The Ghost of a Chance (6 page)

"Oh." I rub at the back
of my neck, regarding the letters with half-closed eyes. "I'll take care
of them later. I've just been so..." My hands dangle in mid-air, useless,
as I search for the right words. "Things like bills—" I pick up an
envelope from the phone company but make no move to open it. "They seem
inconsequential right now. I just—there's no room in my head to think of
them."

"Hey." Alis takes the
bill from my hand and wraps me in her arms. "No one expects you to be
fully functional at this point, Darcy. You need help." She pulls back a
bit, moving her hands to my waist. "That's what I'm here for. I really..."
Her eyes bore into mine, soft and searching. "I care about you."

Trembling, I pull her close against
me, resting my chin on her shoulder. Her presence is so warm, steady,
comforting. I'd like to drink this feeling down, hold it deep within me, to
draw from whenever I'm poised on the edge of reason. "Thank you," I
whisper into her hair. Her heart, keeping time with mine, suddenly quickens,
and she slowly backs away.

"I brought salads from the
deli." Alis reaches into the paper bag and hands me a plastic container
full of greens. "I didn't know what sort of dressing you liked best,
so..." She spills the remaining contents of the bag onto the counter—eight
foil packets of dressing, in eight different flavors. "I brought all of
them."

Smiling, I tilt my head at her,
still basking in the glow of her calming embrace. "You're too good to
me."

She looks down and shakes her head
for a moment, then gives me an odd look, deep and full of...what? I can't be
certain. Her eyelids flutter, and she turns away again. "You're too hard
on yourself," she says quietly. "You need to be taken care of."

"But why should you be the one
to take care of me?" My voice is low, barely above a whisper. "I'm no
longer your responsibility. Mrs. Corde let you go."

"But...but I—I'm a nurse, you
know." She sits down at the table with her own salad and removes the
plastic lid, poking at a tomato with her fork. "It's like second nature to
me. Plus..." I sit down beside her, and she offers me a shy smile. "I
like you, Darcy," she says. Her hand captures mine and delivers a gentle
squeeze. "I just want you to feel strong again, and happy."

I squeeze back but rest my eyes on
the photograph of Catherine and me that hangs beside the switch plate. Last
winter. Catherine in her fuchsia knit cap, with the pompom on top, kissing my
cold, flushed cheek. She took the picture herself, reaching her arm around in
front of our faces, and miraculously managed to get a perfect shot.

I was happy then.

But to be happy without her? I
can't imagine it. Alis doesn't understand.

Still, I give her a weak smile and
gesture toward my salad. "This looks great. Thank you so much.
 
I mean, for all that you've done for
me."

She waves a hand in the air,
dismissing my gratitude, and stands up to take the kettle from the stove.
"I'll make tea." She plants her hand on her hip and nods. "Tea
always makes everything better. Do you take sugar?"

"No, honey, please. It's in
that cupboard right there."

"You know, Jason hates
tea." She fetches the honey bear before filling the kettle with water and
placing it on the burner to warm. "He hates most things that I like,
really. But tea—now, that bothers me. What could possibly be so offensive about
hot water and herbs?"

I finish chewing my bite of romaine
and prop my head up on my hand, shrugging. "No idea."

"Sometimes I think he
disagrees just to disagree. He enjoys conflict, whereas I..." She leans
against the stove, lost in thought.

I pat her chair. "Sit down
with me. Eat!"

She ignores my command. "I
wish he were more affectionate, more..."

"Sensitive?" I offer.

"Exactly. He never notices
things—if I paint my nails or dye my hair.
 
He probably couldn't even tell you the color of my eyes."

"'Oh, darkly, deeply,
beautifully blue—'"

"'As someone somewhere sings
about the sky.'" Alis gazes me at, her lips parted, her hand on her chest.
"Byron, isn't it?"

"Mmm.
Don Juan
."

"Yeah." She watches me
still, hardly blinking. "Beautiful words. No one has ever—" The
kettle begins to whistle, and she jumps. "I'm sorry."
 
She carefully pours hot water into the pair of
mugs she found in the cupboard. "I'm silly today. Jason and I had a fight,
an argument. I can't seem to stop thinking about it, though I'm sure he'll have
forgotten by the time I get home." She carries my mug to me, along with a
box of peppermint tea. "He always does."

