Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  Gavin nods. “Edgar Allan Poe altered her name and based ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’ on the case. He changed the setting to Paris, though. I guess Hoboken wasn’t exotic enough.”

  I’m amazed that he knows so much about this particular story, too. “They never did figure out who killed her.”

  We reach Castle Point. I haven’t been here in ages and the view is stunning today—we can see from the Verrazano Bridge on the right to beyond the Empire State Building on the left. There are a few picnic tables in the area, but Gavin walks over to a large oak tree. He unzips his backpack and spreads a striped sheet on the ground, then takes out a bag from Veggie Paradise.

  “I hope you don’t mind some vegan food,” he says, motioning for me to sit beside him.

  I’m so happy that I nearly bounce onto the sheet. “This is perfect. I’ve been a vegan for a year now. How about you?”

  “Not quite that long,” he says.

  “Isn’t Uncle Fred the best?”

  “Who?”

  “You must know Uncle Fred if you go to Veggie Paradise,” I say. “He’s super friendly.”

  “Oh, yeah, that guy.” Gavin divvies up the hummus and veggie sandwiches on paper plates and we eat. Each ripple of the Hudson River shimmers in the sun. It looks almost magical.

  I lean back on my elbows, taking in the beauty of it all. Gavin lies next to me and our breathing becomes synchronized. His tattooed arm is nearly touching mine. I’m tempted to trace the intricate black design with my index finger. “Why did you choose that pattern for your tattoo?”

  “It’s a Celtic rose,” he explains. “My parents are first-generation Irish.”

  A rose. Yet another black flower to appear this month. I want to ask him more, but he leans toward me and his lips brush my cheek. I hold my breath, unwilling to move, to do anything that might ruin this moment.

  A cat cries in the distance. I try to ignore it, because Gavin entwines his fingers in mine. It’s like waking from a dream that I don’t want to end.

  The cat cries again, a plaintive sound, like when Oscar got sick a few years ago and the vet’s assistant had to pry him out of my arms so he could be examined. Gently, I pull away from Gavin and tilt my head to one side. The cat sounds a lot like Oscar.

  I stand, focusing on the noises around us. “Do you hear that?”

  Gavin scrunches his brow, looking guilty. No, not guilty. Miserable. I think he was about to kiss me again before the cat cried.

  “Hear what?” he asks.

  I listen with my whole being. An unhappy meow breaks the silence.

  “That! The cat! It sounds close by.”

  Gavin doesn’t answer.

  “You don’t hear it?” The sound repeats, and I can swear it’s Oscar. I take a few steps toward the building on our left and approach the patio area. Could a sick cat have wandered onto it? Or could Oscar have gotten loose and followed us here?

  Gavin jumps up. “Wait—”

  “Oscar?” The answering cry seems louder than before.

  Gavin glances around, looking desperate and worried.

  “I have to find him.”

  He takes my hand, squeezes. “El.”

  Something in the way he says my name makes me pause.

  “El, I don’t … I don’t hear anything.”

  “Listen. You don’t hear that sad meowing?”

  “No.”

  A helicopter flies overhead. After it passes, there’s quiet except for the leaves shimmying overhead.

  “You never heard it?” I whisper.

  Gavin doesn’t answer. He turns his face away, as if embarrassed for me.

  15

  COMPLAINT

  Gavin walks me home from our picnic. He stares at the ground when we say good-bye and doesn’t make plans to see me again.

  I try to think of a rational explanation for hearing a cat cry when Gavin didn’t. Am I subconsciously worried about Oscar? Does Gavin have bad hearing? Am I losing my mind? I can’t come up with a satisfying answer. My brain buzzes as if I’ve had too much caffeine. I need to keep moving.

  Once Gavin is out of sight, I hurry away from my apartment building and immerse myself in the crowd across the street at the Hoboken Terminal. The cat incident makes me unsettled. What I really need to do is make sure Oscar is all right. But I’m afraid to check.

