"Good-bye, Annabelle."
With an exasperated sigh, I turn away and head toward the door. There's a display of new paperback releases just in front of the security desk. I pause for a moment to scan the titles. It's been weeks since I've had an attention span suitable for reading, but I miss the escapism of a good book. I finger a Maeve Binchy novel, considering.
"I highly recommend that one."
Marjorie comes up beside me, her glasses on a purple cord around her neck, her grey hair twisted into a loose topknot on her head, and nods toward the display. "The Jeannette Winterson is excellent, too. I think you'd enjoy it immensely."
I smile at my boss, genuinely smile. She holds her arms wide, and I walk into them, grateful for the simple human contact. "How are you doing, Darcy?"
"Oh, you know..." My lower lip trembles despite my best efforts, and my chest begins to heave with swallowed sobs.
"You've got to let it out, dear. You've got to let it hurt, or you'll never heal." She pulls back from me with a tender look and sweeps my hair from my eyes. "I'm speaking from experience. The best advice I can give you? Cry. Cry until you can't cry any more. You have to grieve."
"I'm sure you're right, Marjorie. I've been so tense—"
"You look tense!" She squeezes both of my hands. "Have you been taking care of yourself? Getting enough rest?"
I shrug noncommittally and take the Jeannette Winterson novel from the rack. "Is this as good as her last one?"
The elderly woman regards me with a disapproving frown. "Why don't you join me for dinner tonight? We'll go somewhere nice, my treat. I'd love to catch you up on all of the library gossip." She winks.
"That's a sweet offer, but I don't know if it would be a good idea. I mean, not right now. I have to get some things in order at home—"
"Well, it's only nine o’clock." Marjorie gestures at the big round clock on the wall behind us. "You've got plenty of time to take care of chores and errands. What do you say we meet up at The Poseidon on Elizabeth Street around five o’clock?"
"But—"
"Consider it a favor. To me. Come on."
When I applied for the librarian position, Marjorie interviewed me, hired me, and welcomed me, a novice, with open arms. She spent weeks teaching me the ins and outs of the library and proved herself, again and again, a constant solace whenever the hours seemed too long and the patrons more difficult than usual. She's my friend, and I realize with a little surprise that I would enjoy a hour or two's worth of dinner conversation in her company.
"All right. Five o’clock."
"Great!" She squeezes my hands once more. "Let's get these books checked out for you, then. I'll take care of it. I think Annabelle's gone on her break—"
"Thank God for small blessings." I find my wallet in my purse and search its pockets for my library card.
---
Catherine and I dined at The Poseidon only once, for our three-year anniversary. The restaurant is pricey and impressive, with four thick white columns marking the entrance and a mural painted all over the outside walls: an ocean scene, populated by sea life and mermaids with starfish pinned in their long blonde hair.
I approach one of the mermaids and lay my hand flat on the wall. "This one reminds me of you," I told Catherine, pointing at the woman lying on a rock at the bottom of the sea.
"Darcy?" Marjorie startles me, coming up from behind to clutch my elbow. "Lovely painting, isn't it? Done by a local artist, you know. Woman by the name of Alice. She's a nurse at the hospital, very sweet girl. Always helpful and kind."
I examine the mermaid again, more intently. "I have a friend named Alis. A nurse. I wonder if you mean her. She never mentioned that she paints, though."
Marjorie shrugs. "Could be."
"Hmm, I'll have to ask her about it. She might be moving in with me soon, actually."
"Oh?" My boss's brows lift, questioning.
I smile at her insinuation and shake my head. "We're just friends. She's going through a rough spot and needs a place to stay. That's all."
"Well, it would be nice for you to have someone around. Not many of us are suited to a solitary life."
"No," I agree, glancing at the mermaid once more before allowing Marjorie to lead me through the restaurant doors. A waitress dressed in blue seats us at a mosaic-inlaid table next to the angelfish aquarium.
"A bottle of your best red wine, please." Marjorie thanks the waitress, who hurries off, and lays her napkin across her lap. She smiles brightly at me. "So, tell me what you've been doing with yourself, Darcy."
