The Ghost of a Chance (5 page)

I still have that heart; it's at
the bottom of my jewelry box, wrapped in red tissue paper. "Will you be my
Valentine?" she'd asked me, though it wasn't Valentine's Day, or even
February. I remember the look in her eyes when she held the rock out to me,
flat on her palm, with a smile so full of love and joy that I felt my own heart
tremble and expand, near to bursting.

Catherine loved the big house as
much as I did, but the cabin—and the woods—were her queendom.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and
sigh, my mind grasping desperately at the last tendrils of the dream, trying to
recapture the exhilaration, the peace, of those few precious moments in
Catherine's arms just before I woke up. I turn my head to confront the vacant
pillow beside me. For the first time in nearly two months, the sight doesn't
fill me with hopelessness.

Come to my cabin.

I sit up and stretch. It feels
good.
I
feel good.

The snow swirls outside my bedroom window, but
there's a warm place flickering within me that no winter wind can put out.

I think I'm in the mood for a walk.

Chapter Six

It's cold. I forgot my hat. And scarf. Portia trots
companionably beside me, warm as can be within her winter-shaggy fur coat,
while my teeth chatter, and I plunge ungloved hands into the deep pockets of my
ski jacket. At least the wind has died down. Around us, the trees, branches
sagging, still heavy with snow, are motionless. They look—I want to say sad
but, no—thoughtful. A crow caws rudely in the silence, and Portia, suddenly
tense, follows its black flight with her eyes, looking every bit the lioness.

Damage from the strange September
storm is most prevalent in the deep forest, where newly fallen trunks have
collided with other, smaller trees, causing a domino effect, obstructing the
footpath. I clamber over one particularly old wooden victim with a pant and a
sigh, patting its dead bark regretfully when I reach the other side. But how
can I mourn trees when I lost, to the same whim of nature, the only person I
ever truly loved?

And Catherine loved winter. She was
born in February and sometimes wore a snowflake ring on a chain around her
neck, a memento from her past. I never asked her where it came from. I never
asked her a lot of things. She was secretive about her years in New York.

I tuck my chin into my collar,
cursing myself again for leaving the house without a scarf. The branches are so
thick overhead that little light and less heat from the sun reaches these
woods. The temperature seems to drop more and more with each and every
snow-thick step I take. Portia has run far ahead, eager to reach our
destination, one she knows so well. Whenever Catherine wrote, Portia planted
herself solidly under her desk, a warm, constant presence, until the clacking of
typewriter keys slowed and stopped. Then she would emerge, stretching her long
white legs and yawning triumphantly.

"She's my muse,"
Catherine told me once, sweeping the cat up onto her lap. "I could never
write a word without her. Plus…" That smile.
 
I can't bear to remember it.
 
"She keeps my feet warm."

Unlike Portia, I rarely stayed in
the cabin while Catherine was writing. Whenever an idea overtook her, possessed
her, she typed so quickly, so feverishly, projecting every bit of creative
energy in her body onto the page, that I felt like an intruder, a nuisance, a
pebble in the shoe of an artist at work.

My chest hurts, full of frozen air.
I dust the snow from a large flat-topped rock and sit down for a moment, taking
shallow breaths. I can see the cabin from here, its sloped, snow-covered roof
and narrow brick chimney, the weathervane that Catherine and I installed
ourselves. It sways now.

I think of my dream. The thorns...
Metaphorical, obviously. And yet I can't help but hope—I can't say what. My eyes
skip from the cabin to the path that Catherine followed on that fateful
September day. I haven't been back here since. But I feel brave. Fists clenched
in my pockets, I stand up and march the hundred feet or so remaining between
myself and the cabin's door.

Which stands ajar, just as it did
in my dream.

But, this time, it doesn't open for
me of its own accord. I push it firmly, aware of cold wood against my clammy
palm, and walk straight into the living room without hesitation. If I stop, if
I think, I'll run. But I have to do this; I have to move forward.
Come to my
cabin.

Instinctively, I turn toward the desk. There is no
mirror on the wall behind it; there never was. Instead, a corkboard tacked with
handwritten notes, articles and photographs hangs right above the typewriter,
at the eye level of someone seated in the chair. A half-typed sheet of white
paper remains coiled in the typewriter's roller, awaiting inspiration.

