by Elle Casey
It was all gone now.
The hospital director had been clear. We can’t overrule policy. She’d refused the mandatory psychiatric evaluation after she’d fainted while performing a life-saving procedure. The consequences were clear. She couldn’t keep her job. She had to leave.
How can I start all over again?
“Why wouldn’t you do the psychiatric evaluation?” Ethan asked, his fingers frantically pushing the Game Boy buttons.
Celine stared at him, his boyish features, his long lashes and round cheeks, untouched by the blemish of puberty, or the shadow of a first stubble. “Because of you, Ethan.”
Ethan kept his eyes on the Game Boy. “What’s wrong with me?”
She sighed. “You don’t exist.”
“I did at some point.”
“So you tell me. I’ve never met you. Before, you know…”
“Before I died?”
“Right. Before you died.”
There was a moment of silence, filled only by the hypnotic chime of the Game Boy.
“Imagine me talking to the shrink and telling him I have an imaginary friend,” Celine said. She swallowed, no longer able to blink away tears.
Why am I such a mess?
She gave in to the sobs then and howled, a wave of desperation swooping over her, emptying her, until the catharsis at last took over. Like a soothing hand it brushed its cool fingers over her swollen eyes and closed them.
* * *
The monotonous whir of the fridge awoke her. The house was cold and dark, save for the yellow artificial light washing from the street. Celine sat up and wrapped the throw around her shoulders, a wave of goose bumps rushing down her arms. She brought a hand to her face and felt the salt of her dried tears encrusted on her cheeks. Her tongue felt swollen and pasty, her limbs stiff and unwilling to move. The feeling was all too familiar—a bitter taste of déjà vu.
“Celine.”
She flinched. Ethan was still sitting next to her, his black eyes sparkling in the dim light. He smiled. “Get up, Celine.”
Celine closed her eyes. “Go away, Ethan.”
The boy didn’t move. “Come on, Celine. Get up.”
She waved him away. “I said go!” she snapped. And then regretted it. Too late. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.
“Oh, God. I’m so pathetic.”
Flipping on all the lights as she went, she dragged herself to the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face. She filled a glass and drained it.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she mumbled, shuffling back to the bedroom. “I didn’t mean to be rude. You know I’m not supposed to talk to you. You need to leave me alone.”
She collapsed on the bed, still dressed and on an empty stomach. The clock radio on her nightstand read 12:55 a.m.
“What would the shrink say if he knew about you, Ethan? Huh?” She sank her face into the pillow. “And then of course, I snarl at you, you go away, and here I am talking to you anyways.”
“How pathetic,” she mumbled, her eyelids closing. “How pathetic.”
Four
Annalise Contardo put down the knife and pressed the back of her hand against her right eye.
“Damned onions,” she muttered, tears cluttering her eyes. She stepped away from the cutting board, washed her hands, and dabbed her stinging eyes with a paper towel.
Leaning over the sink, Annalise grimaced and winked a few times, once again swearing at the toxic onions. She was about to set to work again when the sudden glare from the window made her look outside. In the living room, the two yellow Labradors stirred from the couch and ran yapping to the door.
“About time,” Annalise mumbled, as the headlights pulled into the driveway and then died. She glanced at the clock above the door: eight forty—long past dinnertime. She tossed the chopped onions into the pan. They hissed and crackled and released the intense aroma she knew made her husband feel at home.
“I’m back,” Contardo hollered as he unlocked the door, his voice covered by the growls of the two Labradors greeting him. Annalise grunted something to acknowledge his arrival while stirring the onions and pouring in a can of crushed tomatoes.
Contardo slid the gun holster out of his waistband, unfastened his utility belt, and hung it in the closet behind the door. He heaved a big sigh, flopped on a chair in the foyer, and removed his boots. The mildewy smell of his sweaty feet instantly excited the dogs.
“You hungry?” Annalise called from the kitchen.
