The Ghost of a Chance (3 page)

Crocodile tears. I watch
impassively, unmoved.

"And, of course, you've lost
someone—well, someone that you loved very much. I have always supported the
relationship you and Catherine shared. I like to think of you as a
daughter-in-law, Darcy, and this...this unfortunate incident does not change my
affection for you in the least." She fingers her flatware, smudging the
silver. "But, as with any untimely passing, there are one or two issues
which need to be addressed. First of all, Catherine's belongings. I assume that
she had no will?"

I find myself unable to respond in
word or gesture. She takes my silence for grief and reaches across the table to
pat my hand. I pull away, sliding my arm beneath the table.

"We both know that Catherine
was a flighty sort. A will would not fit into her seize-the-day, spontaneous
lifestyle—and I don't fault her for that! No, no, not at all. But she was in
possession of some important family heirlooms, and it would seem... I mean,
dear," she reaches for my hand again, and, failing to find it, grasps the
tablecloth, instead, "you know that I consider you to be part of my
family. That will never change. But Catherine had so many cousins, and it would
only be right for her valuables to go to them, to carry on the Corde
tradition."

I take advantage of the pause in
her one-sided conversation to sip water from the glass Alis has placed in front
of me. "So what you're asking me," I say, managing to keep my voice
level despite the acid seething in my gut, "is that you want to take
Catherine's things and divvy them up among her greedy relatives."

Mrs. Corde places a hand to her
chest in a calculated gesture of affront. "I realize that you are not in
your right mind at the moment, Darcy, but I would not expect such rudeness from
you. I have always known you to be a sweet girl. You seem to forgot that I am
in mourning, too, and we should be leaning on each other, not tearing each
other apart."

"Then why do you come into my
house," I ask, holding the glass in my hand so tightly that my knuckles
turn white, "under the pretense of caring, when the true reason behind
your visit is based on nothing but your usual selfish, narcissistic
motivations? Why not be honest? I’m fed up with pretense, Hilda. It's time to
give up the charade."

"All right, then." Her
smile is colder than a frosted window, and less translucent. "Here it is.
You have no legal claim to any of Catherine's things. I am her mother and
closest family member. Therefore, I am merely claiming what is, by law,
rightfully mine."

Portia chooses this moment to make
her entrance, strolling in without a care and stopping in the middle of the
room to lick a dainty white paw.

"And that includes her
cat." Mrs. Corde glares at me, challenging.

"No," I say. "You
can't have Portia."

She wants a fight now. Her eyes are
wild with the thrill, but I feel drained, disinterested, and altogether tired
of the sound of her voice.

As if she knows we're speaking
about her, Portia leaps onto the chair at the head of the table, right between
us, her small head peeking just over the tabletop.

"Like I said, you have no
legal claim to anything Catherine owned. You were not married. Lesbians—"
She speaks the word with a wrinkled nose, as if it has a bad smell. "Well,
lesbians can't marry.
 
Not legally.
 
Not here." Her eyes twinkle with
triumph.

"How convenient for you."
I shake my head, exhausted and numb. "Enough. We're only wasting time.
Take whatever you want. I don't have the will to fight you. And none of
this—" I wave a hand at the walls, the shelves, the cabinets and all of
their contents. "None of it matters to me anymore. Leave the cat. Help
yourself to the rest." I stagger to my feet, gripping the back of the
chair with feeble fingers. "And then get out. Alis?"

With downcast eyes, Alis hurries
from the kitchen and to my side, steadying me with an arm around my middle.
"I'd like to go outside for a little while. Would that be okay?"

"Of course," Alis says.
"A breath of fresh air will do you good."

Chapter Four

Mrs. Corde fired Alis—or, rather,
no longer deemed it her duty to fund a private nurse for her
"daughter-in-law"—but Alis still stops in to check up on me.

I look forward to seeing her. I don't see anyone
else.

My co-workers from the library sent
a card, offering their condolences and hopes that I'll return to work soon. But
I can't imagine myself going out
there
again. The last time I left home
and then came back…
 
A part of my own
soul died that day, the only part that was worth anything at all. Now there is
just enough left of me to go through the mindless routines, to wash and dress,
occasionally eat, feed the cat. I don't even read. I can't relate to the
characters. I envy them all too much.

