The Ghost of a Chance (4 page)

If only Catherine could hold me
right now, just for one minute... Maybe then I'd have the will to move on. I
just want to feel her arms around me, her breath in my hair. Why can't I have
that? Something so simple and ordinary and sweet.

It isn't fair.

I tilt my head backward, close my
eyes, and imagine not Caroline's but Catherine's eyes smoldering over me as I
lie beneath, her lips pink and parted, hungry to connect with my own. But she
knows how I love to be teased, tormented, and denies me those lips for as long
as either one of us can stand it, instead tracing feather-light fingertips over
my neck, my breasts, my stomach...lower still—

"Darcy?"

With a start, I realize that I’m
sitting on the floor, against the door, with my arms wrapped around my knees.
Alis knocks again.

"Darcy, are you all
right?"

"I'm fine," I lie, rising
and turning on the faucet. I take the cool water in my hands and splash it on
my still-red face. "I'll be out in a second."

As much as I long to climb out of
the window and run all the way home, I decide that it would be better to stay,
eat Thanksgiving dinner and then call a taxi to make my escape. By that point,
everyone will be so stuffed and sleepy, full of turkey and dessert and wine,
that they won't notice my absence.

The plan works, more or less. I
have little appetite, after all, but take small bites of the turkey-like tofu
Alis made just for me out of politeness. Whenever her blue eyes catch mine,
they seem so concerned, so encouraging.
 
I stop looking at her. I try to avoid Caroline's gaze, too, but she’s
far more insistent, addressing me directly, confusing me with her bedroom
smile.

Unexpectedly, it’s Alis' husband
who makes the most effort at including me in the conversation.

"That's some pretty land
you've got up there, Darcy. What is it, ten, fifteen acres?" His
unschooled accent catches me off-guard, so inconsistent with his well-coiffed,
metrosexual appearance.

"Twenty-three." I spoon
up some mashed potatoes reluctantly, anxious to appear normal now that the
table's attention is focused on me.

"And Alis tells me you've got
a log cabin out there, too, along with the big house?"

Panic clutches my heart. No, we
can't talk about the cabin. Not Catherine's cabin...

Alis covers my hand with her own.
"Jason, there are some gorgeous apple trees in the back orchard," she
says, pointedly changing the subject. "And a cherry tree, too, I
think?"

I nod. Yes, there is a cherry tree.

"I don't think I've told you,
Darcy," Alis says, "but I love making jams and preserves. Maybe we
could do that together sometime."

Alis' smile can't reach me here;
I'm too far away. But I nod again and spear a green bean with my fork.

"So you ever do any hunting on
your land?" Jason persists, slathering his meat with enough gravy to drown
a small animal. "Bet you've got herds of deer right in your backyard.
Maybe while you and Alis are picking apples, I could shoot a ten-point for you
two girls to fry up, make a proper feast." He chuckles.

"No, I don't permit
hunting," I reply evenly, glaring at him.

Alis, to my surprise, matches my
look. "Besides, Jason, Darcy doesn't eat meat."

He scoffs. "All you lezzies
are vegetarians nowadays."

"Um, excuse me?" Caroline
pointedly stuffs a slice of turkey into her mouth. "Not
all
."

I turn to Alis. "I think I'd like to go home
now. I've got a headache."

"Ah, don't rush off!"
Jason wags a finger at me. "It isn't nice to eat and run, and the fun's
only just beginning."

"That's what I'm afraid
of," I murmur, bowing my head toward Alis apologetically. "I really
have to go. I'll call a cab."

"No, I'll drive you."
Alis places her napkin on the table and leads me by the arm to the mudroom,
where we gather up our coats and boots.

Just as we're about to walk out the
door, someone grabs my hand. I turn to face Caroline, all impish curves and
lashes. "In case you get lonely." She presses a card into my hand and
saunters back into the dining room.

I step outside into the chilly
night to join Alis, who's waiting for me in the car.

"I wasn't trying to set you up,"
she insists as soon as I slide in and close the passenger door. "I swear I
wasn't. It's just that...I overheard Caroline mention at work that she was
going to spend Thanksgiving alone, and I felt sorry for her, and I thought you
two might—"

"Hit it off?"