“Ravenous.” He spent one more minute roughing up the dogs, then tramped into the kitchen and kissed his wife on the cheek.
“You’re late,” she didn’t fail to point out.
He left the kitchen with a snort and shuffled up the stairs. It was part of their evening routine. He’d kiss her, and she’d tell him, “You’re late.” Even though they both knew that an early dinner in the Contardo household was a never-kept promise.
“I’ll wash up and be down in a minute,” he called from the stairs.
By the stove, Annalise followed her husband’s footsteps as they squeaked through the ceiling into the bedroom. She heard the rank insignia on his shirt clink against the back of the La-Z-Boy recliner, the door of the bathroom click, and the water run through the pipes. She simmered, sautéed, stirred, and drained. And when dinner was ready, she turned the TV on and uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay—hell, because that’s how she felt. She poured herself a glass and sipped it while zapping through comedy shows and annoying commercials.
Half an hour later, the broccoli florets had wilted and the noodles were cold and overcooked. Annalise rose from her chair and stomped up the stairs. “That was one hell of a minute, Albert Michael!” she bellowed. As she got to the top of the stairs, though, she spotted the door left ajar. She froze, then slowly pushed it open.
“Oh, Al,” she said softly. She sat on the bed next to him, took his hand and squeezed it. She leaned her head on him, his beard soft and wispy against her cheek. The curtains were pulled open, and the shy rays of a full moon flushed the walls in a milky light. It blanketed the shelves cluttered with old comic books, the boxes of old CDs lining the wall, the model airplanes and racecars displayed on the desk. An old poster depicting a smiling Ayrton Senna next to his shiny McLaren hung from the back of the door, its corners curled into dog-ears.
“It smells old in here,” Contardo said.
Annalise sighed. “Honey. It’s been almost twelve years. You know how I dust and clean this room every day, and yet—”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just old. Everything in here is old. Dead.”
The word hit her like a slap in the face. She stiffened and pulled her hand away. He grabbed it back. “Like Lily Andrews’s room. It smelled old. And dead. Even before she was dead.”
Annalise turned and stared at her husband, his profile a silver outline the moonlight carved out of the darkness. “You’re still thinking about her?”
Contardo dropped his chin. “Those parents. They just—they don’t grieve like us. They’re different.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it, Al.”
“Yes, there is. I want to find out who did this to her. I owe it to her. We never—”
She put a hand over his mouth, his beard brushing against her fingers. “We never found out who killed Ethan.” Tears rolled down her eyes and shone in the dim light. She shook her head. “There are things we have no control over, Al.”
He took her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it.
“It’s okay, Al,” she whispered. “It’s okay if this room smells old. It’s meant just for the two of us.”
“I know.” He drew her closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She didn’t wriggle away this time. She sank her face in his chest, her tears slowly seeping through his shirt. “I know.”
Five
Ethan was jittery. He kept shuffling around the house while bouncing a red ball. Celine knew the ball didn’t exist, and ye
t its erratic trajectory made her wince every time it threatened to cross paths with the movers.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She grabbed her jacket and walked outside, pacing as she watched the workers climb up and down the ramp to the truck with their dollies. One of the men was leaning against the porch railing, smoking a cigarette and exchanging a few words in Spanish with the others. He smiled, his teeth yellowed by nicotine and age, and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head no and looked away.
The snow was finally melting in a concert of trickles and drips. Icicles wept from the roofs, gutters drummed intermittently, and braids of water crept along the sides of the streets. The willows’ long boughs were turning green. The aspens were starting to bloom, their first catkins swaying in the breeze like plumage. Shrinking, the piles of snow that had accumulated along the sidewalks now took on the shape of jagged teeth, dirty and gray on top.
Celine looked at her flowerbeds and wondered who would be taking care of them this spring. And then she decided she didn’t care.
A sheriff car pulled to the curb and parked in front of the moving truck.
Celine watched the officer come out of the car, peruse the street, and rest his eyes on the “For Sale” sign in front of her property.
