Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  “Since we moved, she’s had an imaginary friend named ‘Katherine’, but the thing with this Peter kid, I may have—”

  “Mr. Price, that’s not why we called you here.”

  “Then, what is?”

  Principal Craig points to the whiteboard behind me. “That.”

  I turn and freeze.

  Scrawled across the board in the uneven hand of a child are the words “Hancourt is stupid”, “I hate you”, “stupid stupid stupid” and finally:

  “We wanted you to see before we erased it,” Principal Craig says after a long silence.

  “I … I can’t believe it.”

  “That’s why we wanted you to see it,” Principal Craig replies and nods to Denise, who picks up an eraser and begins wiping away the writing.

  Stunned, I turn to my daughter. “Caitlyn?”

  “I didn’t do it,” she weakly pleads.

  “Caitlyn, don’t lie to me. Not now.”

  Her face springs up, again, and the words come out in a frightened torrent. “It was Katherine! I told her not to, but she wouldn’t listen! She didn’t like that Peter was making fun of me for talking to her, so she pushed him.”

  “Caitlyn—”

  “Then she got mad at Ms. Hancourt for saying that I was in trouble. I told her not to write that, but she said that’s what her dad called Rebecca—”

  “Caitlyn—”

  “—and that Ms. Hancourt was going to ruin everything between you and Mom, because last night you and Ms. Hancourt—”

  “Caitlyn, stop it!” I yell.

  Denise stares at me in shock.

  A tense silence fills the room.

  I desperately try to convey with a glance to Denise that I haven’t told Caitlyn anything about last night, but her thoughts are clear; She believes that I did, and now, Principal Craig will know.

  I can already see the suspicion growing behind Principal Craig’s eyes as she looks from Denise to me.

  I have to get both Caitlyn and myself out of here.

  I look at Denise and Principal Craig. “I’m going to take her home for today.”

  “We think that would be best,” Principal Craig replies through tightened lips.

  I hold out my hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”

  Keeping her eyes to the floor, Caitlyn slides out of her chair, takes my hand, and we begin walking towards the door. We pass into the hall, followed by Principal Craig and Denise. Children begin entering from the doors leading to the playground. Their voices echo off the walls and their shoes squeak across the floor.

  We arrive back at the main entrance. I turn back to Denise and Principal Craig.

  “I’m really sorry about this.”

  Principal Craig nods, somewhat sympathetically. “It’ll be fine. We know that this is a rough time. Thank you for coming in.” She looks down at Caitlyn. “We’ll see you tomorrow, okay, Caitlyn?”

  Caitlyn doesn’t respond.

  “Caitlyn?” I ask.

  “It’s okay,” Principal Craig says with a consoling smile. “Again, thank you for coming in.”

  She turns and begins walking back towards her office. As she walks away, she says over her shoulder, “Ms. Hancourt, if you can come see me in my office, please?” and continues walking.

  I face Denise.

  “I didn’t say anything to Caitlyn. I swear to God.”

  Her wounded expression doesn’t change. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything else you need, Mr. Price?”

  “Sure … I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what to say. What else can I say?

  “Thank you for coming in,” she replies.

  She shakes her head and begins walking towards the office.

  20

  “Caitlyn, please tell me what happened.”

  “I did,” she says, staring out the car window.

  “No. You have to tell me what really happened. It’s okay that you stood up for yourself if he was picking on you, but you can’t blame your imaginary friend, okay? Caitlyn?”

  That’s the extent of our conversation on the drive back to the Nightingale House.

  *

  As soon as I open the front door, she makes a beeline for the stairs and up to her room.

  “Caitlyn, please come back here.”

  She doesn’t stop. She goes into her room and slams the door.

  I should go up there and demand that she opens the door and speaks to me. Instead, I sit at the dining-room table and stare out over the lake for an hour. The rejuvenation I felt this morning is gone. I’m back to being tired, frustrated, and now embarrassed over what happened with Denise. How am I going to fix that one? I can’t, right now. That’s a problem for later. I need to figure out how to talk to Caitlyn. I need to be comforting but firm, understanding but strict.

