The Ghost of a Chance

by Vivien, Natalie

  He laughs. "What, are you trying to scare me? You think you're stronger than me?"

  "No, but right now, I'm a lot angrier than you. Anger and adrenaline make for a potent cocktail." I hiss. "Go."

  He grunts, making sounds without words. I ease off cautiously and step backward, until I'm off of the steps, past the driveway and standing back on the snow-covered grass, several feet away from him. "Go," I repeat, with quiet wrath.

  "Touch Alis," he croaks as he stumbles awkwardly to his truck, "and I'll kill you." He opens the car door with a violent screech of metal and throws himself into the seat, slamming the door shut behind him. He starts the ignition and rolls the window down, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. "Dead!" he cries. "Just like your stupid hippie girlfriend. World's better off without your kind."

  I launch at his door, and he speeds off, gravel spitting up from his squealing tires. A rock hits my cheek; I smell blood.

  When his truck disappears from sight, I turn slowly and ascend the porch stairs, gripping the railing with both hands to maintain my balance. My heart is racing within me to the point that I'm nearly doubled over in pain, and my head aches from the aftereffects of the confrontation.

  How dare he? How dare he come here, spouting baseless lies? How dare he mention Catherine? I claw at the unlocked knob and kick the front door open with my shin. I spy the phone on the kitchen counter and begin, finally, to think.

  I should call Alis. He may have hurt her. She might need help.

  I sigh and place my hand on the receiver, which begins to ring in my grasp. The pulse of my heart quickens. I feel dizzy as I bring the phone to my ear.

  "Hello?"

  "Darcy—oh, thank God I've gotten hold of you. I've been trying for an hour. Jason's gone berserk. He smashed up the house, and I'm afraid he might be on his way to see you. You've got to get out—"

  "He's come and gone."

  "You mean, he's— What happened? Are you all right?"

  "No," I laugh bitterly. "I've never been less all right in my life, quite honestly, but I sent your bully of a husband away with his tail stuck between his legs, and, I have to say, I'm proud of it."

  "Seriously? He didn't hurt you? What did you do? Oh, Darcy, I'm so sorry about all of this. I should've never—"

  "It’s okay, Alis." I sit down at the table with a sigh. "He didn't get the chance to hurt me. Not physically, at least. Small words from a small man... I suppose you loved him at some point, but he's a terrible coward, and stupid, too. Remind me again why you married him? Was it the sex?"

  "Hardly." She says nothing for several moments. Then: "He got me pregnant. I lost the baby at five months. We were already Mr. and Mrs. Baker by that point. I knew I'd made a mistake; I wasn't in love with him."

  I rub at my temples, but the headache pounds on. "I'm glad to hear it, frankly, because I would have serious doubts about your judgment if you were in love with that idiot."

  "But, Darcy, what did he say to you?"

  "He threatened to murder me if I ever, quote, touch you, unquote. Apparently he thinks that you and I are having an affair."

  "The hypocrite!"

  "My thoughts exactly. Personally, I suspect his twisted little mind just enjoys the image of our naked bodies entwined together in secret lesbian passion..." My voice trails off. I regret the words, though I can't pinpoint why. "He's perverse to even imagine such a thing."

  "Yes," Alis agrees quietly. "I just can't apologize enough to you, especially after you offered to let me move into your beautiful house. Of course, that can't happen now, not after—"

  I sit up straighter. "Alis, I'm not afraid of Jason. My offer still stands. My home is your home, whenever and for as long as you need it. I’ve got room to spare."

  "Darcy, I couldn't—"

  "You can, and you will. Make an appointment with the local U-Haul. I want you here, safe, tonight."

  Chapter Eleven

  "This is it? This is everything that you own?" I survey the contents in the open trunk of Alis' sedan and toss her a doubtful look. "There must be more. Dishes, furniture, books..."

  "Oh, I brought the books." She points to a small box sealed shut with duct tape. "I don't own many books, only the ones that I can't live without. I borrow most of my reading materials from the library."

  "My library?"

  She nods, smiling.

  "It's strange... I don't remember seeing you there. But maybe that's why you looked so familiar to me when I woke up after—"

  I stop mid-sentence and busy my hands by hoisting the heavy box of books up and out of the car.

