Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  I couldn’t see out the window anymore, I was so wracked with tears. I put an envelope in the journal to hold my place and stumbled into the bedroom.

  I lay there letting the tears roll down the sides of my face; they ran into my ears, wetting my hair and my pillow. Poor Isabel. Sitting at her desk with that hollow, painful, separating nothingness in the pit of her stomach. Watching the carefree ladies and knowing she was different, she wasn’t like the others—she had a secret, a horrible secret. And she had to hide it and solve it alone.

  Loneliness hurt. It hurt when Tommy Stanton told me his mom didn’t want him to play with “the strange girl in the yellow house.” It hurt when I sat by myself waiting for a man who would never return. It had been like a knife cutting me in two after my father died. But to lose a child, a tiny baby, and then to lose another. I could never know the depths of pain Isabel had endured. But somehow, I almost felt as if I did.

  It seemed as if a thick lavender caress encircled me. I cried and hiccuped like a child in her mother’s arms. Finally I slept.

  When I awoke the next morning, I knew I was incapable of reading the rest of the journal. I had neither the emotional nor physical stamina for what might come next. I would leave it until I had more strength. Isabel wouldn’t mind. She would understand.

  I made a pot of coffee and went downstairs to get the paper; it was thin and skimpy. Except for a few New Year’s Eve shootings, the world was pretty still—and pretty hung over—this first day of the year. I sipped my coffee and skimmed the pages. It actually would be a good day to go into the office. There wouldn’t be any distractions, and I could catch up on the paperwork that was threatening to bury my desk. There was something appealing about being clear and productive when the rest of the world was nursing a massive headache.

  I took another sip of coffee and felt alert; I felt good. It was nice not to have a hangover. Clay didn’t like to drink alone, and as he turned even the smallest event into an occasion for alcohol, I had drunk a lot more during my marriage than I would have otherwise. And my hangovers were always way out of proportion to the amount I had drunk the previous evening. Clay, of course, never felt a thing the next day.

  At least Montague didn’t make Isabel drink with him. Drinking was probably like anger: unacceptable behavior for a lady. Nonetheless, she, too, had felt the secondary effects.

  I looked at my wall units. The books looked nice lined up in descending order by height. And the color scheme of the paperbacks was pleasing to the eye. I sensed Isabel’s presence. “I’m going to keep them like that,” I said to the empty room. Somehow I didn’t feel foolish at all.

  I bundled myself up and walked the quiet streets. It was cold, but the sun was out, and last night’s rain had washed the city clean. Except for De Matteo’s stock boy sweeping the sidewalk and a lone woman still dressed in last night’s finery, Isabel and I had the pristine new year all to ourselves. I knew she walked with me; I sensed her.

  When I got to the office, everything was neat and tidy: Pam’s baskets were aligned with the corners of her desk, and her manuals were arranged in descending order by height; the magazines on the small outer-office table were fanned in an attractive semicircle; and the neatness of Peter’s files was a clear reflection of Isabel’s hand.

  I went into my office. In the middle of my credenza stood a huge bouquet of lilacs. It was the dead of winter, and the entire room was filled with the sweet smell of spring. I buried my face in the tiny lavender flowers. I knew the lilacs were Isabel’s acknowledgment of my friendship, and a reminder that winter ultimately melts into spring.

  It was the most amazing thing. After all those months of worrying about my sanity and TLE and nightmares and daymares and everything else, once I accepted the reality of Isabel, I just slipped right back into life as if those dark days had never happened. I even stopped worrying about Clay. The whole thing was a lot like a cold: when you’re stuffed up and miserable, you’d sell your soul for an unclogged nose; then when the thing’s finally over, you forget all about it, and breathing becomes a nonissue. My mother tells me it’s the same with periods after menopause.

  And that’s how it was. Isabel was my soul mate as well as my roommate. She understood without my having to explain, she didn’t leave her socks on the living room floor, she didn’t have an inflexible preference for light oak, and she probably wouldn’t care when I had dinner with my friends.