I shift my gaze and watch the fish, thinking hard. How much should I tell Marjorie? Anything? Nothing? Can I confide in her? I don't doubt her discretion, but it might be a bit uncomfortable to continue working at the library if she thought I was certifiably insane.
"Oh... I've just been staying busy. I don't want to bore you with a play-by-play." I attempt a grin. "I'd much rather hear about the latest library drama. Who has Annabelle offended this week?"
"Who hasn't she offended?" Marjorie gestures helplessly with her hands. "I think even the library ghost is annoyed with her at this point."
The waitress returns with our wine and pours two glassfuls. I sip mine, savoring the bittersweet flavor on my tongue. Marjorie orders salmon, and I opt for the only vegetarian dish on the menu, a portabella and pasta salad. My empty stomach growls in anticipation of food. I haven't eaten yet today. I spent the afternoon trying, in vain, to read and eventually just fell asleep on the living room sofa. No dreams.
"Marjorie..." I toy with the silverware, weighing my next words. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
She tilts her head, wine glass in hand. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, you mentioned the library ghost, and I just wondered... I mean, have you ever seen a ghost?"
"No, no, I haven't seen a ghost. But I've heard footsteps in the children's wing—fast, clicking footsteps, like a little girl running in her Mary Janes. I suppose I believe ghosts could exist." She watches the fish in the aquarium for a moment, her eyes faraway. "When my husband Lloyd died, sometimes I smelled his cologne—"
"You did?"
She waves a hand dismissively. "He wore so much of the stuff, it probably seeped into the mattress and carpets. I doubt there was anything supernatural going on. But...I remember wishing that his spirit really was with me, watching over me. All I wanted was one word, one touch from him. Just one more. Of course that was impossible." She downs the rest of her wine and refills the glass, before topping off mine, as well.
"Thank you." I rotate the glass stem in my fingers, chewing on my lip. "What if it was possible?"
"What do you mean?"
"I just... I've felt Catherine's presence, Marjorie."
"Felt? As in a physical sensation? Or some sort of sixth sense?"
Grateful that she didn't laugh at my admission, I decide to be cautiously honest. "Both, I guess. I... I smell her perfume. That was the first thing I noticed after she died, her scent. She always wore the same one. If you put a thousand perfume bottles under my nose, I could recognize hers. And...every once in awhile, especially—" I hesitate, taking another drink before continuing. "It's strongest at our cabin. She always wrote there."
Marjorie temples her fingers beneath her chin. The silence worries me. What is she thinking? Finally, with an exhalation of breath, she shrugs her shoulders. "Sounds like a haunting to me. I know you aren't one for making up stories. You say it's true, so it must be."
"Then...then you believe me? You believe that Catherine has become a ghost?"
She screws her mouth up sideways, thinking. "Well, I don't know what ghosts are, whether they're a deceased person's spirit or just a remnant, a memory... Like an imprint, a stain. But Lord knows I've read enough books about them. All fiction, of course. I do have a friend, though..."
"What sort of friend?"
"A psychic, I suppose. Clairvoyant. To be frank, I've never seen her at work and can't attest to her authenticity, but we
've known each other since my undergraduate days at Ohio State—you don't want to know how many years ago that was—and we've kept in touch. If you wanted, I could give you her number."
"Oh, well..." I don't really want a stranger's assistance, or anyone's assistance, for that matter. I just need to talk about what's been happening, to make certain that I'm not imagining it all. Confirmation would do wonders for my state of mind. "All right. I'd like to speak with her, I think."
Marjorie pulls a pen, a notepad and a small black book from her shoulder bag. She thumbs for a moment through the pages of the book. "Here we are. Genevieve McLeery." She scribbles the phone number on the notepad and then tears the page off, handing it to me. I fold it in half and slide it into my bag.
"Thank you for listening. I know it must sound very odd to you, but...I do believe Catherine is trying to communicate with me. I just can't figure out why she's still here, why her soul hasn't moved on."