I touch the sheet with reverent
fingertips, overcome by emotion. These are the last words Catherine ever wrote.

My heart trembles.

I can't read them. Not yet. My hand
falls on the ream of paper at the side of the typewriter, upside-down sheets
covered with ink. Her manuscript. Her final play. I hoist the stack into my
arms and carefully turn it over, to the title page on top.

A play in three acts

by Catherine Corde

It's a Shakespearean reference—that
soliloquy from
Twelfth Night
. "If music be the food of love, play
on..." We memorized it in ninth grade English. Funny how things like that
stay with you, even as you forget names of acquaintances, important dates, the
sweet/salty taste of your dead lover's skin...
 
I scan the second page, struck dumb by the character names, and then put
the sheaf back on the desk and sit down in the chair, facing the typewriter.

Catherine was mad about Shakespeare
and had plans to write a series of plays based on his major works, all with
lesbian leads. She had put together outlines for several of them.
Twelfth
Night
was to be her first project. That play was lesbian enough in its
original context, and Viola had long been Catherine's favorite literary
character, Shakespearean or otherwise. So often, she dreamed of writing and
producing her rewrite of Viola's tale and casting herself in the starring role,
as the shipwrecked orphan, forced to masquerade as something she was not in
order to secure her own chance at happiness...

My own temperament prefers Hamlet.
I've always been drawn to tragic tales. That bothered Catherine; she loved
nothing more than to laugh. I lived to make her laugh, and she made me laugh,
too...

I stare at the immobile keys,
feeling hollow and lost. She was finally writing it, her beloved
Twelfth
Night
. A half-conscious glance at the page in the roller tells me that the
play is unfinished. She died before the last act.

A fleeting thought:
Maybe I
could write the rest of it.
But I have no confidence when it comes to the
written word. I'm a reader, a cataloguer. Those who can't write...work at the
library.

So why do I feel this need within
me? The image in my head is that of a dam about to break, spilling over with
black ink.

I’ve been so absorbed in thought
that I failed to notice the fact that Portia has curled up under the desk, on
my feet, and fallen fast asleep. These past weeks have brought us closer;
before, she was Catherine's cat. I would pet her politely when she presented
her tail and refill her bowls as they emptied, but besides that, we had a
roommate sort of relationship. We lived together, conversed in passing, and led
our very separate lives.

It's different now. I reach down to
scratch beneath her chin, and her paws spread reflexively, kneading at nothing,
as she rolls onto her back, exposing the soft white fur of her underbelly. I
pet her stomach hesitantly and am gratified to watch her stretch to her full
length and reach up to paw my pant leg, claws retracted.

"You may make a cat person of
me yet," I say to her, managing the ghost of a smile, the best that I can
muster given my strange mood and cracked heart.

The door bangs shut with a boom
that makes me catch my breath. I turn, half-expecting to see someone (
oh,
please, Catherine
), but it was only the wind. I can hear it whistling now,
and branches scratch at the rooftop. Portia and I are, sadly, alone.

I wander into the costume room—not
much larger than a closet, really, but all four walls are lined with shelves,
boxes, clothing on hangers. Catherine sewed most of the costumes herself, for
parts she portrayed and for fellow actors. I couldn't begin to count how many
wigs she stacked up against the back wall; there must be dozens, all labeled
and organized into plastic containers. Others, her favorites, are displayed on
Styrofoam heads in neat rows, by color—ROY G. BIV—occupying the built-in
bookshelves.

With a wistful smile, my fingers
graze the lace cuff of a lady pirate getup, the one she wore for a performance
back in New York. It was a children's play, held at the park during a festival.
She tossed chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil to the audience during the
bows. I felt wicked, sitting amongst all of those innocents, for my
less-than-innocent fantasies involving that black hat, those tall buckled
boots, and nothing in the way of clothing in between...
 
Of course, her typical roles were adult in
nature. Some distressingly so. But she never kissed anyone on stage. It was her
one and only stipulation. Nudity, fine. Kissing, never.

She loved kissing me. Sometimes we
would lie in bed and just kiss, for hours and hours, until we were both
lightheaded and dizzy and laughing ourselves into hysterics.