  "Well," I continue, "we'll have to get you a proper bookcase. There's already a nice bed in your room. Feel free to change the linens and curtains if you'd like. We could even the paint the walls. What's your favorite color?"

  "White, actually. I'm so boring." She laughs, unamused, removing a bag full of clothes from the trunk and setting it down at her feet.

  "White's a lovely color. Like snow."

  "I'm a little old-fashioned, I guess. I enjoy simplicity. Simple pleasures."

  We carry our respective burdens up the porch steps and into the house. "Such as?" I question, leading her up the main staircase.

  "Reading, hot chocolate, walks on the beach. God, I sound like a personals ad."

  "I think it’s sweet." I glance at her over my shoulder. Her cheeks are two spots of bright pink. "Okay, here we are. Your bedroom. Of course, you've seen it before." I set the box down on the floor and gesture at the dresser, the closet, the headboard-less double bed. "It isn't much, but I hope you'll find it cozy enough."

  "Oh, Darcy..." Without warning, her eyes teem over with tears, and she wraps her arms around my neck. "How can I ever thank you—"

  "Just try to be happy. That's all."

  "Only if you promise me that you'll try to be happy, too."

  Sighing, I rest my chin on her shoulder and cross my fingers behind her back. "I promise."

  "Good. It's a pact." She moves her hands to my shoulders and pulls back from me in order to meet my gaze. "We have to seal it. How do you think—by blood? My brothers used to make pacts by spitting into their palms, but that's kind of gross."

  "Definitely gross." Her smiling blue eyes swallow me whole, and I stagger, arcing toward her body, her mouth...

  She turns her head and hugs me—tightly—again. "Are you okay?"

  I am acutely aware of the rise of her chest against my own. We breathe in sync, and too fast for everyday conversation. "Yeah, I just... I'm feeling a little off today. Sorry."

  "Maybe you aren't up to lifting these heavy things, Darcy. I can manage myself. I'll unload the rest of the car."

  "No, give me a minute, and I'll be fine. Sit with me." I lead her by the hand to the bed. I bounce down onto the mattress with a creak and cross my legs. My foot begins to tap the air with a nervous twitch when Alis seats herself beside me, her thigh touching my own.

  "Jason didn't come home. I think he's with...that woman. And, you know, I am immeasurably grateful to her for keeping him out of the way while I packed and drove out here. Maybe she did me a huge favor, after all. She...she set me free."

  Alis beams at me, practically glowing with newfound hope. I find my heart fluttering, mothlike, drawn to her light. "It's the start of a new life for you," I say. "You can do anything, whatever you'd like." I tear my eyes from hers and stare down at my bare hands.

  "Hey, is this a new necklace?"

  Instinctively, I wrap my fingers around the diamond ring, concealing it from her. "Just an old family heirloom. Probably paste, but my grandmother insisted it was real."

  "Let me see. I love antique jewelry." She places her hand on my own, attempting to gently pry away my fingers.

  I stand up. She looks at me, confused. "It's getting dark," I say, still clutching the ring. "We should bring in the rest of your boxes before we're both too tired to finish."

  "Right." She sounds hurt, but I turn my back to her and slip the silver cha
in beneath my shirt, then jump when I feel the squeezing pressure of her hand above my elbow.

  "Darcy? How about a kiss?"

  "A...kiss?" I take a step away from her, nearer to the door, but she follows.

  "To seal the pact. The promise we made to each other."

  The promise. I feel the ring lying over my heart.

  "Would that be all right?"

  We're facing each other now; her hands are on my arms, and I can't stop myself from placing my own hands at her waist, then sliding them around her back, pulling her closer still. Our breasts touch with a deep-felt jolt, and before I can speak my doubts, her lips press against mine, soft as an angel's feather, and then harder—

  "Sorry, I…" With a groan, I let her go and turn on my heel, walk through the doorway and down the steps, walking, walking, walking...until I'm standing behind Alis’ car once again. I pull an easel from the trunk and clamp my eyes to it thoughtfully, while my heart hammers.

  Her shadow appears on the porch, silent and uncertain.

