The Ghost of a Chance

by Vivien, Natalie

  Come to my cabin.

  I sit up and stretch. It feels good. I feel good.

  The snow swirls outside my bedroom window, but there's a warm place flickering within me that no winter wind can put out.

  I think I'm in the mood for a walk.

  Chapter Six

  It's cold. I forgot my hat. And scarf. Portia trots companionably beside me, warm as can be within her winter-shaggy fur coat, while my teeth chatter, and I plunge ungloved hands into the deep pockets of my ski jacket. At least the wind has died down. Around us, the trees, branches sagging, still heavy with snow, are motionless. They look—I want to say sad but, no—thoughtful. A crow caws rudely in the silence, and Portia, suddenly tense, follows its black flight with her eyes, looking every bit the lioness.

  Damage from the strange September storm is most prevalent in the deep forest, where newly fallen trunks have collided with other, smaller trees, causing a domino effect, obstructing the footpath. I clamber over one particularly old wooden victim with a pant and a sigh, patting its dead bark regretfully when I reach the other side. But how can I mourn trees when I lost, to the same whim of nature, the only person I ever truly loved?

  And Catherine loved winter. She was born in February and sometimes wore a snowflake ring on a chain around her neck, a memento from her past. I never asked her where it came from. I never asked her a lot of things. She was secretive about her years in New York.

  I tuck my chin into my collar, cursing myself again for leaving the house without a scarf. The branches are so thick overhead that little light and less heat from the sun reaches these woods. The temperature seems to drop more and more with each and every snow-thick step I take. Portia has run far ahead, eager to reach our destination, one she knows so well. Whenever Catherine wrote, Portia planted herself solidly under her desk, a warm, constant presence, until the clacking of typewriter keys slowed and stopped. Then she would emerge, stretching her long white legs and yawning triumphantly.

  "She's my muse," Catherine told me once, sweeping the cat up onto her lap. "I could never write a word without her. Plus…" That smile. I can't bear to remember it. "She keeps my feet warm."

  Unlike Portia, I rarely stayed in the cabin while Catherine was writing. Whenever an idea overtook her, possessed her, she typed so quickly, so feverishly, projecting every bit of creative energy in her body onto the page, that I felt like an intruder, a nuisance, a pebble in the shoe of an artist at work.

  My chest hurts, full of frozen air. I dust the snow from a large flat-topped rock and sit down for a moment, taking shallow breaths. I can see the cabin from here, its sloped, snow-covered roof and narrow brick chimney, the weathervane that Catherine and I installed ourselves. It sways now.

  I think of my dream. The thorns... Metaphorical, obviously. And yet I can't help but hope—I can't say what. My eyes skip from the cabin to the path that Catherine followed on that fateful September day. I haven't been back here since. But I feel brave. Fists clenched in my pockets, I stand up and march the hundred feet or so remaining between myself and the cabin's door.

  Which stands ajar, just as it did in my dream.

  But, this time, it doesn't open for me of its own accord. I push it firmly, aware of cold wood against my clammy palm, and walk straight into the living room without hesitation. If I stop, if I think, I'll run. But I have to do this; I have to move forward. Come to my cabin.

  Instinctively, I turn toward the desk. There is no mirror on the wall behind it; there never was. Instead, a corkboard tacked with handwritten notes, articles and photographs hangs right above the typewriter, at the eye level of someone seated in the chair. A half-typed sheet of white paper remains coiled in the typewriter's roller, awaiting inspiration.

  I touch the sheet with reverent fingertips, overcome by emotion. These are the last words Catherine ever wrote.

  My heart trembles.

  I can't read them. Not yet. My hand falls on the ream of paper at the side of the typewriter, upside-down sheets covered with ink. Her manuscript. Her final play. I hoist the stack into my arms and carefully turn it over, to the title page on top.

  The Food of Love

  A play in three acts

  by Catherine Corde

  It's a Shakespearean reference—that soliloquy from Twelfth Night. "If music be the food of love, play on..." We memorized it in ninth grade English. Funny how things like that stay with you, even as you forget names of acquaintances, important dates, the sweet/salty taste of your dead lover's skin... I scan the second page, struck dumb by the character names, and then put the sheaf back on the desk and sit down in the chair, facing the typewriter.

