Aftersight

by Brian Mercer

  I lifted my head from the pillow. For the first time in days I wasn't wracked with pain and filled with nausea. Severe concussion, doctors had said. After forty-eight hours of tests and observation, I'd been sent home from hospital and prescribed rest and inertia. Confined to my bedroom, I'd napped contentedly, happy to escape the woozy feeling in my stomach every time I tried to sit up. The headaches had lessened, yet I still felt the vertigo sometimes when I closed my eyes, an obscure dizziness that reproduced the clump, clump, clump of horseback riding. It was that sensation, the feeling that I might be reliving the moments before the accident, that seemed to be making me ill.

  I slowly sat up and surveyed my room. Tabatha, Renfield and Sam — my gerbil, cockatiel, and turtle — were safe in their containers, perched among the antique furniture of my family's London flat. I’d known all along they were there. I'd heard them stirring as I lay half-conscious. Their presence, where there'd been only silence and the muffled hum of traffic, comforted me. My parents had banished my two older sisters from this wing of the residence and it had been otherwise still and museum-like.

  I eased my feet to the floor, testing my balance as I grasped the headboard. Feeling no ill effects, I ambled stiffly to the window, admiring the third-floor view of Regent's Park and what little I could see of the London Zoo. The sky gleamed battleship-grey. Without shadows falling alongside the trees it was impossible to gauge the time of day and Mummy had silenced the old grandfather clock in the foyer. I missed its telltale chimes that might otherwise offer markers to my tedious incarceration.

  Slipping back under the covers, I reclined into the pillows that I'd propped behind me and settled in with a resigned sigh. How I longed for a little furry companionship. Closing my eyes, I imagined a cat nestled at my side, a mental exercise I often carried out at night when I couldn't sleep. Why won't they just let me have one? I thought with a flare of resentment at my parents, who'd forbidden it. I can cope with it. I'm not a baby anymore.

  I hadn't given up my appeals for a cat, ever since the last aborted attempt when I was eight. Why wouldn't they at least reconsider?

  Nine years ago, when I was only five years old, our family had adopted a pure white kitten named Dandelion. For two weeks, Dandelion had been the terror of the house, launching himself from the concealment of curtains and bedskirts and into the ankles of his guiltless victims. Then one afternoon, while workmen were shifting furniture in preparation for painting, Dandelion came reeling out from between a desk and bureau from which he had nearly been sandwiched. He seemed to recover after that and played for a little while, but an hour later had fallen into a sleep from which he had never awoken.

  Three years later, in response to my persistent lobbying, we had taken in another cat, a full-grown Ragdoll named Clawsimodo. He did not last long, however. I'm not proud of this, but bear in mind that I was only eight. Fearing that something sinister might happened to him, I'd locked him in my bedroom and refused to let him out. Eventually, my parents had been compelled to relocate Clawsimodo to my aunt's house in Leeds, where I still get to visit him on long holidays.

  My surrogate cat these days was Sid, a Birman who lived across the hall with elderly Mrs. Norris. I called on Mrs. Norris most Saturday afternoons. She would serve out cookies and milk whilst I stroked the aging cat until his ragged purrs settled into contented snoring. Today was Saturday and past noon, as likely as not; maybe Mrs. Norris wouldn't mind a short visit.

  I slipped on my dressing gown and slippers and moved silently into the hallway. Our flat had originally been three sizeable apartments that architects had reconfigured into one large home. While the flat's revisions were not immediately obvious, there were clues. For instance, there were three entrances to the home from the outer corridor, a working main door and two obsolete doors that remained locked and unused.

  My sisters and I occasionally availed ourselves of the dormant door at the end of the hall to leave the flat without being detected, ever since my eldest sister, Mary, had discovered the tarnished brass key in a remote closet drawer. It was this door that I approached now, sliding stealthily on my soft slippers so as not to draw any attention. The lock turned with a stubborn click that echoed down the quiet hallway. When no one stirred, I eased it open as little as I could, just enough to pass into the outer corridor.

  Mrs. Norris answered the door after the third bell. "Oh my. Sara. What are you doing here? And in bedclothes, I see." Mrs. Norris opened the door wider and beckoned me inside. "Don't just stand in the hall. Come in, come in."

