Loss, a paranormal thriller (9 page)

"That doesn't surprise me.  What, did your carpenter man leave you?"

"Dad, Paul's dead.  He's been dead.  And now I'm alone."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Fuck you!" she screamed but was unable to hang up.  The power her father had over her... there was a reason she hadn't talked to him in five years.  A damn good reason.

"You're drunk, aren't you?" her dad said, victory in his voice.  "I can hear it.  The slurring.  The craziness.  Just like your mother.  I was wondering when you'd start up.  You Bates women always do."

Instead of finally hanging up, she threw the phone as hard as she could at the fireplace.  Shattered plastic and circuit boards went flying.

"Fuck... you..." she said in a throaty whisper, no longer directed at her father.  She sat again on the couch, and her eyes settled on the wine bottles lined up on the end table, half were empty, half were awaiting her attention.

"Why'd you leave me!" she cried, her voice cracking.  "You said you would never leave me!  I trusted you!"

Rage built itself on a foundation of betrayal and longing.  Her fingers twitched and alcohol sweat beaded on her upper lip.  She stared at the bottles, panting.  She rose from her place on the couch, grabbed an empty by the neck and threw it against the fireplace.  Glass shards showered the great room in a glittering arc.

Not satisfied, Angie grabbed the remaining full bottles of wine, all four of them, and sped down the hall to the bathroom.  She twisted off their cheap metal caps and poured the red contents into the toilet, one after another.  It felt both liberating and insane.  When the final drops spilled into the bowl, she fell to her butt on the tile floor, sobbing.  Her prescription bottle stared down on her from the edge of the sink.  She'd been dreading the day when the bottle would be empty.  Those few pills marked both the end of her refills and her supposed full recovery from her injuries.  

"Fuck it," she muttered and wobbled to her feet.  She popped the bottle cap, paused as she looked at the handful of pills, then added them to the wine.  The white pills bobbed in the watered down Merlot.  The familiar metallic tang invaded her nostrils, flaring her anger.  She flushed the toilet, turned to walk away, and didn't look back.

Night seemed to come early as a frigid fog rolled in from the woods, encircling the house.  The milky white cloud bank seeped through the tree line and across the narrow yard, before  overwhelming the house and silently obscuring everything within sight.  Even as the sky outside darkened, Angie's thoughts had found a clarity she hadn't experienced since she began her journey into widowhood.

Her cravings for oblivion intensifying, Angie paced the long hardwood hallways, hearing ghosts in the nighttime sounds of the old Winchell place.  She could no longer stay mad at Paul, that was clear.  He had never done anything wrong.  Thinking back to the party, why had she really been mad?  That he wanted to start a family with her?  No, it had been her embarrassment about his public proclamation that they would soon adopt that had so gotten under her skin.  Though they left the party hand in hand, the issue had never really been resolved. 

All he'd ever wanted was to start a family with her.  She could no longer hold that anger inside.  It was irrational. 

And her anger now for leaving her when he'd always said he would never do such a thing?  No one could ever keep a promise like that.  A promise like that was a lie, a comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless.  Promising to never leave someone discounted the inevitability of humanity. 

With her thoughts more clear, more erudite, a weight lifted from her shoulders.  She closed her eyes, could clearly see the winsome smile that had immediately won her over on that fateful day when she'd showed up at Paul's door with his misfiled mail in her hand.  That smile.  She would always have that smile; its memory would never fade.

Angie smiled for the first time in ages, a real smile that didn't mask how she truly felt.  The ebullience of it seemed to lift her out of herself, until she could look down at her body and see how low she had gone these last few weeks.  She still wore the washday pajamas that she still couldn't rationally explain.

She unbuttoned the top as she made her way to the bedroom, tossing it aside.  After stripping the rest of her clothes, she stepped into a hot shower that proved to clear her head even more.  By the time she stepped out of the shower, the desperate desire to numb her mind had gone.  Only a mild headache and nausea remained.