  Catherine was mad about Shakespeare and had plans to write a series of plays based on his major works, all with lesbian leads. She had put together outlines for several of them. Twelfth Night was to be her first project. That play was lesbian enough in its original context, and Viola had long been Catherine's favorite literary character, Shakespearean or otherwise. So often, she dreamed of writing and producing her rewrite of Viola's tale and casting herself in the starring role, as the shipwrecked orphan, forced to masquerade as something she was not in order to secure her own chance at happiness...

  My own temperament prefers Hamlet. I've always been drawn to tragic tales. That bothered Catherine; she loved nothing more than to laugh. I lived to make her laugh, and she made me laugh, too...

  I stare at the immobile keys, feeling hollow and lost. She was finally writing it, her beloved Twelfth Night. A half-conscious glance at the page in the roller tells me that the play is unfinished. She died before the last act.

  A fleeting thought: Maybe I could write the rest of it. But I have no confidence when it comes to the written word. I'm a reader, a cataloguer. Those who can't write...work at the library.

  So why do I feel this need within me? The image in my head is that of a dam about to break, spilling over with black ink.

  I’ve been so absorbed in thought that I failed to notice the fact that Portia has curled up under the desk, on my feet, and fallen fast asleep. These past weeks have brought us closer; before, she was Catherine's cat. I would pet her politely when she presented her tail and refill her bowls as they emptied, but besides that, we had a roommate sort of relationship. We lived together, conversed in passing, and led our very separate lives.

  It's different now. I reach down to scratch beneath her chin, and her paws spread reflexively, kneading at nothing, as she rolls onto her back, exposing the soft white fur of her underbelly. I pet her stomach hesitantly and am gratified to watch her stretch to her full length and reach up to paw my pant leg, claws retracted.

  "You may make a cat person of me yet," I say to her, managing the ghost of a smile, the best that I can muster given my strange mood and cracked heart.

  The door bangs shut with a boom that makes me catch my breath. I turn, half-expecting to see someone (oh, please, Catherine), but it was only the wind. I can hear it whistling now, and branches scratch at the rooftop. Portia and I are, sadly, alone.

  I wander into the costume room—not much larger than a closet, really, but all four walls are lined with shelves, boxes, clothing on hangers. Catherine sewed most of the costumes herself, for parts she portrayed and for fellow actors. I couldn't begin to count how many wigs she stacked up against the back wall; there must be dozens, all labeled and organized into plastic containers. Others, her favorites, are displayed on Styrofoam heads in neat rows, by color—ROY G. BIV—occupying the built-in bookshelves.

  With a wistful smile, my fingers graze the lace cuff of a lady pirate getup, the one she wore for a performance back in New York. It was a children's play, held at the park during a festival. She tossed chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil to the audience during the bows. I felt wicked, sitting amongst all of those innocents, for my less-than-innocent fantasies involving that black hat, those tall buckled boots, and nothing in the way of clothing in between... Of course, her typical roles were adult in nature. Some distressing
ly so. But she never kissed anyone on stage. It was her one and only stipulation. Nudity, fine. Kissing, never.

  She loved kissing me. Sometimes we would lie in bed and just kiss, for hours and hours, until we were both lightheaded and dizzy and laughing ourselves into hysterics.

  Again, I regard the typewriter, swallowing hard. Will I ever be prepared to read her words? Once I have read them, and there are no more— Well, it has to be done, sooner or later, and I have all the time in the world right now. My leave from the library is for an indeterminate amount of time—"as long as you need, Darcy"—and there are no other matters pressing on my mind. Chores, meals, bills...all can wait.

  My curiosity is unrelenting. I tear the page from the roller and begin to devour it with my eyes at once.

  VIOLA: You're a saucy one. But lovely, despite all else. I understand why Orsino desires you.

