There are three other non-family dinner guests beside myself, all of them Alis' co-workers from the hospital. Her husband, Jason, owns a trucking business but resembles a high-powered executive. He wears several gold rings on his fingers, and his nails are manicured, his brown hair sharply styled. When Alis introduces us, he barely nods, his small eyes glued to the football game on the television screen.
Alis' taste in men surprises me.
She takes me by the arm. "You can sit right here, Darcy. I'll be beside you. Just give me a minute to serve the food." She pats my hand reassuringly.
Despite my misgivings, I find myself calm and—wonder of wonders—hungry. My neglected stomach grumbles in response to the scents of warm pumpkin pie and buttered squash emanating from the kitchen.
I can't remember the last time I ate a home-cooked meal. Lately my diet has consisted of cold pizza and lukewarm water from the tap.
Conversation drifts in and out of my consciousness. I reply appropriately when addressed but find it difficult to pay attention to the lighthearted small talk of Alis' friends.
One of the nurses—Caroline—smiles at me with blatant invitation from the other side of the table. She’s small and pretty, a long-haired brunette. Her black-framed glasses encircle eyes of deepest amber, and her flattering copper sheath plunges low in a deep, sweeping cowl. On her left hand she wears a silver ring with a triangular pink inset.
Obviously a lesbian.
I toss a narrowed glance at Alis, who is working hurriedly in the kitchen, and wonder if Caroline is her well-meant but untimely attempt to set me up on a date with another woman.
"You're so quiet." Caroline takes a sip from her wine glass, her teasing eyes holding mine captive. "Alis has told me a lot about you, you know."
"Has she?" I shift in my chair, suddenly very warm. "We haven't known each other long. I can't imagine what she had to say."
"Oh, she mentioned that you were tall, dark and beautiful, but I thought she was exaggerating." I feel a pressure on my foot: Caroline's pointed shoe, which begins a slow ascent up my leg. I raise an unamused brow, but Caroline is persistent. "She wasn't. Exaggerating, I mean."
Flustered, I stand up and excuse myself, turning my head to hide a deepening blush.
"Hurry back." Caroline winks at me, laughing.
I flick on the light in the small downstairs half-bath, shut and lock the door behind me, and stand in front of the sink, staring at my red face in the medicine cabinet mirror. My hand rests on my chest, over my heart. It's beating so fast. I look like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed and too terrified to move.
I can't do this. I can't be here.
I'm not ready.
Moments pass. I breathe in deeply, willing my nerves to destimulate, and am horrified to find my thoughts turn toward Caroline, her eyes—imagining those eyes, in the dark, above me, those lips on my lips: hard, loveless kisses... Nothing but skin between us. No romance. No promises. No tomorrows. Just one night of letting go, forgetting everything before and after, pretending to be someone else for an hour or two.
It would be easy. I could invite her to my house tonight. She would leave with me; I know she would. "Follow me upstairs," I'd say, and she'd follow—or perhaps she'd lead.
But Portia would see us. Portia wouldn't forgive me.
Oh, never mind the cat. I wouldn't forgive myself.
I sob helplessly into the sink, knocking my forehead against the mirror.
Catherine was going to prepare Thanksgiving dinner this year. For just the two of us. No friends, no family. Neither of us cared much for our families. Mine keeps little contact with me; any correspondences—by mail, phone or Internet—are stiff, impersonal, obligatory. My parents have never disowned me officially, but they've made it quite clear over the years that they’re ashamed of my "lifestyle." Every year, they send a Christmas card addressed only to me, never Catherine, with a note explaining that a donation has been made in my name to their current pet charity, the more Christian and Conservative, the better.
If only Catherine could hold me right now, just for one minute... Maybe then I'd have the will to move on. I just want to feel her arms around me, her breath in my hair. Why can't I have that? Something so simple and ordinary and sweet.
It isn't fair.
I tilt my head backward, close my eyes, and imagine not Caroline's but Catherine's eyes smoldering over me as I lie beneath, her lips pink and parted, hungry to connect with my own. But she knows how I love to be teased, tormented, and denies me those lips for as long as either one of us can stand it, instead tracing feather-light fingertips over my neck, my breasts, my stomach...lower still—
"Darcy?"
