Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  “What?” I ask.

  I follow her gaze to my outstretched hand. Traces of red streak my palm.

  17

  DECEPTION

  Grace looks at my stained left hand, then at the prints on the wall. Her eyes squint in fury, her mouth is pressed tight.

  “What’s going on, Ella?”

  I shake my head back and forth, at a loss for words. “I don’t know.” It feels like I’m speaking with a mouthful of cotton.

  “Is this a joke? Are you that desperate for attention?”

  “What do you mean?” I waver between anger and confusion. “I don’t know why my hand is red. I didn’t make those handprints. You have to believe me. Do you think I’m sleepwalking or … I don’t know? There has to be an explanation.”

  “You could be lying, like when you met Blake outside that night.” Grace looks at me skeptically. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to tell me?”

  My eyes dart around the room. Her tone says that yes, there is something else I want to tell her. But my thoughts come in slow motion, like when I take allergy medicine that makes me groggy. Something about Piper’s mention of the beach is bothering me….

  “What about Blake’s tie?” Grace asks.

  I think about seeing him at the mall, not knowing he was my stepbrother. I stall. “Um—”

  “He was the beautiful boy. You never admitted that, either, even when I asked you about him later.”

  “Grace, I was mortified. That’s the truth. Once I found out who he was, I felt so stupid about my reaction, my going on about him. You would think the whole thing was gross, even if I didn’t know who he was. But my embarrassment—that has nothing to do with the creepy handprints on my wall.”

  “Blake warned me you’d react badly to our relationship, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “What relationship? You and Blake are together?” I stare at her, my oldest friend. Grace, who defended me, with her hands on her hips, when a teacher mistakenly thought I cheated on a test. Grace, who helps decorate the animal shelter Christmas tree each year. Grace, who is now romantically involved with my stepbrother, having private conversations about me. “I didn’t realize about you and Blake. Talk about people keeping secrets! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Blake asked me not to yet,” Grace says matter-of-factly. “I knew you’d figure it out on your own. But I didn’t expect anything as elaborate as this to make you the center of his attention.”

  My head spins with the repercussions. How long has this been going on? Why would she listen to him instead of being loyal to me? I can only fight one battle at a time, and right now the bizarre handprints take precedence.

  “Look.” I’m determined to convince her. “Let’s forget about you and Blake for a moment. I don’t know how the handprints got here. I couldn’t have done it. That doesn’t make any sense. The ones in the bathroom and the basement were there when I walked in.”

  She shakes her head sadly, as if she’s incredibly disappointed in me. “No one saw the one in the basement but you.”

  “I’m not making this up!”

  “I have to go,” she says.

  The door slams behind her. I rest on the edge of my bed for a moment. What just happened? In all fairness, I hadn’t been entirely honest with her lately, but her and Blake? To top it all off, she actually thinks I would stage this scene because I was angry at her for dating my stepbrother.

  I can’t stand looking at the handprints anymore. I throw out Grace’s coffee cup, then I wipe my walls with spray cleaner and paper towels. I do it quickly, as if it’s another regular mess, like cleaning up Oscar’s hairballs. Once I’m finished, I wash my hands, staring as the red splatters on the sink before the water swirls it away.

  I don’t know what to do next. There’s a text from Mom, checking in. I pick up my phone to call her, put it back down. How can I explain any of this? I can’t worry her during her last days of honeymoon bliss. Three more days and she’ll be back. Things will have to return to normal then.

  For now, staying in the apartment alone makes me skittish. I need to leave. Getting dressed quickly, I think through all that I know. There were handprints on my wall and paint on my hands. Yet, I certainly didn’t mark my own walls. Do we even own red paint? I rummage through the drawer where Mom kept craft supplies when I was younger. Kitchen utensils have migrated there now, so serving spoons mix with magic markers. No paint.

  I would definitely hear someone enter my room. Wouldn’t I? If I didn’t make the prints and nobody entered my room, then that leaves only one explanation: the paranormal. I’ve never discounted the supernatural the way Grace does, the way Mom does. It seems possible.