  OLIVIA: Desires me? Ha! Wants me for his collection, more like. His pretty parade, his "ladies of the night," eh? Fancy words, fancy clothes. When it all comes down to a pile of dirty bed sheets, spit and groans, what's the use of airs, then?

  VIOLA: Lady, I do not think he will give up this courtship. His flame for you burns too bright. Were I in his place, I could not give it up, either—nor would I want to.

  OLIVIA: Oh? And how would you..."court" me, as you say?

  I look away, draw in a deep breath. My tears stain the page, long wet grey smears blurring precious words, before I realize I’m crying. Half-blind, I flip through the entire manuscript, reading bits here and there.

  An odd tingling sensation begins to build up, starting from my fingertips, spreading upward, to my arms, shoulders... Now, my head. I cup my ears but feel nothing, numb, as if my whole body has fallen asleep. Downward the tingling goes, throughout my torso, traveling under and over my skin on tiny feet like pinpricks. I fall to the couch against the front wall, unable to stand on unfeeling feet.

  What’s happening? Something is— Why can't I—

  "Ohhhh..."

  The tingling stops, replaced by a gushing pressure that forces my insides to compress, make room, for this fullness in my chest... My heart expands, grows so large as to press against my ribs. My ribs...my heart... Our heart.

  Without willing it or bidding my body to move, I find myself walking, striding, confident and purposeful, in the direction of the bathroom. Panic infects my brain; my hair stands on end. I can't stop this. I'm trapped. Something is... Someone...

  We stand before the mirror, Catherine and I. The reflection is my own, save for the eyes. They’re green. Her eyes. Her soul glows within them, brilliant, hungry, wanting...

  "I want you, too," I try to say but only think. She has control of me, of us.

  I’m possessed. Catherine's spirit is inside of me. Two as one.

  Whole.

  Portia weaves between our legs, purring so loudly that I—we—laugh and kneel down to pet her smooth white back. When we stand up, Catherine gazes softly at the mirror, at me, lips parting. I want to touch her; I want her to touch me. As if she feels the same way, she leans toward the glass, breath fogging the surface, and gently kisses it. She moves my finger to draw a heart around the shape of her—our—lips, and then lays my hand on my cheek, caressing. I feel warm... The hand, at her command, traces the line of my neck, my collarbone. Fingers at my hips, unfastening the buttons, sliding in, down and within...reaching, probing.

  I can't respond, can't even cry out, but the waves shake me, undo me. I gasp without breath, moan without a voice. More, I want to beg. More, more—

  I collapse onto the floor, on hands and knees, sobbing like I have never sobbed before. Pleasure gives way to immediate pain. Our lungs ache, our head pounds... I can't hold her; I can't say anything. Mute and paralyzed, I understand what it means to be in hell.

  This is wrong.

  I want this to stop.

  And all at once, it does. My back arches, my fingers splay, and with a painful ripping sensation, she leaves me. She's gone. "Catherine?" My throat is sore with tears.

  Where has she gone?

  I can move. I rise, fearing my own limbs might, at any moment, move contrary to my bidding. They don't, but there’s no end to the black abyss within me, the open wound torn when Catherine left my soul.

  It has been there ever since she died, but now I feel it with all the trauma of an amputation. Nothing can fill this hole.

  The heart on the mirror fades, and I stare dimly at my reflection—pale, serious face; dark wavy hair. My brown eyes hold no hope.

  "Catherine..."

  I fall back to the floor and weep until my body runs dry. It doesn't take long.

  Chapter Seven

  "What you do mean by haunted?"

  The doubt in Alis' voice makes me cringe. She thinks I've gone crazy, started hallucinating. Well, I shouldn't have told her. Not that I told her much, only that there was something eerie about the cabin, that I thought I felt Catherine's presence there, maybe heard her voice. When I got back to the house, practically crawling with fatigue, I felt I had to talk to someone. So when Alis called, it seemed like fate.

  In all honesty, I did fear, for a fleeting instant, that I might be experiencing some form of mental breakdown, a disconnect with reality...