  "You paint," I say, because I can think of nothing else.

  "Yes, as a hobby. I'm not very good."

  "No, you are good." Our eyes meet. She has a hand to her chest, and her lips are downturned and parted. I have never seen her look so sad. "Your mural at The Poseidon—it's beautiful. Catherine loved the mermaids."

  The name slices the tension between us. Her shoulders visibly drop; she shrugs them halfheartedly. "Thank you. But, like I said, it's just a hobby. Listen, the rest of these boxes can wait until morning. I have everything I need inside. Can we call it a night? I'm...tired. It's been a rough day."

  "Sure, if that's what you want."

  "It is. Good night, Darcy." She walks back into the house with a wave. "And thank you."

  "You're welcome, Alis," I whisper, and slam the trunk closed.

  ---

  The cabin door is open, beckoning. I sit down at the typewriter and welcome the loss of physical control as Catherine enters me, moves within me—and all that I am recedes in oblivious hibernation.

  ---

  "You didn't sleep in your bed last night," Alis greets me when I walk into the kitchen, blinking at the too-bright sun streaming through the naked windows.

  "What happened to the blinds?" I ask, ignoring her comment.

  "I hope you don't mind. I took them down. It isn't healthy to diffuse sunlight during the wintertime. Light deprivation can cause depression."

  I raise my brows. "A little light isn't going to make me feel any better. It only hurts my eyes."

  "At first," she says, with a trembling, small smile. "But you'll get used to it. Over time. You may even begin to like it."

  I open the junk drawer and rummage through batteries, spools of thread and unsharpened pencils until I find my old pair of sunglasses. I put them on and smirk at Alis like a naughty child.

  "You've got more sass than I thought," she says, shaking her head.

  "Mind-numbing grief will do that to you. Suddenly, you realize that nothing matters—the social niceties, the daily grind. It's liberating and horrifying all at once."

  "Why horrifying?"

  "Because... If nothing matters, what's the point of carrying on?"

  She stares at me and chews her bottom lip. "I don't know what to say to that."

  "Never mind." I wave a hand at her and open the fridge door. "Would you like some eggs for breakfast? I don't think these ones have gone bad...yet."

  The phone rings. I stand up straight, and Alis watches me, her face unreadable and still. "Aren't you going to answer?"

  "My guess is it's either Jason or Mrs. Corde calling, and I have no desire to speak to either one of them."

  Three rings. Four. The answering machine picks up, a monotone female voice advising, "Please leave a message after the beep." I erased our personalized greeting weeks ago. I would find myself hitting the replay button again and again, just to listen to Catherine's voice repeat, "Hi! You've reached Darcy and Catherine. Tell us who you are and what you want, and we'll call you back as soon as we're done having hot lesbian sex." I was appalled when she first made the recording—straight-laced librarian that I pretended to be—but it did make me laugh, especially when someone called and we really were making love. Which was often.

  Now, following the beep, an unfamiliar, accented voice asks, "Hello? Ms. Morrow? This is Genevieve McLeery. Marjorie gave me your number, mentioned you might need some advice about a lingering presence. Forgive me for calling this early, but I'm booked with appointments from tomorrow until January and only have this afternoon free. If you wish to meet, give me a call back at—"

  I lunge at the phone. "Ms. McLeery? Hi, this is Darcy Morrow."

  Alis shoots me a surprised look and is about to speak, but I silence her with my hand.

  "Ah, you're home! I'm so glad that I caught you, Ms. Morrow, because, as I said, I am very busy and will not be able to fit you into my schedule until January, at earliest, after today. Are you interested in a consultation?"

  "Yes," I say, shocking myself with the certainty of the word. "I live just east of town, at 76 Hidden Oaks Lane. Do you need directions?"

  "No, my girl, I know right where you are. I could be there in an hour, if that would suit you."

  "That's perfect. I look forward to meeting you, Ms. McLeery."

  "Call me Genevieve, please. I'll see you soon."

  She hangs up, and I hold the phone in my hands for a moment, wondering what compelled me to make the sudden decision. I had considered calling Genevieve when Marjorie gave me her number, but what if her meddling chases Catherine away? What if she tells me something I’m not prepared to hear?