"Well, have things in common.
Relate to each other." She blushes. "You know what I mean. I hoped
you might feel more comfortable opening up to her about how you're
feeling."

"Alis." I don't know how
to respond. I'm touched by her thoughtfulness. Besides Catherine, I've never
known anyone who was so genuinely caring, without selfish motivations. I
certainly couldn't lay claim to that virtue myself.

"That's sweet, Alis, but the
simple coincidence that we're both lesbians doesn't mean that we'll be instant friends."

"I know that. I just—"

"You're a good person. I don't
trust people easily, but...I do trust you." I laugh hoarsely. "For
the record, it doesn't matter to me whether you're gay or straight. It's just
too soon for me to confide in anyone. When I'm ready, though, yours will be the
first number I call."

She smiles softly, sweetly.
"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." She taps her
fingers on the wheel, suddenly in high spirits. "But, Darcy, for the
record? I'm not as straight as you think I am."

"Oh, really?"

"Hey, I went to
college..."

"Ah, the freshman year lesbian
experience."

She shrugs. "It was something
like that. But then I met Jason at a bar and..."

"Love at first sight,
hmm?"

She doesn't reply.

Chapter Five

The dream comes to me that night.

I walk through the woods, my woods,
but all of the trees have been overrun by thorn bushes—so tall and arching that
they obscure the sky. I can scarcely see my hand in front of my face, but there
are a few things I know: I am naked, bleeding, and I'm searching for Catherine.

Her voice leads me through the
prickly mire, faraway but hopeful. "Darcy, I'm waiting for you. Where are
you?"

Tears streak my face; every step,
every movement brings greater pain. But I have to find Catherine. It's because
we're apart that these thorns have grown rampant in our forest. Jagged branches
claw at me, tear my skin, and I can only whisper, whimper, "I'm trying.
I'm trying my best."

"Darcy, don't give up! I'm
here. I'm waiting."

Frustrated, I dash madly through
the thorns, heedless of their needles, and feel the prickle of blood. Where is
she?

Where, where,
where?

My arms and legs feel weak,
boneless, like doll's limbs full of cotton. I fall to my knees, hair and skin
catching, pulling, ripping, and bury my head in my hands. There are so many
scratches and punctures in my ravaged body; I fear that, at any moment, I may
burst at the seams.

But then the white cat
comes—Portia—to sit beside me. Her purrs sooth me. I smile meekly at her and
stroke her back.

"Darcy, please hurry!"

Portia and I crane our necks in the
direction of the voice. Catherine's closer now. If I can muster up the strength
to stand, I'll find her soon, very soon. I feel certain of it.

"Help me, Darcy! I need
you."

"I need you, too," I say,
staggering on swollen feet, shielding my eyes from the thorns.

"Mrrow." Portia prances
in front of me, tail up, and gestures with her small head as if to indicate
Follow
me
. Miraculously, the bushes, with a sound like bones breaking, uproot
themselves when she approaches them, effectively clearing a path large enough
for me to pass through, unsnagged, still whole.

Speechless, I stumble along,
aching, bewildered, listening closely to every whisper of wind and crackle of
leaf, in my attempts to locate Catherine.

And then, before I can acknowledge
the scene approaching through the widening gap, Portia sprints out of sight.
"Stop!" I'm running now, because here’s a clearing. The thorns bend
back upon themselves with a hiss, conquered. And sky! I open my arms wide,
embracing it. I hear birds, a stream. I hear flowers growing; the petals unfurl
first with a yawn and then a giggle. Spring. I've found spring.

And Catherine's cabin, her woodland
writing retreat.

There is a breath-holding urgency,
a sense of Something Important, as I gaze wonderingly at the square log
structure, mahogany in the yellow sunlight. I squint at the open windows,
scanning for movement, and my heart skips when Portia jumps onto the sill from
the inside, her white tail flicking, her eyes fixed on me.

"Darcy, is that you?"

I run, trip, catch myself on
still-bleeding hands, and run some more, all the way to the door, which creaks
open slowly, bidding me to come in, before I even lay a finger on it.

