Loss, a paranormal thriller (8 page)

And sleeping in bed?  Not
my
bed, but
our
bed?

"Bizzy?" she called out, this time with a desperation in her voice that went far beyond merely missing her dog.

She shuffled from the bedroom and entered the great room.  Her hiking boots were lined up by the front door, small puddles spreading from the treads.  "What's going on here!" she yelled, as if expecting a response from the walls themselves. 

She saw the empties from the night before, most of two wine bottles and a whiskey pint, and the details from the night before started to solidify.   

Bizzy's barking.  The firecracker snapping of twigs outside, so much like footsteps.  Stupidly chasing after the dog into the woods while coatless and high on Vicodin and liquor.  And resting on the fallen tree.  Knowing it was the last thing she would ever do.

Her fingers toyed with the cuffs of her pajamas as they often would when she felt stressed.  Now, she had the urge to strip off the pajamas, to rip them clear from her body.  There was no way she had dressed herself.  She would've never even made it back to the house on her own; while in the woods she'd had no clue where she was, and she hadn't been in any condition to figure it out, either.

Someone had brought her home.  Someone had stripped her naked.  Someone had dressed her and tucked her into bed.

"Paul, if it's you, please... just let me know.  I don't know what's happening to me.  I don't know what to do without you."  She knew how unhinged her words sounded, both audibly and in context, but she couldn't help it.  She wanted it to be Paul, no matter the impossibility, because otherwise, the most obvious conclusions were so much worse.  Sitting heavily on the couch, she buried her face in her hands.  She sobbed silently, and focusing on the tears and the hitching in her chest seemed to take her away from the madness of the last several hours.

The doorbell rang, sending a surge of adrenaline through Angie's system.  She guardedly approached the door, feeling like it would open up any moment and suck her into a endless chasm of darkness. 

It wasn't too far from how she felt about most things lately.

When she checked the window next to the door, she saw Nathan smiling a huge smile, a winter cap pulled over his ears.  After wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

Before she could say anything, Bizzy leapt from Nathan's arms and into Angie's.  She was lucky not to drop the dog. 

"Oh, my God!  You have no idea how worried I was!"  Angie couldn't help the flood of warm emotions washing over her as Bizzy squirmed in her arms. 

"Look who I found wandering down the street.  What happened?  She's half-frozen."

"She got out last night.  She went out to pee, and then she just took off on me."

"That's not like Bizzy.  Not at night at least."

"I know.  It's my fault.  I didn't put on her tether, and then she took off when she heard... I don't know what it was.  A squirrel or rabbit.  But she just ran and didn't listen when I called out to her."

As Bizzy bathed Angie's chin with her tongue, Nathan went to the couch and grabbed a small lap quilt.  "Here, wrap her in this."

"Thanks."  Angie bundled Bizzy until nothing showed but her twitching eyes and little nub of nose.

"Late night, was it?" Nathan asked, glancing at the empty bottles.

"No... just bad housekeeping."  Angie grabbed the bottles with her free hand and carried them to the kitchen.  She left them on the counter and when she turned to return to the great room, Nathan stood only about a foot away.

"Are you sure?  I don't have to start worrying about you out here alone, do I?"

"No.  I'm fine.  Really."  Angie, feeling apprehension over both Nathan's close proximity and his unannounced visit, pushed by him.  She came back out to the couch and sat down, unfolding the quilt to get a better look at Bizzy.  Though she was normally a nervous dog, she usually would have calmed down by now.  She was still twitching and panting, and Angie felt a terrible guilt knowing that Bizzy was struggling to get warm.

"It's dumb luck I found her when I did," Nathan said and pulled off his skull cap and winter coat, making himself at home.  "I don't know how long she would've lasted out there in this weather.  You never know about this time of year.  We can have a snowstorm, or go around in shirtsleeves."  He went to the fireplace and grabbed an armload of logs from the rack next to the hearth, laying in a good pile.  After wadding a newspaper into the mix, he lit it with a long stick match.

"Sometimes dumb luck is the luckiest."  Angie hugged Bizzy close, feeling the rapid-fire heartbeat against her shoulder.