"Unfinished business," Marjorie replies, nodding. "Either that, or she doesn't realize she's dead."
I remember Catherine's heartwrenching sobs when she entered my body, her sorrow coursing through me, within me, becoming mine. "No. She knows she's dead. I'm sure of that."
"Oh? Have there been other manifestations, besides the perfume?"
"Yes. I haven't seen her, but..." My eyes immediately spill over, and I hide my face in my hands, ashamed.
"Now, now, dear," Marjorie whispers, patting my arm and producing a tissue from her purse. "Remember what I told you about crying. You've got to do it. Don't stop yourself on my account."
I take the tissue from her and swipe at the sore skin around my eyes.
"I want to see you emerge from this stronger than ever before. Strong and invincible. An Amazon!"
I laugh hoarsely. "Marjorie, I couldn't be less of an Amazon if I tried. I've never felt so helpless and unmotivated. Sometimes I don't bother to crawl out of bed until mid-afternoon. I forget to eat. My savings are running low. I just...don't care. About anything."
"Well—" She eyes me behind her thick glasses. "You have one of two choices here. Either pull yourself up by your bootstraps and snap out of it, or..." She pauses for dramatic effect.
"Or?"
"Get thee to a nunnery!" Marjorie smiles, teasing, but the Ophelia reference stills my heart. I wonder if I'll ever be able to encounter Shakespearean quotations without connecting them with my loss of Catherine.
"Dear, it's going to take some time. But every day, bit by bit, almost imperceptibly, you'll get better. Until, one morning, you'll wake up and declare, 'I think I'll go back to work at the library today,' and, I, for one, will rejoice to share my working hours with you again."
I stopped crying, but now tears of a different sort sting my eyes. "You're so kind."
"No, only honest."
"I have to admit… I'm encouraged by the fact that you've been through this, with your husband. And you're fine, a normal, fully functional woman."
"Well…" She looks down at her hands in her lap. "I suppose I am, Darcy, but there are scars. I won't lie. Some days, when I wake up alone and lonely, I curse every divine entity I can think of for stealing Arthur away from me."
A lump forms in my throat—for her and for myself. "It just isn't fair."
"No. That's the sticking point, isn't it? It isn't fair. And it makes no sense, serves no purpose. But, you know, you can't focus on that aspect, or you'll drive yourself mad. Just remember Catherine. Honor her memory by living the life she would have wanted for you."
I think back to yesterday, at the cabin. What Catherine wanted, for both me and herself, seemed very clear. My body warms at the memory, and an ache stirs deep within me. I squirm in my chair, pressing hands to my flustered face. Marjorie would likely be stunned if I told her about my experience, and more than a little embarrassed—as would I.
I can't tell her. I can't tell anyone.
The waitress returns with our dinner plates, and we eat in companionable silence.
Chapter Ten
It's snowing. I peer outside, through the living room window of the cabin, and frown at the gauzy curtain of snowflakes. The frozen ground is freshly white. At least the room is warming; I started up the generator when I arrived, around ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes, and no sign of Catherine.
I sit down on the couch, restless, one hand absentmindedly stroking Portia's back. She purrs her appreciation and flops onto her side, eyes closed. I watch her, envious, and then stand up and walk into the bathroom.
The "C" is still visible, a faint curve, on the mirror glass. I trace it with my fingertip, and a longing consumes me with such violent passion that I have to fight the urge to collapse, to fall to my knees.
"Where are you?" I whisper, looking up, down, behind; my heart beats hard within my chest: anxiety and lust. I moan softly, then sigh.
What will I do if she's gone away for good? To...heaven? Or wherever it is that lost souls end up? I don't want to think about that. I pace in the living room, chewing on my thumbnail. It's early evening. After Marjorie and I parted ways, I felt a compulsion to come back here as quickly as possible, to attempt to determine what it is that's keeping Catherine trapped in this place. Is it me? Narcissistic thought...
"Unfinished business," Marjorie said.
