Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  “Living room?” I suggest.

  She turns on her heels and points commandingly to the entranceway.

  “Living room!” she calls out and stomps away.

  Okay. She might be adjusting much better than I am.

  6

  We’ve conquered the dining room and the living room.

  It took less time than I thought, and that’s including the times we stopped to have a “popping fight” with the bubble wrap.

  But that was all that Caitlyn’s concentration could take, and I’m unpacking the Writing Room on my own.

  Since I’m not a big fan of going back into the basement, the large cardboard boxes remained in the living room and Caitlyn has found a million uses for them. Sometimes, they’re spaceships that she’ll pilot around the galaxy and suddenly cry out, “Asteroid field!” which is my cue to come over and shake the box. Other times, they’re race cars and she’s flying round the track. Last time I poked my head out of the Writing Room to check on her, they were laid end-to-end across the floor, creating a vast system of underground caves. From the Writing Room, I can hear her loudly announce her encounters with bats, lava, and trolls as I place some treasured paperbacks on a shelf in no particular order.

  It used to drive Nicole nuts.

  My books covered almost an entire wall of our apartment in Portland. One night, we were sitting on the couch with a glass of wine after Caitlyn had gone to bed.

  “Alphabetically? By year?” she asked, waving her glass at the wall of books. “Ranked in order of your favorite? Is there any method to your madness?”

  “Nah,” I replied.

  “Then how do you expect to find any particular book when you need it?”

  “I won’t need to find any particular book. They’re just there.”

  “Then why have them?”

  “You know how hunters have the heads on their walls, like trophies?”

  “Yes, and they’re assholes.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “So, that would make you an asshole?”

  “Yes, but I’m your asshole.”

  She gave me a look. “No other way we can phrase that, huh?”

  I laughed. We kissed and—

  Thump.

  What the hell was that?

  It was soft, almost inaudible, and sounded like it came from the bookshelf, and not in my memory with Nicole but here, in the Writing Room.

  Maybe it was just a book sliding to the back of the shelf after I set it down.

  I transfer the books in my hand to the shelf and wait to see if it’ll happen again. When it doesn’t, I bend down to grab more books.

  Thump.

  I stand up and stare at the bookcase.

  It definitely sounded like it was in the bookcase. I know it can’t be behind it. The bookcase is built into the wall. I step out of the Writing Room and inspect the wall on the other side, but there’s nothing remarkable about it.

  Maybe Caitlyn is playing a prank on me. After all, I don’t hear her playing “caves” anymore.

  I stick my head into the living room.

  The boxes still span the floor.

  I’m about to call her name when I hear her whispering from inside the box at the far end of the room.

  “… No … I don’t want to play with you, right now … You have to move. You’re blocking my cave … Why? Why is he upstairs?”

  “Pumpkin, who are you talking to?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Caitly—”

  “Nobody!” she answers in a chipper voice. “It’s okay, now!”

  I’m about to ask her what she means when she says that it’s okay “now”, but she suddenly cries, “Arr! There be treasure in these caves, me-hearties!”

  The boxes begin shaking as she crawls through them.

  I shrug and go back to the Writing Room to finish unpacking.

  *

  After our productive day, it’s Chinese food for dinner.

  Just like last night, Caitlyn sets the table while I pay the delivery guy, and also, just like last night, Caitlyn has set the table for three.

  “Is your pirate friend going to join us this evening?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Then, who is the plate for?”

  “My friend. She might come down for dinner.”

  “Oh …”

  I take a spoon and start filling her plate with noodles, rice, and orange chicken. I know I said that I was going to give her some space with the ‘stories’, but I do want her to tone it down before she starts going to school. “Caitlyn, pumpkin, you know we really can’t do that once school starts, okay?”

  “Do what?” she asks.

  “The made-up stories.”

  She stares at me as if it was an offensive suggestion and then shrugs.

  We sit down and dig in.

  Caitlyn struggles mightily with her chopsticks. I offered her a fork but she flatly refused. Towards the end of the meal, she’s finally starting to get the hang of it, once again proving that she’s inherited Nicole’s stubborn streak.

  “How is your friend enjoying the meal?” I ask.

  “Dad, she’s not here. She didn’t come down.”

  “She doesn’t like Chinese food?”

  “No. She’s hiding.”

  I wait for her to elaborate but she goes back to struggling with the chopsticks.

  “Listen, this is our last night of junk food,” I say, hefting the last of my sweet-n-sour pork from my chopstick to my mouth. “Tomorrow, we’re going to go to the store, explore the town, and visit your school, okay?”

  She barely nods, concentrating on keeping her mouth steady as she inches her chopsticks towards her mouth. The bit of orange chicken slides back to her plate. She huffs in frustration and grabs the plastic fork on the table to finish the last of her food.

