Haunted Honeymoon

by Marta Acosta

  We went to the maid’s room, and I sat down on the bed and said, “Lily, what is this condition that Oswald told me I have?”

  “It’s a genetic autosomal recessive anomaly. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t inherit it. It’s extremely rare and not in the books.”

  “Everything is in some book.”

  “I have the condition, too. It’s specific to people descended from a few villages in Eastern Europe.” She sighed. “It makes life complicated.”

  “Life is always complicated. So I was engaged to Oswald? I have a friend named Nancy who’s sure I’d get married in a nightclub to someone without a legitimate job who spends all his time partying. I can’t wait to tell her ‘I told you so.’”

  “But you and Oswald broke up. We can discuss your relationships later,” she said. “Now try to rest.”

  Sleep knocked me out like an anvil on the head of an unsuspecting coyote. I woke up on my back, with my mouth open and dry. I sat up quickly, listening to see if anyone was near.

  The room was dark, but I could see everything perfectly, which was extremely weird and yet fantastic. The red numbers of the clock radio glowed 4:47 a.m. and the house was quiet.

  I was hungry in an unusual, painful way. I went through the dark to the kitchen, hoping the refrigerator wasn’t as bare as that of most bachelors. I opened the door and saw high-end foodstuffs: gourmet pasta and grain salads, imported cheeses, roast turkey, exotic condiments, juices and wines, perfect fruits and vegetables …

  And steaks. There were six New York strips in the meat bin, brazen in their tight plastic wrapping, enticing me with bright ruby juices. So this is what Oswald meant when he said I craved red foods.

  Since I’d missed dinner I didn’t think he’d mind if I grilled one up. I took a skillet from the pot rack and put it on the six-burner range. My cooking skills were limited, but even I should be able to cook a steak.

  I was about to drop a New York strip in the hot skillet when I got the urge to smell it to see if it was fresh. It smelled delish. Then I thought that giving it a lick would be no worse than eating steak tartar, and then I thought that cooking the excellent beef would compromise it, so I began gnawing and sucking on the raw flesh.

  The salty, rich juices were so delicious that I moved on to the next steak. It was only after I’d finished my invigorating snack that I realized that Oswald might not appreciate me raiding his fridge. As I was hiding the chewed-up gray steaks in the trash, I heard footsteps behind me. Without thinking, I grabbed a knife from the sink and turned around.

  A silver-haired man in striped cotton pajamas and a white terry robe clicked on the overhead light and looked startled. “Good evening, or rather, good morning.” He looked like an older, slightly shorter version of Oswald, but with blue eyes and features sharpened by age.

  I dropped the knife in the sink and said, “Hi.” I resisted the urge to glance down and see if I had any spots of blood on my clothes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t recall if we’ve met.”

  “I’m Oswald’s grandfather, Allan George Grant, AG. You must be Milagro.”

  “I am. Hi, Mr. Grant.”

  He went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “I can’t sleep. Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure, thanks.” I spotted a shelf of glasses and took two tumblers down.

  “Let’s go to the lounge.” He began leading the way and said, “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about you. My grandson says you have amnesia and don’t remember the last few years.”

  “I thought it was simple amnesia and I’d be over it by now, but everyone thinks I’m traumatized.” The blood snack had filled me with warmth and I felt the very opposite of traumatized. “I’m sorry to impose on your family.”

  “No imposition for me,” Mr. Grant said as we went to the living room I’d seen earlier. He searched for a light switch; I saw one and turned on a lamp with a mica shade, which cast an amber glow on the cream walls and Mission-style furniture. “I wish it was under more providential circumstances.”

  “My policy is always to make the best of a situation.” I placed the glasses on a cocktail table and Mr. Grant poured the scotch.

  He lifted his glass and said, “To our friendship,” and we toasted, then sat down in comfy club chairs.

  I ran my hand on the butter-soft leather of the chair. The room was attractive, but nothing seemed familiar and there were no traces of me in the room. I asked, “Are you and Oswald close?”