Again, I regard the typewriter,
swallowing hard. Will I ever be prepared to read her words? Once I have read
them, and there are no more— Well, it has to be done, sooner or later, and I
have all the time in the world right now. My leave from the library is for an
indeterminate amount of time—"as long as you need, Darcy"—and there
are no other matters pressing on my mind. Chores, meals, bills...all can wait.

My curiosity is unrelenting. I tear
the page from the roller and begin to devour it with my eyes at once.

VIOLA: You're a saucy one. But
lovely, despite all else. I understand why Orsino desires you.

OLIVIA: Desires me? Ha! Wants me
for his collection, more like. His pretty parade, his "ladies of the
night," eh? Fancy words, fancy clothes. When it all comes down to a pile
of dirty bed sheets, spit and groans, what's the use of airs, then?

VIOLA: Lady, I do not think he will
give up this courtship. His flame for you burns too bright. Were I in his
place, I could not give it up, either—nor would I want to.

OLIVIA: Oh? And how would
you..."court" me, as you say?

I look away, draw in a deep breath.
 
My tears stain the page, long wet grey
smears blurring precious words, before I realize I’m crying. Half-blind, I flip
through the entire manuscript, reading bits here and there.

An odd tingling sensation begins to
build up, starting from my fingertips, spreading upward, to my arms,
shoulders... Now, my head. I cup my ears but feel nothing, numb, as if my whole
body has fallen asleep. Downward the tingling goes, throughout my torso,
traveling under and over my skin on tiny feet like pinpricks. I fall to the
couch against the front wall, unable to stand on unfeeling feet.

What’s happening? Something is— Why
can't I—

"Ohhhh..."

The tingling stops, replaced by a
gushing pressure that forces my insides to compress, make room, for this
fullness in my chest... My heart expands, grows so large as to press against my
ribs. My ribs...my heart...
 
Our
heart.

Without willing it or bidding my
body to move, I find myself walking, striding, confident and purposeful, in the
direction of the bathroom. Panic infects my brain; my hair stands on end. I
can't stop this. I'm trapped. Something is... Someone...

We stand before the mirror,
Catherine and I. The reflection is my own, save for the eyes. They’re green.
Her eyes. Her soul glows within them, brilliant, hungry, wanting...

"I want you, too," I try
to say but only think. She has control of me, of us.

I’m possessed. Catherine's spirit
is inside of me. Two as one.

Whole.

Portia weaves between our legs,
purring so loudly that I—we—laugh and kneel down to pet her smooth white back.
When we stand up, Catherine gazes softly at the mirror, at me, lips parting. I
want to touch her; I want her to touch me. As if she feels the same way, she
leans toward the glass, breath fogging the surface, and gently kisses it. She
moves my finger to draw a heart around the shape of her—our—lips, and then lays
my hand on my cheek, caressing. I feel warm... The hand, at her command, traces
the line of my neck, my collarbone. Fingers at my hips, unfastening the
buttons, sliding in, down and within...reaching, probing.

I can't respond, can't even cry
out, but the waves shake me, undo me. I gasp without breath, moan without a
voice. More, I want to beg. More, more—

I collapse onto the floor, on hands
and knees, sobbing like I have never sobbed before. Pleasure gives way to
immediate pain. Our lungs ache, our head pounds... I can't hold her; I can't
say anything. Mute and paralyzed, I understand what it means to be in hell.

This is wrong.

I want this to stop.

And all at once, it does. My back
arches, my fingers splay, and with a painful ripping sensation, she leaves me.
She's gone. "Catherine?" My throat is sore with tears.

Where has she gone?

I can move. I rise, fearing my own
limbs might, at any moment, move contrary to my bidding. They don't, but
there’s no end to the black abyss within me, the open wound torn when Catherine
left my soul.

It has been there ever since she
died, but now I feel it with all the trauma of an amputation. Nothing can fill
this hole.

The heart on the mirror fades, and
I stare dimly at my reflection—pale, serious face; dark wavy hair.
 
My brown eyes hold no hope.

"Catherine..."

I fall back to the floor and weep
until my body runs dry. It doesn't take long.