  *

  Once dinner is finished, we head outside to the backyard to enjoy the warm evening. She spends the better part of an hour at the water’s edge, walking in the water and playing with the fireflies, while I enjoy an after-dinner scotch in a chair on the deck. It’s worth the mosquitos. My gaze drifts through the star-pocked sky, down to the trees, and to the other houses along the shore. Nicole would have loved this. Thinking about her gives me a sense of warmth, which is completely different from last night, but that’s grief for you. Sometimes it makes you inconsolable, sometimes it makes you enraged. Other times, it makes you feel at peace, and you never know which one you’re going to get. But Nicole would also point out that it’s getting late.

  I push myself out of the chair. “All right, Caitlyn. Time to get ready for bed.”

  In the moonlight, she suddenly whips around to look at me, keeping her hands behind her back.

  “Pumpkin, did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay … well, come inside.”

  She stands motionless, as if she’s trying to make a decision. Then, she suddenly brings her hands to her chest and begins running towards me.

  “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” I say as she races past me.

  She’s clutching something. It glints in the light from the porch as she runs past.

  “Okay!” she says, running through the back door, leaving me to clean up our plates from dinner.

  *

  After depositing the dishes from dinner in the dishwasher, I go upstairs to say good night.

  At the top of the stairs, I stand next to Caitlyn’s open bedroom door and there’s the sound of the sink running in the bathroom down the hall. I glance into her room and see the collection of empty cardboard boxes in the corner. I begin to make my way towards them when a reflection of light catches my eye from her nightstand. I go over and bend down for a better look.

  This must have been what was in her hand.

  It’s a brass medallion, about the size of a half-dollar. It’s scratched and worn. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. On one side are three small pegs of different lengths.
On the other side is an inscription in an elegant font.

  The Secrets That I Keep.

  It’s suddenly snatched from me.

  I look up to see Caitlyn staring at me, holding the medallion. Her eyes are a mixture of anger and fear.

  “Sweetheart, where did you get that?” I ask, a little unnerved that I didn’t hear her approach.

  “She gave it to me.”

  “Who gave it to you?” I gently ask.

  She grows more fearful. “I mean … I …” She clutches the medallion tighter. “I found it in the water.”

  “Hey. It’s okay. You found it. It’s yours.”

  She hesitantly replaces the medallion on the nightstand and crawls into bed.

  “Good night, sweetheart,” I say, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Big day tomorrow. Get some sleep.” I kiss her forehead and go to leave.

  I step into the hallway and begin to close the door behind me.

  “Dad!”

  I quickly push it back open. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “The night-light,” she says, pointing at the outlet by my feet.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” I flip the little switch and the light softly glows. “There.”

  She slowly lies back down and turns away from me.

  “Good night, pumpkin” I say, closing the door.

  *

  “DADDY!”

  I’m awake in an instant.

  Caitlyn is screaming. They are the desperate, terrified screams that fill every parent’s heart with panic.

  I spring out of bed and race into the hallway.

  Caitlyn’s door is open. I sprint down the hall and into her room.

  Her bed is empty. She’s not here, but her screams continue.

  “Caitlyn?!”

  I take a step towards the bed and my foot lands in a small puddle of water.

  Her screaming stops.

  In the light from the night-light, I can see that there are wet tracks, like footprints, leading back out into the hall.

  I follow them down the stairs, through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The back door is open.

  “Caitlyn?”

  I rush out the back door and onto the deck.

  It’s unnaturally quiet. The night air is perfectly still.

  The tracks lead off the deck and into the grass. I follow their direction towards the water and stop.

  I see her. Caitlyn, clad in her nightgown, floating face down in the lake.

  “Caitlyn!”

  I sprint across the yard and crash into the water, kicking up my knees to fight the resistance. The water is up to my chest when I reach her.

  I grab her and turn her over. She’s ice-cold and her lips are blue. She’s not breathing.

  “Caitlyn? Sweetheart?”

  Panicked, I seal my mouth over her lips and breathe. I feel her chest rise and fall but she doesn’t respond. I do it again with the same result.

  “Caitlyn, please! Please, don’t leave me!”

  Her eyes stay closed. Her body is cold and stiff.

  She’s gone.

  I cradle her in my arms and press my face against her cheek.

  “Now, we can be a family, again,” a voice next to me whispers.

  I turn my head.

  The bloody, broken Nicole I saw in the dream last night is standing next to me. Her eyes are still lifeless, unseeing. Only her lips move.

  Suddenly, her eyes focus on me. “Just like you wanted.”

  I stare at her in horror.

  The bottom falls out from below my feet and I’m pulled under the water by a terrible weight. Caitlyn’s body is gone. It’s only me, plummeting down into darkness.

  I try to scream but icy, black water fills my lungs. I fight to get back to the surface, but I continue to sink. I can’t breathe. The vile, black water is filling my lungs. I’m losing control of my senses. My efforts grow weaker. My arms slow. My eyes remain open, but my vision fades.

  Everything is a dark fog.

  Through the void, there’s a whisper. “I can’t sleep …”

  I thrash in my bed, flailing my arms against the water that isn’t there and fighting for air. I can still taste the black, briny water in my mouth. My sanity slowly returns.

  “Goddamnit,” I sigh, wiping the sweat from my eyes.

  It takes several minutes to calm my breathing before I can sit up and look around.