I expect to find Catherine at her
typewriter, stabbing noisily at the keys—she loves the sound the letters make.
Each one sounds distinctly different, she says. She can recognize them with her
eyes closed. She proved it to me once. I spelled out, "I love you."
She tied a handkerchief over her face and recited each letter the moment after
I hit its key, then called me silly and kissed my fingers—every one of them, so
that none would feel left out.

But the typewriter’s silent. The
cabin is empty, except for Portia, still perched at the window, half in and
half out. I swallow and move through the rooms—there are only four of them, and
all very small—before accepting the fact that Catherine is not here. How could
she be?

Catherine is dead.

I remember.

I sit down on the bed carefully. I hold my back very
straight, my legs together, my lips pursed to the point of physical pain.

But where did the voice come
from?
I wonder idly, unable and unwilling to move now that my hopes are
gone; I feel the full weight of my solitude and close my heavy lids.

Tap.

The typewriter.

Tap, tap, tap.

There is no one at the typewriter,
but I watch the keys depress. Ink marks the white page. A word. A string of
words. A sentence.

With a complaint from the bed
springs, I rise and make haste to the desk, too hurt to be afraid, and pull the
paper from the roller.

I AM HERE. LOOK UP.

My eyes lift to the mirror hanging
on the wall above the typewriter, and Catherine is there, her face beside my
face, gazing with such love at my reflection, hovering over my shoulder. Behind
me—

I spin around and fall into her arms.
Catherine, here, so warm, so alive... Violets and lilacs. Skin against skin.

"Come," she whispers in
her soft, lilting voice, planting a kiss on my neck, beneath my ear. I feel her
teeth, her tongue.

"I'll do anything,
anything."

Her lips curve against me.
"Come to my cabin."

---

We bought the house and its
property, including the cabin, four years ago. Catherine was still living with
roommates in New York City at the time, and I had an apartment not far from
here with a nice view of the Rockies, in easy commuting distance of the
library. Maintaining our relationship across state lines was emotionally and
physically exhausting. Every other month, I would fly east to visit her. On the
opposite month, Catherine would fly west to stay with me. But her living
arrangement was so chaotic, and my apartment was so small, with a twin-size
bed, no less, that we often stayed in motel rooms—cheap, outdated places with
coin massage beds and shag carpeting on the walls.

After months and months of these
rendezvous, Catherine and I decided that it would be more economical for our
bank accounts, and much more kind to our hearts, if we moved in together. I
hated New York City, and Catherine was tired of its rush, so we found ourselves
a realtor—an old high school classmate of mine—and started shopping around for
a house in the Colorado mountains.

Ultimately, it was the cabin that
sold us on this place. Nestled among trees, miles from any neighbors. Our very
own log cabin! The big house, too, was beautiful with its farmhouse charm and
expansive, enclosed front porch, and in fair condition, despite its age.

"It is what it is," the
inspector, Bruce, told us, making checkmarks on the clipboard in his hands.
"Probably need a new roof in five, six years. New furnace in four. Plumbing
looks good." He ran his hand over the thick beams crisscrossing the
basement ceiling. "They don't make them like this anymore. This house will
be here long after we're all gone."

We handed him a $300 check. Three
months and reams of paperwork later, our realtor handed us to the keys to our
new home. Catherine wasted no time in setting up her typewriter in the cabin,
while I focused my attentions on the big house—choosing color schemes,
painting, refinishing the floors... Catherine sewed all of the window
treatments herself.

Portia, the city cat, seemed to
adapt to country life without a moment's hesitation. She caught her first mouse
that summer and presented it to us during a picnic of apples and sandwiches by
the stream in the woods.

We weren't quite certain what to do
with all of the acreage that came along with the property.
 
Catherine had dreams of starting a cat
rescue, or building a little theater for performances of her plays, or setting
up a haunted hayride for the neighborhood kids in October. She’d never had a
backyard before, much less land, gardens, trees. It made her giddy. She loved
nature and soon began spending the majority of her free time wandering outside,
bringing treasures from her walks home for me: a piece of quartz, an opaline
shell, a stone shaped like a perfect heart.