  What I really need is some backup. I need Nicole.

  We used to say that there should be a questionnaire or some kind of test to prove that you could raise a child before you had one, but joked that we’d fail it. I really wish I had taken that test, right now. I really wish Nicole was here.

  Well, Nicole’s not here. I’m on my own. The first thing that is going to happen is that Caitlyn is going to have to admit the truth and take responsibility. I’ll sort out the rest later.

  “Caitlyn, can you come down here, please?” I call towards the stairs.

  To my surprise, Caitlyn pokes her head around the entrance to the living room.

  “Pumpkin, how long have you been standing there?”

  She shrugs.

  I motion to the chair across the table. “Please, sit down.”

  She cautiously enters the room, pulls out the chair, and eases herself onto it.

  “Am I in trouble?” she asks.

  “A little. You’re going to tell Ms. Hancourt that you’re sorry and I want to know where you heard that word, but right now, I want to know what’s going on. Tell me what happened with the boy you shoved.”

  “I didn’t push him! It was Katherine!”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Just tell me what happened.”

  She glances towards the living room. Her eyes lock onto something. I try to follow her gaze to see what she’s looking at, but the room is empty.

  “Caitlyn?”

  She squirms in her seat. “At recess, Katherine wanted me to draw a picture of us, so I did, and I was showing it to her and then Peter asked what we were doing.”

  “What was the picture?”

  “… It was me and Katherine. He asked who Katherine was, and I said I was the only one who could see her. He said that was dumb and started making fun of it. Katherine got mad and pushed him. Peter started crying because Katherine pushed him so hard. Ms. Hancourt came over and Peter said I pushed him, but I didn’t! It was only because he was standing so close to me and it looked like I pushed him, but it was Katherine!”

  I had hoped that talking to her alone would get her to admit that she was making it up. Instead, she’s insisting that her lie is real and it’s my fault. There were multiple times I could have checked this behavior and I didn’t. She’s coping with Nicole’s death in a way I’m not able to handle.

  “Okay. Listen, Caitlyn, you can’t—”

  “Ms. Hancourt told me to go inside and wait for her, so I did, but Katherine was really mad at her. When we got in the classroom, Katherine started writing on the board—”

  “Sweetheart, you have to—”

  “And I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I kept trying to erase it, but Katherine kept writing. She wrote that word. She said that’s what her dad called the other girl, and that’s what Ms. Hancourt was, and when Ms. Hancourt came in the room, Katherine dropped the marker, and I was standing there, so it looked like I was writing it!”

  I’m getting sick to my stomach and my hands are starting to tremble.

  “Caitlyn—”

  “I tried to tell Ms. Hancourt, but she wouldn’t believe me!”

  I start rubbing my
eyes. This is a disaster.

  “Caitlyn, please stop.”

  “It’s true! It was Katherine!”

  I take my hands away and glare at her. “You have to stop lying, Caitlyn. Katherine is not real.”

  Her eyes dart towards the living room.

  “Caitlyn, look at me.”

  She does.

  I lower my voice. “Stop … lying … to me.”

  I’ve never spoken to her like that, almost menacing, but I don’t care.

  “… She is real,” Caitlyn says, quietly.

  The trembling in my hands grows. Bile is churning in my throat. For the first time in our lives, the thought of spanking Caitlyn crosses my mind.

  “Caitlyn …”

  “She’s in this house. Sometimes she comes out to play with me because she hasn’t had anyone to play with in a long time. Other times, she stays in my closet.”

  “What are you talking about?! Caitlyn, where do you get this stuff? Why would there be someone staying in your closet?”

  “She’s hiding from her dad … He’s in the house, too.”

  I have to press her. I feel like I have to keep her going until I can point out how ridiculous this is, then she’ll break and have to admit she’s making all of this up.