  On impulse, I buy a ferry ticket and board. Not many people are heading toward Manhattan, so the ride is peaceful and soothing. My heartbeat finally slows. From the boat, I strain to guess which building on the Hoboken shoreline might be part of the Stevens campus.

  I head to the upper deck to get a better view. On an empty row of chairs in front of me, someone left a basketball behind. The ball makes me think of Gina Morales, her sudden death, and the DAUGHTER message.

  I shiver as I pick up the ball, turn it over in my hands. I’m tired of odd coincidences. Could it be a sign from one daughter to another? I almost expect to see a big “GM” written on it, but there’s no way to identify its owner.

  Just then, a young boy jogs up the steps. “You found my ball! Thank you.”

  I hand it to him and he leaves, smiling.

  I seriously need to get a grip.

  I don’t disembark in Manhattan and instead stay on the ferry for the return trip. When it docks again in Hoboken, I make my way home. Oscar sleeps peacefully on top of my bookcase while Blake watches TV in the family room. Relieved that everything is normal, I sit with Blake on the couch and catch the end of Dumbest Crooks Ever. It’s a big fat dose of karma when the stupid people get caught.

  “How was your date with Gavin?” Blake asks when the show ends.

  “He’s almost too good to be true. A cute vegan potential cat-adopter.” I don’t mention the ghost stories and the cat only I could hear.

  “And you told me he wasn’t your type,” he says. “Maybe you should invite him over for dinner one night.”

  “Maybe.” I wonder if Blake’s girlfriend would come, too. He hasn’t said much about her lately.

  “Oh, Norma was in the elevator with me before. She got out on our floor.”

  “Really? Well, she is the super. There could be a legit reason.”

  “Still, it made me a little uneasy. What time are you going to Grace’s? I can walk you there again.”

  “Thanks, but I decided to stay home tonight.” I don’t explain why. “Besides, if Norma saw you, then she knows I’m not alone, right?”

  “Look. I have to confess something. I haven’t actually been sleeping here. I’ve been pet-sitting for my friend’s dog and I promised to take care of her for two more nights. Zoey hates to be alone for long. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Grace’s?”

  “Could you bring the dog here instead?”

  “What about Oscar?” he asks.

  “You’re right, that wouldn’t work.” But I’ve already made up my mind about Grace. “I’ll be fine here alone.” I hope. I just need to make sure that my imagination doesn’t get the best of me.

  After we eat some dinners Mom froze for us, Blake decides to check on the dog, then come back to our apartment to keep me company before he leaves for the night. I’m a little antsy while he’s gone but nothing out of the ordinary happens. I text Grace to tell her I’m sleeping at home. She doesn’t text back.

  Blake returns with two tall white cups and straws. “Milk shakes,” he says. “Yours is without the milk, of course. I bought you some smoothie thing instead.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip, pleased that he thought of me. “This is delicious. Berry is my favorite.”

  “Yeah, I noticed the inventory of pink vegan sorbet things in the freezer.” He puts out his hand, palm up. “You owe me some money.”

  “Sure. How much was it?”

  “Not for the milk shake. For the bet about your date.”

  “You’re right, you won.” I go to my room to get the cash. Oscar hasn’t moved from his spot, and I’m relieved that he’s not crying like the mystery cat I tho
ught I heard.

  I take two fives and a ten out of my wallet and hand them over to Blake. We watch some more mindless TV before he glances at his phone. “I should get back to Zoey. I’ll keep my phone on if you need me.” He grabs his keys from the new cat holder he hung near the door.

  I don’t really want to be alone here tonight, but then again, I don’t want Blake to think he needs to babysit me. I try to sound casual. “See you tomorrow.”

  After locking the door, I flip through the TV channels but nothing holds my interest. I decide to text Jana. Her grandma strongly discourages electronics, but I figure Jana can sneak a few texts to me. Sure enough, she answers, telling me about the beach and the shells she found. I tell her about Gavin, which feels like the safest thing to talk about in my bizarre, mixed-up life.

