Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  I’ll admit that this was different. It was the first time I’ve seen her while I was awake, but I’m not too bothered by that. After she died, I used to feel like she was around all the time at the apartment, and today of all days, when I was missing her more than I thought possible, of course I would see her in my mind’s eye. I’ve come to grips with the idea that the next few weeks and months are going to be tough with moving into a new house without Nicole. I don’t know how I’m going to react, but I’m just going to have to roll with the punches.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Hello?” a sing-song voice rings from the porch.

  I stand up and walk to the door.

  I open it to find a woman in her early sixties with short, dyed hair that remains almost motionless against the wind. Her cheeks are creased in laugh-lines. Her eyes sparkle, as does her jewelry. In one hand she has a plate of cookies. In the other, she’s holding a bottle of scotch. She is clearly in a class by herself.

  “Are you my new neighbors?” She smiles.

  “I believe so,” I reply. “Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” She steps inside and I close the door behind her. “I’m Mildred Johnson. I live next door.”

  “Hello, Mildred Johnson. I’m Daniel Price and this is my daughter, Caitlyn.”

  Caitlyn gets off the couch and joins us.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mildred says with, of all things, a curtsey to Caitlyn.

  Caitlyn loves it and tries to return the gesture. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Oh, you can call me Mildred. I wanted to welcome you two to the neighborhood.” She offers the plate of cookies to Caitlyn. “These are my legendary ‘Twice-Spanked Cookies’. The trick is, just as they start to rise when you’re baking them, you spank them down with a spatula.”

  Caitlyn takes the plate. “Thank you, Mrs. Johns— I mean, thank you, Mildred.”

  “You are so welcome. And this is for you,” she says, extending the bottle of scotch in my direction but stops. “You’re not on the wagon, are you?”

  I laugh. “Nope.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she sighs, and hands it to me.

  I don’t recognize the label, but I do notice that the bottle has been opened and some of the liquid is gone.

  Mildred reads my mind.

  “I had to know if it was any good,” she offers without a hint of shame.

  “And now, it’s my turn. Care to join me?”

  *

  We spend a little while talking in the kitchen while Caitlyn enjoys one of Mildred’s ‘twice-spanked’ cookies. The wind has finally died down to a gentle breeze and we head outside.

  Mildred and I sit on the back porch, sipping our scotch, enjoying the sunshine, and watching Caitlyn stand knee-deep in the water and attempt to skip rocks. Occasionally the wind will kick back up for a second, grab hold of one of the flat stones Caitlyn just threw, and send it sailing to the left.

  “So, Daniel Price. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an author.”

  She raises an impressed eyebrow. “Really? What do you write?”

  “Novels.”

  “Anything I would know?”

  “Maybe. In the Shadows of Justice? It’s a political thriller.”

  She shakes her head. “Nah. I only read the steamy stuff. If I’m not going to blush, I want nothing to do with it.”

  I chuckle and take another sip. It is good scotch.

  “Is there a Mrs. Price?” she asks, hesitantly.

  “There was. She passed away eight months ago.”

  “Oh … that sucks.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  She contemplates her scotch and shrugs. “Still. A sexy, single, successful author? The women of this town will eat you alive.”

  She catches me mid-sip and I erupt in a fit of laughter and coughing.

  I’ve found that there’s a ritual to disclosing Nicole’s death. I’ll be having a pleasant conversation with someone. They’ll ask. I’ll tell them. There’s a moment of awkward shock. They’ll offer their condolences and then a shadow hangs over the rest of the conversation. It’s refreshing for someone to take it in their stride and I’m oddly thankful for it. Besides, I knew Nicole’s sense of humor, and she would have found it hilarious.

  “What about you, Mildred Johnson?” I ask, after the coughing subsides. “Is there a Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yep. That’s how I bought that thirty years ago,” she says with a wave towards her house, which is about a hundred yards down the shore. She then looks back at the Nightingale House. “You’ll love this place.”

  “Did you know the people who lived here before us?”

  “The Thompsons. Wonderful people. They were getting older and the house was getting to be too much for them. They moved to some God-awful place in Florida. But if you ask me, all of Florida is God-awful.”

  We watch as Caitlyn tries to sidearm another rock. She gets two skips before the rock disappears below the surface.

  “How is she handling it? Her mom and all?” Mildred asks.

  “It’s rough. We were all in the car together. T-boned by a drunk driver. My wife died instantly. Caitlyn was out for a few days.”

  “… That really sucks,” she says, eyes still on Caitlyn.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “And the drunk driver?”

  “He died at the scene.”

  “That’s too bad.” Mildred looks down into her scotch and then adds, “They should have kept him alive so you could finish him off.”

  “… I’d be lying if I said that thought never crossed my mind.”

  Mildred nods, as if I passed some kind of test. “Well, let me know whenever you need someone to look after her. I’ll spoil her rotten.”

  “Mildred Johnson, you are my kind of woman.”

  We clink glasses.

  *

  Our inaugural dinner for our first night in the Nightingale House is pizza.