  “Okay. She’s hiding from her dad in your closet. Where’s her dad?”

  “I … In your room,” she says, staring at the table.

  “Why does she have to hide from her dad?”

  “Because he’s mean. He’s the reason she’s here … She drowned in the lake … Now, she’s in the house … He won’t let her leave.”

  “‘Won’t let her leave’? Caitlyn, what do you mean? You said she followed you to school, so she can leave the house.”

  “No, not the house … He won’t let her leave.”

  “Caitlyn, I still don’t understand. Why won’t he let her leave?”

  “Because if she leaves, he has to leave.”

  “Sweetheart, what does that even mean?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I’m going to be sick and I’m struggling to keep a lid on my frustration.

  “Caitlyn, sweetheart, what does that—?”

  “Sometimes Katherine can hear Mom.”

  “… What did you just say?”

  “Katherine can hear Mom … She’s here, too.”

  This has gone too far. The lid is off.

  “Caitlyn, that’s enough.”

  She continues to keep her eyes on the table as she speaks. “Mom tries to talk to Katherine, but her dad won’t let her.”

  “Caitlyn …”

  “Katherine says that Mom is worried about us.”

  “Caitlyn Nicole Price, stop it, now.”

  “Mom wants us to leave, but Katherine needs us to stay.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Katherine says she’s sorry, but she needs our help and Mom can’t get—”

  I slam my fist down on the table. “GODDAMNIT, CAITLYN! STOP IT! JUST STOP IT! DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE BRING YOUR MOTHER INTO THIS!”

  Caitlyn looks up at me in horror. Her eyes fill with fearful tears that spill out and run down her cheeks.

  I can’t believe I said that to her, but I’m still boiling and my hand is throbbing.

  “Go to your room.”

  She sniffs. “Daddy … I’m sorry …”

  “Go to your room, now.”

  After a long silence, her chair scrapes across the floor as she gets up from the table. She walks out of the dining room. Her footsteps quicken as she reaches the stairs, as do her choked sobs. A moment later, her bedroom door closes.

  The image of her looking at me like I was a monster causes all the rage and frustration to drain out of me, to be replaced with a feeling of regret I’ve ever known.

  I lean back, sigh, and hang my head.

  What did I just do?

  I’ve blown it.

  I wanted her to open up to me. I should have listened and tried to have been understanding. Instead, I yelled and cursed at her. I had hurt her. I had hurt our daughter. If Nicole was here, I don’t know what she would say.

  I can’t let this fester. I have to tell her I’m sorry. I slowly go upstairs and stop outside her door. I can hear her crying inside.

  “Caitlyn, can I come in?”

  The sniffling stops. There are footsteps. Then, there’s the sound of something sliding across the floor. She’s blocked the door.

  I should tell her to open the door, but after what I’ve done, if she wants to be alone, I’m going to have to respect that.

  “Okay … Caitlyn, I’m sorry. I should never have said that … I’m so sorry … I love you, sweetheart.”

  Her footsteps retreat into her room, and from what I can tell, back to her bed. The stifled crying resumes.

  *

  I’ve been sitting at the dining-room table for hours, going back and forth between wondering what to do, berating myself, and feeling sorry for myself.

  I go upstairs to see if Caitlyn wants anything to eat, but when I reach her door, I can hear her snoring. It might be better to let her sleep and try to apologize again in the morning, so I head back downstairs to the kitchen.

  I’m about to open the fridge when I spot Mildred’s bottle of scotch sitting on top of it. In frustration, I grab it, hold it in my hands, and pull out the stopper.

  Fuck it.

  I steady myself, take a deep breath, raise the bottle to my lips, and drink. The liquid burns like gasoline as it travels down and pools in my stomach. When I can’t take it anymore, I stop, and wait for the effects. I was a little tipsy with Denise last night (my God, was that only last night?) but I haven’t been drunk since Nicole and I enjoyed our last date night while Caitlyn was at her grandparents’. Drinking was something I avoided after her death, but right now, I don’t care.