  I followed Mrs. Norris to her sitting room and lounged in my customary place on the sofa while the old widow moved into the kitchen. "Your parents were dreadfully worried about you," she called out. "And so was I."

  I felt a little dizzy but immensely relieved to be in Mrs. Norris's cozy home with its Victorian display of knickknacks. I regarded the small table concealed by dozens of ornately framed photographs, most of Mrs. Norris and her husband, whom she referred to only as The Colonel, but also portraits of her with the various cats she had owned throughout the years, arranged chronologically, ending with her latest animal, Sid. The old Birman was presently reposed on a nearby reading chair, his azure eyes regarding me with drowsy interest.

  I'd never met The Colonel, he having died years before I'd been born, but his presence was still felt here in the small but luxurious flat. The chair in which Sid was presently arranged had once been his. Mrs. Norris never let anyone sit on it, even Sid, and it was strange to see the cat there now. I had to check the urge to bestow the old Birman with hugs and kisses and force myself to wait until Mrs. Norris invited me.

  "Tell me, child, how are you feeling?" Mrs. Norris appeared in the doorway with a tray. "Up for biscuits and cream?" Mrs. Norris placed a small platter of sugar cookies and a glass of milk in front of me.

  "Always." I relished the sweetness on my tongue before washing it down with milk. The food settled pleasantly in my empty stomach.

  "How are you feeling?" the widow asked with sincere concern in her old blue eyes. She smiled sweetly. "I must say, you look as well as ever."

  "I am feeling much better today," I answered. "But I'm tired of being tired."

  My gaze moved from Mrs. Norris to Sid, wondering when the old lady would shoo him off the upholstery. Sid knew he wasn't allowed on The Colonel's chair. He only climbed up there when he wanted attention. Mrs. Norris ignored him.

  "What happened?" the old woman wondered. "Your mother said you had fallen off your horse."

  "I don't remember what happened, exactly. My cousin and I had been, er, riding faster than we probably should have. You remember Charlotte? We were having a bit of a row over a boy who had been paying me the kindest sort of attention at a party last week. He clearly yearned to meet me but before we could get away together, my vampire cousin intercepted him in a shadowy corner beneath the stair and plunged her ragged incisors into him and there we were, riding together next day, she on her high horse as if all along she had been the object of his affection, as if she wasn't the fiend who'd mesmerized him the night before and I'm like, 'He saw me first,' and she's all, 'He clearly fancies me,' and all the time we are going faster and faster... Mrs. Norris? Mrs. Norris, are you attending?"

  I hadn't noticed before, because at first Mrs. Norris had looked perfectly normal, dressed as she ordinarily was in a wool sweater and old lady's pleated skirt. Yet now I observed that there were stray strands of wiry grey twisting out of her normally well-groomed bun and that the flesh beneath her eyes was swollen and tear-worn.

  "Mrs. Norris, are you all right? What is the matter?"

  She fumbled with a hanky and daintily blew her nose. "Nothing, child. I don't want to upset you." Her voice warbled miserably, as if all semblance of dignity and civility might suddenly crumble.

  My heart throbbed at the sight of it and a wave of grief hit me with a shudder. To see this sweet old woman suffering, this woman who always had a smile and kind word and biscuit at the ready, w
ho had no one in the world save her neighbors and her cat, was almost more than I could endure. "Mrs. Norris, what's wrong? Please tell me."

  The widow placed her hand over her mouth and tears flowed unbidden down her cheeks. "I am so sorry. Forgive me."

  "It's all right, Mrs. Norris." I took Mrs. Norris's hand and sat on the floor near her chair while she wept.

  Composing herself with a deep breath, Mrs. Norris announced, "I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I am very sad to reveal that Sid is gone."

  "What do you mean gone?" I frowned. "You mean escaped?" My eyes flicked from Mrs. Norris to Sid, who sat placidly there on the colonel's chair.

  "No, dear," she replied, clearing her throat. "Sid passed away last week, quietly, in his sleep. He was with me on the bed in the night and in the morning he was cold. It was the morning of your accident."

