by Wendy Webb
We let that statement sit for a moment. He was right. It was unfathomably cruel.
He took a deep breath. “She moved in with Bec when we got back and was with her for about five years. It just got too hard, with the kids. And now here we are.”
“Your daughter said something about a nursing home?”
He winced. “I went looking with Bec and Jane,” he said. “There are some nice facilities. Beautiful places. Caring nurses. But . . . everyone in there is so . . .”
“Old?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Old. Twenty years older than Alice. Some more than that. And all of them living in their own little worlds, if I’m speaking the truth. I couldn’t stomach putting Alice in a place like that. She’d be scared to death.”
My eyes filled with tears. “And Gil?”
“I love the man more than ever, if that’s possible.” He took a sip of his wine. “One night when I broke down after touring yet another nursing home, he suggested we take her in. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Breathtaking,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“Gil’s parents were immigrants from Japan. In his family, nobody ever went into a nursing home. He and his sister cared for their parents until they passed, just like his parents had taken care of their parents. It’s just what they did in his family.”
“So, this wasn’t an out-there concept for him,” I said.
“Not a bit,” Jason said. “It’s such a puzzle, how life works sometimes. I left Alice to be true to myself and found the love of my life. My leaving crushed her heart and spirit. My finding that love crushed her even more. Then she got the diagnosis nobody wants to hear. And it was that love—the love of my life—who took her in, saving her from living her last years in a nursing home.”
It might not have been my place to say it, but I had to ask. “So, what does Alice think? Of the arrangement, I mean. Does she know you and Gil are married?”
“She’s not quite sure who he is or what he’s doing here. But he’s so warm and funny that she can’t help but like him. As for telling her we’re married—she knows. Or knew. When we got married, she sent a lovely card and a gift, saying how happy she was for me.” He smiled, his eyes filling with tears. “That’s Alice,” he said. “That’s the kind of woman she was. Is.”
He stared off into the past. “When our kids were little and I’d get home from work, we’d have a family dance party in the living room.” He wiped away tears. “You’d think I could stop crying already.”
I shook my head. “No. It sucks what’s happening to her. I’d be crying every minute of the day.”
He turned to look at me. “It does suck,” he said, a fierce tone in his voice. “Gil and I are going to give her a beautiful summer. Boat rides, dinners out. Wine on the beach watching the sun go down. Dancing. She deserves every moment of happiness we can give her.”
Gary appeared with a tray of snacks and set it down in front of Jason and me. “Bon appétit, kids.”
I smiled at him and popped a slice of salami into my mouth, and only then did it dawn on me. It was well after three o’clock.
“Where is everybody?” I asked Gary. “Isn’t it happy hour?”
He wiped the bar absently with a rag. “LuAnn thought it would be better if it was just residents tonight,” he said, looking from me to Jason and back again. “To help the new lady get settled.”
Jason nodded. “Alice doesn’t do well with crowds,” he said. “I wanted to ease her into her new surroundings without overwhelming her. LuAnn was gracious enough to cancel it for today. You could hear the crestfallen groans all the way up Main Street.”
I chuckled at this. Then we got back to chatting. I asked about his daughters and grandchildren. He asked about my mom.
“And your dad?” Jason asked. “Is he still with us?”
I took a sip of my wine. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer his question. My parents had been married for more than six decades when my mom passed. Theirs was the perfect pairing of two souls. They were so funny together, always laughing about something, each playing off the other like a vaudeville act. When she died, most of him did, too. His life force was dripping away every day he was on this earth without her. He was still living on his own, but I could see change in the wind. I didn’t want to think about it.
“He’s in England this summer,” I said, finally. “Cornwall. My brother took him over to follow some ancestry leads. He’s into that, tracing our heritage, and has found limbs of our family tree dating back to the fourteen hundreds there.”
“Wow,” Jason said. “That’s really interesting! A nice distraction for your dad, too.”
That’s exactly what it was, and I was grateful to my brother for providing it. It let me have the summer to regroup and heal without worrying about my dad’s grief, too.
Just then, Dominic appeared with Alice on his arm. He looked massive in contrast to Alice’s delicateness.
“This lady was looking for you,” he said to Jason, his velvety voice caressing my ear.
Alice was smiling, but I saw that she was also trembling, ever so slightly. “Jason! There you are.”
“I’m right here, honey.” Jason beamed at her. “We have happy hour here every day. It’s just us today, but tomorrow the whole town joins in.”
“The whole town?”
“Oh, it’s just a few people,” I said to her, waving my hand. “And everyone’s so nice. I’m new to town, too, so we can be new together.”
Alice turned to me, then. “Brynn.” She smiled broadly. A triumph. “The Yellow Lady.”
“You remembered!”
“I don’t think I could forget you,” Alice said, looking at me deeply. It was like she was looking into me.
“How about some wine, honey?” Jason said, holding out a glass of white wine.
Alice narrowed her eyes. “Am I supposed to have this? Rebecca never let me have wine.”