  “Not yet, but I hope we will be. I got here a few days ago. This is my first visit to his ranch,” he said, and smiled as he shook his head. “Does that seem odd?”

  “No, but I haven’t seen my parents in … I really don’t know, but I think it’s years now.”

  “Every family has its problems. Oswald’s grandmother and I divorced long ago, and I moved away. Unfortunately, that means I only see my grandsons on their rare visits.”

  “Exes can be a problem,” I said, thinking, Especially when you find them dead in your loft. “Did you remarry?”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

  “That’s where we’re different. I don’t mind being bitten, as long as I get to bite back.”

  He laughed and said, “Maybe it has to do with who does the biting. I think that there are some people who are so extraordinary that they overwhelm you. If you lose them, you can go on to other relationships, but you’ll never fully recover and you’ll always regret not doing absolutely everything and anything to keep them.”

  Was Oswald one of those people to me? I asked, “Where do you live now?”

  “A place called Peggys Cove, no apostrophe, near Halifax. It’s foggy, but I like that.”

  “I adore fog. Where did the name come from?”

  We’d finished our scotch, but I didn’t feel the slightest effect.

  Mr. Grant picked up the bottle and poured another glass for each of us. “There are lots of different stories, but all agree that Peggy was the only survivor of a wreck at sea during a ferocious sleet storm. When she was found, she didn’t know who she was, and the family who took her in named her Peggy.”

  “That’s a wonderful story,” I said. “I wonder what the chances are of having a place named after me. Milagroville. Milagroberg. Milagrocita. None of those sounds quite right.”

  He chuckled in that charming way that silver foxes do, as if you’ve said something terribly clever. “With you, I’d say they’re much better than average. My grandson wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad you’re here. I was quite curious about you.”

  “Did you hear good things about me, or bad things?”

  “Interesting things. I did hear that you were very pretty, and you are.”

  “That’s sweet, but you don’t have to lie. It’s not as if I’m a vampire and can’t see my own reflection in a mirror. I’ve never looked more hideous.”

  “But you are pretty. Very pretty. Of course you’d have to be for Oswald, because beauty is his business.”

  “I thought he was a doctor.”

  “Yes, and he went on to become a plastic surgeon. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “There was a lot of material to cover.” I never imagined myself with a plastic surgeon. I bobbed in my seat to see if everything jiggled the way it was supposed to. When Mr. Grant stared at me, I kept bobbing up and down and began humming. “Ever get a song stuck in your head?” I said. “What inspired you to visit here?”

  Mr. Grant considered for a moment before saying, “Since you and Oswald broke up, he’s wanted more grandfatherly guidance. I could understand what he was going through since I lost the only woman I ever loved, the woman who gave me wonderful children and carried on the family line.”

  “That’s so romantic and tragic,” I said. “A love that dare not bite again.”

  Someone behind me cleared her throat. “Well, AG, I see you’ve made friends with the Young Lady.”

  In the doorway was a petite older woman dressed i
n elegant sea blue satin lounging pajamas with a matching robe and sleek brown leather slippers. Her shining silver hair was cut close to her elegant noggin, and she turned her luminous, exotic green eyes toward me.

  “Hello, Milagro. My grandson tells me that you claimed to be transporting a dead body in a pickup, on the run from unknown assailants, and that you’ve conveniently acquired amnesia.”

  She was the sort of woman who enjoyed intimidating others, so I looked sincere and said, “That story does sound implausible, but I’ll work on a few subplots to fill it out so that there’s sufficient foreshadowing and a reasonable justification.”

  “That’s the spirit, Young Lady.” And then her bravado was gone and she turned away.

  AG stood and said, “Edna, are you all right?”

  “I just need a moment.”

  I jumped up and went to her. “Can I do anything?”

  She produced a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, give me a hug.”

  “But Lily said I was to avoid flesh-on-flesh contact.”