After toweling dry, she went to Paul's side of the closet.  Still naked, she stepped inside.  Flannel and corduroy caressed her skin like familiar hands.  She closed her eyes and could smell Paul.  For the first time, confronting his loss didn't make her fall over sobbing.  Instead, she picked out a blue checked flannel and brown carpenter's pants.

Dressed in Paul's clothes, Angie felt an almost insatiable need to search through his things.  She wanted to remember, to forge the memories of him into her psyche so deeply that they would never tarnish or falter.

In a file folder on top of his dresser, she came across a number of sketches of the Winchell place.  They were a series of concept drawings for his dream of transforming the once rustic cabin into his own little paradise.  She could barely stand to close the folder, they were so beautiful.  She made a mental note that she would have the sketches framed, so everyone could see both Paul's dream and how he had made it come to life.

As midnight came and went, Angie rifled through his clothes, occasionally bringing them to her face to smell or to brush the fabric against her cheek.  As she unburied a battered blue pencil box from the top shelf of the closet, she realized she couldn't recall ever seeing it.  It looked old, maybe even from Paul's own school days.

When she opened it, she found a blue 1st place ribbon sitting atop a pile of well-worn papers.  She flipped the ribbon over and read the cardboard backing: 1st Place, Audubon Elementary School Athletic Day.  Even back then Paul possessed the same competitive spirit.  Knowing that it was ingrained in him down to his DNA warmed her heart.

Beneath a series of glowing report cards, Angie found two fading photos of Paul at a photo studio shoot when he was only a couple of months old.  She lined up the photos side by side.  They could be mirror images, but for their expressions.  In one, Paul grinned, showing off his smooth baby gums.  In the other, his gaze was dour, no grin in sight.  She placed a gentle kiss on each picture, then carried them out to the kitchen.  After slipping the pictures into the photo section of her wallet, she wondered if people would think it strange that she would carry baby pictures of her dead husband in her wallet.  She decided she didn't really give a shit.

Paul's small home office was next to the bathroom just off the great room.  She'd once asked why he'd made his office so small when there was room enough for him to spread out.  Paul had given her a wry grin and said, "Home is for living, not working.  If I build a big office, I'd feel the need to bring home enough work to fill it."

She peeked into the tiny room now, not much more than a closet, really.     

A few carpentry magazines, some old bills of ladings, and a handful of sketches covered his uncluttered desk.  His day planner remained by the phone, as if loyalty had bound it to that spot.  She ran her fingers over the worn black leather, remembering how careful Paul had been to write down every last detail for his upcoming schedule.

She opened it, flipping through until she reached January.  The date of Fletcher's party was marked in big cap lettering.  She flipped further still, hoping someone had covered for the missed meetings that Paul had so meticulously planned for.  It wasn't until she reached the month of March that she saw anything to make her pause.  Again, in all caps, a single word: TRINA.  Beneath that: 1:30 p.m., along with a local phone number.   

"Trina.  Who the hell is Trina?"  Angie's good mood disappeared. 

She went through the other entries.  They all had first and last names.  All but this single entry.  TRINA.

Something twisted in the pit of Angie's stomach.  She didn't want to admit it even to herself, but it was unavoidable.

"Paul, what were you doing?"

Angie waited until the sun was beginning to rise, but couldn't stand the silence any longer. 
Trina.
  The name taunted her.  Why would Paul be meeting with another woman?  He'd certainly never mention anything about it to Angie.

But then again, maybe it was nothing.

The uncertainty made her wish she had never dumped out her wine and pills.

She grabbed the phone, checking the warming daylight.  Deciding she didn't care if it was too early to call, she dialed.  The phone rang six or more times before someone picked up.

"Hello?" a scratchy woman's voice said.

"Lindsey?  It's Angie."

"Oh... hi, Sis.  How are you?  Is everything okay?"

"Yes, sure.  No... I don't know.  I didn't know who else to call.  There's no one else I can trust, or who won't think I'm crazy."

"What is it, Ang?"

"I was going through Paul's things.  I was planning on making a pile of stuff to donate, but I couldn't part with anything.  Not even a single stitch of clothing."

