peer inside. Her home is impersonal, almost sterile. Still, I look for anything that might give me a sense of whether she’d break into our home and leave a handprint in the bathroom. Even as I glance over her shoulder I realize how ridiculous this is.

  “Two of the lights are out in the laundry room.”

  “Two? Hmmph.”