Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  I paced the room; everything looked strange, slightly askew. I looked at the skater painting, I pulled open the silverware drawer, I scanned the shelves of neatly arranged books I’d never returned to their original disarray.

  There wasn’t anything wrong with me. I wasn’t an epileptic. There was more in heaven and earth. I started to laugh. No more worries about insanity. No more Herr Doktor Braverman at one hundred dollars an hour. Just one big worry about Clay.

  Suddenly my hair was playfully ruffled by a slight breeze and I smelled the unmistakable lavender sachet. My laughter stopped as if my off switch had been thrown. I turned, but saw nothing. Another ripple of lavender wafted through the air. “Isabel—Mrs. Davenport? Is that you?”

  I sat down in the closest chair, gripping the seat, my knuckles white. Why was she here? What did it mean? “I appreciate you getting rid of Edgar and Mirepoix …” I swallowed, feeling tears building behind my eyes. “But, but is Clay with you too?” I couldn’t stop the tears. “Is he here? Is he coming to get me?” I dropped my head in my hands and cried—cried as I had never cried after Clay died. I was scared and alone; I wanted my mother.

  I felt a soothing breeze on my shoulder, lavender wrapping me within its gentle arms. It seemed as if the scent raised my chin. I looked up, my sobs quieting. Clay wasn’t with her; somehow I knew. It was just Isabel. Poor, sweet, oppressed Isabel. When my tears finally stopped, her comforting presence disappeared.

  “Isabel—Mrs. Davenport?” I called, whipping my head around. I looked closely at the armoire. Nothing. I ran to the bay, to the spot where her little desk had been pushed. “Isabel?” Then I felt a breeze, smelled the lavender; I smiled and went into the kitchen.

  The bottle of Tegretol stood on the counter. I picked it up and held it over the trash compactor; I looked at the vial suspended over the compacted metal and plastic and paper; I read the label: “Kern, Lindsey. 240 Beacon Street. Take one tablet at bedtime. TEGRETOL 50 MG.” I dropped it into the trash. I turned the button and I listened to the sounds of crushing metal and plastic and paper and pills.

  BOOK TWO

  Lindsey and Isabel

  10

  I dreamt about Linda Feinstein. We were having a picnic. The breeze was warm and softly humid and smelled of fresh-cut grass and rich, healthy mud. We were at “our” pond, the secret pond behind our houses, hidden from the prying eyes of our brothers by a stand of dense white pines. Early evening sunlight filtered through the moving leaves and flickered on the lily pads. We were eating spaghetti sandwiches and whispering and giggling about David and Mitchell and how wonderful our lives would be when I was married to Paul McCartney and she to George Harrison. We leaned back against the trunk of our ancient oak, taking turns tickling the inside of each other’s elbows with the feathery leaves that grew on the rise behind the pond.

  The alarm fractured my dream, which fell away into a thousand pieces. I hit the snooze button and opened my eyes to the early morning cold and darkness. It seemed it was always dark this time of year: wake up in the dark, walk to work in the near-dark, come home in the dark, eat dinner in the dark.

  I closed my eyes. Linda Feinstein was a marketing VP and lived in Menlo Park; she used to come east once a year to visit her mother, but the time between visits had gradually lengthened, and it had been three years since I’d last seen her. I missed her. I wanted her here so I could tell her about Isabel.

  I hugged the extra pillow to my chest and curled myself around it. I buried my head in its softness and burrowed farther inside the covers. Linda was probably the only person I could tell about Isabel Davenport. She was the only one who wouldn’t laugh, who would hear me out. She had never laughed at what was important to me.

  But Linda was three thousand miles away, in a place where it was still the middle of the night, in a place that Isabel Davenport had probably never heard of. Or did Isabel know about such things? Did ghosts keep up with current events? Or did they remain in their own time? I squeezed my eyes tighter and pulled the pillow even closer.

  The alarm buzzed again. My ten minutes were up. It was Monday morning and—Linda or no Linda—I had to be at the JX-110-10 kickoff meeting at eight-thirty. I stretched, but didn’t move from the bed; I just lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. What if I didn’t go to work today? Would the earth stop spinning? Would TWTTR fall apart? Would old man Farnham rescind the contract?