The house has been stripped bare of
Catherine. Mrs. Corde left an afghan Catherine made, and the painting that
Catherine and I bought on our last trip to Cape Cod, the one of the two women
strolling the shore together, their hands almost touching, as the sun sets over
the sea. The artist is an obscure one, not nearly famous enough to adorn Mrs.
Corde’s walls. But everything else—Catherine's perfumes, jewelry, even her
clothes and books—are gone. Sold, most likely.

I don't care. I wish she could have
taken my memories, too, boxed them up for her next church bazaar.

A knock on the door. Alis is here.
She invited me to share Thanksgiving dinner at her house, with her husband and
some of their friends. I refused at first, but she wouldn't take no for an
answer. She vowed to make a turkey made of tofu, just for me to eat, because it
wasn't "healthy" to stay inside the house, to never venture beyond
the driveway.

She's right. A part of me knows
she’s right. But I still don't want to go.

"You aren't dressed!" she
exclaims when I open the door to her flushed face. "Darcy, it's nearly one
o’clock. Hurry, I'll help you. What would you like to wear?"

She closes the door behind her and
places her hand on my back, guiding me up the stairs slowly. I’m feeling better
now but have to rest every so often. Alis claims that I'm lacking in protein. I
only shrug when she says so. I eat so rarely that I'm sure she's right, but
that isn't the problem. I simply have no will to do anything.

"How about this?" Alis
pulls my red dress out of the closet. It's a form-fitting A-line, knee-length,
with a plunging neckline. I raise a brow at her, frowning.

"I don't think so. I'd really
rather not go—"

"Oh, no, you don't! I knew
you'd say that, Darcy, but you're coming whether you like it or not. I'm
worried about you. There is no reason for you to spend Thanksgiving
alone."

"Honestly, Alis, what do I
have to be thankful for?"

Her mouth opens and closes, the
lips forming a perfect cupid's bow. She removes her crocheted winter hat,
kneading it in her hands. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a
complicated twist, and her high-heeled feet clip-clop on the floorboards as she
paces back and forth.

"I can't answer that question
for you," she sighs at last. "I knew Catherine, and I know that this
isn’t what she would want for you, this sad, solitary life. Darcy." She
steps before me and takes both of my hands in her own. I cast my eyes downward,
away from her blue stare. "Have you talked to the therapist at all?"

"No."

"Well, why not? Darcy, this
isn't grief. This is giving up."

"And what's wrong with that?
Tell me, Alis, how would you react if you drove home to find your husband lying
dead on the ground? How would you move on from something like that?"

She pulls away, forcefully.
Angrily. She's upset. Well, so am I. I cross my arms over my chest and steel
myself against a threatening migraine. They've become so frequent, these
headaches, that I've stopped relying on pain medication and simply opted for
sleeping pills, instead. I take more naps than the cat.

Alis turns back toward me, but her
face is red. "Just...please come, Darcy. I can't force you. I won't force
you to do anything that you don't want to do. I only have your best interests
in mind. You believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." I sit down
on the bed and look up at her. "And I'm sorry. It's been so long since
I've been out among people. I guess I'm nervous."

Her face softens as she smiles at
me. "But I'll be there, holding your hand, if you'd like." She takes
my hand now. The gesture has become a familiar one over the course of the past
several weeks. Her hands are larger than Catherine's, but they still fit mine,
still fill my palms...

I realize then that I do care about
something, besides Portia. I care about Alis. I don't want to disappoint her,
though I feel I already have, in so many ways.

"All right, I'll come."

Alis lights up like a star and
claps once, characteristically excited. I laugh despite myself.

"But I couldn't possibly wear
that dress."

"It's so beautiful, though!
I'm sure you're stunning in it." Her lashes flicker, up and down.

"Well…"
 
I tilt my head to one side, bemused.
"I'm not interested in stunning anyone tonight. There's a brown suit
hanging in there, toward the back. I'll wear that."

I can't help but notice the look of
disappointment in her eyes. "Oh, all right," she says, returning the
red dress to the closet and bringing me the boring tweed suit in its place. Her
mouth curves surprisingly for a moment. "You're such a librarian."