“Careful, ma’am,” one of the movers said, as he and his partner hauled the dining table out of the house. Celine moved out of the way. When she turned back to the sidewalk, the officer was still there, staring at the moving truck. She walked down the driveway and waved.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
The officer took off his hat and stretched out his hand. “Sheriff Albert Contardo. You must be Dr. Bent.”
Something told her not to touch him, yet the hunch felt stupid and childish. She brushed a loose strand of hair off her face, the movers hollering and huffing in and out of her house, and then reached out to shake his hand.
As soon as their fingers touched, everything went black. Beams of light enveloped her from behind and grew larger. She turned. Headlights blinded her, drawing closer and closer. She tried to run, yet her feet were glued to the ground. The headlights enveloped her. She slammed full force against the hood, hit the windshield, was propelled through the air. There was no pain as she hit the pavement and rolled onto the curb. The headlights screeched away, only the reek of burnt tire lingering behind one moment longer.
“Dr. Bent.”
Celine blinked. She brought a hand to her head and realized her fingers were wet with snow. Why was she sitting in the snow?
“Dr. Bent, are you okay? Here, let me help you.” The sheriff stooped down, wrapped an arm around her waist, and helped her back to her feet.
Celine caught her breath, blushing. She inhaled, trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. She couldn’t. “I—I’m sorry, Sheriff.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
She shook her head and pulled away from him, her eyes straying back to the house. The movers had wrapped the couch in blankets and were now lifting it onto the truck. The breeze was light and mild, carrying scents of early spring in the air.
“I just—low blood pressure,” she lied. “I need to go back. Nice meeting you, Sheriff.”
“Dr. Bent, actually… I was hoping I could talk to you.”
Celine cocked her head. “Talk to me?”
The sheriff nodded. “It’s about Lily Andrews.”
She stood three feet away from him, afraid to even brush his side for fear of being whisked away again, sucked into memories, or maybe ghosts that didn’t belong to her.
I can’t, she was about to say, when Ethan appeared next to the sheriff, his eyes pleading. “Please talk to him,” the boy said.
The sheriff picked up his hat from the ground and shook the snow off of it. It must’ve fallen when she fainted because she didn’t remember seeing it on the ground before. He turned it in his hands, made sure it looked okay, then pointed to his car. “Care for a quiet place where we can talk?”
* * *
The elm tree had changed color. Once a spectator of death, its boughs were now covered in tiny green buds waiting for spring. Patches of wet grass emerged from the snow, and the first crocuses poked their heads out to the sun.
Instead of turning into the church parking lot, the sheriff pulled up by the curb on the opposite side of the street and parked the Impala in front of the elm tree. Celine looked up at the intricate canopy of branches, then back at the silver chalice on her lap. “You got DNA from this?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. That’s a replica. I bought it to replace the chalice I took from the church.”
Celine frowned, still confused. “So the DNA comes from the chalice you stole from the church.”
The sheriff nodded, blushing. “It wasn’t quite stealing. I returned the chalice.”
“You returned it? But it was your evidence.”
The sheriff sighed, his eyes drifting to the elm tree looming outside. “The DNA found on the chalice can’t be used to incriminate anyone, Doctor. That’s why I need your help. I took the chalice illegally because the church councilmen wouldn’t volunteer a DNA sample. On top of that, there were at least four different sets of DNA on the chalice. That’s not surprising given that during each service, all the church members drink from the same chalices.”
“But you just told me that one of the DNA samples found on the chalice is a match. One of the men who drank from it is—” She swallowed, trying to find the right words.
“—is the one who hurt Lily. Correct.” Contardo looked at her. “But you knew this already.”
Celine clutched the replica in her hands, her pulse quickening. “I did,” she whispered.
I was right. What I saw—what Lily went through—it was real. It happened for real.