  Mom’s remarriage could’ve upset Dad. Maybe he’s decided to connect with us, with me, like when he warned me to wait right before the car crashed onto the sidewalk. For all I know, he tried again since that time by moving his photo or other things. There have always been instances of misplaced items. I would find my sweatshirt in the kitchen when I could swear I put in my bedroom. Stupid stuff like that. Maybe Dad has been reaching out to us all along. Now, he’s just stepped it up a bit.

  Could I have touched the paint during the night, been drawn to Dad’s presence? I don’t know how ghosts work with objects in our world. I need to visit the cemetery again soon, to make peace with him. That seems to be the only way to make this stop.

  I put on my sandals, wondering how long it will take to make peace with Grace. I’m still shocked about her and Blake and the fact that neither one of them told me.

  The beach badge. Now what Piper said makes sense. The day Blake lost his keys on the Jersey Shore, he must have been with Grace. All the beaches charge a fee and the pin-on badge shows it was paid. Was that their first date? What about the girlfriend he told me he had—the one I never met?

  I decide to eat my breakfast out, in the safety of a public place. First, I fill Oscar’s food bowl, but he doesn’t come. With all the commotion over the handprints, he’s been neglected today. I find him under my bed with his eyes closed.

  “Oscar?”

  He won’t wake up. Even when I put a treat to his nose, he stays asleep.

  “Oscar!”

  I gently slide him from under the bed. He’s breathing but unconscious. Usually he would howl in protest when I place him into his carrier, but there’s only a horrible silence as I move him now. I rush from the apartment into the elevator and burst outside, hail a cab, and head to the vet’s office. My hands shake, but I have to hold it together, have to think clearly for Oscar’s sake.

  I manage to dial the vet from the car to tell him I’m coming. Once I arrive, there’s a flurry of activity and no time to even kiss my Oscar good-bye as they lift his limp body out of the carrier and rush away. Trying to stay calm, I answer all of the doctor’s questions about loss of appetite and lethargy. The vet seems worried, too, but he reassures me they’ll take good care of him. I leave my cell and home numbers so they can contact me if there’s any change in his condition.

  I sob on the lonely walk home, not bothering to wipe the tears away.

  18

  HAUNTED

  I need to stay busy to keep from obsessing over Oscar. Thankfully, my bookstore shift is on the schedule today. I don’t hear from Grace or Blake, which is just as well. Maybe they’re spending time together. It’s none of my business, I try to tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  At the bookstore, I skim the cat medical books we carry, but the disease descriptions leave me more anxious. Henry makes himself scarce again. The only time we talk is when I notice that a container gardening book he wanted has come in. I start to process the other special orders, but it’s hard to concentrate while I repeatedly check for messages from the vet. I scan the displays for misplaced books and neaten the shelves instead.

  After work, the apartment feels deserted without Oscar. The vet finally calls: They’ve stabilized him but want to run tests to figure out the cause of
his illness. He’s improved, which is good news, but the vet is cautious about promising anything about his recovery. I breathe deeply for what feels like the first time all day. I explain about my mother being away, and he says not to worry about the bill, that they’ll mail it to Mom. Well, Mom and Stanley now.

  I’m literally staring at the wall when Gavin texts, saying he’ll see me in an hour. Our date! I’ve completely forgotten. I’m tempted to cancel, but honestly, it would be nice to have a distraction. It’s lonely at home without my favorite fur ball.

  When I buzz Gavin up and open the door, he’s wearing black pants, a white dress shirt, and a bow tie the color of his hair. My jean shorts are obviously all wrong for wherever we’re headed.

  “Are we going someplace, um, fancy?” I stammer. “I can change.”

  He laughs. “You’re fine. This is my uniform. I’m taking you out with me on my second job. I work as a guide for Haunted Hoboken, but no one signed up for tonight.”

  “Haunted Hoboken?”

  “You get your own private tour.”