When Nathan turned to face Angie, his smile still wide, almost too wide, she noticed for the first time how he'd started growing a beard.  It was scraggly, and needed a trim. 

"When did you start growing a beard?"

"About the time Macy told me I couldn't."  His smile faltered for a second, but then it returned as he rubbed a palm across his cheek.  "It's ugly as hell isn't it?"

"I think I agree with Macy.  You're not a beard kind of guy."

Nathan took a seat on a recliner and stared into the fire.  "I've been thinking lately that I'm not a Macy kind of guy, either."

"What?  What are you talking about?"

"It started when you were still in the hospital," he said, meeting her eye.  "She was sad, hell we were all miserable, and so she stayed over one night.  Which is fine, but then, you know, she never left."

"Is that so bad?"

"No, I guess not.  But there are other things.  Things that she doesn't like about me, that are a part of me.  Things that I can't change."

An immeasurable discomfort accompanied the odd direction the conversation had taken.  And her muddled mind couldn't shake the idea that the dumb luck of his arrival might not have been so dumb after all.  "Are you sure you should be talking to me about this?  Maybe one of your brothers would be a better choice."

"It's you, Angie.  I've always had a thing for you.  You know that.  That night... the night of the accident... when I followed you out so I could move my car when you were leaving the party?  The kiss?  I told Macy."

The breath left her lungs in a rush.  "You didn't?"

"I did.  And she didn't like it.  I thought she would be mad, or that she'd even break up with me.  But instead, she moved in with me, and ever since then, I can barely leave her side."

"You've been together a long time.  She loves you, and deep inside, she understands you.  That means something.  That means a lot, actually.  That level of understanding can mean everything in a relationship."

"But understanding... believing you know another person, that's pretty arrogant, don't you think?  Who really knows anyone else?  Who can look inside another, even their supposed soul mate, and truly understand?"

"You can never know a person to that extent, at least not how you're thinking."

"Even you and Paul?"  He looked into her eyes, his cynicism pinching his smile into a sharp-bladed slash.

"No matter how long you're with someone... no matter how open you are with your partner, you'll never fully understand them.  It's impossible, a part of human nature to shield a certain percentage of yourself from the rest of the world.  You and Macy are great together.  It's so hard to find someone, and to find someone who connects with you on the level that you and Macy connect?  That's a miracle.  Don't turn your back on that."

"Maybe you're right."

They were silent for a long while.  The heat from the hearth chased away the last of Bizzy's shivering.  The dog fell asleep in Angie's arms.  So like a baby.  So like the one thing in the world Angie had never been able to give to Paul.

"I want to tell you something, but I don't want you to be mad at me," Nathan said, his voice a whisper as warm as the heat from the fireplace.

After a moment's hesitation, Angie said, "Okay?"

"Promise?"

"I can't promise anything.  I can try, at least."

"This is going to sound weird, but I don't want it to be.  I don't want you to think I'm weird, or some kind of stalker."

"Nathan, you're starting to worry me."

"It's not you, not really.  That's not what it's about.  It's about me, and my role in this family.  I've always been the baby, but I don't want that anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

"Maybe two, three times since the accident... well, I've come over and watched the house from my car.  To keep an eye on things."

"What?"  Angie's throat began to tighten, choking off her air.  She needed Nathan gone, away from her.  Now.  She got up from the couch, Bizzy still sleeping soundly in her arms, and grabbed Nathan's coat from the back of the recliner and tossed it on his lap.

"Listen, let me explain--"

"No, you've explained enough."

"Angie, please!"

"You need to leave.  And I don't want you coming over anymore.  I'm fine.  You don't need to look after me."

Nathan reluctantly shrugged on his coat.  He looked like a scolded child, which if he had been honest about his intentions for basically stalking Angie, was the last thing he wanted.  He reached for the doorknob, but stopped and turned to face her again.  A hard edge had come over his eyes.  It made him look older, capable of anything.