  What if she's just a charlatan, with purple veils and crystal balls and "spirits" knocking under the table?

  The more I think about it, the more I want to call her back and cancel, but Alis interrupts my inner debate.

  "Darcy, what did that woman mean by 'lingering presence'? Is she a medium? Is this house haunted? You mentioned something before, about the cabin…" Her eyes are wide, but her brow is furrowed. She holds her mug of coffee in midair, awaiting my response.

  I replace the phone in its cradle slowly, deliberately, and return to my perusal of the refrigerator. The orange juice is expired; maybe I should make breakfast tea...

  "Darcy?"

  "I heard you, but... It's private, okay?"

  "I'm sorry." She puts the mug on the table and stares down into it, her lips pursed. "I didn't mean to pry. That was impolite."

  With a heavy sigh, I slam the refrigerator door closed and sit down at the table beside her, cradling my head in my hands. "There's something going on. It's not serious or dangerous, but I...I hope Ms. McLeery can shed light on the situation for me. I'm having trouble distinguishing—" I look at her; she's staring at me. My eyes fall to her mouth, and I remember the taste of it: sweet and cool, like apples.

  Her face is flushed. She takes one of my hands and sandwiches it between her own, fingers interweaving. "Say nothing else about it. It's not my business, and I shouldn't have made you feel a need to explain."

  Gratitude consumes me. Gratitude and...something else. I stand up quickly and fill the tea kettle with water.

  Alis joins me at the sink. She places her mug in the basin and leans against the counter. "My shift starts in twenty minutes. I should get going."

  It's only now that I notice Alis is wearing her white nurse's button-down blouse and knee-length skirt. Her legs are clad in sheer white stockings, with white vertical lines coursing the backs of her calves. Pin-up stockings.

  "Are those standard-issue hospital pantyhose?" I wonder aloud, amused.

  She rewards me with a sly grin. "No, I just got them from the lingerie shop a few days ago. Think anyone will notice?"

  "Uh...yeah."

  Her head tilts becomingly as she averts her gaze. "Well, I'm prepared to accept whatever punishment a breach of dress code merits. Do you know how dull it becomes, wearing the same outfit day in and
day out?"

  "Sort of. I went to an all-girls boarding school."

  "Is that where you learned how to act like a lesbian?"

  I gape at her, laughing. "You're a saucy one today."

  "Must be the stockings." She pushes away from the counter and steps lightly toward the doorway. "I'll be out late. I have to meet the divorce attorney this evening. Wish me luck!"

  I do, and watch her go.

  ---

  Genevieve McLeery doesn't want tea, or coffee, or even water. In fact, she doesn't want to step one foot inside of my house.

  "Take me to the location of the manifestation. There's no time to waste." This "clairvoyant" isn't quite what I expected. She's old and arthritic; she winces with each step we take over the wooded path.

  Frail. She is the epitome of frail, I think, as I take her elbow in my hand.

  And she's wearing an ordinary beige dress, with tiny yellow flowers embroidered at the collar and hem. Overall, the effect is that of someone's grandmother. I feel assured. I can talk to this woman. I can trust her. She won't take advantage of my vulnerability.

  As we cross the covered footbridge, Genevieve turns to me with an odd look in her glassy brown eyes. "The end comes before the beginning." The accent is Scottish, I realize now, but her words are clear. I turn them over again and again in my head but ask no questions.

  She seems to understand where we're headed and takes the lead. I follow at her side, feeling both reluctant and anxious to reach our destination.

  "Ah, she waits," Genevieve sighs, clasping her hands in front of her mouth, when we arrive at the cabin door. The door is shut today, though I can't remember closing it when I left early this morning. Of course, I can't remember much about last night at all.

  We walk inside—Catherine's scent is everywhere—and Genevieve breaks away from me, immediately stepping in front of the typewriter. She waves a hand over the keys and then touches the manuscript with her fingertips. Her eyes lift to meet my own. My heart skips.

  But she moves on, into the bathroom. Here she lingers for several minutes, pressing her palm flat on the mirror, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her gaze pointed downward, at the unstoppered drain.