With a start, I realize that I’m sitting on the floor, against the door, with my arms wrapped around my knees. Alis knocks again.
"Darcy, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I lie, rising and turning on the faucet. I take the cool water in my hands and splash it on my still-red face. "I'll be out in a second."
As much as I long to climb out of the window and run all the way home, I decide that it would be better to stay, eat Thanksgiving dinner and then call a taxi to make my escape. By that point, everyone will be so stuffed and sleepy, full of turkey and dessert and wine, that they won't notice my absence.
The plan works, more or less. I have little appetite, after all, but take small bites of the turkey-like tofu Alis made just for me out of politeness. Whenever her blue eyes catch mine, they seem so concerned, so encouraging. I stop looking at her. I try to avoid Caroline's gaze, too, but she’s far more insistent, addressing me directly, confusing me with her bedroom smile.
Unexpectedly, it’s Alis' husband who makes the most effort at including me in the conversation.
"That's some pretty land you've got up there, Darcy. What is it, ten, fifteen acres?" His unschooled accent catches me off-guard, so inconsistent with his well-coiffed, metrosexual appearance.
"Twenty-three." I spoon up some mashed potatoes reluctantly, anxious to appear normal now that the table's attention is focused on me.
"And Alis tells me you've got a log cabin out there, too, along with the big house?"
Panic clutches my heart. No, we can't talk about the cabin. Not Catherine's cabin...
Alis covers my hand with her own. "Jason, there are some gorgeous apple trees in the back orchard," she says, pointedly changing the subject. "And a cherry tree, too, I think?"
I nod. Yes, there is a cherry tree.
"I don't think I've told you, Darcy," Alis says, "but I love making jams and preserves. Maybe we could do that together sometime."
Alis' smile can't reach me here; I'm too far away. But I nod again and spear a green bean with my fork.
"So you ever do any hunting on your land?" Jason persists, slathering his meat with enough gravy to drown a small animal. "Bet you've got herds of deer right in your backyard. Maybe while you and Alis are picking apples, I could shoot a ten-point for you two girls to fry up, make a proper feast." He chuckles.
"No, I don't permit hunting," I reply evenly, glaring at him.
Alis, to my surprise, matches my look. "Besides, Jason, Darcy doesn't eat meat."
He scoffs. "All you lezzies are vegetarians nowadays."
"Um, excuse me?" Caroline pointedly stuffs a slice of turkey into her mouth. "Not all."
I turn to Alis. "I think I'd like to go home now. I've got a headache."
"Ah, don't rush off!" Jason wags a finger at me. "It isn't nice to eat and run, and the fun's only just beginning."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I murmur, bowing my head toward Alis apologetically. "I really have to go. I'll call a cab."
"No, I'll drive you." Alis places her napkin on the table and leads me by the arm to the mudroom, where we gather up our coats and boots.
Just as we're about to walk out the door, someone grabs my hand. I turn to face Caroline, all impish curves and lashes. "In case you get lonely." She presses a card into my hand and saunters
back into the dining room.
I step outside into the chilly night to join Alis, who's waiting for me in the car.
"I wasn't trying to set you up," she insists as soon as I slide in and close the passenger door. "I swear I wasn't. It's just that...I overheard Caroline mention at work that she was going to spend Thanksgiving alone, and I felt sorry for her, and I thought you two might—"
"Hit it off?"
"Well, have things in common. Relate to each other." She blushes. "You know what I mean. I hoped you might feel more comfortable opening up to her about how you're feeling."
"Alis." I don't know how to respond. I'm touched by her thoughtfulness. Besides Catherine, I've never known anyone who was so genuinely caring, without selfish motivations. I certainly couldn't lay claim to that virtue myself.
"That's sweet, Alis, but the simple coincidence that we're both lesbians doesn't mean that we'll be instant friends."