  But the thing I liked best about Isabel was that she was no ordinary ghost. Ordinary ghosts could be seen and they could be heard, they could move objects and they could create cold spots. But Isabel could do so much more. Isabel could make me see scenes that had been, make me see what she wished me to see—whether it existed or not. I could smell it, I could feel it, but mostly I could understand it—and understand her. Perhaps she was a bit immature, and perhaps we shouldn’t have rearranged Edgar’s living room furniture, but nevertheless, we were happy together.

  Not everyone was as pleased as we. Not Babs, who complained—and rightly so—that I was avoiding her and hiding behind my answering machine. Not Hilary, who complained—and rightly so—that I had not yet fulfilled my promise to take her skiing this winter. And not Edgar, who complained—and rightly so—that there was a ghost loose in his apartment. Edgar was so upset, it was a wonder he could get himself to work in the morning. The angel on my right shoulder felt guilty about making the poor man so crazy; the devil on my left was amused.

  “Lindsey, Lindsey,” Edgar hissed at me on the Saturday morning following his new furniture arrangement. “Lindsey, my dear, I must speak with you!”

  “Hi, Edgar,” I said, looking down at my feet. If I looked him straight in the eye, I knew he’d see the guilt. I glanced at him quickly, then busied myself with my packages. “You, ah, you don’t look so great. Are you sick?”

  “A bit, a bit.” His voice was high and breathless. “It’s true that I’m not feeling quite well at present.” Mirepoix bounded out of the apartment, but as soon as she saw me, she stopped dead in her tracks and began that horrible rumbling noise in the back of her throat; she hunched down on her belly at Edgar’s feet. “And I daresay, Mirepoix is also far from tip-top shape.”

  I gasped. The dog knew the truth. It was all over now. The dog would tell Edgar. I leaned down and tentatively patted her head. “Hello there, Mirepoix,” I boomed with false gaiety. The dog growled, low and loud. Then she snapped at my hand.

  “Now, stop that right now,” Edgar ordered. “Being upset is no excuse for rudeness, Mirepoix—Lindsey’s our friend. Now, stop that right this instant, you naughty girl!” The dog ceased her growling but remained in the same position, her eyes locked distrustfully on me.

  I stepped back. “That’s okay.” I smiled; dogs couldn’t talk, and Edgar was far too upset to read anything in my eyes.

  “She’s just a bit nervous. We’re all a bit nervous.” He clasped his bony fingers tightly together and pulled them toward his chest. “It’s the ghost again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes, and I daresay this time it is far more serious—and far more conclusive! This time, this time, my dear, this time there is actual physical evidence of the ghost’s presence!”

  “Oh, no, Edgar, have you been slimed?” I couldn’t stop the devil on my left shoulder.

  Edgar’s feverish, pale eyes bored into mine for a long moment, then he shook his head and began to sputter. “Slimed? Slimed?” He wrinkled his large forehead. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You know: ‘Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!’”

  “Lindsey!” he said, real anger in his voice. “This isn’t some amusing little film with childish stars and ridiculous effects—this is real. And if anything, it bears a stronger resemblance to tragedy than to comedy!”

  I had gone too far. The poor man was really upset. “I’m sorry, Edgar.”

  “Now is not the time for humor,” he continued. “Now is the time for action. It is imperative that we p
ool our resources. For if we do not, or if we fail—we could lose our home!”

  “Lose our home?”

  “Yes, yes!” Edgar unclenched his hands and waved them before my face. “As I’m sure you are aware, the phenomenon of the haunted house is the result of a ghost’s refusal to accept death and his—her—psychotic attachment to the material possessions of life. In our case, the material possession in question must be her house.”

  “And the ghost is going to take her house back?”

  “She will try!” he cried. “I daresay she will try. She will use every means available to force us out!”

  “But why would she want to do that?”

  “Don’t you see, my dear? Don’t you see?” he moaned. “She thinks this is still her home! She doesn’t know she’s dead! We are intruders! We are the enemy! She will show herself and command ownership! She is driven by her crazed devotion to her domicile—she must, she must force the intruders out!” Exhausted and breathless from his speech, Edgar placed his hand over his heart and gulped for air.

