The Ghost of a Chance

by Vivien, Natalie

  "Sorry it didn’t work out," I mutter, placing the books on the shelf without making any attempt at alphabetization. Oddly enough, I don’t feel that innate, familiar twinge of wrongness at the disordered sight. "Hand me some more. We’ve got four more shelves to fill."

  "Hold on." Annabelle, her face puckered thoughtfully, stands at the bottom of my ladder and rests her hand on the rung beneath my feet. "Okay, you just threw those books on there with complete disregard for alphabetization. That’s a sure sign that a librarian is feeling low. Like, really low. Depressed, even. What’s up, Darcy?"

  I laugh a little, gazing down at her bemusedly. Well, if nothing else, Annabelle and I have the affliction of librarianism, and all of its foibles, in common. I shake my head and step down the ladder until I’m standing on the floor beside her, swimming in a sea of half-sorted books. "I’m fine. I just need some coffee—"

  "Oh, no, you don’t!" Annabelle grabs my wrist and stops me mid-stride on my way to the break room. "Spill, Darcy. If you can’t be honest with your friends, you’ll never be honest with yourself."

  I loose my wrist and shake my head, mystified. Is Annabelle calling me her friend? And spouting random, After-School Special bits of wisdom? "I guess that…sort of makes sense, but, really, there’s nothing wrong. I just haven’t been sleeping well—"

  "Stop right there." Annabelle crosses her arms and levels me with her trademark Stare of Doom, complete with tapping high-heeled foot. "The truth, Darcy."

  "What? I told you. I’m just—"

  She points to the pair of chairs shoved up against the wall and nods her head meaningfully. "Go on. Sit."

  I sit.

  With a longsuffering sigh, Annabelle seats herself beside me, inclining her body to face me and assuming a listening air. "Well? Is it money problems? Health problems? Girl problems? And by girl problems, I don’t mean, like, a bad haircut or cramps. I mean, you know…" She tilts toward me and whispers in my ear, "Lesbian stuff."

  "Right."

  "So what’s the deal?"

  I avert my gaze, staring down at the Fabio-esque cover of an over-read book called The Caveman’s Bride. "I don’t know, Annabelle. Everything’s so complicated."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course it is." She gestures with her hand impatiently, bangle bracelets rattling on her wrist, dark eyes flashing. "But what’s the deal? What’s the crux of it all? Name your albatross, Darcy."

  "There’s more than one albatross, I’m afraid." I inhale deeply and raise a brow, holding Annabelle’s intense gaze. "A whole screeching flock of them."

  She nods knowingly, a hand gripping her chin. Her fingernails are pink and sparkly, and every one of her fingers, including the thumb, boasts a shiny, gem-studded ring. She told me once that her personal fashion philosophy is more is more, and I have to give her credit: she sticks to her principles.

  "All right, so you’ve got a major bird problem. I get it. You’re still holding back, though. You’re shutting me out. Give me facts. Give me specifics. Give me—"

  "Her name’s Alis." I nearly cover my mouth with my hand; I’m astonished that I permitted myself to speak the words aloud—and, worse, that I uttered them in Annabelle’s presence. I confided in Annabelle, of all people. Annabelle, who entertains herself when she’s bored at work by dreaming up superficial, accessory-linked nicknames for our regular patrons: Crooked Bifocals, Giant Old Lady Purse, Wears Crocs with Socks, Dye Your Roots Already.

  But it can’t be unspoken. And I feel an odd lightening in my shoulders, as if a weight has been shifted, repositioned there, if not shrugged off altogether.

  Still, when Annabelle’s face lights up, when that half-gleeful, half-malicious expression turns toward me, my spirits sink, along with my stomach, and I want nothing more than to stop time and rewind it. Or simply disappear.

  "The nurse? You’re totally crushing on your live-in nurse?"

  "She isn’t my nurse, and she’s only staying with me temporarily—"

  "Oh, my God, this is better than a Lifetime movie."

  "Annabelle, please." I lean forward, folding myself over until my head rests on my knees and my arms dangle loose at my sides. My mental faculties must be dangerously compromised if I was unable to divine the peril in telling Annabelle about my feelings for Alis. "Look, I’m sapped. I confessed to you in a moment of weakness, okay? Please don’t make me regret it. I just… I’m so tired of holding it all in, and you offered to listen, and I took you at your word. But now—"

  "Seriously? Sit up and look at me."