  "But Mrs. Norris, Sid is right there." I pointed to the colonel's chair, but it was empty now.

  "I'm so sorry to have to upset you when you're recovering from your fall."

  "But Mrs. Norris, I just saw Sid right here in this chair a moment ago."

  "Oh, Sara, you know no one is allowed in that chair. Sid wouldn't sit there."

  "He always sits there!"

  "Oh, dear. I have upset you."

  "But Mrs. Norris, I just saw him. I swear. He was right here."

  I continued to protest and Mrs. Norris continued to insist, even after she showed me the polished silver urn in the china hutch where she kept the ashes of all her former felines. Mrs. Norris indicated the fresh engraving, "Sydney Ragamuffin Norris III," but I refused to be convinced. Finally, she gave me a fretful, careworn look, thinking no doubt of my recent knock on the head and possible lingering brain injury. Fearing that Mrs. Norris would think I'd gone mad — or, more directly, that she might report the visit to Mother — I allowed myself to be persuaded and said nothing more.

  Now, hours later as I lay in bed in the dark, I wondered if maybe I'd hallucinated it. It occurred to me that perhaps I'd seen Sid because I expected to see him, had wanted to see him, and had somehow been mistaken. But if that was true, why would I see him on the colonel's chair, the very last place I would suppose him to be? I dozed fitfully. My headache had returned.

  I awoke in the deep hours of the night, when the flat was quiet and the traffic outside subdued. No one had bothered to draw my curtains closed that evening and a pale shaft of moonlight slanted onto the Persian rug in the middle of the room. And there, in the center of the dim puddle of light, I saw movement.

  I blinked sleepily, forcing my eyes into focus. A cat sat curled up there, licking its paw and cleaning his ear with the wet fur. He lapped at his paw and cleaned his ear, lapped at his paw and cleaned his ear. I could make out the faint lines of his dark face and tail, the brilliant white mittens and feet. The cat was clearly Sid.

  I rubbed the crumbs from my eyes, but Sid's image remained. Now I understood that the old Birman must really have died, for there was no way for the animal to have crept into our locked flat and into my closed-door bedroom. Even if that were possible, the cat defenses at Mrs. Norris's flat were maximum security. Her cat was always her most precious possession and she'd often bragged that she'd never permitted one to escape in the many decades she'd lived there.

  I was simultaneously frightened and excited. I thought of sweet Mrs. Norris's despair and wanted desperately to show her that Sid was all right after all. Yet as much as I wished to crawl out of bed and try to pet him, I was petrified of leaving the sanctuary of my covers. By now Sid had stopped bathing and had curled up to sleep. The end of his tail wagged placidly.

  I considered calling out to my sisters, whose rooms were closest to mine, but fretted that Sid might vanish in response to a loud noise. Eventually, I decided to pin my eyes on him and stay awake for the remainder of the night. I was certain that if I watched him the entire time he would still be there in the morning when, in the sunlight, I might feel better about approaching him. I imagined how happy Mrs. Norris would be when she saw that her beloved old companion was thriving and keeping her company, albeit not always visibly. The thought of driving out Mrs. Norris's sorrow, even for a little while, filled me with delight.

  For several hours I lay there, studying him, my eyes feeling dry and swollen, like a pair of hot coals in my head. Several times I drifted off briefly, starting out of sleep to see Sid's furry coat shining in the moonlight. Each time he seemed to change positions slightly, until at last he was facing me full on, his eyes two gleaming, ghostly orbs.

  There seemed to be a connection forming between us. The longer we looked into each other's eyes, the stronger it became, until there was a sort of click in the center of my head. That's when I felt it, an upsurge of overwhelming love that was at once warm, soft, innocent, and absolutely unconditional. I'd sensed such love before when one of the many animals that I'd cared for — cats, horses, dogs, birds — had shown me affection, but never had I felt it so strongly and so viscerally, yet in that one moment when Sid seemed to be wordlessly whispering to me, it was the only real thing in the whole of reality.