"I know that. I just—"
"You're a good person. I don't trust people easily, but...I do trust you." I laugh hoarsely. "For the record, it doesn't matter to me whether you're gay or straight. It's just too soon for me to confide in anyone. When I'm ready, though, yours will be the first number I call."
She smiles softly, sweetly. "Promise?"
"I promise."
"Good." She taps her fingers on the wheel, suddenly in high spirits. "But, Darcy, for the record? I'm not as straight as you think I am."
"Oh, really?"
"Hey, I went to college..."
"Ah, the freshman year lesbian experience."
She shrugs. "It was something like that. But then I met Jason at a bar and..."
"Love at first sight, hmm?"
She doesn't reply.
Chapter Five
The dream comes to me that night.
I walk through the woods, my woods, but all of the trees have been overrun by thorn bushes—so tall and arching that they obscure the sky. I can scarcely see my hand in front of my face, but there are a few things I know: I am naked, bleeding, and I'm searching for Catherine.
Her voice leads me through the prickly mire, faraway but hopeful. "Darcy, I'm waiting for you. Where are you?"
Tears streak my face; every step, every movement brings greater pain. But I have to find Catherine. It's because we're apart that these thorns have grown rampant in our forest. Jagged branches claw at me, tear my skin, and I can only whisper, whimper, "I'm trying. I'm trying my best."
"Darcy, don't give up! I'm here. I'm waiting."
Frustrated, I dash madly through the thorns, heedless of their needles, and feel the prickle of blood. Where is she?
Where, where, where?
My arms and legs feel weak, boneless, like doll's limbs full of cotton. I fall to my knees, hair and skin catching, pulling, ripping, and bury my head in my hands. There are so many scratches and punctures in my ravaged body; I fear that, at any moment, I may burst at the seams.
But then the white cat comes—Portia—to sit beside me. Her purrs sooth me. I smile meekly at her and stroke her back.
"Darcy, please hurry!"
Portia and I crane our necks in the direction of the voice. Catherine's closer now. If I can muster up the strength to stand, I'll find her soon, very soon. I feel certain of it.
"Help me, Darcy! I need you."
"I need you, too," I say, staggering on swollen feet, shielding my eyes from the thorns.
"Mrrow." Portia prances in front of me, tail up, and gestures with her small head as if to indicate Follow me. Miraculously, the bushes, with a sound like bones breaking, uproot themselves when she approaches them, effectively clearing a path large enough for me to pass through, unsnagged, still whole.
Speechless, I stumble along, aching, bewildered, listening closely to every whisper of wind and crackle of leaf, in my attempts to locate Catherine.
And then, before I can acknowledge the scene approaching through the widening gap, Portia sprints out of sight. "Stop!" I'm running now, because here’s a clearing. The thorns bend back upon themselves with a hiss, conquered. And sky! I open my arms wide, embracing it. I hear birds, a stream. I hear flowers growing; the petals unfurl first with a yawn and then a giggle. Spring. I've found spring.
And Catherine's cabin, her woodland writing retreat.
There is a breath-holding urgency, a sense of Something Important, as I gaze wonderingly at the square log structure, mahogany in the yellow sunlight. I squint at the open windows, scanning for movement, and my heart skips when Portia jumps onto the sill from the inside, her white tail flicking, her eyes fixed on me.
"Darcy, is that you?"
I run, trip, catch myself on still-bleeding hands, and run some more, all the way to the door, which creaks open slowly, bidding me to come in, before I even lay a finger on it.
I expect to find Catherine at her typewriter, stabbing noisily at the keys—she loves the sound the letters make. Each one sounds distinctly different, she says. She can recognize them with her eyes closed. She proved it to me once. I spelled out, "I love you." She tied a handkerchief over her face and recited each letter the moment after I hit its key, then called me silly and kissed my fingers—every one of them, so that none would feel left out.
But the typewriter’s silent. The cabin is empty, except for Portia, still perched at the window, half in and half out. I swallow and move through the rooms—there are only four of them, and all very small—before accepting the fact that Catherine is not here. How could she be?
Catherine is dead.
I remember.
