“I don’t know. If we’re going at three a.m., I’d think you might be trying to get flirty with me.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Strictly professional.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Margot peered toward the stove with the hint of a smile. “Your eggs are burning.”
The rest of breakfast passed in a limbo of silence. In the shifting sands of relationships, there was no traction to begin any conversation. Salt and pepper were passed, the butter dish made the rounds, and coffee was poured before Zoey asked, “So Emily, how about you? What will you be doing this week?”
“I’m ghost hunting,” she answered without hesitation.
The entire table went silent.
“What Emily is trying to say is that she is researching the history of the previous tenants of this house to discover how it may be relevant to the occurrences of disruption over the recent past, and she’s going to publish the results as the final paper in her psychology class,” Andrew explained, trying to gloss over the essentials lest they think both of them were lunatics.
“Ghost hunting? Does finding Nick in the bathtub count?” Christian asked.
“There was a ghost taking a bath in your flat?” Zoey’s mouth didn’t shut, but stayed in a shocked “O.”
“Nah, he was dressed in this kick-ass suit and sipping a martini.”
Andrew dropped his head into his hands. So much for subtlety.
“But I thought, I thought you were just making it all up about this Nora person?”
“She is a ghost. Was a person. I think she’s sensitive to such things,” Emily corrected her. She proceeded to describe to an astounded crowd her experience with Nora in the park.
“This is so cosmically relevant. Can you imagine, torn from being with the one you love? How do I help? Where do I sign up? Christian, you have to get involved in this with your aunt’s voodoo shop and all, baby,” Zoey said and clutched his hand in hers.
“Her place basically sold antiques, chere. Silver, jewelry—”
“Shrunken heads,” Simon commented with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, I could probably use the extra manpower. We’ll need to search the house for what might have belonged to them, anything that may have been left behind—diaries, letters, newspaper articles, anything that might help us in understanding their history. I’ll see what I can find online too, and I suppose if all else fails, we search the city.”
“So let me get this straight,” asked Margot, clearly not convinced yet. “You’re going to tell your professor, who happens to specialize in debunking anything related to the supernatural, that you’re writing about reuniting the ghosts of lost lovers by finding a dead body and solving the mystery of their separation?”
“Yes.”
“Are you out of your mind? He’s going to fail you.”
“But just think what he’d do if I could actually get some real data for once.”
“It’ll be the first time grave robbing is part of field study,” Simon pointed out.
“What?” Emily turned to the solemn faced drummer.
“No, he’s right,” said Margot. “According to your friendly ghost friend, you’ll have to first steal her ashes from the Columbarium, a huge basilica loaded with thousands of crypts, which is ludicrous in and of itself. And don’t forget that the other remains could be who the hell knows where. Either way, you’ll be plundering one grave at the least, which is, if I’m not mistaken, a criminal offense. And are you even sure this’ll work? Jesus, I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation. Ghosts. This makes no sense whatsoever. And what about Vandin?” Margot pressed.
“I’m not sure how I’m going to present it yet, but I have a meeting scheduled with him.”
“When?” Andrew asked.
“Next week. I can’t remember, exactly.”
Andrew could tell she was lying. Had she even made an appointment yet? Despite her evident independence, this was one thing he wasn’t thrilled about her doing on her own, and he made a promise to himself that he would be conveniently sitting outside Vandin’s open office door during that meeting. There was no way he was going to allow her to be alone with him, not after what he had witnessed in his classroom.
“So when do we start?” Zoey asked.
“Finish your brunch first,” Margot told her with a disgusted shake of her head and flipped a crepe onto her plate.
“Not bad,” Simon murmured.
The next week was spent in research during which Emily and Andrew were rarely apart. The days passed, and they found themselves lost in each other. They talked about everything and anything, until they found they could not stop, until they were hoarse, even though their minds still swirled with the need to hear the other’s voice. They laughed, listened, and carried on like lost mates reunited after a lifetime. She didn’t pander to him, something that surprised as much as pleased him. She confidently parried his intelligence and wit, and in turn, he didn’t let her retreat without a fight, didn’t accept anything less than all of her. When night came, he didn’t want to leave her side.
He didn’t see the growing concern of his band mates, in particular, Simon’s critical stares at his “infatuation.” It was all too easy, he thought to himself. It was the thrill of falling without the crash. But he didn’t care. He was far too lost.
Early one morning, Andrew and Emily set off to City Hall to unearth any records they could find regarding the ownership of the house. They eagerly walked hand-in-hand up the stairs and into the great basilica. Emily laughed as she had to pull Andrew by the hand, his head lost to the towering stone and light.
“Come on, you. You’re acting like a tourist.”
“Bloody gorgeous.”
“I know, the renovation is spectacular.”
“I didn’t mean the building.”
She blushed and swung his hand. They spent the following hours trying to find the proper office to obtain the tax roll to determine when or if a Nick or Nora Chamberlain owned the house they were now living in. Andrew marveled at her tenacity, and she told him she marveled at his patience. After an hour of searching, they were about to give up hope when Emily pulled hard on his sleeve. “Look.” She pointed to a listing on the tax record that read, The Chamberlain Detective Agency.