  I’m about to back out, to say the whole thing is a bad idea. Creepy things like blood-red handprints, black flowers, and the scrawled “daughter” flash through my mind. But Gavin seems sincere, as if he’s put a lot of thought into this, and he looks so handsome dressed up.

  “I would feel better if I changed. Give me two minutes,” I say.

  When I come out in the yellow dress Blake bought me, Gavin’s eyes get wide. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. So, why didn’t you mention this other job?”

  He shrugs. “It never came up, I guess. It’s a new branch of the New York version and it pays well enough.”

  Once we get to the street, he announces with a flourish and a bow, “Welcome to the official Haunted Hoboken tour. I’ll be your spiritual guide. The first stop on this grand adventure will be The Brass Rail.”

  My smile is strained. Of course, I know the restaurant’s ghost story. With all that’s happened lately, I’m not entirely in the mood for haunted anything.

  Gavin chatters most of the way to the restaurant, mainly about Hoboken’s history. “That Hotel Victor sign?” He points. “It’s been there since 1935. At one point, City Hall used to be a public marketplace.” We don’t pass the library, but he lets me know it was the third one in all of New Jersey.

  “It must’ve been hard to memorize all this stuff,” I say.

  “Actually, I find it kind of interesting.”

  I hesitate once we arrive outside The Brass Rail. It seems dishonest to play along with him. “Um, Gavin? My mom got remarried here. I already know the ghost story about this place.”

  “Really? Do you know about Arthur’s Tavern, too?”

  “Haunted ladies’ room upstairs? I’ve dragged my friends there twice.”

  Gavin sighs, sounding disappointed. He was happy to share this with me, and now I’m ruining the night for him. I can’t think of a way to salvage the date.

  “How about the ghost at the PATH station?” he asks.

  I’m relieved that the story doesn’t sound familiar. “Never heard of it.”

  He grins. “Great. Let’s go.”

  We walk in silence for a bit before he asks, “What did you do today?”

  “Actually, it’s been a bad day.” I can’t bring myself to mention Oscar’s illness without crying, but I manage to tell him about the handprints on my wall. “Blake was dog-sitting last night, so I was home alone. The whole thing doesn’t make any sense. The apartment door was locked. And would a ghost use paint? I don’t understand how my own hand was red.”

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. There must be something you’re missing.”

  “That’s pretty funny coming from the Haunted Hoboken tour guide,” I joke. Still, I can’t help shivering just thinking about this morning.

  We stop at a light, waiting to cross the street. Gavin seems fidgety, glancing around, then fiddling with his bow tie. The light turns green.

  “Wait,” he says.

  The traffic is clear. “What for?”

  He answers by taking my hand and pulling me toward him. His arms envelop me, and I feel safe for the first time in days. I lean into him. His lips graze my hair.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says.

  I step back a little, look into his eyes, but he doesn’t let go. Before I can answer, he kisses me. His lips are soft and warm. The summer heat is around me, dancing through me, until I’m tingling with joy.

  “This is perfect,” he whispers.

  We kiss more, right on Washington Street, and there is no one else in the whole city except Gavin. Despite everything else, the happiness buoys me. His kiss is a mix of urgency and tenderness. When we stop, I need to catch my breath.

  He takes my hand as we continue toward Hoboken Terminal. The commuters rush here and there, but I barely notice anything except his presence beside me.

  We kiss again at the entrance, and it feels like a promise. No one has kissed me like Gavin. My mind races with plans and the future and the incredibleness of this night.

  “The tour,” he finally says.

  “Right. The tour.” He takes my hand and we leave the terminal through a tunnel that connects to the PATH. The subway area feels twenty degrees hotter. It even smells hot.

  Without paying to go through the turnstiles, we’re still close to the head of the tracks where the trains pull in. A subway arrives on track number 3 and stops with a sound that makes me think of a loud exhale. Gavin leads me to the middle track and points in the distance.

