The Ghost of a Chance

The Ghost of a Chance

by Natalie Vivien

© Natalie Vivien 2013
 
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All Rights Reserved

Synopsis:

What if a new woman walked into
your life while you were still haunted by the woman you lost?

Stunned by the accidental death
of her partner, Darcy Morrow can summon little kindness for the beautiful nurse
Alis Baker, the woman hired to tend her while she grieves, the woman with the
too-blue eyes and a healing touch. But day by day, month by month, as the
Colorado winter rages on, Alis' determined gentleness and unwavering compassion
chip away at Darcy's frozen heart--even though Alis has a deep sadness of her
own, one she carefully hides.

As their unrequited passion
builds to something Darcy can no longer ignore, she must make a choice:
 Will Darcy let Alis into her heart, or will the harsh winter--and a ghost
from her past--destroy the possibility of a second chance at love?

Dedication:

For my darling

Chapter One

The white cat's eyes shine cool
blue in my high beams. I shift into park, turn off the car, and step gingerly
onto the iced driveway, perplexed.

"Portia?"

She perches queen-like on our front
step, paws together, chin up. Perfectly still, smooth, an alabaster
figurine—until I approach. Then she springs from the porch, landing soundlessly
in the bizarre late September snow, and cocks her head back at me with complex
feline meaning. A moment later, she's gone, swallowed up by the dark, flurrying
night.

I hesitate. If Portia is here, at
the house, maybe Catherine is, too... But the windows are black, and no
footsteps lead up to the door. In the yellow lamplight, I make out only paw
prints and my own faint marks from hours earlier pointing away, in the wrong
direction.

My jaw tenses, and a shiver creeps,
slow and deliberate, over my scalp. I grab the flashlight out of my glove
compartment, toss the car keys onto the porch and then start after the cat,
into the woods.

She waited for me. Portia sits in
the middle of the old covered footbridge, her short legs straddling the gaping
boards, her shadowed back facing me. I make a mental note to call someone—a
carpenter—in the morning to test the soundness of the wood. I've been putting
it off because Catherine insists it's safe; she uses the bridge all the time,
back and forth, in her treks from the house to the cabin. But the creaks
beneath my boots suggest otherwise, and, besides, the planks are unpainted and
frozen solid. I grip the splintering banister with both hands.

Below, twenty feet or more, the
creek has dried up. Boulders and silence.

When I step beside her, Portia
strides forward and does not stop once she reaches the other side of the
bridge. She pauses now and again, as if to determine whether I am still behind
her, before continuing on at a measured pace over the well-trod path with all
the confidence of a forest-savvy feral. The truth brings a halfhearted smile to
my lips. Catherine has a Polaroid pinned on the corkboard over her desk at the
cabin of Portia lapping cream from a porcelain bowl while sprawled luxuriously
on a red tufted pillow. She's a refined princess, no she-beast; Catherine's
made certain of that.

So why is she out here tonight,
alone, in the cold?

I envy Portia's surefootedness as
my own feet betray me, sliding over the hard-packed snow—too hard to make
footprints without stomping—as well as her effortless night vision. The
whirling flakes catch on my lashes, blurring my sight, clouded further still by
my panting, puffed exhalations.

We're headed toward the cabin, but I had expected
that. I blow on my fingers to warm them, trying hard not to think. It's silly,
after all, to follow a cat anywhere. Cats aren't like dogs. They don't have the
same protective instincts. They don't rescue little boys—or grown women—trapped
in wells.

If nothing else, it will be nice to stop in for a
quick visit. Catherine requires absolute quiet and isolation when she's working
on her plays, so as not to disrupt the creative process. But we haven't spoken
since last night...

I miss her.

"Mrrrr-ow!"

The cat leaps sideways. Spiked fur,
like quills, lines Portia's spine, and her tail has fluffed up to three times
its natural size. She is staring at me, glaring...or beseeching. It's so hard
to tell. I'm not a cat person, like Catherine. Growing up, my mother never
permitted animals in the house.