  While I pay the delivery guy, Caitlyn sets the table. I know it’s pizza but I feel that we should observe some sort of ceremony and actually eat at the table. As I carry the pizza towards the kitchen, I see that Caitlyn is setting out three plates on the dining-room table.

  “Who’s the extra plate for?” I ask, suddenly worried that she’s setting a place for Nicole, like she’s forgotten that she’s not here.

  “The pirate,” Caitlyn responds.

  “I’m sorry—the pirate?”

  “Yeah. I met him outside when I was throwing rocks. You didn’t see him. You and Mrs. Johnson were talking.”

  Honestly, I’m a little relieved.

  “Is he joining us for dinner?”

  “He said he might stop by,” she replies, completely unfazed.

  “Do pirates even like pizza?”

  “Everyone likes pizza, Dad.”

  I suppose she’s right. I’m weary of the story, though.

  Since Nicole’s death, Caitlyn’s lying has become much worse. She would tell me things about her friends at school that alarmed me, but a little investigation would show that she had made it up. I tried to get her to stop. Each time, she said that she understood that it was wrong and promised to stop, but she kept doing it. Finally, I took her to a child psychologist. He said her fantasies were a normal coping mechanism for Nicole’s death. Caitlyn’s reality had been shattered and her active imagination had been providing an escape. He added that I should only worry if she started believing the stories she was making up. As it stood, she never insisted they were true if I questioned her about them.

  I know I’m not supposed to let her get away with these little stories but it’s been a long day, we’re starving, and if I’m going to allow myself some room to process things and not freak out, I should probably do the same for Caitlyn.

  *

  After dinner, we both get ready for bed and crash on the couch to watch a Disney movie we’ve seen a hundred times before. By the end, Caitlyn is already fast asl
eep in her nightgown, drooling on my shoulder. I’m not too far behind.

  The movie ends. I reach over, pick up the remote, and hit the power button. The screen goes dark.

  There’s a man standing next to the television.

  I throw a hand over Caitlyn, and quickly turn on the lamp on the end table, nearly knocking it over in the process.

  The shadows are obliterated.

  “Dad?” Caitlyn mumbles, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  I’m still shaking. I glance around the room. Caitlyn and I are alone.

  “It’s okay, pumpkin. Sorry. Daddy was having a bad dream.”

  She sits up, more asleep than awake. “About what?”

  I finally take a deep breath and settle myself.

  “Nothing. Come on; time for bed.”

  Instead of getting up, she leans over and falls back asleep on my arm.

  I smile. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?”

  She doesn’t argue as I gently lift her up. She only wraps her arms around my neck and rests her face against my shoulder.

  I carry her to the foot of the stairs. I can’t help but look back one more time to the spot where I had seen the figure.

  There’s no one there.

  3

  This is the worst night since the night Nicole died.

  I’m lying in bed, sleeping on the left-hand side, because that’s where I always slept when Nicole and I shared this bed, staring at the darkness overhead, and I can’t stop crying. My muscles ache from the sobs that have been wracking my body. I’m worried that I’ll wake Caitlyn, but I can’t stop. I grab a pillow, go into the bathroom, and close the door. Using the pillow to stifle my cries, I sit on the cold floor and weep. I don’t care how this looks. Ego is nothing in the face of crushing grief.

  When they told me Nicole was gone, it was surreal. I couldn’t process it. I still can’t. I’ve spent the past few months thinking that somehow, at any moment, she’ll walk through the front door and life will go on the way we planned, the way we worked so hard for, and finally achieved. After the accident, Caitlyn and I lived in the old apartment and it always felt like Nicole was nearby, but now, in these new surroundings, I don’t feel her anymore. For the first time, it feels like she’s truly gone.

  After I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on this floor, sobbing, I press my face into the pillow and scream with every fiber in my body. I scream again, and again, and again, until my lungs finally give out. That’s it. I lean back against the wall and take deep breaths that catch in my chest. The sobs stop because I no longer have the strength.

  The bedroom door creaks open.

  Damnit.

  Despite my efforts, I must have awoken Caitlyn with my crying. I quickly wipe my eyes, expecting to hear her call out to me or her footsteps approach the bathroom, but once the hinges of the bedroom door stop, there’s silence.

  “Caitlyn?”

  No answer.

  I pull myself up off the floor and go out into the bedroom. The door is open, but the doorway’s empty. I grab my phone as I cross the room and check the time. 2:42 a.m. This long night just got longer.

  I poke my head into the darkened hallway.

  The only light is coming from the night-light in Caitlyn’s room which is spilling out from the crack under her door.

  I quietly move down the hall towards her bedroom. She must have gotten scared when she heard me crying and went back to bed. I get closer and my suspicions are confirmed. I can hear whispering coming from behind her door.

  I carefully press my ear against it.

  “I can’t sleep … I can’t sleep …”

  I tap against the door and gently open it. “Caitlyn, I’m sorry. I didn’t want—”

  The night-light casts a soft glow around the room. Caitlyn’s asleep. She’s contorted herself into a ridiculous position with one leg off the bed and her butt up in the air.