Chapter Seven

"What you do mean by
haunted
?"

The doubt in Alis' voice makes me
cringe. She thinks I've gone crazy, started hallucinating. Well, I shouldn't
have told her. Not that I told her much, only that there was something eerie
about the cabin, that I thought I felt Catherine's presence there, maybe heard
her voice. When I got back to the house, practically crawling with fatigue, I
felt I had to talk to someone. So when Alis called, it seemed like fate.

In all honesty, I did fear, for a
fleeting instant, that I might be experiencing some form of mental breakdown, a
disconnect with reality...

"Oh, I don't know." I
sigh into the receiver. "It was probably a dream, after all. You know, I
sleep so often now, sometimes it's hard to tell whether it's morning or night,
let alone whether or not I'm still sleeping."

A pause. Then, "I think I
should come over."

"Don't be silly. It's eleven
in the morning. You're at work! I'm..." I twirl the phone cord around my
hand, tightly, until the skin turns pink. "I'm fine, Alis. Really."

"You don't sound fine."

I undo the cord and hold the
receiver with both hands, surprised. "What do I sound like?"

"Sick, to be honest. Do you
have a cold?"

"No, I've just been—"
Which lie to tell? I certainly can't say, "I've just been possessed by
Catherine's ghost and cried a river all over the cabin floor, so my throat's a
bit sore and raw, but it's nothing to worry over."

"I'm just tired," I
finish tiredly. At least that's true.

"Darcy..." Alis inhales
deeply, exhales. "I don't mean to nag, but you still haven't made an
appointment with that therapist—"

"I'll call him when we hang
up, I promise."

"No, you won't. You have no
intention of calling him."

"Well, why should I talk to a
stranger about the most personal details of my life? It makes no sense."

"Then talk to me," she
implores. I can picture her too-blue eyes, wide and pleading. "Look, I've
got my break in half an hour. I'll drive out to your place—"

"That isn't necessary. I told
you, I'm fi—"

"Then have lunch with me. I'll
pick something up along the way. Vegetarian, of course."

I nearly smile, but stop myself,
still reluctant for company. "If you'd like," I say noncommittally.

"I would like to see you.
We're...we're friends, right? It's only natural for friends to have lunch
together."

There's no denying her. "All
right. See you soon, then."

"And, Darcy?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't go back to the cabin
alone, okay?"

"Right.
 
Good-bye." I hang up and wipe my sweaty
palm on the arm of the couch. The phone at the house had been ringing the
moment I returned from the woods. I answered it without thinking. I should've
let the machine pick up. I'm in no mood for conversation, for that caring,
inquisitive gaze.

Cranky, still shaken from the morning's
events, I walk up the steps, into the bedroom, and stop at the dresser to open
the lid of my jewelry box. There's nothing here that Catherine didn't give
me—necklaces, rings, a pair of flashing opal earrings shaped like stars. Those
were her birthday present to me only last August. One month before she
died.
 

I lift the top section of the
jewelry box out to explore the contents below. Here, I keep my most precious
keepsakes, letters and mementos. With a skipping heart, I unwrap the
heart-shaped rock, place it in my palm, enclose it with cold fingers. Its
weight is good, a comfort to my formerly empty hand. I slip it into the pocket
of my jeans and enjoy the hard pressure of it against my hip.

My first letter from Catherine is
at the very bottom of the box. Its edges have yellowed a bit with age. I unfold
it carefully. The paper crackles in my hands.

Catherine had large, looping
handwriting. She always signed her name with the shape of a five-petaled flower
hooked onto the "C."

I can't touch the surface of the
letter, afraid of smearing it or wrinkling it, or polluting its floral scent
with my own perfume, dull and vanilla.

A whiff of violets and lilacs fills
my nostrils as I replace the letter in the box, cover it with the jewelry
compartment and close the lid. I pat the rock in my pocket to make certain it's
still there.

I wrap my arms around myself,
trying to cover up the hollow cavity where Catherine's heart nestled only hours
ago.

Empty now.

---

Alis lays her car keys, along with
a thick pile of unopened envelopes and a large paper bag, on the kitchen
counter. "I brought in your mail. Looks like there are a lot of bills
here..."