“Dr. Bent, did Lily talk to you before she died? I understand you weren’t feeling well that day, but when you woke up, you reportedly said that Lily had been raped. You knew before everyone else did. And you said it happened at the church. A witness heard you say that. I didn’t believe it, at first. But when the results from Lily’s father came back negative, I had nowhere else to look. After all, Lily only gravitated between her home and church.”
Celine nodded. “Thank you for looking into it,” she said softly.
“But I need a name, Dr. Bent. I understand you went through a rough time because of this.” He leaned forward, just a notch, just enough for her to peek into his clear eyes lined by time at the corners. “Whatever Lily told you, I need to know. I can use your deposition to force the one who’s responsible for her death to come forward and surrender a DNA sample. Lily deserves justice.”
A gust of wind blew among the branches. The elm tree creaked, its boughs swayed.
He thinks Lily told me. She did, in a way.
They kept saying I was crazy.
I’m not crazy. I saw it happen.
Celine looked into the eyes of the man sitting next to her, clear eyes that spoke of sadness and regret, of happier times and acceptance. And suddenly she saw.
Ethan.
The boy had the same eyes, the same melancholy smile.
“Ethan…” Celine said, staring back at the sheriff. “Ethan was your son.”
The sheriff winced. Then he smiled again, softly, and looked away. “Ethan,” he repeated, the name so soft on his lips. “Yes, everybody in town knows. A hit-and-run, many years ago. He was about to turn thirteen.” He inhaled, looked at the kids playing by the pond. “We never found out who did it. I had my men stop all the vehicles in the county, check the tires for possible matches with the skid marks on the pavement. I called other stations in nearby counties, sent out fliers.” He shook his head. “Nothing. Someone stole Ethan from us and we’ll never know who.”
They sat quietly for a moment, the silence between them filled by the hum of the running engine.
She swallowed, looked down at the sheriff’s hands, his skin rough and chafed by many harsh winters. Slowly, she put her hand forward. �
�Don’t—say anything,” she whispered, and gingerly brushed her fingers against the back of his hand, closing her eyes.
She saw the headlights, coming toward her all over again.
No, Ethan. Not you. Not now.
Focus.
Focus on Lily.
Everything went black again. The headlights were gone. It was cold. She heard quick breathing—it was her breathing, her own heart pounding against her chest. She shivered, the cold biting into her skin. Slowly, darkness faded away and the tree came into view looming high above her, a last sprinkle of stars twinkling between its branches. Young hands brushed against the bark, fingers searching, nails scraping against the rough edges, all the way up where the main branches met and then forked out. Fingers digging deep into the bark, nails bleeding, scraping, her heart racing faster, desperately…
Celine jolted backwards and sucked in air.
The sheriff instinctively reached out to her. “Dr. Bent.”
She groped for the door handle and yanked it open. “I need air,” she said. “I need—I need to show you something.”
It was still there, tucked deep inside a groove inside a hollow branch. Lily’s suicide note. You couldn’t see it from the ground. Lily had climbed up to the top of the tree to hide it.
Hugging the tree trunk with one arm, the sheriff donned latex gloves and delicately teased the note out of its hiding spot. He dropped it into a clear plastic bag, secured it in his wallet, then clambered back down.
“My deputy swore he’d looked in every nook and cranny of the tree,” he said. “This is what you get for running a small town with no real forensic expert.” He brushed bits of dead leaves off his jacket, then pulled out the plastic bag and handed it to Celine. “It’s a bit humid. And smudged.”
Celine took it. The pastor is Satan, it read. Satan is in me now.
She shivered, even though the temperature was mild and the air bore the anticipation of spring. “It doesn’t have her name on it.”
The sheriff tucked it back inside his wallet. “We can use her notebooks to match her handwriting. It’ll work. This gives me enough material evidence for a search warrant.” He turned to look at the church across the street. The doors were closed, the walls white and cold. He motioned back to the car and they silently drove away, the words that lingered between them too heavy to be spoken.