The Ghost of a Chance (8 page)

"What sort of friend?"

"A psychic, I suppose. Clairvoyant. To be
frank, I've never seen her at work and can't attest to her authenticity, but
we've known each other since my undergraduate days at Ohio State—you don't want
to know how many years ago that was—and we've kept in touch. If you wanted, I
could give you her number."

"Oh, well..." I don't really want a
stranger's assistance, or anyone's assistance, for that matter. I just need to
talk about what's been happening, to make certain that I'm not imagining it
all. Confirmation would do wonders for my state of mind. "All right.
 
I'd like to speak with her, I think."

Marjorie pulls a pen, a notepad and a small black
book from her shoulder bag. She thumbs for a moment through the pages of the
book. "Here we are. Genevieve McLeery." She scribbles the phone
number on the notepad and then tears the page off, handing it to me. I fold it
in half and slide it into my bag.

"Thank you for listening. I know it must sound
very odd to you, but...I do believe Catherine is trying to communicate with me.
I just can't figure out why she's still here, why her soul hasn't moved
on."

"Unfinished business," Marjorie replies,
nodding. "Either that, or she doesn't realize she's dead."

I remember Catherine's heartwrenching sobs when she
entered my body, her sorrow coursing through me, within me, becoming mine.
"No.
 
She knows she's dead. I'm
sure of that."

"Oh? Have there been other manifestations,
besides the perfume?"

"Yes. I haven't seen her, but..." My eyes
immediately spill over, and I hide my face in my hands, ashamed.

"Now, now, dear," Marjorie whispers,
patting my arm and producing a tissue from her purse. "Remember what I
told you about crying. You've got to do it. Don't stop yourself on my
account."

I take the tissue from her and swipe at the sore
skin around my eyes.

"I want to see you emerge from this stronger
than ever before. Strong and invincible. An Amazon!"

I laugh hoarsely. "Marjorie, I couldn't be less
of an Amazon if I tried. I've never felt so helpless and unmotivated. Sometimes
I don't bother to crawl out of bed until mid-afternoon. I forget to eat. My
savings are running low.
 
I just...don't
care. About anything."

"Well—" She eyes me behind her thick glasses.
"You have one of two choices here. Either pull yourself up by your
bootstraps and snap out of it, or..." She pauses for dramatic effect.

"Or?"

"Get thee to a nunnery!" Marjorie smiles,
teasing, but the Ophelia reference stills my heart. I wonder if I'll ever be
able to encounter Shakespearean quotations without connecting them with my loss
of Catherine.

"Dear, it's going to take some time. But every
day, bit by bit, almost imperceptibly, you'll get better. Until, one morning,
you'll wake up and declare, 'I think I'll go back to work at the library
today,' and, I, for one, will rejoice to share my working hours with you
again."

I stopped crying, but now tears of a different sort
sting my eyes. "You're so kind."

"No, only honest."

"I have to admit…
 
I'm encouraged by the fact that you've been through this, with
your husband. And you're fine, a normal, fully functional woman."

"Well…"
 
She looks down at her hands in her lap. "I suppose I am, Darcy, but
there are scars. I won't lie. Some days, when I wake up alone and lonely, I
curse every divine entity I can think of for stealing Arthur away from
me."

A lump forms in my throat—for her and for myself.
"It just isn't fair."

"No. That's the sticking point, isn't it? It
isn't fair. And it makes no sense, serves no purpose. But, you know, you can't
focus on that aspect, or you'll drive yourself mad. Just remember Catherine.
Honor her memory by living the life she would have wanted for you."

I think back to yesterday, at the cabin. What
Catherine wanted, for both me and herself, seemed very clear. My body warms at
the memory, and an ache stirs deep within me. I squirm in my chair, pressing
hands to my flustered face. Marjorie would likely be stunned if I told her
about my experience, and more than a little embarrassed—as would I.

I can't tell her. I can't tell anyone.

The waitress returns with our dinner plates, and we
eat in companionable silence.

