by Robb, J. D.
Unbelievable.
It’s a description, Asta, not a pickup line. Besides, she can’t hear me, remember?
She’s pretty in an utterly unpretentious way, with long brown hair in a thick braid and dark, watchful eyes. She has on a tank top under overalls—do women really wear overalls these days? How long have I been gone?—and an oversized cardigan.
I’m certain I’ve never met her before. How could I? I’ve been trapped here for years. But I feel like I recognize her. Like my soul recognizes her.
And I get that sounds hokey as hell, but that’s the best I can do.
I move close to her and examine her face, her soft cheeks, her thick eyelashes, the unruly curl escaping her braid. She can’t be more than twenty-eight, thirty if she’s got great genes. But I know her, I swear I do. It’s not just that I want to.
She also gazes at my house as if she approves of it, and that makes me warm with pleasure.
The guy looks up sharply. “Did the lights just get brighter? I hope you had the electrical system checked because that could be a huge expense. And messy. Maybe you shouldn’t move in right away.”
“Of course I had it checked. It’s old, but fine.” She runs a hand over the burnished chair rail in the dining room. Her fingers leave three trails in the dust.
The place had looked better, once upon a time.
“Salt on the roots will do it.” He fiddles with the dimmer switch, pulls his hand back, frowns at his fingers, and wipes them on the fake-faded jeans. “Then I can get someone to bring in a backhoe and pull them out by the roots so they never come back. You’ll get more light in here, too, and with fall coming that’ll be important. Those things have damn near taken over the house. Who knew rosebushes could grow so thick, or so high?”
“Stephen, I love the way they look. They must be fifty years old, at least. How could you kill something that old?”
She’s close, they’re seventy-five. My mother planted them when she was a girl.
Stephen sighs, and frowns at her, his mind obviously working for a way to convince her he’s right. “Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s good. They’ve probably grown into the mortar and ruined the brick. I’m surprised your inspector didn’t catch that either. I’m telling you, Cass, the place is a money pit, just like your mother said. I don’t know why you bought it.”
“You know why I bought it.” She scrubs away the film on one of the windows and bends her head to look out the clear spot, down the side of the house. “I love it. And you will, too, once I’m finished with it.”
“I know you think that.” He rubs a hand across his forehead.
She glances at him over her shoulder. Her face wears that look of pity women get when they know they’ve got a guy in their back pocket. “I’ll trim them away from the doors and windows. It’ll look pretty. And imagine how it’ll smell when they’re all in bloom.”
“Like my grandmother’s closet. That rosewater she used to wear gave me an instant headache.” He drills a finger into his temple.
She looks away, lets a breath out very slowly.
It’s clear to me that Stephen not only doesn’t understand her, he doesn’t deserve her. I hope to God they’re not married or anything close to that.
She turns back toward the room. “You know what I’m going to get? One of those big farmhouse tables from that place out in Sperryville. You know the ones? Made from old barn wood?”
“Oh no. Not for in here. This room’s way too formal for that. I’ll get you the name of my decorator.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling. “You’ve got cracks in your plaster.”
You, your. Good. The place must be hers, not theirs. Or worse, his.
She strolls up behind him and puts a hand on each shoulder as if to calm him. “Stop worrying. I’ll take care of it all. I’ve got weeks before the move, and I’ve got money now, remember?”
She can’t see his face, but he looks pained. “Yeah, I remember. You won the lottery and don’t need me anymore.”
She gasps. “Stephen. Stop that. You know that’s not the reason we broke up. And if you say it again I’m going to—”
She stops herself, shakes her head, pressing her lips together.
He knows he’s screwed up, though I’m pretty sure he didn’t say anything he didn’t mean, and turns around all abashed and says, “I’m sorry. But you used to let me buy you things. Now . . .” He shrugs.
I get it. I don’t particularly like the guy, but I understand him. He doesn’t know what to do for her. And he’s desperate to do something for her.
She looks at him a long minute, then pushes her hands into her pockets and heads toward the kitchen. “Come look at the kitchen. You’ll like this.”
He watches her go, two deep lines forming between his brows. The guy’s at sea. He wants her, but doesn’t know how to woo her now that she doesn’t need him. All he has is himself.
MY MOTHER DIED WHEN I WAS SEVENTEEN. SHE’D BEEN SICK, but not for long. Near the end, she talked about a lot of things, one of which was old Aunt Malva’s curse. She said to be kind to Amelia because she saved me, but to beware of spindles nonetheless.
(No, I didn’t ask what a spindle was even then. I’m a guy, what can I say? I didn’t ask a lot of questions.)
But all of this was around the time she was getting delirious with the pain meds, so again, I didn’t take it seriously. They were her aunts, Malva and Amelia, so I figured recounting this story was just part of her reliving old family stuff. Because at the same time she talked a lot about where she’d grown up, how much she’d loved the place, how happy the family had been.
The house was a big, old, end unit row house in Georgetown, up the hill from the river, far from the freak show that was M Street. The place backed onto a cemetery, which might have been creepy but was peaceful instead. When it came up for sale I didn’t think twice. Offered full price and got it.