"I'll take that as a
compliment," I say, carrying the suit into the bathroom to change.

---

Alis' house is immaculate but warm,
cozy. A log fire burns behind a grate in the living room. I inhale the smoky
aroma deeply, allowing its comfort to it fill up my empty places, if only for a
moment.

There are three other non-family
dinner guests beside myself, all of them Alis' co-workers from the hospital.
Her husband, Jason, owns a trucking business but resembles a high-powered
executive. He wears several gold rings on his fingers, and his nails are
manicured, his brown hair sharply styled. When Alis introduces us, he barely
nods, his small eyes glued to the football game on the television screen.

Alis' taste in men surprises me.

She takes me by the arm. "You
can sit right here, Darcy. I'll be beside you. Just give me a minute to serve
the food." She pats my hand reassuringly.

Despite my misgivings, I find
myself calm and—wonder of wonders—hungry. My neglected stomach grumbles in
response to the scents of warm pumpkin pie and buttered squash emanating from
the kitchen.

I can't remember the last time I
ate a home-cooked meal. Lately my diet has consisted of cold pizza and lukewarm
water from the tap.

Conversation drifts in and out of
my consciousness. I reply appropriately when addressed but find it difficult to
pay attention to the lighthearted small talk of Alis' friends.

One of the nurses—Caroline—smiles
at me with blatant invitation from the other side of the table. She’s small and
pretty, a long-haired brunette. Her black-framed glasses encircle eyes of
deepest amber, and her flattering copper sheath plunges low in a deep, sweeping
cowl. On her left hand she wears a silver ring with a triangular pink inset.

Obviously a lesbian.

I toss a narrowed glance at Alis,
who is working hurriedly in the kitchen, and wonder if Caroline is her
well-meant but untimely attempt to set me up on a date with another woman.

"You're so quiet."
Caroline takes a sip from her wine glass, her teasing eyes holding mine
captive. "Alis has told me a lot about you, you know."

"Has she?" I shift in my
chair, suddenly very warm. "We haven't known each other long. I can't
imagine what she had to say."

"Oh, she mentioned that you
were tall, dark and beautiful, but I thought she was exaggerating." I feel
a pressure on my foot: Caroline's pointed shoe, which begins a slow ascent up
my leg. I raise an unamused brow, but Caroline is persistent. "She
wasn't.
 
Exaggerating, I mean."

Flustered, I stand up and excuse
myself, turning my head to hide a deepening blush.

"Hurry back." Caroline
winks at me, laughing.

I flick on the light in the small
downstairs half-bath, shut and lock the door behind me, and stand in front of
the sink, staring at my red face in the medicine cabinet mirror. My hand rests
on my chest, over my heart. It's beating so fast. I look like a deer in the
headlights, wide-eyed and too terrified to move.

I can't do this. I can't be here.

I'm not ready.

Moments pass. I breathe in deeply,
willing my nerves to destimulate, and am horrified to find my thoughts turn
toward Caroline, her eyes—imagining those eyes, in the dark, above me, those
lips on my lips: hard, loveless kisses... Nothing but skin between us. No
romance. No promises. No tomorrows. Just one night of letting go, forgetting everything
before and after, pretending to be someone else for an hour or two.

It would be easy. I could invite
her to my house tonight. She would leave with me; I know she would.
"Follow me upstairs," I'd say, and she'd follow—or perhaps she'd
lead.

But Portia would see us. Portia
wouldn't forgive me.

Oh, never mind the cat. I wouldn't
forgive myself.

I sob helplessly into the sink,
knocking my forehead against the mirror.

Catherine was going to prepare
Thanksgiving dinner this year. For just the two of us.
 
No friends, no family. Neither of us cared
much for our families. Mine keeps little contact with me; any
correspondences—by mail, phone or Internet—are stiff, impersonal, obligatory.
My parents have never disowned me officially, but they've made it quite clear
over the years that they’re ashamed of my "lifestyle." Every year,
they send a Christmas card addressed only to me, never Catherine, with a note
explaining that a donation has been made in my name to their current pet
charity, the more Christian and Conservative, the better.