Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Remember—you were talking about an Isabel when you first got here?” He watched me carefully. “And right after you fell asleep, before the Tylenol kicked in, you were tossing and turning and muttering about Isabel and mountains—or something that sounded like mountains.”

  “Beats me,” I said lightly. “Great soup.”

  “It kind of scared me. There was something about the whole thing that reminded me of Serena. You don’t remember any of it at all?”

  “Nope. All I remember is how nice you were to me.” I reached across the table. “How nice you are to me.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His dimples flashed briefly, but his smile was subdued. His dimples and his chipped tooth, and even the concerned eyes behind his awful glasses, looked wonderful to me. Grandma Clara would say this guy was a real “mensch.”

  “I’m going to go take a shower.” I let the hot water pour over me, washing away all the salt and sweat and fear. How ridiculous I had been—if Isabel was causing my nightmares, then she would have had to be around in the Herr Doktor Stieglitz days. No, the nightmare was all of my own doing.

  I borrowed Richard’s toothbrush and dried myself with his slightly damp, not so clean towel. He might as well do his laundry at my place. It was silly for him to sit in a Laundromat when I had a washer and dryer.

  I didn’t put my clothes back on. I slipped out of the bathroom and walked silently up to his chair. His back was to me, and I buried my head in his neck and kissed the “sweet spot” on the inside of his collarbone. I ran my hands down the front of his chest and started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Lindsey,” he said, turning in the chair, “you’re sick.”

  “I’m feeling much better.” I knelt in front of him and pulled his shirt from his pants. “Much, much better.” I ran my tongue down his chest and kissed his stomach. He reached forward and cupped my breasts. “Unless,” I said as I unzipped his pants, “unless, of course, you’re afraid of germs.” He pulled me up and kissed me—apparently he didn’t care about germs.

  He was naked in a second and we rolled onto the bed, our bodies crushed together. “I love you, Lindsey,” he moaned as he pressed inside me. “I love you.”

  I froze for a second, all passion gone.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” He ran his tongue around the edge of my ear and moved in his beautiful, magical way; I moved too. The warmth spread from him to the middle of my being and then outward until it reached every nerve in my body. He really was a mensch.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” Richard said as we lay like two spoons, both facing the small window that looked out over the treetops of Commonwealth Ave; tight little green buds were just beginning to appear. He twisted a piece of my wet hair. “But you might as well know the truth: I’ve fallen—hook, line, and sinker. I love you and I want to be with you whenever I can.”

  “Richard, I—”

  “Hush,” he said, putting a finger to my lips. “I know. I know all about Clay, and why you’re scared, and maybe even why you can’t feel what you might otherwise feel.”

  I turned and kissed him; he was so sweet—and such a good kisser.

  “I’ll wait,” he said. “I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  I touched his cheek.

  “You don’t have to make any promises. I know what we’ve got—I’ll take my chances that it’ll happen. Look, it’s been less than two years since Clay died—I can imagine how frightening it must be to think about love again, about being vulnerable to loss and hurt and all that pain … You take your time, and we’ll just have fun while you do.”

  “If you don’t mind, I don’t mind.” I snuggled into his warm, wonderful body, and he wrapped his arms around me. Maybe the guy was right, maybe it would happen someday. We lay like that for long time, and then he started to make sweet, slow love to me again. Maybe someday soon.

  The next day I didn’t have any meetings, so I went straight to work from Richard’s. Pam grinned at my rumpled sweats, and even Peter, who ordinarily regarded me with completely unnerving awe, smiled.

  “Unexpectedly called away from home last night, Lindsey?” Pam asked when she came in with the mail.

  I stuck my tongue out at her.

  “It’s good for you. About time you started spending energy on something besides work.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, except now I have no energy left.”

  “TWTTR will survive.”

  But I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t felt like this since I was in high school. Or maybe since those first few months with Clay, when his incredible good looks had me knocked over sideways. But this was different. As different as Richard was from Clay. This was deep-down good, warm stuff. Clay had been all surface.

  Peter wanted to discuss keyboard layouts, but I couldn’t concentrate. Pam wanted me to estimate next month’s billing load, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about Richard and sex and chicken soup. What a combo. It took a massive text-graphic integration screw-up on the Farnham JX-110-10 Technical Manual to get my concentration back on track.

  At about six, Richard called. Just hearing his voice made my stomach turn to mush, and I felt breathless, slightly light-headed. We met for dinner, but I couldn’t eat; my stomach churned and twisted, and I grinned like a fool, and all I could think about was getting him in bed. But it wasn’t just sex that I wanted, it was Richard.

  After dinner, we went back to my apartment. Richard did his laundry while I read the newspaper. We watched TV and made love and went to sleep early.

  We both had nine o’clock meetings the next morning. I took the first shower and made the coffee. I was humming to myself as I sat nibbling on a piece of stale coffee cake and scribbling notes in the margins of the memo Peter and I were going to be discussing with Farnham’s design team.