  “Caitlyn?”

  Maybe she’s pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to me.

  I get closer and see that she is out cold.

  I quietly turn, step out of the room, and close the door behind me.

  I’m way more tired than I realized because I’m hearing things. I need to get back to my room, crawl into bed, and try to sl—

  Drip … drip …

  I spin around.

  It came from somewhere on the stairs. I pull up the flashlight app on my phone and scan the stairs. They’re dry. There are no water spots on the ceiling, either.

  Drip … drip …

  It’s coming from downstairs.

  As quietly as the stairs will allow, I creep down to the first floor. I wait at the bottom of the stairs, searching everywhere with the light from my phone. Unconsciously, I steal a glance to the television where I thought I saw the figure earlier, but there’s no one there.

  Drip … drip …

  Wait … now it’s coming from the dining room.

  My blood begins to boil. I believed Stelowski when he said that all the pipes had been inspected. Now, I’m going to have to pay what will probably turn out to be thousands of dollars to fix it.

  I go into the dining room and wait … and wait … and wait.

  I continue searching the ceiling and the floor but everything is dry. My heartbeat begins to slow. My breathing returns to normal. This is pointless. There’s nothing I can do about it tonight. I’ll look tomorrow in the daylight.

  Since I’ve come all that way, I’ll check out the kitchen, just to be thorough. I walk through the entranceway and sweep the light over the stove, counters, and fridge. I check the door leading to the backyard to make sure it’s locked, which it is. Through the window in the door, I can see the moon’s reflection in the black water of the lake.

  I have to get back to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll call Stelowski and have him send someo—

  Drip … drip …

  It’s right behind me.

  I swing around, sweeping the light in a wide arc across the floor. It sounded so close, I’m surprised that I didn’t feel the water on my bare ankles, but the floor is dry. I check the ceiling. No water marks. I stand absolutely still, holding my breath, until my muscles begin to cramp and my lungs start to burn. The stillness wins out. The tension flows from me. A new house, way behind on the next book, stress, grief, lack of sleep? Of course I’m hearing things. I tell myself that I have to take it easy and roll with the punches. It’s time to get back to sleep.

  I creep back through the first floor and up the stairs. I tip-toe past Caitlyn’s room and down the hall.

  I quickly hop into the bed, getting my freezing feet off the floor and slide them under the covers. I punch the pillow, fluffing it up, smooth it out, lay my head back, and wait for sleep to come … and wait … and wait … and wait … and wait …

  May 3rd, 1900

  Today was the grand opening of the pharmacy.

  For the last month, Father’s been talking about the crowds that were going to show up. In the end, there was only a handful of people. Most of them were other merchants from the town square and were more polite than enthusiastic. Father gave a ridiculous speech about how the pharmacy would provide for all of Kingsbrook’s medical needs. He boasted of the tonics from the East and powders from Africa. Then, he announced that he would be giving away samples to prove their effectiveness. Carol was livid. Afterwards, they disappeared in the back and left me to work the register. The machine jammed and I needed Father’s assistance. I went through the curtain to the storeroom and found them arguing.

  Carol was furious and said he was throwing money away. Father said that once everyone sees how well the products work, they’ll be back for more. Carol said that they didn’t work and that Father knew it back in Boston. That’s when they saw me standing by the curtain. I told them about the register.

  Carol said she would take care of it and left us.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Father asked with a forced smile.

  “Isn’t ‘what�
� wonderful?”

  “The store!” he replied. “It’s going to do such wonderful things for our family.”

  He’s said that before about the grocer’s we had in Boston and the launderette. And now, this.

  Father and Carol continued to be hostile to each other and arguing in the storeroom. The stream of customers dwindled, and Father decided it would be best if I ran the store and the two of them went home to talk. I was fine with the idea; anything to get them out of the store.

  There were some customers throughout the rest of the day, but nothing of the magnitude Father had predicted. Some of Kingsbrook’s elite who couldn’t be there earlier for the opening stopped in later. They seemed relieved when I told them that Father was gone for the day. Then, they beat a hasty retreat, promising to return another time and congratulate Father on the pharmacy’s success.

  One of the latecomers was Mayor Fleming. To my surprise, he was followed by the young woman I had seen under the window at my party—the one named ‘Patricia’. We recognized each other immediately. She smiled with false politeness as he introduced her as his daughter. He asked to speak to Father and I told him that Father had gone, but that I would tell him that he had stopped by.

  As they turned to leave, you’ll never believe who walked in … Mr. Carrington!

  He exchanged pleasantries with the Mayor and a few words with Patricia before making his way over to the counter.

  Those eyes.

  “Ms. Harker,” he said.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Carrington.”

  He was pleased that I remembered his name and winked at me, again.

  I glanced over his shoulder and saw the Mayor speaking to his daughter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that he was leaving and she wanted to stay.

  “Are you working here by yourself?” Mr. Carrington asked.

  “Father needs me to work,” I told him.

  “Can’t he hire someone?”