  With that warm sense of love, I finally fell asleep. When I awoke a few hours later in the thin, grey light of early morning, the spot on the carpet was empty. Sydney Ragamuffin Norris III was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Becky

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  November 28

  I sunk lower in the passenger's seat. If it wasn't for the seatbelt, I'd have been cowering under the dash. I hated driving at night in a strange town, even if it was Mom doing the actual driving, with Gwen in the backseat for support. What had started as a mild aversion to large crowds had deteriorated into a fear of venturing out in public at all, especially after dark. It had been months since Mom and I'd been shopping, and even longer since we'd all gone out to dinner. Even my walks around the neighborhood had stopped. If it wasn't for my parents and an occasional visit from Gwen, I'd be a total hermit.

  "Here it is, Mrs. Reynalds," Gwen said, fumbling through the printed directions that had guided us to Bridgeport. "On the left."

  Mom navigated into the left lane and flipped on the turn signal. She glanced sideways at me and squeezed my leg encouragingly. "You doin' okay, babe?"

  I shrank from her touch. "I guess so."

  "It's okay," Gwen piped up from the back. "We're almost there."

  I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was home, safe in bed, but it didn't drive out the sick feeling of being out, exposed, and vulnerable. This had all been Gwen's idea. I trusted her completely, but it took everything in me not to panic. The ghostly voices that had been haunting me had grown worse in the past several days. I felt certain that if they got any worse Mom and Dad would surely find out and it would be a one-way ticket to the funny farm for me.

  I was getting worse and it was becoming harder to keep it a secret. Lately, I'd been trying to distract myself with my artwork. I was painting now, art supplies provided by Dad, who had starting to treat me like a caged lab rat. He didn't know yet that I wasn't quite all there when I was sketching or painting, but I'm sure he suspected.

  My artwork was doing more to keep me sane than all the meds and psychotherapy combined. I didn't like the way the antipsychotics made me feel, and I wasn't completely honest with my therapist, who would surely take the increased number of disembodied voices that I was hearing as a sign that I was losing my grip. Only Gwen knew I was having conversations with more than just Jenny, but she had sworn an oath of silence. I didn't like lying to everyone but if it was enough to keep me out of the crazy patch, I'd do what I needed to do.

  My first paintings were a little neurotic. They were all of Jenny — Jenny sitting for a portrait, Jenny petting a grey bunny, Jenny standing near a bright white window. The styles varied widely. Some were abstract. Some were so realistic they looked like photographs. I didn't really understand that painting so many pictures of Jenny might be a problem until Gwen looked over my collection
one day and told me to cool it. "Are you trying to get busted with OCD? Paint something else."

  I didn't have the heart to tell her I didn't pick the subjects of my artwork. They picked me.

  My latest — thankfully not of Jenny — was an oil on canvas that I'd completed Halloween night. It looked to be of some kind of courtroom scene from a time period I couldn't identify. The Renaissance? Medieval times, maybe? In it four young women sat behind a carved wooden table, wearing coarse dresses in drab browns and greys.

  The girls' heads had all recently been shaved bald, and if you looked closely enough, you could see stubble on their pale skulls. All four of them looked bony, sick, and miserable. Their sad expressions drew attention to the uniform position of their hands; four pairs of palms resting flat on the table in front of them like children forced to show their parents that they'd washed up for dinner.

  Perhaps the creepiest part of the painting had been the old man in the foreground, a man dressed entirely in black — black robe, stockings, pointy shoes, and round, brimless cap. His long, wispy white locks parted to reveal a white complexion of clefts and wrinkles. His face was shaped in an open-mouthed grimace, his right hand pointed upward, as if calling on a higher order for justice.

  The painting had been unlike anything I'd painted before. Realistic but without dimension, it was full of contrasting shades of light and darkness. The girls behind the table were so radiant they seemed to glow with faint gold auras. I called the piece Innocence Accused. When I showed it to Gwen, she told me to go back to painting Jenny. No one else but she had seen it.

  "Here it is, on the right," Gwen said. "The address is one forty-two."

  The car slowed in front of a white, sixties-style bungalow with a flat, stacked-stone exterior. The porch lamp was on, the windows brightly lit, and cars were lined up here and across the street, as if there was a gathering in progress within. Mom cut the engine and coasted to the side of the road a few houses down, where there was an empty space. She put the car in park and shut off the headlights.