  The inside of my elbows itched; I rubbed them and crawled deeper into a fetal position. I felt the familiar feathery tickle again. I yanked my arms from under the covers and flung them Christ-like over the blanket. “What the hell?” I asked the empty room. My answer was a lavender breeze that seemed to encircle me and lift my head and shoulders from the pillow. Now the tickle was at the soles of my feet. I giggled and pulled my legs toward me. “Stop it!” I ordered, still laughing. The breeze grew stronger and whipped the blanket and sheet from my body; then it lay the covers neatly over the footboard.

  It was cold sitting naked in the middle of an unmade bed; I jumped up and grabbed my robe from the floor. I went into the bathroom.

  I showered, dressed, and had breakfast without incident. Apparently Isabel was going to come and go as she pleased. And apparently I was going to be at the mercy of both her cute little tricks and random appearances.

  I put my half-empty coffee cup in the sink, along with yesterday’s unwashed dishes. The spaghetti sauce from last night’s dinner had assumed the color of dried blood and the shape of a man’s head; a used tea bag was staining the edge of the stainless steel sink. I sighed. All I had to do was put the dishes in the dishwasher and the garbage in the compactor. I thought of the flattened Tegretol bottle lying at the bottom of the trash. I shivered and looked at my watch. I was already running late. I’d clean the kitchen after work.

  I reached into the basket for my keys; they weren’t there. I grabbed the thin handle and turned the basket upside down; I shook it until its entire contents lay scattered across the kitchen floor. No keys. I looked at my watch again. It was just after eight.

  I knelt down and swatted at my collection of priceless treasures: a dozen take-out menus, a warranty for a long dead toaster oven, a broken lipstick case, ripped theater stubs, a map of Lexington, two unused, past-dated Celtics tickets, and various other once important items. I threw them all back into the basket.

  I left the kitchen and quickly scanned the living room. Then I walked down the hall to the bedroom. I even looked in the bathroom. No keys.

  I stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room. “Isabel?” I called. This was ridiculous. I had misplaced many things in my life before I’d met Isabel. “Isabel,” I called again. “Did you take my keys?” My accusation bounced foolishly around the empty room. This was absurd. I was acting like a crazy, paranoid lady. Perhaps I should reconsider my decision to stop seeing Naomi.

  I began rummaging through the mess on my coffee table. I lifted up piles of Sunday newspapers—no keys. Nor were there any under the magazines. I tried to picture the keys, and how they had looked the last time I had seen them—the way my mother taught me to search for lost items. But instead, the image of Hilary with orange-spiked hair flashed through my mind, and I remembered how Joel had won his battle with her. I called it bribery, but the school psychologist had told Joel to think of it as an “incentive.” Whatever the label, it had been amazing how fast Hilary got herself to the hairdresser’s after her father dangled a trip to Europe in front of her eyes.

  But how did I go about bribing a one-hundred-year-old ghost? She did seem to delight in juvenile tricks—marrying so young had obviously deprived her of her childhood. And she did seem to dislike Edgar. I looked at my watch and felt nauseous panic in my-stomach; Arthur Farnham would have my head if I was a moment late for this meeting.

  “Isabel? Isabel?” I called, feeling even more foolish than before. “Listen, I’ve got a great idea—how about I come home early …” My voice trailed off and I began frantically leafing throug
h the papers again; sweat prickled under my arms, and the nausea rose to my throat. I straightened up. “Isabel! I’ll come home early. We’ll play a joke on Edgar. Anything. Anything! Just help me find my keys!” I waited in hope and desperation, and in fear.

  I was both relieved and slightly horrified when I smelled the faint aroma of lavender sachet and felt a barely perceptible breeze on my arm. I followed the scent to my bedroom. There, lying in the center of the misshapen perfume tray Hilary had made when she was in kindergarten, were my keys. I scooped them up. I looked at my watch; I just might make it. “Thanks,” I said, still feeling foolish, but not caring nearly as much.

  I yanked my coat from the rack and raced out the door. When I reached Edgar’s landing, I remembered my purse. I turned back and ran up the stairs. “Isabel, if you’ve messed with my purse …” I muttered as I fumbled with the key.