  “That’s funny,” she texts. “You and Grace both—”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence. I answer with a bunch of question marks, but her grandma must’ve become suspicious. Jana doesn’t respond. I’m about to call Grace and ask what Jana meant when someone bangs on the door.

  I freeze. A sudden knock at the door is not a frequent sound, because you have to buzz people into the building. You always know when someone’s coming. For someone to knock unexpectedly means that they were already buzzed in or that they live here.

  I look through the peephole. It’s Norma.

  Just the sight of her gives me chills. She’s the building super, so I can’t ignore her. I call out instead of opening the door. “Hi, Norma. What’s going on?” The glass circle distorts her shape, making her look even scarier.

  “Mr. Hein would appreciate it if you’d turn the music down.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “The music that you were blasting. I could barely hear him when he called. He said it came from the apartment right below him. That would be you.”

  “I haven’t been listening to any music.”

  “That’s what you say. I heard it loud and clear through the phone.”

  “All right.” I give up on proving my innocence. “There’s no music now. He should be happy.”

  She stomps off, making a lot of noise for a small person. I move away from the door, and even though I know it’s already locked, I double check just in case.

  I change for bed but can’t sleep, even with Oscar snuggled against me. I’d been texting Jana, not listening to music. What was Mr. Hein complaining about?

  OMG. I sit up so fast that it jostles Oscar. Annoyed, he moves to the top of the bookcase.

  Mr. Hein couldn’t have called Norma. He’s away on vacation! Mom mentioned it when I told her the building seemed quiet. He’s traveling someplace with his wife and grandchildren. I’m sure of it. So he definitely didn’t call and complain about anything.

  Norma must have made up the whole thing. But why would she lie? She could be checking on me, making an excuse to see if I’m home.

  I keep my eyes open as long as I can. It wasn’t a good idea to stay here alone. Despite my nervousness, though, I’m exhausted. I’m half asleep when Gavin texts me. Could we see each other tomorrow night? I say yes, glad that he doesn’t care about the cat-crying weirdness after all. We text until the adrenaline from Norma’s visit passes. I don’t remember saying good night to Gavin before my eyes close.

  In the morning, I wake slowly. I blink a few times, check the clock—I slept a solid eleven hours. I lean over and rub Oscar, who must have come down from the bookcase to resume his usual spot in bed. He purrs and the soothing sound puts me back to sleep.

  An hour later, I wake up and stretch my arms overhead. It takes me a minute to notice them.

  Handprints.

  Bloody handprints mark my bedroom wall.

  16

  BLOOD RED

  Eight bloody handprints mar the wall by my window. I pull the covers to my chin and shrink back against the headboard as if that will somehow help. It doesn’t. I close my eyes, willing everything to be normal. Maybe the images will disappear like they did in the laundry room. Maybe I’m imagining them like the cat crying. Sitting with my eyes closed makes me even more nervous. What if something is in the apartment and it sneaks up on me while I’m hiding in bed?

  I make myself open my eyes and look. The red prints are still there.

  I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. Blake doesn’t answer when I call, but I reach Grace.

  “Can you come over? Now? It’s important.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t explain. I’ll show you when you get here.”

  “Okay,” she says. “See you soon.”

  Knowing help is on the way, I breathe deeply and creep out of bed to inspect my wall from a distance. The prints start by the bottom windowsill and face upward, four left-handed prints on each side, symmetrically climbing the wall. Long, distorted fingers streak the topmost one, making it creepier than the others.

  I back out of my bedroom. A quick scan of the rest of the apartment tells me I’m alone and the door is still locked.

  How did the handprints get there? Even with a key, Norma would have to be quite the ninja to enter my room and do this without waking me. I sink into the couch and try to remember all the weirdness that’s happened so far. Dad’s photo fell out of its album. The muddy handprint in the bathroom mimicked my cemetery visit. When I was out with Blake, the second print appeared in blood with the word DAUGHTER in the basement. The mysterious cat cried. Then this happened while I slept.