"Well, does he ever
apologize?"

"No." Her reply is quick,
almost bitter. "No, he brushes everything off, ignores it, moves on. But
we never resolve anything that way. We never—" She lowers herself into the
chair. "Can I tell you something personal?"

"If you want to."

"I think he's having an
affair. No, I know he is. He's cheating on me."

"Oh, Alis!" I drop my
fork and turn to face her fully. "But how can you be sure? Maybe there's
been a misunderstanding. Have you talked to him about it?"

"Darcy, I saw them. I saw
Jason and another woman...naked, in our bed." She's trembling. I wrap an
arm around her, touch her forehead with my own. "I came home for lunch,
which I never do—but we had leftovers from the night before in the fridge,
and... I heard something. I knew what it was. I'm not naive. And they'd left
the door open." She swallows back a sob. "I couldn't help but look,
you know. I mean... He's my husband. We had such a beautiful wedding. Things
have been shaky since then, but…
 
Darcy,
how could he?"

"I don't know," I sigh,
restraining myself from launching into a diatribe about the curse of
testosterone. Instead, I comfort her as best I can, which is not very well at
all. I hug her and smooth her hair and whisper words like, "It's all right.
You'll be fine. Don't worry. You'll get through this." All of the
meaningless, fluffy sentiments I have heard myself so many times over the
course of the past months. Soft words bounce; it's the pointed ones that
penetrate, that make the most sense.

I hand her a tissue from the box on
the table and look her squarely in the eyes. "Alis, you have to leave
him."

"...what?" Her nose is
red, her face swollen from tears.

"You deserve someone
faithful—and loving. Someone who sees and values you for who you truly are!
Someone who admires those gorgeous eyes of yours, who appreciates your
freckles!"

She straightens in the chair, and a
slow blush creeps over her face. "Darcy, I can't just leave him.
It's...it's complicated.
 
I mean, I
want
to leave him.
 
God, I think about it
all the time.
 
But where would I
go?"

"Move in with me." I
speak the words without thinking and regret them the moment they pass my
tongue. But I do want to help Alis. What if she confronts him, and what if he
hurts her—emotionally, physically—in some irreparable way? I can't let that
happen. I can’t let her go through this alone.
 
There's been enough loss, enough pain. Enough.

She sits still and silent, shaken,
staring down at her hands in her lap.

"I want you to think about it,
okay?" I turn back to my lunch, anxious to quell the awkward tension
yawning between us. "Just consider it."

"All right." I barely
hear the words, but I know she said them.

"Let's eat, then. I'm suddenly
starved."

Chapter Eight

Strange day. I remain at the kitchen table,
thinking, nursing my mug of lukewarm peppermint tea. Alis left, went back to
the hospital, an hour ago at least. I should get up, feed the cat, wash the
dishes... There's so much I've put off doing. Menial, ordinary chores. But for
someone whose life has recently—just this morning—taken a decidedly
extraordinary turn, laundry and vacuuming the living room carpet are distant,
what-does-it-matter? concerns. Between thoughts of Catherine's ghost and the
prospect of sharing a house with Alis, it's all I can do to remember to
breathe, to blink. To be.

Maybe a bath would help.

Feeling purposeful at last, I stand up and place my
empty mug in the sink. As I walk past the counter, a piece of mail on top of
the pile catches my attention. It's from the library, my library.

Perplexed, I pick up the letter and open it, my
curiosity steadily mounting. The typewritten note inside is short and to the
point:

Dear Sir/Madam:

The materials you withdrew from our collection,
listed below, are overdue. Please remit them to the library at your earliest
convenience. A late fee has been assessed to your account.

SHAKESPEARE'S
HEROINES ON STAGE AND SCREEN

TWELFTH
NIGHT : AN INTERPRETATION

Sincerely,

HIGHLANDS
PUBLIC LIBRARY

My head began to throb the moment I read the book titles,
and a pressure is building behind my eyes; I cover my brow with a shaky hand
and lean against the counter. The letter slips from my fingers to the floor.