“Do you think?” Her eyes found Andrew’s. “Do you think that he may have been a real detective after all? Nora said they were the inspiration for the Charleses.”
“I always thought Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were the basis for Nick and Nora.”
“No, but Nora told me she parties with them.”
“Emily, really.”
“Let’s see if we can find anything else.” She smiled at him, gave him a fast kiss, and pushed her curls behind her ears, thrilled to continue.
An hour later they had, unfortunately, come up with no information. There were no more records involving The Chamberlain Detective Agency, no liens, no tax bills, nothing. Around lunchtime they threw in the towel, thanked the weary clerk who had helped them, and headed down the sweeping steps to the floor of the rotunda.
“The acoustics in here must be amazing.” Andrew hummed under his breath, lost in his thoughts, his hand twitching at his side.
“You never stop thinking about it, do you?”
There was no need to ask her to qualify what she meant—he knew. His music. The Lost Boys. “No, I can’t. Sorry.”
A small wedding party gathered on the mezzanine above them, and they heard a violinist and cellist begin to play. The strains of music flowed out to meet the sunlight.
“Wait, stop. Let’s listen.” He took her hand in his and led her to a nearby bench. They sat down; he wrapped his arm around her.
“That’s Beethoven, a duo for violin and cello. If you listen very carefully, you can hear how the violin and the cello trade the tune back and forth, give and take, and then support the other when one has the melody line. See, right there? It’s like a conversation bet
ween the two instruments—it’s balanced—no one voice stands out above the other. Stunning.”
She looked up at him, his eyes slightly closed, a smile making its way across his lips.
“Would you play the violin for me sometime? I need the encouragement. I thought we’d find more here, and there was nothing online, either. We’re never going to find him. Even his own wife doesn’t know where he’s buried.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “We’ve got time.”
“No we don’t,” she answered with a frown. “We don’t. She said so.” She dropped his hand and stared at the wedding party before walking to the door.
“Hey, slow down,” he shouted after her. “What’s the rush? Why are you so upset?”
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s not nothing. Talk to me.”
“It’s just that I’ve never—I’ve never been with someone that—I’m not good with long distance relationships.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your music is your life—it’s what you do.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter.”
A field trip of small children marched by wearing matching bright green T-shirts, parents shepherding them along. Would she ever want that kind of life; would he? Her eyes followed them as well.
“Buy me lunch. I’m hungry,” she told him and laced her fingers in his. “And I’ll stop acting like an idiot.”
“We have time, Emily.” But as he said the words he knew she did not believe them.
Their next stop was the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library. As they entered the building, Emily’s bad humor from before seemed to evaporate. The hushed whispers and musty smell of old pages filled even the modern lobby. He could see her eyes sweep from floor to floor, entranced no doubt with the desire to disappear into the stacks and be heard from no more.
“This way, please.” A smartly dressed woman smiled up at them from behind the help desk and led them to a microfiche room.
She spoke quietly so as not to disturb the other visitors and directed them on how to retrieve the files surrounding July 1st, 1935, the date of Nick and Nora’s death. The room hummed in the suffused light of the machines, the swish and whir of images passing through the screens. They were about to divide the film and sit at separate cubicles when Emily placed her hand on his arm.
“Stay with me.”
He pulled up a chair next to hers and draped his arm around her back as she readied the machine. Soon pages of the newspaper drifted by—old advertisements, black-and-white photos, and banner headlines, as though they should have their own soundtrack from a scratchy and muted record. Emily’s face glowed blue-gray in the reflection, her eyes wide and almost silver. July first, July second, July third…Emily moved the slides faster as if knowing what to look for. Andrew blinked, the light beginning to hurt his eyes. The date scrawled along the top of the screen, and he blinked again, the pain becoming sharper. Faster and faster the pages flew, a blur of text and photos and advertisements. Soon the pain became an ice pick behind his eyes. His hand rose to his temple, and he felt nausea rise in his stomach. Faster and faster still, Emily’s eyes scanning every detail somehow, until the images slammed to a halt. The word Obituaries, in a somber font, hung across the top of screen.
Nick Chamberlain Memorial Rites Held Friday
A memorial service was held for Mr. Nick Chamberlain at 9 o’clock at the Flood Mansion on Friday evening. Mr. Chamberlain was killed in an automotive accident on July first near Mendocino when his car lost control and plummeted off the roadway. Mr. Chamberlain was famous for his high-profile work as a private detective, as well as being instrumental in working with law enforcement to solve certain notorious crimes, especially the Walter’s Heist and the murder of famed film producer, Emile Latournow.
...
Andrew couldn’t read any more, the pain too much to take, and he staggered out of the room. Emily looked up from the machine as he turned the corner, and the color stripped from her face as she saw his hand clench the doorjamb. Pale and shaking, he slammed open the door of the men’s room and vomited in the closest stall. His head exploded. The sound of the sea and squealing tires roared in his ears. The sweaty feel of a steering wheel burned under his hands as he curled his fingers on the cold antiseptic tiles.