Chapter Ten

It's snowing. I peer outside, through the living
room window of the cabin, and frown at the gauzy curtain of snowflakes. The
frozen ground is freshly white. At least the room is warming; I started up the
generator when I arrived, around ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes, and no sign of
Catherine.

I sit down on the couch, restless,
one hand absentmindedly stroking Portia's back. She purrs her appreciation and
flops onto her side, eyes closed. I watch her, envious, and then stand up and
walk into the bathroom.

The "C" is still visible,
a faint curve, on the mirror glass. I trace it with my fingertip, and a longing
consumes me with such violent passion that I have to fight the urge to
collapse, to fall to my knees.

"Where are you?" I
whisper, looking up, down, behind; my heart beats hard within my chest: anxiety
and lust. I moan softly, then sigh.

What will I do if she's gone away
for good? To...heaven? Or wherever it is that lost souls end up? I don't want
to think about that. I pace in the living room, chewing on my thumbnail. It's
early evening. After Marjorie and I parted ways, I felt a compulsion to come
back here as quickly as possible, to attempt to determine what it is that's
keeping Catherine trapped in this place. Is it me? Narcissistic thought...

"Unfinished business,"
Marjorie said.

I glance at the typewriter.
Obviously, Catherine's play is incomplete. But how could she expect to— The
answer comes to me before I finish the question. I walk over to the desk and
grasp the back of the chair. If I help her with this, if she writes the rest of
the play, she may disappear afterward. "The end" could be the end of
her presence in my life. I press the heel of my hand to my head, which has
begun to ache.

No.

I can't deny her this, no matter
how painful the consequences for me.

"I'm here," I breathe,
low and quavery. "Use me to do this, Catherine. I'm here. At the typewriter."

No sooner do I seat myself at the
desk than I feel her enter my body, all at once this time instead of limb by
limb, and I'm falling deep down within myself, peering out through my eyes as
if through a periscope; everything appears blurry, far away.

The only senses that remain to me
are sight and hearing, and the lull of the typewriter keys grows distant, white
noise. I'm sleepy but have no eyes to close, no body to rest. My mind drifts,
empty now, in a hazy state of meditation...

It's the cat that draws me back. I
feel her weight on my lap first, her warm body vibrating with purrs, and then
sense a weight, light and familiar, in my hands, which lay—I blink, vision
clearing—upon the desk in front of me.

I'm clasping something. A small
black velvet box.

Shaking, I open it.

The heart-shaped diamond ring
gleams, starlike, in its four-pronged setting. I can only stare, open-mouthed,
inwardly reeling, as the significance of the jewel in my palm hits home.

Catherine wanted to marry me. She
was going to propose.

I put the ring box on the desk and
try to swallow, but my mouth and throat are too dry. Half-consciously, I pick
up the play manuscript and flip through the last few pages. New. Just written.
And there's another sheet in the typewriter now, with only a single line of
print.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow."

I read it, and weep.

---

The ring raps lightly against my
chest, inside my jacket, as I walk back to the house, the metal warm now from
the heat of my skin. It dangles from my neck on the silver chain I always wear.
I can't bear the thought of putting it on my finger. I'm hot, with emotion,
love, rage; the snowflakes melt upon contact with my face. I feel everything
and think nothing. Portia stayed behind at the cabin.
 
Perceptive cat. Somehow she knows that, right now, or perhaps
forever, I need time alone.

My unstopping footsteps carry me
over the snow-covered path so quickly that I am startled to find myself at the
driveway so soon but even more startled to note a truck parked beside my car.
The words "JLS Trucking" are painted on the driver's side door in a
jagged font.

He's waiting for me on the front
porch, arms crossed, leaning against the railing. Waiting...in the same spot
that Portia waited on the day I found Catherine's body.

"Jason," I say, pacing
toward him without hesitation, the emotions stirred up by my visit to the cabin
still ruling my head. "Can I help you?"

He scoffs, as I knew he would.
"You can help me," he growls, "by keeping your nose out of my
business and your hands off of my wife."

"Excuse me?" I stare at
him with open distaste. "What are you insinuating?"