  “Good God, you always make everything sound sordid,” the woman said, giving me a look that would have seared a T-bone in seconds. “Are you going to listen to her or me?”

  I put my arms around the woman and felt her soft cheek against mine. She smelled marvelous, like the scent released by lemon verbena in a spring shower, and I got a comforting zizz from her. She drew in a ragged breath and I patted her on the back and said, “I wish I wasn’t making everybody miserable.”

  “That’s always been your way, Young Lady, leaving a wake of destruction in your rush to the next party or attractive man,” she said, and then we both started laughing.

  “That sounds like someone I know,” said Mr. Grant dryly. “I think I’ll go back to bed. Good night, Edna, Milagro.”

  When he left the room, the woman stepped back and looked at me, and I looked at her.

  I said, “You do know me, right?”

  “Much to my eternal regret. I’m Edna Grant, Oswald’s grandmother. Your new friend, AG, is my ex-husband. They told me you were in bad shape.”

  “I am. I’ve wasted away.” I held my arms out. “Can’t you see how emaciated I am?”

  “Your emaciated is another woman’s normal. You look fine.”

  “Perhaps we have different standards,” I said. “I don’t hold to the unrealistic, airbrushed consumer-media ideals. I think feminine curves are delightful.”

  “Traumatized or not, you are as full of nonsense as ever. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I looked to the window and could see dawn edging in past the espresso brown velvet drapes. “What if someone attacks me outside?”

  “Fight him off.”

  “Because I’m like a superhero now, right?”

  “No,” she said. “There are private security guards stationed outside the gate, and you’re also protected by our family.”

  “Family like family, or family like the mob?”

  “The mob? I’m sure that would appeal to your absurd fantasies.”

  “I don’t have absurd fantasies, but I don’t expect those who are more prosaic to comprehend my vibrant inner life.” I followed her through the kitchen to the mudroom, where Mrs. Grant plucked a wide-brimmed straw hat from a hook and put it on.

  “The sun’s not even out,” I said.

  “I’m sun-sensitive and you should protect your skin, too, so you won’t grow to look like a worn-out easy chair.”

  “Your concern is deeply moving.”

  The sky was lightening along the edges of the mountains in the distance, and the air carried the heady perfume of all the antique roses, strongest in the morning dew.

  A pair of red-handled Felco pruners had been left on the ground. I picked them up and wiped them clean on my jeans. I walked to a fragrant climbing rose, Madame Alfred Carriere in spectacular bloom, the snowy imbricated petals almost glowing in the predawn shadows.

  I said, “It was quite astonishing to find out that I was engaged to Oswald.”

  “I know I was astonished when it happened.”

  “Did you object to my engagement to your grandson?”

  “You managed to wreck that all on your own. I’m having a very difficult time believing that you actually have amnesia.”

  I snipped dead flowers off the rosebush. “I didn’t believe it either until I saw myself in a mirror. My hair hasn’t been this long since I lived with my grandmother,” I said. “My mother Regina didn’t like dealing with it so she’d take me to have it hacked off every four months. I looked like a boy.”

  “And you’ve been compensating for your gender confusion ever since,” Edna snarked.

  I cut off a flower and stuck it in my hair. “Do you think so?”

  “Consult your psychiatrist.”

  “Let’s walk around and see what’s here. I want to test my superpowers, too. Tell me if you see a fly so I can try to snatch it out of the air.”

  “You don’t have any superpowers.” We walked across the field toward the white cottage.

  “Who lives there? It’s darling.”

  “I do for now. It’s the guesthouse.” Then she said, “You and Oswald lived in it for a while. You called it the Love Shack.”

  It hit me then, what I had lost: happiness with a fabulous man, a home, family. I shook off these thoughts and pointed to two structures down the drive from the house. “What are they?”

  “One’s the swimming pool compound and the other is the barn. Even with memory loss, you should know what a barn looks like. Heaven knows, you bored me enough nattering on about Faulkner and ‘Barn Burning.’”