  I close my eyes, sighing, and rise to lean against the back of the chair, regarding Annabelle warily. "I’m looking. What?"

  "Look at my face." She draws a circle in the air around her head, as if to make certain I don’t mistake it for some other body part. "Is this the face of a traitor? Is this the face of somebody who’d go spewing all of your deepest, darkest secrets to the whole, wide world?"

  "Frankly, yes."

  She frowns but, undeterred, continues her speech. "Well, I wouldn’t. I won’t. I mean, that would be so uncool, it would be hot. Like, burning hot. A skin-melting inferno. You know what I mean?"

  "No."

  "Anyway, is this thing with Alis a lovers’ quarrel, a triangle thing, an ‘I only like you as a friend’ situation? Or is it, like, all Romeo and Juliet? Or, I guess, Romea and Juliet. Whatever. Are you requited?"

  I shift uncomfortably in the uncomfortable chair, tugging on the sleeves of my sweater, pointing my gaze toward the seemingly unmoving hands of the clock affixed to the wall. "Not exactly requited, no. I mean, I haven’t told her—"

  "Awesome! Ooh, this is so exciting." She kicks her feet and claps her hands together, looking like a perfect facsimile of a six-year-old girl. Well, a six-year-old playing dress-up in her mom’s spike heels, gaudy jewelry and glossy red lipstick. "Hey, what if we did, like, a Cyrano de Bergerac reenactment? Like, I’ll write you some killer love poems, and you can read them beneath her window, and then she’ll come running down and throw herself in your arms and kiss you, and I’ll kind of slink away, and we’ll never tell her the truth, that really she fell in love with my words, with me—"

  "I’ll have to pass on that one, but thanks for the offer. I didn’t know you were a poet, Annabelle."

  "Yeah, I won a bunch of contests in college, got some stuff published. But, you know, there’s no money in poetry. And my mom was a librarian, and her mother was, too, so…" She shrugs slightly and offers me a rare, watery smile. "I couldn’t break the librarian lady chain and disappoint them. I mean, I always loved to read. So it made sense."

  "But it wasn’t your passion?"

  "Passion?" She laughs bitterly. "God, no. Who could have a passion for dusty books and demanding patrons and awful fluorescent lighting and those ugly-but-comfortable shoes that everyone but me insists on wearing?"

  I smile down at my flats and chuckle to myself.

  "But it pays the bills, and I guess it’s better than bagging groceries all day."

  "Well, that depends on your point of view." I sigh, feeling heavy and exhausted. I really could use a cup of coffee, though I suspect its energizing magic would fall miles short today. This fatigue isn’t physical; it’s soul-deep. "Maybe the library will grow on you. You’ve been here for less than a year."

  "It feels like ten."

  I shrug and offer her a halfhearted smile. "If you dislike it so much, why don’t you try something else? What would you enjoy doing?"

  For a moment, Annabelle’s eyes spark with a hidden fire, and she leans forward, opening her mouth, on the verge of speaking her dream aloud. But then she glances to me and deflates, shaking her head slightly. "I don’t know. I’m still paying off my student loans. It would be irresponsible to quit now." She bites her lip and sits in thoughtful silence for a few seconds. Then her eyes narrow and glare in my direction. "Why are we talking about me, anyway? We were trying to figure out a way for you to seduce Alis, and you changed the subject on purpose."

&nb
sp; "I have no intention of seducing anyone, Annabelle. That would be a little OTT, don’t you think?" I smile softly as Annabelle nods her agreement.

  "Yeah, subtle is best. You could just take her out to dinner, maybe? The Poseidon has some cozy tables, and it’s pretty quiet in there. Good for conversation. And the food’s okay. A little salty."

  My eyes rest again on The Caveman’s Bride, but my thoughts are far away, wondering. Would Alis agree to go to The Poseidon with me? Would I dare to ask her, after what happened last night? It might be nice for the two of us to get out of the house, away from the familiar, and talk about…us on neutral ground.

  I massage my temples as a pang of guilt clenches my heart.

  Neutral ground, meaning away from the house, from the cabin. Away from Catherine’s presence.