"I'm insinuating," he
simpers, stepping down to confront me at eye level, close enough to smell the
reek of alcohol on his breath, "that, if you know what's good for you, you
ought to steer clear of Alis and stop putting ideas in her head. She was happy
until you started messing with her. Now she's talking about a divorce—"

"Jason, Alis is a grown woman,
and she came to her own conclusions. I listened and offered advice, as any good
friend would."

"Good friend! Well, that's a
laugh, isn't it? Is that what you lesbos call yourselves now, 'good
friends'?"

I wince in response to the
lingering of his unwelcome presence, so near and foul, when all I want is
silence, an empty house, an empty heart. Instead, his hostility makes my blood
boil over, and when he steps forward, shoulders shoved toward me, menacing,
threatening, I push him with all the rage I possess back, away, and he falls
against the steps, looking stricken.

"Get off my property," I
hiss. "Now. I have no qualms about calling the police."

He leans back against the
staircase, his surprised expression giving way to underlying hatred. "Got
no qualms about getting naked with another man's wife, either, do you, lesbo?"

Suddenly, his shirt lapels are
gripped fiercely in my hands. Our noses are practically touching, and the
stench of beer fuels my fury. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. So
I'll reiterate. You're trespassing. Get off my property now, or we're going to
have a serious problem—and I think you've got enough legal issues to deal with
at the moment, don't you?"

He laughs. "What, are you
trying to scare me? You think you're stronger than me?"

"No, but right now, I'm a lot
angrier than you. Anger and adrenaline make for a potent cocktail." I
hiss. "Go."

He grunts, making sounds without
words. I ease off cautiously and step backward, until I'm off of the steps,
past the driveway and standing back on the snow-covered grass, several feet
away from him. "Go," I repeat, with quiet wrath.

"Touch Alis," he croaks
as he stumbles awkwardly to his truck, "and I'll
kill
you." He
opens the car door with a violent screech of metal and throws himself into the
seat, slamming the door shut behind him. He starts the ignition and rolls the
window down, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. "Dead!" he cries.
"Just like your stupid hippie girlfriend. World's better off without your
kind."

I launch at his door, and he speeds
off, gravel spitting up from his squealing tires. A rock hits my cheek; I smell
blood.

When his truck disappears from
sight, I turn slowly and ascend the porch stairs, gripping the railing with
both hands to maintain my balance. My heart is racing within me to the point
that I'm nearly doubled over in pain, and my head aches from the aftereffects
of the confrontation.

How dare he? How dare he come here,
spouting baseless lies? How dare he mention
Catherine
? I claw at the
unlocked knob and kick the front door open with my shin. I spy the phone on the
kitchen counter and begin, finally, to think.

I should call Alis. He may have
hurt her. She might need help.

I sigh and place my hand on the
receiver, which begins to ring in my grasp. The pulse of my heart quickens. I
feel dizzy as I bring the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Darcy—oh, thank God I've
gotten hold of you. I've been trying for an hour. Jason's gone berserk. He
smashed up the house, and I'm afraid he might be on his way to see you. You've
got to get out—"

"He's come and gone."

"You mean, he's— What happened?
Are you all right?"

"No," I laugh bitterly.
"I've never been less all right in my life, quite honestly, but I sent
your bully of a husband away with his tail stuck between his legs, and, I have
to say, I'm proud of it."

"Seriously? He didn't hurt
you? What did you do? Oh, Darcy, I'm so sorry about all of this. I should've
never—"

"It’s okay, Alis." I sit
down at the table with a sigh. "He didn't get the chance to hurt me. Not
physically, at least. Small words from a small man... I suppose you loved him at
some point, but he's a terrible coward, and stupid, too. Remind me again why
you married him? Was it the sex?"

"Hardly." She says
nothing for several moments. Then: "He got me pregnant. I lost the baby at
five months. We were already Mr. and Mrs. Baker by that point. I knew I'd made
a mistake; I wasn't in love with him."

I rub at my temples, but the
headache pounds on. "I'm glad to hear it, frankly, because I would have
serious doubts about your judgment if you were in love with that idiot."