  I touched his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Edgar. I really am sorry.” I turned quickly, picked up my grocery bags, and went up the stairs.

  When I entered my apartment, I found a black velvet jewelry box lying in the middle of the dining room table. Inside, nestled in the shiny white satin, were my five missing forks. I ran my fingernail through the soft, furry velvet, making zigzag lines across the top of the box.

  The line between humor and hurt was very thin. I saw Joel, laughing as he crouched at the edge of my grave. I saw Paul, the tears streaming down his chubby face as he cuddled his precious, burnt Muffy. The line was very thin indeed. The phone at my elbow rang, and without thinking, I picked it up.

  “Tihme for teah at the Ritz this aftahnoon?” Babs’s exaggeration of her already exaggerated accent made her words barely understandable.

  “Oh, Babs, I’d love to do tea at the Ritz—but I can’t today.”

  “Another unexpected visit from your cousin from Tel Aviv? Another sudden attack of the creeping stomach bug?”

  “No, this time it’s work.”

  “You’re going to give up tea at the Ritz—your favorite Boston Brahman activity—with me—your favorite Boston Brahman—for work? Can the overworked entrepreneur routine; what gives here, kiddo?”

  “Nothing gives—I’ve just got to work.”

  “How come you haven’t returned my calls? Actually, how come you answered your phone? I haven’t heard anything but your electronic voice for weeks. Not even after I left two creative renditions of ‘With a Little Help from Your Friends’ on your machine. What’s wrong, you didn’t like ‘Without Any Help from Your Ex-Friends’?”

  “I’m really sorry I didn’t get back to you, but you know how it is …”

  “What are you—holed up in there with a ghost? Keeping her all to yourself? Afraid to introduce me to her?”

  “Babs, don’t be absurd—you’re starting to sound like Edgar. You just can’t imagine how much work a new business is. You just can’t imagine all I have to do.”

  But maybe Babs had a point. Maybe it was time to take Isabel public, to show off our relationship, to share it with someone on the outside. Should I bring Babs in? Should I make her our confidante? Were Isabel and I ready? Was Babs?

  “Yeah, right,” Babs was saying. “Sure.”

  “I’ve just got to get this stuff done today. I’ve really got no choice.”

  “Have it your way, kiddo. It shouldn’t be too tough to dig up a real tea lover somewhere in this great city. Talk to your electronic voice someday soon.” The phone clicked in my ear.

  I had been telling Babs the truth. I had so much work to do, it would take me a week of Saturday afternoons to catch up—unfortunately, I only had one. I put the groceries away and went into the study. But as I sat down at my desk, a vision of Isabel’s 1884 journal flashed before my eyes. It was time to read the rest. I sensed that Isabel wanted me to—that she felt I could handle it now. I knew Isabel better, I understood her better; I probably was ready for whatever I might find there.

  I went and got the journal. One hour less of work wasn’t going to throw me into bankruptcy court. I sat down on the living room couch and reached for the bookmark. I heard the scratch of a key turning in my lock; before I could move, Babs burst through the door. “The jig is up, kiddo!” She dropped her purse and jacket to the floor and grabbed the journal from my lap. “Working, are we? Oh, excuse me, my mistake, I see you are working—it’s a well-known fact that no technical writing project worth its salt can be prepared without reference to a nineteenth-century diary.”

  “Well, it is a form of writing,” I said sheepishly. It was definitely time to get my key back.

  “Yes, yes, I can see the diary’s relevance.”

  “Journal,” I corrected.

  Babs raised her eyebrows. “Whatever.” She dropped to the couch. “So what gives, kiddo? Are you mad at me, or what?”

  “I’ve been really busy.”

  “I know, I know, international visitors, intestinal visitors—it can all be so very trying.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And now, pressure at work on top of everything else. How do you handle it all, Lindsey? You surely are a most remarkable woman.”

  “Your sarcasm makes me think it’s you who’s mad at me.”

  “Well, I suppose I am—a little. I’m really more hurt than angry. Ever since you ran out of Gram’s with the Isabel Davenport diaries—journals—under your arm, you’ve been giving me the runaround. Now, ’fess up—what gives here?”

