The Ghost of a Chance (2 page)

What is there left to look at? I
have seen all I want to see, and more.

Reluctantly, my eyes adjust to the
night. The nurse is back, with a tall glass of water and a pair of small red
pills, which she holds out to me in her palm as she snaps on the lamp beside
the bed.

"To help you relax, if you'd
like." Her smile is small but true, reassuring. She has the proper face
for a nurse, round and moon-like. I like her face. Her black hair coils tightly
on the top of her head, though a few long strands have fallen free.

"I think I've met you
before."

She nods, placing the pills and
water on the bedside table. "I was one of Catherine's nurses, after her
chemotherapy. Her mother hired me then, as she has now, for you." Her eyes
avoid mine. "You were often at the library—working—when I came to your old
apartment to care for her. I think we only spoke...once."

I touch my temple. It throbs, the
rhythm erratic and distracting. "Alis. I remember you. You... She said you
were very kind."

"Oh. She was kind, too. And...
Well—" She removes a thermometer from her pocket absentmindedly. "It
was my pleasure." The smile again, weaker this time. "But tell me,
how are you feeling?"

The question is a surprise. The
concept of feeling overturns something fragile, something that was already on
the verge of breaking, already full of spidery cracks. Now it breaks. In my
mind's eye, I watch it break, exploding into a million shards, each one sharp
enough to pierce.

I turn my full gaze on Alis and
shake my head, again and again and again and again. I shake it hard, willing
the memory to come loose. My fists press against my ears, and still I shake,
all over now. My teeth chatter, and my legs spasm wildly. Portia leaps from the
bed to the floor.

"Please, you have to calm
down, Ms. Morrow." Alis is holding the glass of water again, but the pills
are different, not yellow but red and round. "Please, take these
now." Her voice sounds like I feel: frightened.

I want to calm down; I'm scaring
her. I'm scaring myself and the cat. If Catherine were here... Catherine always
had the right words. They were her playthings, words, her minions. She won me
with her words. I fell in love with her words. They kept me safe.

I taste the pills on my tongue—bitter—and
turn my head, refusing to swallow, but Alis presses the unyielding glass to my
lips and pours. Drink or drown. Drink or drown. I can't decide... I don't care.

Choking. Alis raises me from the
pillow, pounds at my chest until the pills come back up, a liquid red mess on
white linen. Not like blood at all. I know that now.

"Blood is black," I
croak, gripping Alis' wrist. My throat is tight and sore. "She was black
all over...all over here." I take her hand and brush it against my face,
over my forehead, over my hair. "All black, except her mouth. That was
red. It was still bleeding, and I...
 
I
kissed her, but she didn't wake up. They lied in those stories. She was a
princess, but she didn't wake up. Where have they taken her?" I have both
wrists now, and Alis gapes at me but does not struggle. "Where is my
Catherine? Is she here? Where is she?"

"I...I'm sorry. It's been a
week. They buried—"

"No! Don't say it!" I
release her violently. "Don't tell me that! I can't... Tell me... Tell me
that she's here. Please." I collapse inwardly, outwardly. My muscles fail,
and I fall back onto the pillow. "Tell me she'll be here soon. Tell me
that she's on her way. I think...I think I hear her now. She's coming, isn't
she?"

Alis cries into her hands. I'm frightening
her again. But why? All I want—Catherine...

"She hasn't eaten," I
realize, fingering the stained sheet. "She must be starved. I need to make
dinner. I need to get up and make dinner. It's late. She's starving—"

"No." Alis' eyes are
shining. She looks so sad. "No, you have to stay here. You aren't ready to
do anything. You need your rest."

"I need Catherine!" I
scream, covering my own ears in horror.

The moment freezes, like a
photograph. I see myself, unhinged, grieving, lost, insane. And Alis, sympathetic
gaze pointed toward the door, longing to escape. Portia's ears stand erect, but
her lids are half-closed, as if from boredom. A cat through and through.

I survey it all with such crystal
clarity, and yet I’m unable to break the spell. I can't stop shaking; I can't
breathe. How can I live? How can I live now?

The phone rings, and I seize, like
a famished animal, upon the notion that Catherine is on the line. There's been
a mistake. She got lost, but she's on her way back. She's calling so that I'll stop
worrying. I worry too much; she's told me that so many times...so many...