I’d owned the place for three or four years when I “died.” They thought I’d been murdered, since they never found a body, but they never found evidence of a crime either. So then they thought I’d killed myself. My dad had to wait seven years before the courts would legally consider me dead. That was the hardest, watching Dad waiting for me to return, even though he knew I’d never just disappear on him like that. Not if I was still alive.
Watching Dad weather the media storm was no fun either. I’d been a small-time celebrity, a local TV newsperson who people would recognize on the streets and in grocery stores. An up-and-comer at the network, though not yet nationally known, so they were able to use me for one last big ratings surge, examining my disappearance from every angle, interviewing everyone from my seventh-grade teacher to my dog trainer, then acknowledging every anniversary of my mysterious disappearance until I was proclaimed deceased.
Now they’ve forgotten all about me. It’s been about twenty years, I’d guess, but since I can’t leave the house and nobody’s lived here since I did, I have little way of knowing what’s gone on in all that time.
Dad used to come by and visit the place every now and then. He’d talk to me, in a way. The conversations seemed to be more developed in his mind but what came out of his mouth as he shuffled through the house were fragments like, “Just like I told you.” And, “You remember her.” And, “I don’t know what you were thinking, there.”
What I wouldn’t have given to be able to answer him. Or even to just say, “What the heck are you talking about, Dad?”
He’d have been startled if he’d heard me, and not just because I was supposed to be dead. I never used to talk to him, barely listened, and never asked him questions, not even stupid ones like, “What the heck are you talking about, Dad?”
Nope, he’d be the one to ask me questions, because I was the interesting one. I thought I knew everything about the old man, thought his life was boring, thought his prying into mine was just a way of looking for stuff to disapprove of. Never occurred to me that he might be inter
ested in what I was doing.
Not ’til he started saying things like, “I bet you’d have been national by now.” And, “You’d have been thirty-nine today, son.” And, nodding at some stray creative thought, “I think you’d have liked that,” in a tone more questioning than certain.
I wished I could have hugged him, and told him how much I loved him. A thousand times I wished it. He’d have dropped over in shock if he’d known, but it was true. Instead, all I could do was wander along behind him like a penitent dog: unseen, unheard, unknown.
It’s funny, I was always a pretty reticent guy. Didn’t like to open up or talk about myself. Never asked people questions and certainly never answered any if I could help it. In a way, I think that’s what the women liked. At least at first.
But now . . . now that nobody can see or hear me, I’m desperate for it. Desperate to be heard, to be able to ask other people about themselves and tell them how interested I am in the answers. Hell, I’d tell anybody anything, if only they’d let me, but I’ve missed my chance.
Anyway, I’m glad Dad sold the house. It was time. Getting rid of the personal effects was hardest, I think. For both of us. All that baseball stuff I’d collected, a lot of it from when I was a kid, from Dad, like the cards, an old mitt, a baseball signed by Willie Mays. A lot of it from the years I was a local celeb, Orioles paraphernalia mostly, but some from visiting teams. A Ken Griffey, Jr., jersey. Autographs from Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds when they were rookies.
Once the furniture was gone, the place empty, it didn’t feel like me anymore. Dad came a couple more times, then stopped altogether. One of the last times he came, though, he went through every single room, from the basement to the attic. When he got to the little room under the eaves in the attic, I saw his eyes well up as he placed his fingertips on an old TWA sticker on the aged wall. It looked like it was from the forties—a smiling stewardess in a light blue uniform—and I knew that my mother must have put it there as a girl because Dad sighed and said, “Rosemund,” as he touched it.
How he would have known that, I’m not sure, but I believed him.
After that the house sat empty for years until Asta somehow arranged to have my father sell the place to this girl. This Cassandra. Cassandra Carlisle, I know from the mail that’s started to drop onto the floor in the front hall from the mail slot. I don’t know what happened to Dad and I don’t ask.
No, I don’t ask those questions, even of the one being in all the universe who can hear me. But now it’s not because I’m not interested; it’s because I don’t think I could bear the answers.
CHAPTER TWO
“And the plaster, Cassandra, just look at the cracks!” Her mother’s voice echoed down the hallway as her sensible heels fell like hammer strikes on the hardwood flooring.
Tuning her mother out, Cassandra turned her gaze to the ceiling, to the crown molding and decorative plaster medallion anchoring the overhead light. The details in the house charmed her over and over again.
Cracks in the plaster be damned. They were hairline and easily fixable, according to the inspector.
“See?” Stephen echoed, entering the room from the front hall. “I’m not the only one who noticed.”
Cassandra sighed, and wished again that he hadn’t come today. Her sister was coming later—one of the only people on earth who could satisfy her mother—and while that might balance the scales, she still didn’t need Stephen validating every fault her mother found.
“She agrees with me about the bathroom, too,” he continued, a bit too jovially. “Take out that old tub and put in a Jacuzzi. It’ll increase the value of the house. Speaking of which, I should check out that upstairs bathroom, make sure the plumber caught that leak.”