I glance at the typewriter. Obviously, Catherine's play is incomplete. But how could she expect to— The answer comes to me before I finish the question. I walk over to the desk and grasp the back of the chair. If I help her with this, if she writes the rest of the play, she may disappear afterward. "The end" could be the end of her presence in my life. I press the heel of my hand to my head, which has begun to ache.
No.
I can't deny her this, no matter how painful the consequences for me.
"I'm here," I breathe, low and quavery. "Use me to do this, Catherine. I'm here. At the typewriter."
No sooner do I seat myself at the desk than I feel her enter my body, all at once this time instead of limb by limb, and I'm falling deep down within myself, peering out through my eyes as if through a periscope; everything appears blurry, far away.
The only senses that remain to me are sight and hearing, and the lull of the typewriter keys grows distant, white noise. I'm sleepy but have no eyes to close, no body to rest. My mind drifts, empty now, in a hazy state of meditation...
It's the cat that draws me back. I feel her weight on my lap first, her warm body vibrating with purrs, and then sense a weight, light and familiar, in my hands, which lay—I blink, vision clearing—upon the desk in front of me.
I'm clasping something. A small black velvet box.
Shaking, I open it.
The heart-shaped diamond ring gleams, starlike, in its four-pronged setting. I can only stare, open-mouthed, inwardly reeling, as the significance of the jewel in my palm hits home.
Catherine wanted to marry me. She was going to propose.
I put the ring box on the desk and try to swallow, but my mouth and throat are too dry. Half-consciously, I pick up the play manuscript and flip through the last few pages. New. Just written. And there's another sheet in the typewriter now, with only a single line of print.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."
I read it, and weep.
---
The ring raps lightly against my chest, inside my jacket, as I walk back to the house, the metal warm now from the heat of my skin. It dangles from my neck on the silver chain I always wear. I can't bear the thought of putting it on my finger. I'm hot, with emotion, love, rage; the snowflakes melt upon contact with my face. I feel everything and think nothing. Portia stayed behind at the cabin. Perceptive cat. Somehow she knows that, right now, or perhaps forever, I need time alone.
My unstopping footsteps carry me over the snow-covered path so quickly that I am startled to find myself at the driveway so soon but even more startled to note a truck parked beside my car. The words "JLS Trucking" are painted on the driver's side door in a jagg
ed font.
He's waiting for me on the front porch, arms crossed, leaning against the railing. Waiting...in the same spot that Portia waited on the day I found Catherine's body.
"Jason," I say, pacing toward him without hesitation, the emotions stirred up by my visit to the cabin still ruling my head. "Can I help you?"
He scoffs, as I knew he would. "You can help me," he growls, "by keeping your nose out of my business and your hands off of my wife."
"Excuse me?" I stare at him with open distaste. "What are you insinuating?"
"I'm insinuating," he simpers, stepping down to confront me at eye level, close enough to smell the reek of alcohol on his breath, "that, if you know what's good for you, you ought to steer clear of Alis and stop putting ideas in her head. She was happy until you started messing with her. Now she's talking about a divorce—"
"Jason, Alis is a grown woman, and she came to her own conclusions. I listened and offered advice, as any good friend would."
"Good friend! Well, that's a laugh, isn't it? Is that what you lesbos call yourselves now, 'good friends'?"
I wince in response to the lingering of his unwelcome presence, so near and foul, when all I want is silence, an empty house, an empty heart. Instead, his hostility makes my blood boil over, and when he steps forward, shoulders shoved toward me, menacing, threatening, I push him with all the rage I possess back, away, and he falls against the steps, looking stricken.
"Get off my property," I hiss. "Now. I have no qualms about calling the police."
He leans back against the staircase, his surprised expression giving way to underlying hatred. "Got no qualms about getting naked with another man's wife, either, do you, lesbo?"
Suddenly, his shirt lapels are gripped fiercely in my hands. Our noses are practically touching, and the stench of beer fuels my fury. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. So I'll reiterate. You're trespassing. Get off my property now, or we're going to have a serious problem—and I think you've got enough legal issues to deal with at the moment, don't you?"
The Ghost of a Chance Page 6