Alis is gone. The ringing stops. I
hear her low, insistent murmur in the kitchen, her pacing footsteps. She sounds
angry at first, and then resigned. Her white silhouette fills the doorway, and,
with a sigh like a sob, whispers, "It's for you."

The words seem absurd, too normal
for this time, this place. But I ask, "Who is it?" instead of
"Is it Catherine?" because I don't want to make Alis cry again.

"Mrs. Corde. Catherine's mother."

"Mrs. Corde. Catherine's
mother," I parrot, blinking hard and sliding further beneath the sheet.
"Tell her I'm at the library. I'll call her back."

But the phone is in my hand, and
Alis holds it there firmly. "Say hello," she prompts, the glimmer of encouragement
in her tired blue eyes. "Go on."

I nod slowly, blankly, before
bringing the receiver to my ear. "Hello?"

"Darcy!"

"Yes? Mrs. Corde?"

"Oh, darling, I've been
absolutely beside myself over you. Is Alis taking care of you properly? Is
there anything you need? Anything, Darcy, dear. Just tell me, and it's
yours."

"I... What do I need?" I
glance at Alis uncertainly, and the phone slips from my grasp, but she hands it
back to me with her warm, solid fingers.

"Yes, darling, anything. I'll
be there tomorrow, now that you're awake. I'll jet in tomorrow morning, in time
for brunch."

"No, you—" My tongue
feels swollen. I can't say the words I want to say. I can't tell her not to
come. I don't want anyone here, not even Alis. I want no one and nothing. I want
nothing.

"...of course the funeral was
held here in the city, where she came from, where everyone knew and loved her,
and, oh, the turnout! It was simply heartwrenching, the show of love and
support. Oh, our Catherine was dearly beloved, Darcy. She was my beloved
daughter—"

The phone crashes against the wall
and collides with a picture frame, breaking the glass.

Calmly, Alis hands me two more red
pills and another glass of water.

I take them gratefully now, in
silence, wishing for a whole bottleful.

Chapter Three

I stare at that water stain on the
ceiling over the bed, the spot Catherine pointed to, insisting that it looked
like a hippopotamus. I squinted my eyes then and saw the shape of a big-bellied
Buddha, laughing.

Now I see a boulder. Through my
tears, its crevices bleed.

Things are clearer now. Maybe those
pills helped. Alis gave me two more this morning, with a tray full of breakfast
that I couldn't eat. It's almost eleven. Mrs. Corde will be here soon.
 
For brunch. Brunch! Her daughter cracked her
skull open and died—and she's jetting in from New York City to have brunch with
me.

It's all a farce, of course. She
never cared for Catherine, no more than she cares for anyone. I never met a
person like her before. So...empty. Devoid of empathy and the ability to truly
relate to other human beings, except on the most superficial of levels. She
gets along well enough with her posh crowd and their backstabbing disloyalty,
but in the real world, in my world, she seems like a half-person, born with parts
missing, though she looks as fine and polished as a crystal vase. No flowers
grow within her. Catherine was a garden.

I sigh miserably, nauseous. Dread
spikes my veins. Catherine's mother is a force of nature—loud, obtrusive, often
crass, and her prying, inappropriate questions drain the life from my soul even
in the best of times. Now, in the worst... I can't face her. I simply can't.
Alis will have to tell her that I've had a relapse, that I'm not well enough
for a visit. She's dealt with Mrs. Corde herself; she knows what she's like.
And Alis pities me. That's evident every time she meets my gaze with her own,
bright and glassy blue.

There’s a bustle downstairs, a
shouted order, a slammed door. The yip of an irritable Chihuahua. Portia hops
out of the cat basket and stands on the threshold of the bedroom and hallway,
her tail straight up, like an antenna.

"She's here," I say,
resigned.

Alis walks through the door, past
Portia, carrying Catherine's wool shawl over her arm. We bought that shawl at a
crafts festival just last summer. Catherine was reluctant to spend so much
money on herself, but I insisted. The variegated greens and browns brought out
the forest in her eyes. She'd worn it only once or twice, since the
unseasonably cold weather arrived. Now Alis extends the shawl to me. "I've
turned up the heat, but there's still a chill in the house, and you've got to
stay warm."