  Annabelle may not be a traitor, but I am. How could I even entertain the possibility of dating another woman? And not only another woman, but Catherine’s own nurse…

  Then I see the Scrabble tiles in my mind’s eye—KISS HER—and shake my head, raking my hands through my hair. It’s impossibly baffling. It’s too much. I can’t put the pieces together. They don’t fit. If only I could talk to Catherine, ask her what she needs, what she wants from me… I remember the séance scheduled for this weekend and feel a gasping flicker of hope.

  "So, are you going to do it?"

  "Do what?" I ask Annabelle, blinking.

  "Ask Alis to dinner, duh."

  "Oh." I stand up and scoop The Caveman’s Bride from the floor, heading over to the ladder by the romance shelves. "I’ve got to sort some things out first. I don’t know if I’m ready to take that step yet, and I don’t want to make things more complicated than they already are."

  Annabelle follows behind me, plucking up romance titles from the untidy piles, wobbling a little on her decidedly uncomfortable four-inch heels. "Life is always going to be complicated, Darcy. But love is about as simple as it gets. It’s either there or it isn’t, you know?"

  More After-School Special wisdom.

  Still…

  It’s either there or it isn’t.

  I reach for the stack of romance novels in Annabelle’s hands and begin to slide them onto the shelf, taking care to alphabetize.

  ---

  Alis is waiting for me in the hallway when I arrive home from work, wearing her nursing scrubs and twisting her hands together, her blue gaze downcast, her lips pale, colorless. Her hair hangs lank and loose over her shoulders. I freeze in the open doorway, hand on the knob, snow gusting in all around me. When she raises her chin to look up, my lips part in horror, and my heart falls like a stone: her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed from crying, and an ugly, purplish bruise stains her right cheek. Blood, black as ink, encrusts her nose.

  "Alis, what—"

  "Oh, Darcy!" She’s in my arms, sobbing silently against my chest.

  Constricted by my heavy coat, I hug her awkwardly, smoothing my hand over her hair as my mind draws the most likely conclusion. A fireball of rage sizzles inside of me, hot and hissing, but I swallow its heat and whisper through clenched teeth, "Was it Jason?"

  Alis nods her head, still pressed hard against me, crying without making a sound. Her hands cling to my coat, pulling at the thick fabric. "I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid. Why did I marry him? What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I see—"

  "Come on," I tell her softly. "Come upstairs, Alis. You should lie down. You need to rest."

  "But we have to—"

  "Rest first. Then we’ll figure out what to do."

  "But what if he comes here? What if he comes for you?"

  "Well…" I kiss her jasmine-scented hair and rest my cheek against the top of her head for a moment, eyes closed. I sigh. "I’d like to see him try."

  "Don’t say that, Darcy. He’s monstrous. He waited for me in the parking lot at the hospital, and he said the most hateful, vicious things about you—"

  "Of course he did. I would have been shocked if he hadn’t."

  "But he said he was going to…to…" She shakes her head as sobs wrack her small, trembling frame. I catch the tears streaming from her eyes and feel my own eyes begin to water, despite the bonfire blazing in my chest.

  "Come on, Alis." My voice is hoarse, strained. I ease her around gently until she’s facing the stairs. "Let me take care of you. You took care of me when I needed you most."

  She inhales deeply, then, and her sobs abruptly still. For a long moment, she stares down at the tiled floor, breathing in and out, loosely fisting her right hand. When she looks up at me at last, her blue eyes shine, as dark and opaque as moonlit seas. "But I’m so afraid for you, Darcy," she whispers, wiping the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "If anything happens to you, I’ll never—"

  "Nothing’s going to happen to me, Alis. Or to you."

  "How can you know? How can you really, truly know that?"

  I shrug and smile apologetically: "Because I’m as stubborn as an ox, and I hate to be wrong." I brush away the wet hair clinging to her face, taking care not to graze her bruise, which seems to spread even as I watch it, now claiming the full expanse of her cheek.

  "No, seriously, Darcy, he’s—he’s never going to stop. He doesn’t want me to come back. He’s just…furious that he can’t control me, that I’m not his doll anymore." She gulps down air, sniffling and squeezing my hand. "But he’s especially furious that I’ve fallen—I mean, that—" Flushing, she turns from me and pulls her hand away, crosses her arms over her chest, shoulders hunched up around her ears. In a shaking voice, she whispers, "That I’m here with you."