Jason smiled. “Well, she’s not here. Why the hell not?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I tossed and turned that night. Even though my body and spirit were dead tired, sleep would not come. So many thoughts were racing through my mind. The tragedy of early-onset Alzheimer’s for Alice and her entire family—the cruelty of that situation juxtaposed with the love it brought out in everyone involved—just wouldn’t let me go. I wondered if I could love someone that much, or if anyone would ever love me that much.
Then, the mysterious man across the hallway floated into my thoughts. Dominic was a stranger to me and yet felt so familiar somehow. It was like I knew him deep in my bones.
I was mentally going through various times in my life—public school, college, my first jobs, even spring break trips with girlfriends—trying to find some connection between us, someplace we might have crossed paths. On the playground as a child? In a bar in Cancún? Did he sit next to me in physics class? Did he work nearby, and I’d seen him on the bus during my morning commute? Was he in the chemo room next door with someone as I sat with my mom during her treatments? It was useless. There was nothing.
I felt myself drifting off to sleep when I heard my name.
“Brynn.” The voice was paper thin and whispery. “Brynnnnnn.”
I held my breath. Where was it coming from? Inside my room? The moon shone in through my window, a shaft of light illuminating the darkness. My white curtains billowed in the breeze.
“Come out in the hallway,” the whispery voice said. “I’m here.”
I thought about it for a minute—should I answer?—but in the end, I slid out of bed. It had to be Alice, just like the night before. I pulled on my robe and listened at the door. Nothing. I unlocked the door and twisted the knob, wanting to get to her before she wandered onto the deck or downstairs. I pulled open the door and poked my head out into the hall.
“Alice?”
Alice was not in the hallway. It was empty. Moonlight was streaming in from the window on the door to the deck, shining down the full length of the h
all. I noticed the dead bolt on the deck door was locked, but I stepped over to it and peeked outside anyway, just to make sure she wasn’t out there somehow. She wasn’t. The deck, and the street below, were deserted.
I turned my gaze back to the hallway. All was quiet and peaceful. The house was asleep.
I must’ve been dreaming, I told myself. Nobody was calling my name. I was stepping back into my room when a shaft of light shone down the hall. Not moonlight. Electric light.
What in the world? A feeling of dread took root deep down in the pit of my stomach and squeezed.
The light flickered into the hallway from the alcove by the shower rooms. Somebody was awake. An overnight guest? Maybe that’s who I’d heard? But how could they have known my name? And why did they turn their lights on at the very moment I was in the hallway? It didn’t make any sense.
I crept down the hall toward the light, stopping when I got to the alcove. I poked my head around the corner. Alice was standing there, in her nightgown.
“Alice?” I whispered. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“It’s important,” she said, her eyes clear, her voice strong. Nothing of the baby-bird fragility existed in her at that moment. “There’s something in this room you need to see.”
“Let’s go back to your room, Alice,” I said. “You should be in bed. Jason will be worried about you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that.” Alice smiled at me. I noticed her face was lit up with a warm glow. “I’ll be back in bed before you know it. You weren’t hearing the calls, so I had to wake you up to see this. Go into the room, Brynn.”
And with that, Alice flickered and faded from view. It was like she evaporated into the night.
The door to the room in the alcove was open. A light was on inside.
“Hello?” I said softly, not wanting to awaken any other guests who might be in earshot.
I walked slowly toward the open door. “Hello?” I said again.
I knew I shouldn’t go toward that door. Why the guest had it open and the light on at that hour of the night was none of my business. I should’ve simply gone back to my room and crawled back into bed. But I couldn’t stop myself. It was like something was compelling me to come closer. Calling me. Just as it had called my name.
My heart was beating harder with each step I took toward the door. When I reached it, I held on to the doorframe with one hand and poked my head inside.
Just as my room and Gil and Jason’s suite seemed to be from different moments in time, the same was true with this room. It might have been taken from a Victorian-era mansion.
The bed took my breath away. Its enormous gleaming wooden headboard and footboard were carved with an intricate pattern of leaves. A rose-colored floral quilt and a cozy nest of throw pillows was the perfect complement.
On the carved wooden nightstand sat a lamp that looked to be a century old or more, its delicate light-green glass globes painted with purple and blue flowers. Soft light shone from both globes. It reminded me of the oil lamp my grandma had in her room in my childhood home.
Whenever I wanted to hear a story about the past, I’d light that lamp, and we’d sit curled up together on her bed, talking about her grandmother and great-grandmother, and what life was like for her when she was a child. Her job, growing up with her gaggle of brothers and sisters, was to make sure all the lamps and candles were snuffed and out before she went to bed each night. The most important job in the house, she often said.
But it wasn’t the light from the lamp that had caught my attention as I stood in the hallway. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, its stone hearth extending a foot or so into the room, its face, of the same stone, arched over the opening. Lake Superior stone, I thought. The light from the fire was, undoubtedly, what had flickered into my field of vision, beckoning me.