How many instances like this will there be in the
coming days, weeks, months? Tying up the loose ends, all of Catherine's
unfinished business. Sometime soon, her producer is going to call, asking about
the play she was working on. He won't have heard of her death, all the way in
New York City. Someone has to tell him.
I
have to tell him. And I have to
go to the library, return her left-behind books, pay the fine... No, they won't
make me pay the fine, will they? But the look in their eyes, the pats and sighs
and condolences…
 
I'd rather just pay
it. I'd rather just drop the books in the slot, with a few (well, maybe a lot
more than a few) quarters taped to their front flaps. I don't want sympathy; I
can't face my co-workers' sympathy. They sent flowers, a card. That was enough.
I threw the card away without reading it. The flowers are upstairs, in the bedroom,
where Alis placed them. Dried up and brown now, their stems spotted with white
fuzz.

I shake my head, fed up with myself, annoyed with my
own company. Without a pause to reflect, I sweep my jacket from the hook on the
wall, slide into my boots and step out the front door. (Why bother to lock it?
There's nothing left but broken pieces, dead flowers...) The winter chill bites
my bare face, but I don't care enough to shiver. I need a thicker skin. I need
to stop feeling and just do what I have to do.

I don't know how I'm going to make it, otherwise.

---

The books are on the desk in the cabin, under a
spiral-bound notebook. I grab them and turn to leave the cabin. I'll just walk
back to the house, get in my car, drive to the library and return the books.
Then I'll come home for that long, hot bath.

Water. There's running water—I hear it... I heard it
start the moment I thought about taking a bath. I eye the doorway to my left
warily. Then, reckless, on tiptoes, I approach the tiny bathroom and tap the door
fully open. Steam rises from the water in the tub... Hot water. But the
generator is off. I'm certain that it is. The water could only be cold. I dip
my finger, then submerge my entire hand. Blissfully hot. I hadn't realized how
cold I was. My body aches for warmth, for comfort, and here it is... Catherine
often drew baths for me at night; my muscles ached after standing on my feet or
hunching over a computer screen, for hours upon hours, at the library every
day. Sometimes she slipped behind me in the tub, massaged my shoulders and left
a trail of wet kisses on my neck.

I still clutch the books in my arms. Their weight
makes me feel clear-headed, grounded. I know that I should leave now. I have
places to go, things to take care of.
 
Sensible things.
 
Logical things.

I fear that I might stay forever if I don't turn
around and walk out the door this instant. But my thoughts lag behind my
actions, and the books are on the floor already, along with my jacket, my
jeans—a pile of hastily tossed-off clothing. I stand naked in the bathroom, in
the cabin, and step into an impossible bath drawn for me by a ghost.

Oh,
ecstasy.

Her scent surrounds me, infusing the water. I close
my eyes and breathe deeply, trembling from head to toe. The tub is an old
clawfoot and deep. I hardly notice that the faucet has turned off; the water
laps at my neck. I sink lower, slip my face under the water for a moment, and
then come back up again, relishing the sensation of cool air against my hot
skin.

She's here with me. I know it as surely as I know my
own name. I feel her in the air, on my skin, beneath the water. She’s made of
water, winnowing like a current, teasing my hair, twirling it into circles on
the rippling surface. Inexplicable rushes of warm liquid burst against my skin;
the water is steaming still, and bubbling like a whirlpool. I catch a pod of
bubbles in my hands and bring them to my mouth to blow, like kisses, into the
misty, now-humid room.

The tingling begins again, at my fingertips,
consuming my left hand. I wait for the sensation to spread like an enveloping
heat over my entire body, but it stops—definitively—at my wrist. I have no
control over that hand; it's hers now. But the rest of me still feels,
responds, aches...

She touches me, just barely touches me, tracing the
downward slope of my leg, caressing the slight rise of my stomach. The hand
veers just as it approaches my left nipple, circling, circling...fingers
growing bolder, faster. I grip the side of the tub with my remaining fingers,
instinctively lifting my right leg, draping it over the side. Sweat beads my
forehead as I move my head from side to side, waiting, hoping, expelling all
rational thought from my fevered mind. I bite down on my lip—hard—and taste
blood and salt.