I lean forward to allow Alis to
wrap the tightly woven wool around my shoulders and over my chest. The yarn
smells faintly of flowers, Catherine's purple flowers, and I remember the last
time I caught that scent, the night that I found her...

"Mrs. Corde is preparing food
in the kitchen." Alis offers me a sympathetic smile. "I don't think
she's aware that you're a vegetarian."

I shake my head, woozy from perfume
and memories. "She's aware. She's just determined to show me the error of
my ways."

"Ah."

The sun is glaring hot and bright
through the curtains, though my fingertips are numb with chill. I pull the
shawl more tightly about me and slowly maneuver myself into a sitting position,
feet on the cold hardwood floor.

"You'll have to hold onto me
as you take each step," Alis says. She kneels down so that I can put my
arm around her neck. "Don't be afraid to lean all of your weight into
me." We're cheek to cheek now, and she pulls me up to stand beside her. I
wobble on stiff legs. She smiles. "I won't let you fall, I promise."

And then I'm crashing down, down,
down—how can it be so far? The boulder wasn't nearly as high. But this is neverending,
a bottomless pit. I look up and see nothing. Where did I fall from? Where am I
falling to? "Catherine!" I scream, and then she's there, wearing her
black wig, the one I loved best, and her lips are painted red, her eyes two
green glass jewels, and her arms reached up for me. "I'll catch you!"
she yells, but she doesn't catch me; I fall past her. I'm falling, falling, all
alone.

"Wake up, Darcy!" I
blink, and Alis’ face emerges as if from behind a cloud. "You
slipped," she explains. "Your legs gave out. I'm sorry. I didn't
expect that; I couldn't hold on..."

"It's fine," I mumble,
pushing the hair from my face and massaging my skinned elbow. "It's my
fault. I didn't realize how weak I really am."

"You only need exercise."
She pats my arm, deep compassion in her gaze. Again, the blueness of her eyes
strikes me, making my own eyes water in response. "Are you all
right?"

"Yes, let's just get this over
with."

Alis helps me stand up again, this
time gripping me more firmly about my waist. Her hand slips beneath the shawl
and under my t-shirt, pressed against bare skin. "I can hold you more
securely this way," she explains, almost apologetic.

The journey down the stairs is slow
and painful. I feel drained by the third step, but Alis urges me onward,
certain that I have the strength. Soon enough, Mrs. Corde appears on the
landing and shouts out her own unique form of encouragement.

"Oh, my dear, you look simply
awful—so thin! No wonder you can't walk on your own. Alis, what am I paying you
for? You're supposed to be making her well!"

"Alis has been
wonderful," I say through teeth gritted both from annoyance and physical
strain.

"Obviously, Darcy, she has not
been feeding you the proper nutrients. Just look at your hair! I scarcely even
recognize you, I have to say. You look ten years older."

And how am I supposed to look
after my soulmate died?
I want to ask her. In all honesty, I’m surprised to
find myself functioning at all. At the moment, my greatest longing is for
solitude in a dark room, with a blanket to hide my head beneath.

Mrs. Corde looks shiny, as always:
gold dangles from every appendage, and her skirt suit is made of a garish,
glossy yellow fabric that reminds me of sunny side-up eggs. She's dyed her hair
purple. No, magenta. Her lipstick matches the shade perfectly.

We've reached the ground floor at
last. Alis places my hand on the banister while she moves herself in front of
me, to lead me into the dining room and seat me upon one of the chairs. There
are two place settings laid out, using our finest china, the set that Mrs.
Corde gave us herself last Christmas—and which we've never found cause to use.
It's white porcelain, with finely painted ribbons of burgundy encircling the
rims.

"Now, the food isn't quite
ready, dear—Alis, will you see to that, please?—but I'd love to take a moment
to just sit and talk with you, find out how you're coping and what your plans
are, now that Catherine has gone on to a better place." She sits down
across from me and spreads a napkin over her lap. "Hard to believe, isn’t
it?
 
My daughter was so graceful—how
could she fall?
 
But the autopsy was
conclusive.
 
She had a relapse.
 
So she got dizzy, maybe, or couldn’t hold
herself up.
 
She just…fell."
 
Mrs. Corde’s eyes, averted while she was
speaking, suddenly focus on me with shining intensity.
 
"We're both in this together, you know.
I lost my only daughter..." She brings the napkin up to dab at her eyes.