  “Mrs. Grant, treat me any way you wish, but I will not hear you disparage William Faulkner. In fact, I think we should discuss his short stories as we traipse around the fields.”

  “Please God, no,” she said, but the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

  “I wish I was from the South so that I could write Southern Gothic stories. You really can’t do California Gothic. What would that be?” I mused. “Depravity and criminality in the desert set to an Eagles soundtrack? It’s nothing that would work in this day and age. It would become some inane comedy with movie stars and margaritas and alien abductions.”

  I waited for Mrs. Grant’s retort, but she didn’t say anything. A fly buzzed by and I reached out and grabbed it. “See, I did it!”

  “Add that skill to your résumé.”

  I opened my hand and released the insect. “I wonder if I have telekinetic powers.”

  “Why don’t you try lifting your feet off the ground so we can continue our walk?” She turned down a path through newly planted crepe myrtles toward the closer building. It was lined with a new grove of crepe myrtle. “We like to come here at night, especially when it’s hot in the summer.”

  She stood expectantly at the doors to the redwood structure, and so I opened them for her. As she walked inside, I saw a large swimming pool surrounded by an expansive patio and outdoor furniture. The surface of the water was as smooth as ice.

  My heart thudded and I stepped back, feeling something pressing down on me like an incubus, sucking the breath out of my lungs.

  Mrs. Grant said, “If you want to take a dip, the swimsuits are still in the …” Then she looked around to see me standing back at the door. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I just … I’m feeling claustrophobic.” I rushed outside and bent over, my hands on my thighs. I tried to stop from shaking, and the breeze chilled the sweat on my forehead.

  Mrs. Grant came out and watched me as I thought, It’s something about the water, but I didn’t want to know. When I stood up, she put her arm through mine and said, “Let’s keep walking.”

  We went by the barn and she pointed out the porch on one side. “Ernesto has an apartment there. He’s the ranch hand and our friend. Your friend, too, and we explained what happened to you,” she said. “Mercedes used to like coming here to ride and swim.”

  I grinned. �
�So I was able to help give her some time off from work! That’s great.”

  “As shocking as it seems, Young Lady, Mercedes thrives on work, just as my grandson does.”

  Mrs. Grant took me on a loop through the property, pointing out a shallow creek with gray stones, which I could look at without reacting, and the corrals for the horses, which she called turnouts.

  We walked to the far side of the fields and she said, “By that fence is a pond where you planted native wetland grasses, but we don’t have to go there.”

  I noticed a mound of soil that was marked with a boulder and a green oval of rosemary. “This looks like a grave.”

  “Your dog is buried there. Her name was Daisy. You have another dog now, Rosemary. Mercedes has him at her club, and your chicken, Petunia, is living in the coop by the barn.”

  “I finally get pets and I can’t remember them. I can’t remember Wilcox either.” I bent to pull weeds from the grave. “Faulkner said, ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past,’ but I don’t think he took amnesia into the equation. How can I feel sorrow for those I can’t recall?”

  “You will, Young Lady. Now let’s go make breakfast.”

  I walked with Mrs. Grant back to the white cottage, the Love Shack, so she could change out of her pajamas. The interior was a surprisingly modern white and blue scheme. I thought it was sad that she had a framed photo of Thomas Cook, the gorgeous movie star, on a sideboard. I’d had a major crush on him when I was a teenager, but I got over it.

  Once we were back at Oswald’s house and in the kitchen, Mrs. Grant said, “I’ll whip up a cold berry soup with crème fraîche, and we can have omelets with red peppers and wild mushrooms.”

  “Sounds yummy. What can I do?”

  “Why don’t you make your lemon-almond pancakes?”

  I looked around the shelves until I found flour, sugar, lemons, almonds, eggs, and a bowl. I grabbed baking powder and baking soda, too. I figured two cups of flour per person should be sufficient, so I measured this into the bowl.