  I failed Caitlyn and I failed Nicole.

  After another gigantic swig from the bottle, I’m seized by a fit of coughing as it ignites my throat. Once it passes, I put the bottle back on the fridge. I’ve drunk more than half of what had been left in a matter of minutes.

  This is going to be bad.

  I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water. I down it in one gulp, trying to put out the fire in my gut, and grip the side of the sink.

  After a few minutes, I’m already getting slightly dizzy and lightheaded. On my empty stomach, the effects of the scotch are almost immediate. My fingers are growing less and less responsive.

  I lean against the counter, no longer feeling happy or sad. I just don’t feel, which is what I want, but this was a mistake. The effects are still coming, and it’s going to get worse. I need to get to bed, right now.

  Grabbing a glass of water, I head upstairs.

  I steal a moment outside Caitlyn’s door to listen to her rhythmic snoring.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, before glancing down the hall.

  The door to my bedroom is open. I’m pretty sure that I closed it. I always keep it closed.

  I go down the hall and step inside.

  For the first time, the room feels warm and inviting, but not in a ‘cozy’ way. It’s as though I’ve somehow won its approval, like it finally wants me in here. I stare at the big, warm, welcoming bed. My balance starts to go. I teeter for a few seconds, take a deep breath … and blow it through my lips like a horse.

  I turn around and close the door behind me.

  I go downstairs, shuffle over to the couch, collapse in a heap, and pass out.

  July 20th, 1900

  Two weeks and no word from Thomas. I’m more confused than ever. I know he must be waiting for his wife to depart for Boston, but I need to see him. I need to talk to him. I shouldn’t doubt his affection for me. I don’t but—

  It’s that Patricia Fleming’s fault.

  This afternoon, I was working at the pharmacy. Father stayed home. He said he was not feeling well, and after all the whiskey he drank last night, I don’t doubt it. I was happy to work alon
e at the pharmacy. It gets me out of the house. There’s been no word from Carol. Father said that she is still at her sister’s in Philadelphia, but I’m beginning to doubt that. He is constantly in a foul mood. I almost miss his foolish optimism.

  So, as I said, I have no problem working at the pharmacy on my own. It gives me some time to myself and to keep an eye out for the courier. My heart leaps at every shadow that passes in front of the store window, only to fall when it’s not someone carrying an order from Thomas.

  The pharmacy is in trouble. We’ve only done a fraction of the sales that Father was so certain the summer crowd would bring. There’s the odd straggler who wanders in out of curiosity or the vacationer who has forgotten something in New York. When they see the prices of our exotic toothpowders from India, they leave and go to the grocers.

  And that was how today started—with me behind the counter, reading a book, and waiting.

  Around one o’clock, the bell rang, announcing a customer, or I hoped, the courier, or anyone besides the person who actually walked in the door: Patricia Fleming, the town gossip.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, in her overly polite tone.

  “Good afternoon,” I returned.

  She made a half-hearted pretense of ‘shopping’, and eventually made her way to the counter.

  “How’s business?” she asked, taking in the empty store.

  I had been trying to ignore her with my book, but knowing it was hopeless, I closed the book and addressed her. “We’re thinking of having a sale. People seem to find our products slightly too expensive.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” she said, unfazed.

  She eyed my necklace.

  “That’s something pretty,” she said. “A present from someone?”

  “That’s not your business,” was all I could think to say.

  Instead of backing down, she seemed to enjoy my rebukes. “No. You’re right. It’s yours …” She pretended to admire a display of lip balm on the counter. “And how is your business with Mr. Carrington?”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise, which is what she wanted to see. I wanted her to leave.

  “Did you come in specifically to pry into my life?” I asked.

  “No. My friends and I take a walk every afternoon through the square. I thought I’d stop in to see if there was any business between you and Mr. Carrington, and there clearly is.”