  "I know," I say softly, outwardly calm despite my fury toward Jason, and despite my anxious, aching heart.

  Alis leans against me, then, sagging, and I wrap an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as I guide her slowly up the stairs.

  "You’re so good to me," she whispers when we stand outside of her room, facing one another. "What did I ever do to deserve…" Alis’ eyes, lowered and dark, rise to gaze at me, and the faintest smile slides over her lips. "…a friend like you?"

  Smiling back, I nudge the door open with my hip, taking her hand, urging her to follow me inside. "Come on, let’s get you settled." I gesture toward the bed, though my heart pangs at the sight of it. Catherine made the lavender afghan coverlet, knitted it in her hospital room during my hours-long visits, her needles gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights as we talked, her smile radiant even though she was so ill…

  I blink and turn my back to the bed, refocusing on Alis. She stands in the doorway, face drawn, looking small and very lost. She tilts to one side just slightly. "Would you like some tea? I could make tea or coffee, whatever you want. Are you hungry?"

  She shakes her head. "No. Thank you. I don’t think I could eat anything right now." For a long moment, she gazes at me, biting her lip, which I notice is a little swollen, possibly bruised.

  The fire rises again, and my hands clench into fists as I imagine Jason lurking in the parking lot, waiting for Alis—and then startling her, attacking her, hurting her to satisfy some twisted, macho compulsion. I want to go find him. I want to hurt him. I want to ask him what kind of monster he is, to harm Alis… What kind of monster could do this to her? I won’t let him get away with it—

  "I already reported it to the police, Darcy," Alis says softly, watching me. "He broke the restraining order, and they told me that they’d try to find him. They took photos of what he did to me...for evidence."

  I bow my head and draw in a deep breath, exhaling it with a heavy sigh. "I wish I’d been there."

  "I’m glad you weren’t." Alis smiles fondly but admonishingly at me, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She draws Catherine’s afghan around her shoulders until she’s encased shoulders to toes in a lavender cocoon. "One of my co-workers helped me in to see a doctor and then took me the police station. Luckily, Maribel was just coming out to the parking lot and found me there, right after Jason"—she cringes as she pronounce
s his name—"drove away. And an officer dropped me off here." She toys with one of the tassels on the afghan, her mouth grim. "I had to leave my own car behind. Could you take me to pick it up later? I won’t be able to get to work if—"

  "Of course, Alis. Don’t worry." I sit beside her and, after a moment’s hesitation, rest a hand lightly upon her leg. "Did the doctor give you any medication or instructions?"

  She shakes her head, eyes dull and unfocused. "No. I mean, yes. Something for the pain. I can’t remember… He just told me to rest."

  I watch her closely, worried by the detached tone in her voice and the blank expression on her face. Her hands fall into her lap, and she stares at them for a long, silent moment. Then, without a sound, without a movement of lashes, tears form at the corners of her eyes and begin to drip onto her fingers.

  "It breaks my heart to see you like this," I whisper, sliding my arm away from her leg to encompass her blanketed waist. With my other hand, I catch the tears on her cheek, leaning near. She tilts toward me to rest her forehead against mine.

  "I’ll be all right, Darcy. It’s just the shock." Her breath comes in short gasps now between her words. "Tomorrow I’ll feel better. Angry. But better."

  "Oh, I’ve got angry covered. I think I’m angry enough for both of us," I mutter, sighing and drawing back to press my lips to the raw skin of her cheek. "If I ever see that monster again—"

  "I hope you won’t," she says quickly, straightening and staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. "I hope you never see him, Darcy. I hope I never see him, never hear him, never…feel him…" She rubs at her upper left arm, wincing as if it aches.

  I let out a ragged sigh.

  Alis looks at me and offers a small, sad smile. "I fought back, you know. I fought him off. That’s why he left. He left before anyone saw him with me…" She frowns slightly, glancing away. Then her brilliant blue eyes flash. "But I punched him, Darcy. I never punched anyone before, but I had to get him away from me. He was going to…" Her body is seized by a long shudder; she bites her lip, closes her eyes. "When he had me on the ground,’ she continues, her voice as thin and brittle as winter air, "I punched him, and he screamed. He screamed. I never heard a sound like that before, not from him. I think we were both surprised."