I watched the flames dance and sway, and only then did I notice a rocking chair in front of the fire. Had it always been there? I wasn’t sure. But now I noticed it was rocking back and forth slightly.
“Brynn.”
I whirled around—was someone behind me?—but seeing no one, I turned back to the fireplace. An old woman was sitting in the rocking chair. She was smiling at me.
The woman was wearing a floral nightgown with a sweater over her shoulders. Her tortoiseshell glasses—a statement piece—framed clear brown eyes that were twinkling at me. Her face was lined with age but kind. She was familiar to me, somehow. The woman held a book in her lap, a small hardcover volume.
I couldn’t move. I just stood there, staring at this woman. Why did everyone in this house look so familiar to me? She might have been an aunt or cousin.
“Did you call my name?” I asked her. “What do you want?”
She smiled and grasped the book in her lap. She held it out to me. I stepped close enough to her to reach the book, and took it from her. Its title caused me to drop it onto the floor, as though the book itself were on fire.
The Illustrated Man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I awoke tangled in a snarl of damp sheets. My comforter was on the floor, pillows strewn everywhere. My bathroom light was on, and the fridge door was ajar.
What in the world? Had I been up and looking for something to eat in the middle of the night?
I slid my glasses on and looked at the clock. Almost nine thirty. I stretched as I listened to sounds of life, hustle and bustle out my window—Wharton was open for business, and tourists had descended.
I didn’t usually sleep this late, but considering the restless night I’d had, it didn’t surprise me too much. I slipped out of bed and pushed the door to the fridge closed on my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. The coolness of the water was comforting and jarring at the same time.
My stomach growled. I quickly dressed and ran a brush through my hair. I couldn’t remember how long Gary was serving breakfast, but I hoped I could still get some eggs. Within a few minutes, I was out the door and about to trot down the stairs to the kitchen when I veered off into the alcove. Last night had to have been a dream, but I wanted to take a look anyway.
The now-familiar sense of dread overcame me as I crept closer to the door and tried the knob. Nothing. It was locked.
When I saw the number on the room—five—my stomach seized up, and I hurried away and down the stairs. I very much wanted to be in the company of someone, anyone, else.
A few other diners were scattered at tables, so I took a seat at the bar. Gary appeared, pot of coffee in hand. He turned over the cup that was facedown on my place mat and poured. I added some cream that was sitting in a small silver pitcher nearby and took my first sip with shaking hands.
He furrowed his brow at me. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” I took another sip. “Either I had some weird dreams or . . .” I let my words trail off. It seemed too ridiculous to say out loud.
“Or?”
I set down my cup. “Gary, is this place really haunted like people say it is?”
He chuckled. “I could tell you stories.”
I winced. “Bad stories?”
“Why?” he asked, leaning against the bar. “Did something happen?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, wrapping my fingers around my coffee mug, enjoying the warmth radiating off it.
“Listen,” he said, taking out his pad and a pen. “Let’s get you ordered, and then I’ll sit with you awhile, and we can have a talk.”
I had lunch plans in a few hours, so I just ordered one scrambled egg and a piece of toast. Gary was horrified at this, which made me laugh, defusing some of the night’s terror. He emerged from the kitchen with my plate, setting it down in front of me before wiping his hands on his apron. All the other diners had left, and we were alone in the restaurant. He took the stool next to mine and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Okay, so let me just tell you, this place is one hundred and fifty years old,” he said. “Maybe older than that.”
I
held his gaze. “Really?”
He nodded. “Listen, this house has been standing a long time. You know it used to be a boardinghouse back in the day, right?”
“Yes, LuAnn told me that.”
“So, a lot of living and dying has happened here. Some of it, not so pleasant. Those were harsh days, back when this place was first built. The people who stayed in the house, largely Scandinavian immigrants trying to carve out a life by fishing and logging and mining, were oftentimes at odds—to put it mildly—with the Native Americans who had always been here.”
I nodded.
“What I’m saying, doll, is, this place has a restless vibe. It always has. The tension, those traumatic, difficult times, they still hang in the air here. A hundred people, maybe more, have called this place home. Sometimes they come back. They pass through.”
I held his gaze. “Pass through?”
He nodded, a solemn look on his face. “It can scare the living daylights out of you. Is that what happened? You saw something?” he asked.
I told him about the knocking on the wall when I was taking a shower the first day I arrived, and that Dominic had heard it, too.
Gary nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty typical. Especially when somebody new arrives.”
I wondered whether to tell him about what had happened the night before. I was staring down into my cup, remembering, when he put a hand on my shoulder.
“That’s not all of it. Is it?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been having weird dreams. Or maybe they’re not dreams. I don’t know.”
“Go on. No judgment here, Brynn.”
“I heard someone calling my name from outside my room. So, I got up and went out into the hallway to check on her. I noticed a light on in another room. I saw—”
I couldn’t even speak the words. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about Alice.
“Which room, Brynn?” His expression serious, grave.