  Everything connects to my visit to the cemetery and to cats. To Dad.

  And to me.

  I’m Dad’s daughter—the daughter who visited the cemetery, the one who left the first handprint. I always wanted him to watch over me. But I definitely didn’t want to interact with the spirit world like this.

  My phone rings a while later. It’s Grace’s home phone, which she rarely uses.

  “Grace?”

  “No, it’s me. Piper.”

  “Hi, Piper. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m fine. I just have to show you something. Are you coming over today?”

  “I’m not sure. Grace is on her way here now.”

  “Never mind.” Her voice gets pouty.

  “What do you want to show me?”

  “I was in Grace’s room. Just for a minute. I was not snooping. It’s on her bulletin board. You know, where she saves special things? The badge.”

  “What badge?” The buzzer sounds. I hit the unlock button. “She’s here, Piper. I need to go.”

  “I just wanted you to know about the beach badge. Thanks for the clothes and stuff.”

  I’m confused about why Piper feels a beach badge is important. We hang up right before Grace knocks on the door.

  “What’s the crisis?” She’s holding a cup of coffee from the deli on the corner. It smells like hazelnut.

  “You stopped for coffee?”

  “I couldn’t think of many emergencies that trump caffeine.”

  “I guess. But you have to see this.”

  I hold my breath as I lead her to my room, wondering if the prints would disappear again. Which would be better: hallucinations or the actual physical evidence that someone—or something—was in my bedroom last night? Both options are a big problem.

  The handprints are still there. I exhale. It’s a picture-worth-a-thousand-words moment.

  “You see those, right?” I point, just in case.

  Grace nods.

  Even though the situation is scary, I feel calmer already. It isn’t my imagination. Grace is my witness.

  “They were there when I woke up. I never heard anyone come into the apartment.”

  “Where’s Blake?”

  “He had to dog-sit for a friend and he slept there,” I say. “He’s not home yet.”

  “Oh.” She pauses. “And nothing strange happened last night?”

  “Norma stopped by. I didn’t open the door, and I don’t know how a person could sneak in without waking me
. I know you don’t believe in the supernatural anymore, so this is going to sound crazy.” I need her opinion, because she’s skeptical and sane. “Do you think it’s a ghost?” I whisper.

  Grace frowns. “You’ve lived here forever. Why would a ghost haunt you now? Do you think it’s Gina Morales?”

  “The prints are left-handed. My dad was a lefty, like me. This started before the wedding, when the photograph of Dad showed up on the floor and I couldn’t figure out how it got there.”

  “You never mentioned the photo.”

  “That’s when I asked you about your hiding spot,” I explain. “Since I went to the cemetery on his birthday, things have been worse. The number of handprints went from one to eight, and they changed from mud to blood.”

  Grace studies the prints. “It doesn’t look exactly like blood. Can I touch them?”

  “Of course.”

  Grace runs her index finger through the lowest print on the right. Then she moves her face near the wall and sniffs the redness.

  “It’s not blood,” she announces. “It’s paint, like the kids’ stuff we use at the daycare.”

  “Paint? A ghost who uses paint?” I ask, bewildered.

  “No, a ghost wouldn’t. A person would.” She sighs. “Could someone have leaned in through the window? You could reach the wall from the fire escape.”

  I approach the window, slowly, as if the prints might materialize into actual hands and grab me. “Locked.”

  She places her left hand over one of the prints and it’s a pretty close match. Stepping back, she taps her lip with her finger.

  “Weird,” she says. “You didn’t hear anything last night?”

  “Nothing at all. Can you take photos while I measure them? I feel like we need evidence, some way to look at this analytically.” She puts down her coffee and grabs my phone from the nightstand while I dig for the white ASCPA ruler in my desk. I hold the ruler next to the handprints as she photographs them.

  “Straighten it out,” she says, clicking away.

  “Thank you for helping.”

  She nods, but when I reach to take my phone back, she freezes.