"I don't blame you.  It's still early.  It hasn't been all that long."

"When I was going through his things I found an entry in his day planner book.  Do you know anyone named Trina?"

"No, why?"

"He'd marked off a date for Trina for later this month."

"A date?"

"Well, I don't know if it was a date, but it was marked off, you know?"

"And you're wondering who this Trina woman is?"

"Yes.  And I didn't know where else to turn.  I know we haven't spoken, not really, since the accident.  But I trust your opinion."

"If you want my honest opinion, it could be just about anyone.  It could be a florist, or someone applying for a job at the company.  Who knows?  I don't think you should let it bother you."

"But what if it... what if it's something else?"

"You mean, what if Paul was cheating on you?"

"Exactly."

"Ang, I don't think you need to worry about that.  He was crazy about you.  And, I know it sounds callous, but if there's even the slightest chance that he was cheating on you?  There's not much you can do about it now."

"Okay.  You're right," Angie said and paused, not entirely convinced.  Before a gap could form in the conversation, she said, "Is everything going all right, then?  With the pregnancy, I mean."  Angie's stomach turned with nausea.  She felt a spasm rise in her throat.

"So far, so good.  We're having a girl."

"That's great!" Angie said, and her stomach lurch again.  "I'm so happy for you and Fletcher.  Well, I better let you go so you can get the kids off to school." 

"Forget about it, Angie.  It doesn't mean anything.  Paul loved you."

"I... I know.  I have to go."

Angie hung up and tossed the phone aside.  Her hand went to her mouth, trying to hold in her gorge, as she rushed from the great room to the bathroom.  Bizzy being Bizzy, thought it was the best time in the world to try to get Angie to play.  The Yorkie skirted between her feet, yipping, before stopping to chase her tail.

Angie barely made it to the toilet before throwing up.  The motions were so violent, that when they eased, she rested against the toilet seat, her sweat-soaked head propped against her arm. 

When she felt like she was in the clear, she stood and rinsed out her mouth.  But the nausea came back in full force, sending her back to the floor as she purged whatever vile demon had warped her digestive system.

Chapter 10

Angie sat on a chair in Dr. Cronin's office.  She'd been waiting to see her family physician for forty minutes.  That was plenty long enough, staring at the sterile walls and the plastic molds of the inner workings of sinus cavities and the female reproductive system.  The longer she waited, the more foolish she felt.  If anything, Cronin would tell her to cut back on the wine and eat a better diet.  And, definitely, no more pills.  He almost didn't approve her last refill request, but he relented after her complaints of continued discomfort in her healing ribs. 

Before the accident, Angie had been reluctant to see the doctor or even step foot inside a hospital.  Since then, her minor anxiety had inched precipitously closer to becoming a full-blown phobia.  Sitting in the hard plastic chair, her hands twitched in her lap and her skin crawled with nerves.  If she hadn't spent more time in the bathroom the last three days than not, she would've never called Cronin's nurse to seek advice.  After a brief rundown of her symptoms, the nurse booked her for an appointment later that day. 

Angie stared at the examining table, not feeling like a patient, feeling more and more that she would get up and leave at any moment.

She shifted in the chair, feeling the dull ache in her guts and wondering what a cirrhotic liver felt like.  

It didn't matter what Cronin would say.  She'd already stopped the booze and tossed her pills.  How had she ever gone from a practical teetotaler to a booze and pill popping wastoid? 

Loss.  The answer was simple, but the path from point A to point B could never be explained so easily.  Maybe there was some truth to her dad's vitriol; her mother had been a huge boxed wine fan.  She'd died of cancer when Angie was still in high school, but her dad had always blamed the wine.  Genetics.  So much could be explained with that single word.  Why should it make her feel any better hoping that she would follow her mother's path of demise rather than her greatest weakness?

If she hadn't caused some kind of permanent damage to her internal organs, she hoped she had simply caught a stomach bug.    She'd never believed the oldwives' tale about going out in the cold causing you catch a cold, but she had probably compromised her immune system in any number of ways on the night she went out searching for Bizzy.