I kneel down, eye level with
Portia. "What do you want?" I whisper, frightening myself with the
quivering tone of my voice. I extend a trembling hand toward her face. The wind
picks up, a high, dry whistle through bare branches, and I brace myself against
the blast of cold air that smothers my lungs, stealing my breath, before
gusting onward.

To my surprise, Portia curves her
head, rubbing it against my palm, and begins to purr.

I smell Catherine's perfume and
stand up.

We are not far from the cabin now,
perhaps a mile away. It's possible that Catherine went for a hike. She enjoys
walking, especially in the dark, and never seems to mind cold weather. She is
small but hardy. And wild. My wildflower. Her scent is of flowers—sweet spring
violets and white lilacs. It's here, all around me.
She
is all around
me...

"Catherine?"

An uncertain smile flirts with my
mouth. Is she hiding? Is this a game?

"Catherine, I know you're
here!" I bounce up and down on my heels, rubbing at my arms with chilled,
chapped hands. "Come on, I'm freezing!"

Portia snakes around my legs. She
looks up at me, those round eyes huge and—and what? Condescending?

My cry is fainter this time, less
confident. "Catherine?" I survey the path, the woods. To my left, an
enormous boulder soars thirty feet above my head. When we bought the property,
we dubbed that boulder "The Rock" and vowed that we would scale it
together one day and plant a cheesy rainbow flag at its summit. Of course, I'm
terrified of heights and have no intention of climbing it, but Catherine... Catherine
is fearless.

I swallow. The cat, tired of my
inaction, zips off toward The Rock, leaping onto one of its craggy outcroppings
and roosting there awkwardly. Her meow is plaintive and unceasing; I cover my
ears.

No. No, this is ridiculous. I'll
just continue on to the cabin. Catherine will be happy for a break from her
work. "Oh, Darcy, you naughty girl," she'll laugh, with that upturn
to her lips. "Here I am, slaving away at the typewriter, and in you waltz
with your irresistible mouth...distracting me from my important business."
Her hands will fit into mine, so lightly.

We'll drink something warm and lie
down, and she'll kiss me, my neck, that place she alone knows and always finds.
"How I've missed you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't
come. This time apart is excruciating..."

Excruciating. A horrible word. I
shake my head and rub my temples. The cat is still yowling loudly. I chew on my
lip, squeezing my eyes shut tight. When I open them, I see it.

The wig.

I don't know how I failed to notice
it there before. An arm's length away, dusted with snow but easily visible,
Catherine's black wig lays disregarded, tossed off, forgotten.

Something is wrong.

I have known that from the
beginning, from the moment I spied Portia on the step, so incongruent to the
natural order of things. Wherever Catherine goes, Portia follows, a small white
silhouette tracking her mistress’s unpredictable gait. But Catherine was not at
the house, and Portia was waiting for me. Waiting to lead me here.

Catherine is here. Her scent
spirals with the wind.

I take the wig in my hands,
unthinking, and shake off the snow, pick out the twigs. It's damp but
salvageable. I'll just find Catherine and put it back on her head. She must be
so cold. Her final treatment was months ago, and her hair has begun to grow
back, but it's still so thin and short, rabbit-fur soft. She shouldn't be out
in this weather with a bare head, not in her condition...

The thought makes me giggle, an
uncontrolled sort of giggle, and then a crazy, hysterical laugh, just like a
madwoman in a movie might make, and I can't stop, no, I can't, because it's
funny to be concerned about such trivialities as pneumonia when the truth
is...the truth—

She has been lying right in front
of me all along. I saw her without seeing her. I knew she was there but
couldn’t acknowledge her, couldn’t see her like that, couldn’t make it true by
seeing.

Portia wails, but her cry is stolen
by the sparkling white gale.

I have to—I have to put the wig on
her head. She can't lie there without it. She wouldn't want anyone to find her
without it. I know her.

Knew.

"No!"

Portia starts, shocked to silence.

The scent is overpowering now, so
sweet and purple that I feel lightheaded, nauseated, drunk. I stagger toward
Catherine, fall at her feet. Her shoelaces have come undone. Maybe she
tripped...