“Andrew! Andrew!” He could hear Emily calling from the hallway, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t face her. He was losing his mind, he knew he was. He had believed that once he found her this would stop, but the truth was, it was only getting worse. He was trading in one form of madness for another.
Andrew remembered the blunt voice of the doctor from long ago as he explained his diagnosis to his mum, and the scratch of his pen as he made notes on his chart.
“He’s quite advanced for his age. Startling, really. We often see spells brought on by this level of precociousness.”
The room was cold. His mother clenched his arm, and he could feel her love and worry evident in the press of her fingers, as though she could bring her young son back from his depression by the sheer force of her will.
“I see this form of neurosis often with child prodigies—it’s the dark side of their enormous talent, in a way. Andrew seems fixated with a figure he links to his music. This obsession, while common, can prove unhealthy if it is not absorbed into the active, creative mind. I believe that in pushing it away, he is taking the first step toward independence.”
“What can I do? What can I do to help?”
Andrew could not look at her. Her voice was so sad, and he knew he was responsible for making it so. He kept his eyes shut, feeling he had hurt her too badly to ever achieve forgiveness.
“He needs rest, and I strongly suggest you begin counseling to allow him to remove this unhealthy fixation from his mind.”
“No!”
Claudia’s hand tightened. It was the first sound her ten-year-old had made in several days.
“No! I don’t want her to go away.”
Claudia looked at him, not with fear or scorn, but with her patient compassion. She doesn’t have to, her eyes told him.
So Andrew agreed to all the tests and the talks to pacify the doctors and all involved. He was bright enough to know what to say and do so they would think he was fine. Cured, as they would later exclaim.
Then years and years later…the 215th straight day of touring. They took their last encore and departed the stage. The recent loss of his father had compelled him to perform, plan, and write, to drive himself faster than his grief. He needed his muse more at that moment than ever before, and he hated that he was so weak as to want a fantasy. Paper-thin exhausted, all he wanted to do was to collapse.
“Fuck you,” he remembered screaming at her in his mind. “Just fucking leave me alone.” He flung his guitar to the ground and stalked off to the dressing rooms. Sitting before the mirror, he could hear her pleading with him, begging him to stay. “Bloody go to hell.”
The next night, in the middle of the set, he reached out to her as he always did with that particular song. She was gone. He couldn’t remember her, not a detail, not a whisper. Suddenly a vision came into his mind, a car careening against a guard rail, a woman’s screams, her screams, his muse’s scream. His hands couldn’t move; he stopped dead in the midst of the refrain. His skin felt freezing and clammy, his hands trembled, and his heart was pounding so erratically he swore he was dying from a heart attack. Christian and Simon covered as best they could, long enough for him to stumble backstage.
“A breakdown,” the shrink later informed Simon and Christian, both ashen-faced and silent. “He can’t keep on like this. It’s insane. He’ll drive himself into an early grave.”
So they forced him to stop, to take a breather, because he couldn’t do anything else. And now, now he was spiraling out of control again. Except the vision was clearer now—a living nightmare.
They said little on the ride home. Andrew had claimed lunch had waylaid him and sat ne
xt to her on the MUNI shivering, his arms wrapped around his waist, causing her to worry even more. By the time they reached the foyer of their house, she walked him into his flat and waited until he was in bed before she left. It wasn’t until later that night, when the house sighed and settled around him, that he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door.
Emily entered with a smile and a tray of broth and tea. Andrew realized it was the first time she had entered his room, and he smiled back up at her, uncharacteristically self-conscious. After placing the tray on his bed, she walked to his window and ran her fingers along the ledge. She turned and surveyed the walls, the wrought iron chandelier. An empty wine glass sat on his nightstand, sheet music lay strewn across the bed, and a pile of dirty clothes was heaped in the corner. She stared at the floor before looking into his eyes.
“You feel better?”
“Yes, better. I never had the chance to ask you, but what did the rest of the obituary say?”
“Well, it’s strange. There was no listing of next of kin, nothing, and no mention of Nora of all. How could that be? She was his wife, yet it’s like she didn’t even exist. The only thing I know is that Nora’s ashes are somewhere in the Columbarium.”
“You still plan on nicking them?”
She shuddered slightly. “Would you go with me? I’ve never been there, but from what I know, I don’t…I don’t much care for closed up spaces. I’m a bit claustrophobic.” She glanced up at him, embarrassed.
“Of course I’ll go with you.”
She blew a piece of hair out of her eyes in relief and glanced across the room, strangely nervous. “Is that yours?” She nodded toward an old violin case propped up in the corner.
Andrew had unearthed it from under his bed after he had returned, driven by the nostalgia awoken in him after hearing the classical instruments.
“No. It’s my father’s, actually. He gave it to me.” He went to the case and opened it. The musty scent brought up a wave of melancholy. He felt Emily stand next to him, and he took a breath before he continued.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 16