  I’m still not used to this room.

  Why does it feel so claustrophobic? It’s not huge but it’s not a cage.

  And what is with these dreams?

  Last night, it was Caitlyn’s shattered body in the car, and tonight she was floating in the lake. Why is my subconscious doing this?

  If I’m going to get any sleep tonight, I need to see Caitlyn. I need to see her safe in her bed. It’s the only thing that can counter the lingering image of cradling her cold, dead body.

  I climb out of bed and make my way down the hall.

  I open the door to Caitlyn’s room and my heart starts racing.

  Her bed is empty.

  “Caitlyn?” I go over to the bed and throw back the covers. She’s not there.

  No. Oh, please, no. I start searching the floor for wet footprints.

  “Caitlyn?!” I cry out.

  There’s a noise behind me.

  Snoring. It’s coming from the closet.

  I tip-toe over and open the door.

  Relief washes over me.

  There she is, curled up into a ball, wrapped in a blanket, her head on a pillow, and sawing logs.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing in there? You okay?”

  She doesn’t stir, only continues snoring.

  I gently pick her up and put her back in her bed. I pull the covers over her, kiss her on the forehead, and back out of the room.

  I glance towards the open door to my bedroom.

  No, thanks.

  I head down the stairs and drop onto the couch, before grabbing the remote and turning on the television. Flipping through the channels, I come across a classic horror movie marathon. On the screen, Vincent Price is explaining the rules to a group of people who will get a staggering ten thousand dollars if they stay in the house for one night.

  I should turn the channel, but I love this movie, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep, anyway.

  7

  Two classic horror films and one early-morning sunrise later, I’m just drifting off to sleep when I’m jolted awake by the sound of Caitlyn coming down the stairs.

  “—back and we can play later,” she’s saying as I blink my eyes open.

  She freezes, surprised to find me on the couch, again.

  “Hey, pumpkin,” I say, rubbing my face.

  “Hi …”

  “You hungry?”

  “Yep!”

  She hurries off to the kitchen.

  I can’t keep doing this. In the past forty-eight hours, I think I’ve had a grand total of four hours of sleep, and today is going to be a long day.

  I sit back on the couch and close my eyes. One moment. I want one quick moment to relax and not th—

  “Dad, what’s for breakfast?”

  I sigh and get up to feed the little monster.

  *

  After breakfast, we set off into town.

  Our first stop is the main square. We park on a side street and spend the next hour or so, strolling among the antique shops and occasional clothing boutique.

  Caitlyn spots Murphy’s, the old-fashioned soda shop on the main square, and asks if we could go in.

  “How can you be hungry?” I ask. “We just ate breakfast.”

  “Because it’s ice cream,” she replies.

  Her logic is airtight and I’m too exhausted to argue.

  *

  Murphy’s has just opened and we are the only customers.

  I’m hit by the memory of our last meal/milkshake here with Nicole. If Caitlyn remembers, she makes no sign. She’s too preoccupied with petting th
e owner’s black lab while we wait for our milkshakes. When they arrive—plain vanilla for me, peanut butter and chocolate for Caitlyn—we sit in a booth by the window and watch Kingsbrook come to life …

  “—na race …? Dad? … Dad?”

  I snort awake and sit up in the booth. I dozed off. It was only for a second. My head had drifted back, my eyes closed, and I was out. My milkshake sits undisturbed on the table in front of me, while Caitlyn’s is almost halfway gone.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. What did you say?”

  “Do you wanna have a race?”

  “A race? A race to where?”

  “To see who can finish their milkshake first.”

  I’m still trying to get my senses in order. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

  “And go!”

  Caitlyn clamps her lips around the end of the straw and starts pulling it through. She closes her eyes tightly with the effort.

  I leave my milkshake untouched and watch.

  “You’re going to get brain freeze,” I warn her, but she’s almost done.

  The level of milkshake in her glass falls to the bottom.

  She reaches the end and the remains of the milkshake slurp through the bottom of the straw.

  Caitlyn gulps it down and opens her eyes. “I won!” she says, smiling triumphantly.

  I know what’s coming.

  Wait for it … wait for it …

  Caitlyn’s eyes go wide. Then, she clenches them shut, and presses a hand to her forehead.

  There it is.

  “Brain freeze?” I ask.

  “No,” she grunts, squeezing her eyes closed even tighter. “I’m … I’m thinking really hard.”

  “Riiiiiight.”

  I watch in amusement as it passes. She finally relaxes, takes her hand from her forehead, and opens her eyes.

  “There. I’m done,” she says.

  “You’re done ‘thinking hard’?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what were you ‘thinking hard’ about?”

  “Um …” Her eyes dart around as she searches for an answer. “The house.”

  “Really? And what about the house?”

  She continues glancing around—and then she finds something. “We should get a pool!” she quickly says.

  I raise an eyebrow at her and twist in my seat to look at the counter.

  There’s a guy sitting there on one of the stools, reading a paper. On the front page is a story about the measure to build a public swimming pool in Kingsbrook. I turn back to Caitlyn.