I sit down on the bed carefully. I hold my back very straight, my legs together, my lips pursed to the point of physical pain.
But where did the voice come from? I wonder idly, unable and unwilling to move now that my hopes are gone; I feel the full weight of my solitude and close my heavy lids.
Tap.
The typewriter.
Tap, tap, tap.
There is no one at the typewriter, but I watch the keys depress. Ink marks the white page. A word. A string of words. A sentence.
With a complaint from the bed springs, I rise and make haste to the desk, too hurt to be afraid, and pull the paper from the roller.
I AM HERE. LOOK UP.
My eyes lift to the mirror hanging on the wall above the typewriter, and Catherine is there, her face beside my face, gazing with such love at my reflection, hovering over my shoulder. Behind me—
I spin around and fall into her arms. Catherine, here, so warm, so alive... Violets and lilacs. Skin against skin.
"Come," she whispers in her soft, lilting voice, planting a kiss on my neck, beneath my ear. I feel her teeth, her tongue.
"I'll do anything, anything."
Her lips curve against me. "Come to my cabin."
---
We bought the house and its property, including the cabin, four years ago. Catherine was still living with roommates in New York City at the time, and I had an apartment not far from here with a nice view of the Rockies, in easy commuting distance of the library. Maintaining our relationship across state lines was emotionally and physically exhausting. Every other month, I would fly east to visit her. On the opposite month, Catherine would fly west to stay with me. But her living arrangement was so chaotic, and my apartment was so small, with a twin-size bed, no less, that we often stayed in motel rooms—cheap, outdated places with coin massage beds and shag carpeting on the walls.
After months and months of these rendezvous, Catherine and I decided that it would be more economical for our bank accounts, and much more kind to our hearts, if we moved in together. I hated New York City, and Catherine was tired of its rush, so we found ourselves a realtor—an old high school classmate of mine—and started shopping around for a house in the Colorado mountains.
Ultimately, it was the cabin that sold us on this place. Nestled among trees, miles from any neighbors. Our very own log cabin! The big house, too, was beautiful with its farmhouse charm and expansive, enclosed front porch
, and in fair condition, despite its age.
"It is what it is," the inspector, Bruce, told us, making checkmarks on the clipboard in his hands. "Probably need a new roof in five, six years. New furnace in four. Plumbing looks good." He ran his hand over the thick beams crisscrossing the basement ceiling. "They don't make them like this anymore. This house will be here long after we're all gone."
We handed him a $300 check. Three months and reams of paperwork later, our realtor handed us to the keys to our new home. Catherine wasted no time in setting up her typewriter in the cabin, while I focused my attentions on the big house—choosing color schemes, painting, refinishing the floors... Catherine sewed all of the window treatments herself.
Portia, the city cat, seemed to adapt to country life without a moment's hesitation. She caught her first mouse that summer and presented it to us during a picnic of apples and sandwiches by the stream in the woods.
We weren't quite certain what to do with all of the acreage that came along with the property. Catherine had dreams of starting a cat rescue, or building a little theater for performances of her plays, or setting up a haunted hayride for the neighborhood kids in October. She’d never had a backyard before, much less land, gardens, trees. It made her giddy. She loved nature and soon began spending the majority of her free time wandering outside, bringing treasures from her walks home for me: a piece of quartz, an opaline shell, a stone shaped like a perfect heart.
I still have that heart; it's at the bottom of my jewelry box, wrapped in red tissue paper. "Will you be my Valentine?" she'd asked me, though it wasn't Valentine's Day, or even February. I remember the look in her eyes when she held the rock out to me, flat on her palm, with a smile so full of love and joy that I felt my own heart tremble and expand, near to bursting.
Catherine loved the big house as much as I did, but the cabin—and the woods—were her queendom.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and sigh, my mind grasping desperately at the last tendrils of the dream, trying to recapture the exhilaration, the peace, of those few precious moments in Catherine's arms just before I woke up. I turn my head to confront the vacant pillow beside me. For the first time in nearly two months, the sight doesn't fill me with hopelessness.
The Ghost of a Chance Page 3