  But there was the purse, innocently leaning against the base of the coat rack—exactly where I had left it the night before. I threw it over my shoulder and raced out the door once again.

  My car was three blocks away. I tried to run, but after almost falling twice, I slowed to a fast walk—neither gait an easy feat for an uncoordinated woman in heels. Edgar was going to be very sorry he had ever refused to sell me that parking space.

  The car was parked on a one-way street going east; of course, I needed to go west. I jumped in and careened around the corners. If I was late for this meeting, Edgar was in major-league trouble.

  I sped over the Mass. Ave. bridge toward Cambridge, weaving around a woman who had the nerve to drive forty miles an hour, and playing chicken with a cabbie at the seemingly permanent construction barrier that reduced the traffic to one lane. Chicken is always a dangerous sport, and playing it with a Boston cabbie borders on suicide; but as old man Farnham was going to kill if I was late anyway, the risk was minimal. I pulled ahead of the angry cabbie with a laugh.

  I looked east as I crossed the Charles River. The sun had broken free of the horizon, and light sliced between the State Street skyscrapers. Vibrant reflections bounced between the windowed facades, brightening the sky. Could this really be me: little Lindsey Kern, big Boston entrepreneur? I laughed again. Little Boston entrepreneur was more appropriate. But even a little entrepreneur was more than I’d ever dreamed. Who would have thought it? Perhaps my father, perhaps even Joel. But never Clay.

  I cut through MIT and swung into the parking lot behind the just-opened Farnham Building. Clay must be rolling over in his grave. If he was still in his grave. I slammed my foot on the brake just in time to miss hitting the concrete barrier. Isabel hadn’t stayed in her grave—why should Clay stay in his? Just because Isabel had given me a comforting whiff of lavender didn’t mean that Clay would never come back. What if Isabel was wrong? What if she didn’t know? I went ice-cold inside my coat and fur-lined gloves. I took the key slowly from the ignition. He would come back to get me. I climbed out of the car and leaned against the trunk for support. He would come back to punish me for succeeding without him. To punish me for surviving.

  The screech of tires and a horn blast turned my fear outward; I looked up and saw I had stepped into the path of an oncoming car. I leapt to my right and he swerved to his left. He stopped within inches of the fender of a new BMW; once again I clung to my trunk for support. The man shook his fist at me as he backed up, straightened his wheels, and sped forward again. I gathered my scattered papers and picked up my briefcase from the pavement.

  I took a few deep breaths and ran my fingers through my hair. Clay wasn’t coming back. Isabel’s message was clear; I knew how to read her. Her soft breeze had said, “Don’t worry, Lindsey, he isn’t here.” I checked my watch; it was 8:25. I squared my shoulders and marched into the building.

  By the time I got home that evening, I had forgotten all about Edgar and Isabel and even about Clay. I was immersed in PERT charts and production schedules and more details about the JX-110-10 than I had ever dreamed existed—or I had ever cared to know.

  I dropped my purse and briefcase in the entryway and dropped myself on the couch. I closed my eyes and moaned with exhaustion and pleasure. It had been an exhilarating day. I stretched my legs out in front of me and lay my arms along the back of the couch. The Farnham project team had treated me as if I knew what I was doing, as if they just assumed I was going to be able to handle the work, as if I were a real grown-up. And it couldn’t have been my chest—most of them were women.

  I opened my eyes and looked around the room. I sat up. Something was different; everything looked better: My magazines and newspapers were neatly stacked, the fireplace had been swept out, and my plants looked perkier—as if they had been watered. I walked into the kitchen. No crusty spaghetti, no old tea bags, no dirty coffee cups. I touched the spot on the sink where the tea stain had been.

  I sank into a chair in the dining area. I rested my chin on my fists and looked out the window. A man in a sweatsuit and the whiteface of a mime strolled under a streetlight. He was followed by three Dalmatians who walked and turned their heads toward one another as if they were promenading ladies. No doubt about it: Ghosts weren’t just the stuff of Poe and James and King. Ghosts were for real.

  A lavender breeze playfully ruffled my hair.