  "Oh, I don't know." I sigh into the receiver. "It was probably a dream, after all. You know, I sleep so often now, sometimes it's hard to tell whether it's morning or night, let alone whether or not I'm still sleeping."

  A pause. Then, "I think I should come over."

  "Don't be silly. It's eleven in the morning. You're at work! I'm..." I twirl the phone cord around my hand, tightly, until the skin turns pink. "I'm fine, Alis. Really."

  "You don't sound fine."

  I undo the cord and hold the receiver with both hands, surprised. "What do I sound like?"

  "Sick, to be honest. Do you have a cold?"

  "No, I've just been—" Which lie to tell? I certainly can't say, "I've just been possessed by Catherine's ghost and cried a river all over the cabin floor, so my throat's a bit sore and raw, but it's nothing to worry over."

  "I'm just tired," I finish tiredly. At least that's true.

  "Darcy..." Alis inhales deeply, exhales. "I don't mean to nag, but you still haven't made an appointment with that therapist—"

  "I'll call him when we hang up, I promise."

  "No, you won't. You have no intention of calling him."

  "Well, why should I talk to a stranger about the most personal details of my life? It makes no sense."

  "Then talk to me," she implores. I can picture her too-blue eyes, wide and pleading. "Look, I've got my break in half an hour. I'll drive out to your place—"

  "That isn't necessary. I told you, I'm fi—"

  "Then have lunch with me. I'll pick something up along the way. Vegetarian, of course."

  I nearly smile, but stop myself, still reluctant for company. "If you'd like," I say noncommittally.

  "I would like to see you. We're...we're friends, right? It's only natural for friends to have lunch together."

  There's no denying her. "All right. See you soon, then."

  "And, Darcy?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Don't go back to the cabin alone, okay?"

  "Right. Good-bye." I hang up and wipe my sweaty palm on the arm of the couch. The phone at the house had been ringing the moment I returned from the woods. I answered it without thinking. I should've let the machine pick up. I'm in no mood for conversation, for that caring, inquisitive gaze.

  Cranky, still shaken from the morning's events, I walk up the steps, into the bedroom, and stop at the dresser to open the lid of my jewelry box. There's nothing here that Catherine didn't give me—necklaces, rings, a pair of flashing opal earrings shaped like stars. Those were her birthday present to me only last August. One month before she died.

  I lift the top section of the jewelry box out to explore the contents below. Here, I keep my most precious keepsakes, letters and mementos. With a skipping heart
, I unwrap the heart-shaped rock, place it in my palm, enclose it with cold fingers. Its weight is good, a comfort to my formerly empty hand. I slip it into the pocket of my jeans and enjoy the hard pressure of it against my hip.

  My first letter from Catherine is at the very bottom of the box. Its edges have yellowed a bit with age. I unfold it carefully. The paper crackles in my hands.

  Catherine had large, looping handwriting. She always signed her name with the shape of a five-petaled flower hooked onto the "C."

  I can't touch the surface of the letter, afraid of smearing it or wrinkling it, or polluting its floral scent with my own perfume, dull and vanilla.

  A whiff of violets and lilacs fills my nostrils as I replace the letter in the box, cover it with the jewelry compartment and close the lid. I pat the rock in my pocket to make certain it's still there.

  I wrap my arms around myself, trying to cover up the hollow cavity where Catherine's heart nestled only hours ago.

  Empty now.

  ---

  Alis lays her car keys, along with a thick pile of unopened envelopes and a large paper bag, on the kitchen counter. "I brought in your mail. Looks like there are a lot of bills here..."

  "Oh." I rub at the back of my neck, regarding the letters with half-closed eyes. "I'll take care of them later. I've just been so..." My hands dangle in mid-air, useless, as I search for the right words. "Things like bills—" I pick up an envelope from the phone company but make no move to open it. "They seem inconsequential right now. I just—there's no room in my head to think of them."

  "Hey." Alis takes the bill from my hand and wraps me in her arms. "No one expects you to be fully functional at this point, Darcy. You need help." She pulls back a bit, moving her hands to my waist. "That's what I'm here for. I really..." Her eyes bore into mine, soft and searching. "I care about you."