Cassandra moved to the window, hooking her fingertips over the rail between the upper and lower sashes, and searched for the moving van. She wouldn’t relax until she knew the truck could make it down the narrow street. They’d assured her it could, but she had her doubts. Revery Street was narrow, with parking on both sides. If one car parked a little too far from the curb . . .
Her mother’s footfalls sounded in the hallway, this time coming toward her.
“I thought you were getting a new stove in that kitchen,” she said, even before entering the front parlor where Cassandra awaited the moving van. “You’re going to have a hard time with that old thing that’s in there now.”
“It’s a Chambers C-90, Mother. Rachael Ray has one just like it. Turns out it’s worth thousands!” She took a deep breath, turned and gave her mother a bright smile. “Isn’t that cool?”
As unlikely as it was that her mother would find anything “cool,” this gave her pause. She would deny it to her dying day, but her mother had a fondness for celebrities.
Elegantly dressed, as usual, in Chanel, with her soft white hair cut to her shoulders and smoothly turning under, she looked like Catherine Deneuve, only not quite as old. Except for the two frown lines permanently etched in the space between her brows.
“Cassandra,” she said, lowering her voice and joining her daughter at the window. “I hope Stephen’s presence here means you’ve decided to give him another chance.”
Cassandra let her eyes trail back down the street. She could not stop the sigh that passed her lips. “I know you’re disappointed we broke up, Mother, and that he’s a favorite of yours—”
“Because he loves you to bits and you just tossed him away. I honestly don’t know what else you think you can ask for in a man. It’s not about my disappointment, it’s about yours.”
“Mine?” She laughed lightly and met her mother’s gaze. “I’m happy, not disappointed. Stephen and I do much better as friends.”
“A husband who is your friend is the very best thing you can find,” she insisted. “I know you’re twenty-nine, but if you weren’t so naïve you would understand that. And you know Stephen is a good man. He’s also successful and he loved you before you won the lottery. You may never know what the next guy loves you for, you or your money.”
Anxiety stabbed Cassandra in the gut and her eyes jerked back to the street. “Is that what you think, Mother? That nobody else could ever love me except for my money?”
It was exactly her fear. Not just because of her sudden wealth, though that added an extra level of paranoia. But also because she’d never felt loved for herself—maybe because she’d never figured out who “herself” was. All her adult life she’d had boyfriends she’d strived to please, and she had pleased them. She was the ultimate chameleon. But every time she would end up displeased. Every relationship she’d had, she had ended because she didn’t feel seen, or understood, or loved for the right reasons.
And that was on her. She knew it. Because she’d always been somebody else in a relationship, whoever the guy wanted.
“Of course not.” Her mother waved the accusation off with a hand. “I don’t think that, but I worry that you’ll never believe otherwise. And you’re too young to realize what a rare find Stephen is.”
Steeling herself, Cassandra raised her chin. She wasn’t quite up to looking her mother in the eye, not today, but she said in a firm voice, “Look, I’m just not ready. And Stephen is not the one. Is it so bad that I want to be alone for a while?”
She felt her mother’s gaze on the side of her face for a long moment, before she said in an ominous tone, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Cassandra winced.
“Besides, you love Stephen, don’t you?” Her mother asked in a way that said she knew the answer already. “I’ve heard you say it to him a dozen times over the last two years.”
Cassandra looked down at her fingers on the edge of the window, her window, in her house. “Of course I do. He’s a wonderful person.”
“Then I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” Her mother turned and threw her hands gracefully out to her sides, looking at her with brows raised. “Some kind of cosmic message?”
Cassandra shoved her hands into the pocket
s of her overalls and turned, too, with a short laugh. “That would be good.”
Her mother smiled smugly. “Then look at this house. If anything is a cosmic message, it’s this place. You need help with it. You need a partner, a husband.”
Cassandra looked around the front room and an ethereal calm overtook her again, the same way it had the very first time she’d walked into the place.
She shook her head, breathing deep. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t need any help here. If anything, this place will take care of me.”
She had wanted this place since the first time she’d seen it, all those years ago on television when that poor man had disappeared. The story had been heartbreaking, but the moment she’d seen the house she’d known it belonged to her in some predestined way.
Of course it had been impossible to do anything more than dream of it until two years ago, when she’d won the lottery. What a weird, wild whirlwind that had been. Thank God it was calming down now. Somebody in Rockville had recently won the Powerball lottery—nearly ten times the money she’d won—so she was old news. Thank all the powers that be.
But if her mother wanted to talk about cosmic messages, Cassandra could bring up how this place suddenly came on the market right when she—miraculously and unexpectedly—had the money to buy it. After being empty for twenty-four years!
“Listen, I know you think I’m browbeating you,” her mother said in her reasonable voice. “I’m just worried you’re going to lose Stephen completely and not know how much you wanted him until he’s gone.”
A gust of cold air washed through the room. Cassandra looked up, but her mother didn’t seem to notice.
Stephen’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later he walked into the front room with a bunch of greasy old pipes in his hands. “It looks like they found the leak all right.”
Cassandra beelined across the room toward him. “What’s all that? What did you do? Did you take something out?”