  A real ghost who had been promised a joke. I sighed. I really wasn’t up for this; but a promise was a promise. A practical joke on Edgar. I had to come up with a practical joke to play on old Edgar. Nothing too obvious or terrible. It had to be something subtle, something—

  The breeze caressed my cheek.

  I really wasn’t very good at this kind of thing. We needed a consult with Joel or Babs—they were the king and queen of the practical joke. I was coming up blank.

  The smell of lavender intensified, and I knew Isabel wanted me to follow her. I got up and walked into the kitchen. The lavender was almost a visible cloud directly over my junk drawer. I opened the drawer and looked inside. On top of my hammers and wrenches and picture hooks and masking tape lay a key; a key neatly labeled with Edgar’s initials. “Just in case of unforeseen circumstance, my dear,” Edgar had said when he gave it to me.

  Isabel didn’t really mean we should break into Edgar’s apartment, did she? We could get caught. Or worse, we could get arrested. And what were we going to do in there anyway?

  The breeze ruffled my hair; perhaps it even patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” it seemed to say. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  I shook my head. I really wasn’t very good at danger. But I picked up the key. I knew that Edgar took a Burmese cooking class on Monday nights. I also knew he usually wasn’t home until late. “Usually” was the operative word here. I gripped the key tightly. Did she mean now?

  Lavender seemed to pat my shoulder again.

  I couldn’t do this. This was out of my league. But I dialed Edgar’s number. When I heard the first strains of Brahms on his answering machine, I hung up.

  I looked at the key lying innocently in my hand. He had been so trusting when he gave it to me, so neighborly. But he hadn’t been very neighborly about the parking spot. I sighed and walked toward the door.

  I climbed down the stairs, lifting each foot slowly and placing it silently on the tread. My heart was pounding and my palms were wet. I knocked on Edgar’s door and listened. No answer. I took a deep breath and looked around the hallway, I stepped back and scanned the stairs, then I looked out the front door; I opened the broom closet and checked behind the mops and the shovels. All was quiet. I put the key in his lock and quickly slipped inside. I stood rigid, my back against the door, barely breathing. I really couldn’t do this. I was too terrified to move.

  I heard the click-click of Mirepoix’ toenails on the hardwood floors and jumped about three feet in the air. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” I started to explain to the dog, but she was thrilled to see me and immediately began a snorting-wheezing welcome dance around my feet.

  “Good dog, good dog, good little doggie.” I act
ually reached down and petted her head. Beside herself with excitement, she jumped in little circles around my legs. “Down, down, girl!” I pushed my back to the door again, but she came forward, yelping with joy. “Down, down, girl,” I repeated, to no avail. “Bad breath in dogs!” I boomed, waving my hands at the Pekingese. But she kept drooling all over my sneakers.

  A gentle lavender breeze wafted through the air.

  Mirepoix stopped jumping; she growled and bared her teeth. Then she began crawling backwards on her belly, making angry rumbling noises in her throat. When she reached the far edge of the room, she stopped and growled again. Then she wiggled her ugly plumed bottom between a bookshelf and a chair; she continued to growl but didn’t seem eager to leave the security of her corner. Mirepoix clearly remembered Isabel from her last visit.

  Still scared, but a bit more assured, I stepped into the living room. Suddenly the dog’s ears perked up. I heard it too. The sound of a key in the outside door. I ran back to the entryway, my heart pounding so loudly, it was all I could hear. I flung open the closet door and cowered inside, hiding myself behind Edgar’s raincoat. I was going to wet my pants. I was going to pee all over Edgar’s boots.

  My breathing was ragged; I tried to quiet it as much as I could. I even prayed. The rushing of blood in my ears subsided a bit and I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I listened to the footsteps climbing, climbing past me and up to another apartment. My breath escaped in a huge sigh. It wasn’t Edgar. I wasn’t going to jail. I stayed in the closet for a few minutes longer, then I slowly climbed out.

  I rubbed my hands together and wiped them on my jeans. Mirepoix snarled and snapped, but didn’t move. We’d better do this quickly—before I fainted in the middle of Edgar’s living room.

  The lavender breeze caressed my cheek.