  I heard Richard’s footsteps; they sounded strange, hurriedly slapping the floor as they came toward me. Why was Richard still barefoot? I looked up as he rounded the corner from the living room. “Richard!” I screamed.

  He stood mute, blood flowing from a huge gash above his eye. It dripped down his face, onto his chest, and ran into the towel around his waist. The stain on the towel grew larger and darker as we sat staring at each other in horror. He held out a bloody shower head. It had somehow flown off the wall and smashed him.

  We went to the emergency room. Richard needed twenty stitches.

  22

  “It’s nice to see you again, Lindsey.” Naomi rocked in her chair and smiled at me.

  I nodded and rocked and watched my shoes; the toes creased as I pushed off and became smooth as the weight switched to my heals. “The Tegretol don’t work.”

  “No?”

  I looked at the cuckoo clock. The little bird was still on his perch, frozen exactly as he’d been the last time I was here. “I didn’t come back because I decided I believed in ghosts.”

  “And what do you believe now?”

  A huge sigh escaped from my lungs. “That just because I believe in ghosts doesn’t mean I’m not crazy.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “I’m not sure—that’s the problem. The daymares are back and the nightmares and the headaches, and, and strange things have been happening. The nightmares are horrible—black and frightening—like the worst ones I had as a child.”

  She watched me silently, her eyes full of empathy.

  “And things that are real hard to explain have been happening. Sometimes I’m sure it’s all Isabel, and other times I’m not sure at all—and it’s when I’m not sure that I’m afraid that I’m losing it. That I really might be going insane. I’ve even been pulling my hair.” I touched the spot on the side of my head. “I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”

  “Why don’t you back up a bit? Take a few deep breaths and then tell me about Isabel. Tell me what’s been going on.”

  I took a few breaths. “I met a man.”

  She nodded.

  “He’s
about the only good thing. He and my business.” I looked at her kind face. “But somehow, somehow underneath it, I almost think Richard’s involved with all this craziness—like, like almost as if some of it’s happening because of him.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t make any sense. Forget I said anything. It’s all too ridiculous.” I shrugged. “But, but, it’s like he’s, it’s almost like he’s Hitchcock’s magguffin or something!”

  “Magguffin?”

  “The underlying cause. The thing you never find out until the end. The thing that makes it all make sense and hang together.” I shook my head. “No, no, that’s not it. Maybe it’s Clay.”

  “Clay’s the magguffin?”

  “No, he can’t be the magguffin. Magguffins only happen in movies.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about Clay. Dreaming about him. Feeling guilty.”

  “Why guilty?”

  I shrugged. “I guess ’cause I’m falling for Richard. You know, getting over Clay, getting on with my life …”

  “Par for the course.”

  “It’s just that Richard’s so different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Well, of course, his looks. Not too many men look like Clay.”

  She nodded.

  “Not that he’s bad-looking—it’s just that he’s not great-looking. He’s nice-looking. And tall.” I paused. “When he thought I had the flu, he made me chicken soup.”

  She smiled. “What did Clay do when he thought you had the flu?”

  “Ha!” I snorted. “Illness was weakness. He was awful. Once I was really sick—must have had a temp of one-oh-three—and he made me drive through a snowstorm just to meet some guy at a gas station.”

  She nodded.

  “To swap Celtics tickets.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “I was too sick to feel much of anything—except relief when I got to the gas station and could go to the bathroom.” I smiled.

  Naomi did not.

  I looked at the little bird. He wasn’t ever going to get anywhere; nothing for him was ever going to change. I took a deep breath. “I know I’ve idealized Clay—I guess people do that after people die. Especially when they die young.”

  Naomi nodded.

  “But, but now when I let myself think of him—the real him—I get scared, anxious, kind of panicky—you know, like that feeling you get right before a plane’s going to take off?”

  “What do you think scares you?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The truth? The truth about who he really was, or what really happened to him? The stuff I’ve blacked out? The two black holes I can’t reach?”

  “What do you think might be hiding inside those two black holes?”

  I stared at the frozen, stuck bird. “Something really bad. Really painful. Something I don’t want to know.”

  Naomi looked at me steadily and silently.

  “Sometimes I think it’s something I lost.” I began to cry softly. “Something I want back desperately—but know I’ll never be able to find.”

  She handed me a tissue.

  I swiped at my eyes and stopped crying. “A lot of the time, Clay made me feel like not much. I guess it was his insecurity, that he needed me to look small so he could look big. I tried to remember that. But sometimes it was hard. Like the time he came into my office and showed everyone his ‘ring around the collar.’ They thought it was a big joke, but I didn’t.”

  She nodded, her eyes full of sympathy.

  I shook my head. “But I don’t know why I’m talking about Clay. He doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. He’s been dead for almost two years.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not influencing what’s happening now.”