My hands find hers. Her skin is as
soft as ever, her fingers dangling, limp. The red polish on her nails is
chipped. I'll repaint them for her. I should do it now, before—
 

I can't seem to cry. My heart has
imploded, but the tears won't come. A heaving has started up in my chest; I
hear it before I feel it, and then there is pain, deeper than nerve endings, at
the root of my soul, or what remains of it.

Glassy-eyed, I lift my gaze and
begin to hum something. Catherine... My lover is dead. Her neck is broken. I
drop her hands; my own no longer respond to thought. There's a break in
communication.

She looks like a doll, except for
the blood. The flush in her cheek, like a painted-on blush, and the blank,
empty stare... But she's missing her hair.

I kneel at her side and take the
wig from my lap, patting it smooth as best I can. Oh, so carefully, I cradle
her dear head, mindful of the new twist to her neck, and adjust the black
locks, tucking her own short hair beneath the cap.
 
The hair falls over her shoulders, familiar. I stroke it,
remembering, as if from very far away, the first night we made love. She was
wearing this wig then. Afterward, she put it on only for special occasions—our
anniversaries, my birthday. She had so many wigs, in every color, every style;
why had she worn this one today?

I lay my ear on her chest. Nothing.

Portia has joined us, padding about
on the frozen earth, brushing her face against Catherine's forehead, suddenly
frantic. I pet her back, and she arches with pleasure. Her tail curls around my
arm.

It's more than I can bear. Portia
is warm, and Catherine is cold.

Catherine will never be warm again.
She fell. She broke.

I feel myself falling, too, but
upward, soaring, higher than trees and clouds and snow. I want to shatter
against the stars.

Chapter Two

Someone is touching me, my arms,
and then my face, my brow. It isn't Catherine.

Catherine's dead.

"Catherine's dead," I say
aloud, to myself. To no one.

"Yes, she is."

Eager to view a different landscape
than the one burning behind my eyelids, I look, uninterested, at the woman
seated beside me. Her hands, ringless, grip a plastic bottle of medication and
rest awkwardly on her lap. She's dressed all in white. A nurse. I know her.

All at once, I become aware of the
weight on my stomach. Pain arcs, like an electric shock, up and down my spinal
column, exploding at the base of my head, when I raise myself onto my elbows. A
perfect circle of white rests heavy and warm upon my middle. Portia, sleeping.
So cleanly white. There’s no blood on her fur, but I... I hold a hand up before
my face but close my eyes, fearful of what I might see.

The nurse closes her fingers over
mine and gently lowers me back to the pillow.

"You haven't sat up in
days." Her voice is low, sincere. "You've been...delirious. I'm here
to make you well, but gradually. After the trauma you've undergone..."
Watery blue eyes—odd, pale as clouds. "Well, the therapist will be here
soon to speak with you. Now that you're awake, I'll give him a call. Excuse me,
please." She pushes her chair back with a dull scrape and moves into the
other room, the kitchen. My kitchen.

I wonder how they found me. And who
found me. I wonder what they've done with Catherine.

Portia stirs, unwinds, stretches.
Her extended paws reveal long nails between pink pads. I should trim them.
Catherine always took care of Portia's needs. But I have to now. She's my cat
now.

I glance at her warily.

"Portia, will you stay with
me?" I whisper, wondering.

A yawn, so wide and long that I
count her teeth. But then she steps forward and sits upon my chest. Succubus. I
ignore the aching pressure of those paws on my bones. She bows her head to me.
Confused, I copy her, lowering my head—grimacing again, against the painful
shock—and our foreheads meet.

"I promise to protect you,
Portia," I whisper, as the tears begin. I can't feel them but know they’re
there. "We have to try...for her. She would want us to be friends, don't
you think?"

The cat rubs her face against my
neck and purrs into my ear. It feels like a kiss.

---

A noise: the door opens, and I
jump. I must have fallen asleep. I'm still lying in our—
my
—bed, and the
light is gone, replaced by a dark so thick that I wonder for a moment if I've
gone blind, and then feel a bit disappointed to realize I haven't.