  “Babs, I don’t know why you can’t take it at face value: I’ve been really jammed lately.”

  “Too jammed to even acknowledge my flowers?”

  “Flowers?”

  “The lilacs I sent to your office.”

  “You sent those?”

  “Of course; didn’t you get my note?” Babs asked. “Who did you think sent them? Hey, how come your face looks like you just missed the last train—have you a new love?”

  I rearranged my face. “Thanks, Babs; I’m sorry. The flowers were beautiful. They smelled wonderful.” I swallowed. “They, they reminded me of spring.”

  “Good—I know how much you like lavender.” She grinned and opened the journal. “So tell me, what’s up in the life of weird old Mrs. Davenport?”

  “This Mrs. Davenport isn’t weird and she isn’t old—this Mrs. Davenport is a sweet, sad little girl. And anyway, these aren’t the journals of the woman your grandmother was talking about.”

  “Come on, Lins, of course they are—your ‘sweet little girl’ just grew up. The dates tell the story.” Babs started flipping through the pages. “You just haven’t gotten to the nasty, sordid stuff yet. Let’s see, it’s 1884, two years since she began her married life happily folding corners of little cards. She must have gotten beyond the merrily calling stage, but I guess it’s still early for her to have killed the mother-in-law or gone mad in the attic … But I bet the early clues are here—we just have to find them!”

  I held out my hands. “Let me have the journal.”

  Babs danced away, laughing. “Nope, I’m going to find the dirt.”

  “Give it here.” I followed, trying to grab the book, but Babs had no trouble evading my clumsy attempts and reading at the same time. I gave up and sat down.

  “Aha—check this out! Just as I thought: Mrs. Davenport in the vestibule, with the knife! Here’s the first clue—here’s how your precious Mrs. Davenport killed her mother-in-law. The knife! The knife!” she sang. “Isabel Davenport did it with a big, sharp knife! Listen to this:

  June 4, 1884

  The house is in uproar! The Davenport Family Coat of Arms has been defaced! It was carved in the vestibule by Stuart Francis Thomas in 1873, and now the great mahogany crest has been slashed by a knife. It hardly looks to be the same carving. The beautiful red-brown mahogany is beautiful and red-brown no more. It is ripped and in ugly
pale splinters all over the vestibule floor.

  Cook is wearing a most gloomy aspect and trembles as she cuts apples and chops onions with her large, shiny kitchen knife. As the blade flashes, Montague and Mother Davenport watch her most closely.

  One surely wonders why an action so nasty occurred. What person so angry could have committed such injury to the Davenport family? Only I know it was not Cook.’”

  “Give it up, Babs,” I said when she finished the entry, a triumphant look on her face. “That doesn’t say anything about killing her mother-in-law—it doesn’t even say Isabel actually cut the crest.”

  “Isabel? Isabel, is it now? On a first-name basis with our ghost, are we?” She thrust the journal at me and headed toward the kitchen.

  “There is no ghost. Where are you going?”

  “Detective work makes me thirsty—I’m helping myself to some water.” She paused and turned. “Edgar’s more convinced than ever that this house is haunted.”

  “Edgar’s loony.”

  “And we aren’t?” she yelled from the kitchen. “You know what they say: Just because you’re looney doesn’t mean they’re not following you. Edgar told me that he saw—”

  “I’ve heard it all,” I called back. “Sliding doors, nervous dogs, things that go bump in the night. It’s all nonsense. If the house is haunted, how come nothing’s happened up here?”

  “Nothing’s happened up here? That’s not the story you told a month ago.” Babs strode back into the living room. “And Edgar tells me that Mirepoix was scared half to death by your armoire and that you’ve been spending a lot of time talking to yourself.”

  “I mean really, what’s does he do all day? Stand around with his ear to my door? I suppose Edgar also told you my armoire has turned into a ghost and that I spend my days talking to it?”

  “Maybe not, but one might assume that something more than nothing has been happening up here.”

  “Nothing has happened up here except that Mirepoix is the most nervous little dog in creation, and that I’ve had a lot of company whose entry—by some inexcusable relaxing of vigilance—Edgar must have missed.”