  “I’ll try to use my best dramatic voice.” He coughs. “It was an August night when an off-duty train engineer spotted a young woman wandering on the track. She wore a long, pale dress which flowed as she moved. He called to her, but she wouldn’t answer. Worried about her safety, he glanced around for someone to notify. When he turned back she was gone.”

  “Oooh.”

  “Several minutes later,” Gavin continues, “he spotted her again on the otherwise empty platform. He approached her and politely asked if she was lost. When she didn’t answer, he offered to accompany her home. ‘It’s too late to walk alone,’ he told her. They exited the station side by side. They passed the Hotel Victor as he escorted her several blocks down Hudson Street. At one point, the sound of crying distracted him, and when he turned around, the woman had mysteriously vanished.”

  Gavin pauses as a train arrives with a whoosh of air. A train conductor makes some announcements. From where we stand, it’s garbled except for the word “Hoboken.”

  “Let’s sit outside,” Gavin says. “Maybe there’s a breeze. I’ll finish the story there.”

  Exiting the station, we walk across the street to the bench by my apartment, the one Blake and I sat on ages ago when he first told me the truth about my dad. Gavin rests his arm across my shoulder, and I lean comfortably into him.

  “Is this part of the tour?” I ask after he kisses me again.

  “Only for you,” he says.

  “You were up to the part where the girl disappeared.”

  “Right. The man calls out, but doesn’t see the girl again. Her disappearance troubles him. Where could she have gone? During the daylight hours, he returns to the house on Hudson Street where he last saw her and knocks on the door. An elderly woman answers, and he explains his dilemma. Does she know the girl? The woman starts to weep. She retreats into the house for a moment, but returns to the door with a faded photograph. ‘Is this the girl you met?’ she asks. He recognizes her right away. ‘That’s my sister, Adele,’ she explains. ‘She’s been dead over two decades. First my parents, then her. When they passed suddenly, she started wandering aimlessly in her nightgown. Went a little crazy, she did. The last time she was seen alive was at the train station. They said she walked toward the oncoming train as if she never saw it. Died instantly. But you brought Adele home to me. Thank you.’ The man realized he’d been in the presence of a ghost. After that, he wou
ld only work at the train station during the day.”

  “That’s quite a story. It’s almost like the plot to a movie. Hey, do you want to come in and we can rent one or something?” I don’t want the night to end yet.

  Gavin’s phone buzzes, and he glances at a text. “I should be going. Sorry.”

  He walks me to the entrance of my building. We say good night, but there’s a quickness to his kiss now, as if he’s late, in a hurry.

  The apartment is empty, but Blake left me a note saying it’s his last night away. “Sorry,” he scrawled at the bottom. Next to the paper is a vegan chocolate bar.

  I eat the chocolate as I check the window locks. It’s sad going to sleep without Oscar. There’s a message on the home machine saying that he’s resting comfortably. Thank goodness. I must have missed the vet’s call when I was out with Gavin.

  My mind replays Gavin’s ghost story, which isn’t as much fun now that I’m home alone for the night. I try to think about something wonderful, like kissing him, but that doesn’t help me sleep. Would his parents like me? Would he get a car soon? I start to plot ways we can see each other during the school year. There must be a train to Parsippany. Maybe his town has a shelter or a vet’s office where Mom or Stanley could drive me to volunteer. Gavin’s cousin lives in Hoboken. Surely he must come back once in a while.

  I run through our evening together. It was magical, but I can’t help thinking that something changed at the end of the night.

  I lie in bed thinking about kisses and handprints and trains. Uneasy, I get up and move a kitchen chair in front of the apartment door so no one can enter without rousing me. Finally, I decide to sleep on the couch, as far away from where the handprints appeared as possible. Feeling more at peace, I doze off.

  I wake in the morning with a vague sense of unease. What will I find today? I steel myself to check the walls, then the rest of the apartment, too. Everything is normal except for Oscar’s absence. Relieved, I eat breakfast, shower, and get dressed for my shift at the bookstore.

  Gavin calls just as I’m leaving. “Can I see you this morning?”