  “Well, he’s not. And neither is Richard. And now that we know it’s not TLE …”

  Naomi shook her head. “Remember I told you that some drugs just don’t work for some people—just because the Tegretol didn’t work doesn’t definitely prove you don’t have TLE.”

  “But we both know I don’t,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “And it’s none of that anyway—it’s Isabel. Babs said she did it all, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. It’s got to be Isabel. How can I blame Babs for my daymares? My nightmares? My headaches? It just isn’t possible. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And it makes sense that it’s Isabel?”

  “It’s Isabel or the loony bin.” We rocked in silence. “I prefer Isabel.”

  Naomi folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Tell me about Isabel.”

  “Isabel Davenport. She’s the ghost.” I inspected my fingernails. “I know it sounds like I’m crazy—but what if I’m not? What if there really are ghosts?”

  “What if there really are ghosts?”

  “If there are—if Isabel’s real—then everything I’ve been doing and thinking and feeling makes perfect sense and I’m completely sane.”

  “And if she isn’t real?”

  I smiled without humor. “Then I’m a certifiable lunatic.”

  “And you don’t think that you are?”

  “Do you?” I leaned forward in my chair and stared Naomi straight in the eye; she didn’t flinch, just looked back at me, kindly, without any hint at what was going on in her mind.

  “All of your symptoms are back?” she finally asked.

  “With a vengeance.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Do I have to?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  I looked at the little bird. “Do you think everyone’s capable of murder?”

  Naomi was caught off guard, and her inscrutability broke down; a surprised and puzzled look crossed her face. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, how they say that under the right circumstances, anyone can commit murder.”

  “What do you think?”

  I laughed. “The old throw-my-own-question-back-at-me trick.”

  She smiled.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. And I’m starting to think that it’s true. That if someone is pushed enough, or scared enough, or backed into a corner enough—well, well, you just don’t know what you’d do under those circumstances.” I looked at my feet; creased toe, smooth toe, creased toe, smooth toe. I raised my eyes.

  Naomi was watching me closely.

  “What if you felt there was no other way? That it was the only way out of an intolerable situation? Or what if you thought your life was in danger?” Creased toe, smooth toe, creased toe, smooth toe. The silence seemed thicker, more tense, than our usual silences.

  “How long have you been thinking about this?” Naomi finally asked.

  “A while.” I waved my hand airily.

  “For any particular reason?” Her words were slow and deliberate.

  I shrugged. “I have a friend.”

  “Do you want to talk about your friend?”

  I shook my head, tears filling my eyes. “The daymares are sometimes nice—really pleasant—but the nightmares are just awful, horrible and scary and violent and …” I shook my head again. “Just, just awful.”

  “Can you talk about them?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?” Naomi asked gently. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.” She handed me the box of tissues.

  “The dreams, that they’ll come back. So I stay awake to keep them away.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid they’ll come back—but it’s worse than just come back. I’m afraid they’ll come back and get me.”

  “Get you?”

  “Oh, I know dreams can’t ‘get you’ or hurt you the way real people can.” I swiped at my eyes, angry with my tears and with how ridiculous my words sounded—even to me. “But, but there’s something inside of them, something deep down I
can’t reach. I know it’s there and I know it’s trying to get me!”

  “And do what?”

  “Punish me, hurt me—I just don’t know! Maybe I’m doing it myself, or maybe it’s Isabel. Or Clay.”

  We rocked in silence for what seemed a long time. Finally Naomi spoke. “Where do you think your dreams are coming from?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “In the dreams—who wants to punish you?” She leaned over and touched my knee. “Lindsey, tell me who wants to hurt you.”

  “I don’t know,” I said softly, dropping my head to my hands. Except for my breathing, the room was calm and still. I looked up. “Maybe the dreams are all mine, but maybe it is Isabel, and she’s jealous about Richard and hurt about Montague …”

  “Montague?”

  “Her husband.”

  Naomi sat silently waiting.

  “Look, I know this sounds totally crazy. But what if everything I’m saying is true? What if the impossible is really real? Then wouldn’t it all make sense? You know, it’s kind of like that guy said—what’s his name? Laing?”

  She smiled. “R. D. Laing?”

  “Didn’t he say something about the insane being sane? About the ones shut up in mental institutions being the only ones dealing sanely with our crazy world? About the rest of us being lunatics for coping?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So do you see what I mean?” I leaned forward. “About how if you turn things around—accept different premises—what I’m telling you isn’t so crazy after all? What if ghosts are possible—what if they aren’t like you always thought ghosts would be?”

  “How so?”

  “What if ghosts—or this ghost—can give a person visions, make them see and smell things that aren’t really there? Then doesn’t my behavior—my daymares and nightmares and all the stuff that’s been happening—all of a sudden, doesn’t it all make perfect sense?”

  “I hear what you’re saying and I suppose that viewpoint does change the possibilities, but unfortunately, it will have to wait until next time.” Naomi leaned over and touched my knee. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but our time’s up.”

  I shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “It’s business.”