"Angie... the reason I came over.  It wasn't dumb luck."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard Mom talking to Fletcher.  She was telling him about how you had called in to the office thinking you were talking to Stephanie.  I just wanted to come over, to you know, make sure you're okay.  I know how Mom can be."

"I'm fine, Nathan.  Stop worrying about me.  You have your whole life ahead of you; don't go pissing it away by pining after me."

"I just... I... never mind."  Without another word, Nathan opened the door and left in a hurry.

Angie felt unnerved and uncertain and could think of only one thing to level her mood.  A sweet and sour taste flooded her mouth.  She had a new wine bottle in hand even as Nathan pulled away in his Volkswagen.

Chapter 9

Angie started to wonder if she had caused permanent damage to her liver from her wine and pill consumption.  Her energy lagged throughout much of her intoxicated days, but what troubled her even more was the pain in her lower abdomen whenever her buzz began to wane.  Pain radiated from her hips to her lower back.  She learned, as February became March and green shoots began to sprout from the forested understory walling her off from the rest of the world, that as long as she kept a therapeutic buzz going she could ignore just about anything.

While her constant buzz helped deaden reality, it also took a toll on her memories.  And her happy memories seemed to take the brunt of the damage.  Even surrounded by every nuance of Paul's life, his image was becoming harder to recall.  The once indelible edges of her memories had begun to erode, and in some places, only the underlying emotions remained.  Her Sunday mornings in front of a roaring fire with hot pastries, hazelnut coffee, and Paul in her arms, had diminished to a fond comfort, like a well-loved sweater during a long winter gale.  

No one visited anymore.  Lindsey, who had once been the closest thing to a sister in her life, had distanced herself since Angie's phone conversation with Imogene.  Angie often wondered how Lindsey was handling her latest pregnancy, but she knew their phone conversation would be strained when it should be anything but.  And she didn't dare try to call the office to speak with Stephanie, even just to ask her about her day or to inquire about her kids.  Not without knowing who might answer the phone. 

And then there was Nathan... 

"What are you, a puppy dog or a monster?" she said to the empty space of the great room.  She could see Nathan, with his shaggy beard and big mop of hair, sitting on the floor, batting his foot against his chin as if he had fleas.  A brief burst of laughter escaped her, and it was an unsettling sound.

With a quilt draped over her shoulders, she peeled herself up from the couch, her sides aching with the movement, before she once again split the front curtain with an index finger to check the driveway.  Empty.  Again.  She hadn't seen or heard from Nathan since he visited a week or more prior.  Time had become a flighty thing, hard to pin down, and nonsensical even when brought to the fore.

Angie went back to the couch, took hold of the wine bottle from the end table and took a swig.  The time on the clock above the fireplace mantel read 8:43 a.m.

She laughed at some inner joke, then realized she'd lost the thread of what made it so funny.  Leaning back, pulling the quilt over herself, she dozed.

When she woke up, she felt as if she were trapped in a well.  Suspended in a deep crevasse, staring up at the sun, unable to draw anyone's attention to her plight.

And buzzing, forever buzzing, forgetting today let alone tomorrow, she reached for the phone and started dialing.  The numbers unfurled from her mind one after another, and as she dialed, she hadn't the foggiest idea who she had called until the phone started ringing.  Just that she was alone.  Alone and needing to hear another human's voice.

Someone picked up after a second ring.  And she immediately knew who she had called.  Always punctual, her dad.

"Hello?"

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"It's Angeline."

"I know who it is.  You're the only person to ever call me dad."

"It's been a long time."  Angie felt the same old welling of emotion, the same familiar need to please him, to make any type of meaningful connection.  Maybe that's why she'd drunk-dialed him.  With her guard down, the same old games resurfaced with the same old roles to play.  She already regretted waking.

"That's been your decision, not mine.  You  made it abundantly clear when you moved away how you felt."

"And you make it so easy.  With your rules.  Your pettiness."

"Why are you calling, Angeline?" he said, his exasperation squeezing his usually rich voice into a bare rasp.

"I'm alone.  So alone..."  The words stung her ears and her voice sounded pathetic.