The Ghost of a Chance Read online

  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.

  Crocodile tears. I watch impassively, unmoved.

  "And, of course, you've lost someone—well, someone that you loved very much. I have always supported the relationship you and Catherine shared. I like to think of you as a daughter-in-law, Darcy, and this...this unfortunate incident does not change my affection for you in the least." She fingers her flatware, smudging the silver. "But, as with any untimely passing, there are one or two issues which need to be addressed. First of all, Catherine's belongings. I assume that she had no will?"

  I find myself unable to respond in word or gesture. She takes my silence for grief and reaches across the table to pat my hand. I pull away, sliding my arm beneath the table.

  "We both know that Catherine was a flighty sort. A will would not fit into her seize-the-day, spontaneous lifestyle—and I don't fault her for that! No, no, not at all. But she was in possession of some important family heirlooms, and it would seem... I mean, dear," she reaches for my hand again, and, failing to find it, grasps the tablecloth, instead, "you know that I consider you to be part of my family. That will never change. But Catherine had so many cousins, and it would only be right for her valuables to go to them, to carry on the Corde tradition."

  I take advantage of the pause in her one-sided conversation to sip water from the glass Alis has placed in front of me. "So what you're asking me," I say, managing to keep my voice level despite the acid seething in my gut, "is that you want to take Catherine's things and divvy them up among her greedy relatives."

  Mrs. Corde places a hand to her chest in a calculated gesture of affront. "I realize that you are not in your right mind at the moment, Darcy, but I would not expect such rudeness from you. I have always known you to be a sweet girl. You seem to forgot that I am in mourning, too, and we should be leaning on each other, not tearing each other apart."

  "Then why do you come into my house," I ask, holding the glass in my hand so tightly that my knuckles turn white, "under the pretense of caring, when the true reason behind your visit is based on nothing but your usual selfish, narcissistic motivations? Why not be honest? I’m fed up with pretense, Hilda. It's time to give up the charade."

  "All right, then." Her smile is colder than a frosted window, and less translucent. "Here it is. You have no legal claim to any of Catherine's things. I am her mother and closest family member. Therefore, I am merely claiming what is, by law, rightfully mine."

  Portia chooses this moment to make her entrance, strolling in without a care and stopping in the middle of the room to lick a dainty white paw.

  "And that includes her cat." Mrs. Corde glares at me, challenging.

  "No," I say. "You can't have Portia."

  She wants a fight now. Her eyes are wild with the thrill, but I feel drained, disinterested, and altogether tired of the sound of her voice.

  As if she knows we're speaking about her, Portia leaps onto the chair at the head of the table, right between us, her small head peeking just over the tabletop.

  "Like I said, you have no legal claim to anything Catherine owned. You were not married. Lesbians—" She speaks the word with a wrinkled nose, as if it has a bad smell. "Well, lesbians can't marry. Not legally. Not here." Her eyes twinkle with triumph.

  "How convenient for you." I shake my head, exhausted and numb. "Enough. We're only wasting time. Take whatever you want. I don't have the will to fight you. And none of this—" I wave a hand at the walls, the shelves, the cabinets and all of their contents. "None of it matters to me anymore. Leave the cat. Help yourself to the rest." I stagger to my feet, gripping the back of the chair with feeble fingers. "And then get out. Alis?"

  With downcast eyes, Alis hurries from the kitchen and to my side, steadying me with an arm around my middle. "I'd like to go outside for a little while. Would that be okay?"

  "Of course," Alis says. "A breath of fresh air will do you good."

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Corde fired Alis—or, rather, no longer deemed it her duty to fund a private nurse for her "daughter-in-law"—but Alis still stops in to check up on me.

  I look forward to seeing her. I don't see anyone else.

  My co-workers from the library sent a card, offering their condolences and hopes that I'll return to work soon. But I can't imagine myself going out there again. The last time I left home and then came back… A part of my own soul died that day, the only part that was worth anything at all. Now there is just enough left of me to go through the mindless routines, to wash and dress, occasionally eat, feed the cat. I don't even read. I can't relate to the characters. I envy them all too much.

  The house has been stripped bare of Catherine. Mrs. Corde left an afghan Catherine made, and the painting that Catherine and I bought on our last trip to Cape Cod, the one of the two women strolling the shore together, their hands almost touching, as the sun sets over the sea. The artist is an obscure one, not nearly famous enough to adorn Mrs. Corde’s walls. But everything else—Catherine's perfumes, jewelry, even her clothes and books—are gone. Sold, most likely.

  I don't care. I wish she could have taken my memories, too, boxed them up for her next church bazaar.

  A knock on the door. Alis is here. She invited me to share Thanksgiving dinner at her house, with her husband and some of their friends. I refused at first, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. She vowed to make a turkey made of tofu, just for me to eat, because it wasn't "healthy" to stay inside the house, to never venture beyond the driveway.

  She's right. A part of me knows she’s right. But I still don't want to go.

  "You aren't dressed!" she exclaims when I open the door to her flushed face. "Darcy, it's nearly one o’clock. Hurry, I'll help you. What would you like to wear?"

  She closes the door behind her and places her hand on my back, guiding me up the stairs slowly. I’m feeling better now but have to rest every so often. Alis claims that I'm lacking in protein. I only shrug when she says so. I eat so rarely that I'm sure she's right, but that isn't the problem. I simply have no will to do anything.

  "How about this?" Alis pulls my red dress out of the closet. It's a form-fitting A-line, knee-length, with a plunging neckline. I raise a brow at her, frowning.

  "I don't think so. I'd really rather not go—"

  "Oh, no, you don't! I knew you'd say that, Darcy, but you're coming whether you like it or not. I'm worried about you. There is no reason for you to spend Thanksgiving alone."

  "Honestly, Alis, what do I have to be thankful for?"

  Her mouth opens and closes, the lips forming a perfect cupid's bow. She removes her crocheted winter hat, kneading it in her hands. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a complicated twist, and her high-heeled feet clip-clop on the floorboards as she paces back and forth.

  "I can't answer that question for you," she sighs at last. "I knew Catherine, and I know that this isn’t what she would want for you, this sad, solitary life. Darcy." She steps before me and takes both of my hands in her own. I cast my eyes downward, away from her blue stare. "Have you talked to the therapist at all?"

  "No."

  "Well, why not? Darcy, this isn't grief. This is giving up."

  "And what's wrong with that? Tell me, Alis, how would you react if you drove home to find your husband lying dead on the ground? How would you move on from something like that?"

  She pulls away, forcefully. Angrily. She's upset. Well, so am I. I cross my arms over my chest and steel myself again
st a threatening migraine. They've become so frequent, these headaches, that I've stopped relying on pain medication and simply opted for sleeping pills, instead. I take more naps than the cat.

  Alis turns back toward me, but her face is red. "Just...please come, Darcy. I can't force you. I won't force you to do anything that you don't want to do. I only have your best interests in mind. You believe that, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do." I sit down on the bed and look up at her. "And I'm sorry. It's been so long since I've been out among people. I guess I'm nervous."

  Her face softens as she smiles at me. "But I'll be there, holding your hand, if you'd like." She takes my hand now. The gesture has become a familiar one over the course of the past several weeks. Her hands are larger than Catherine's, but they still fit mine, still fill my palms...

  I realize then that I do care about something, besides Portia. I care about Alis. I don't want to disappoint her, though I feel I already have, in so many ways.

  "All right, I'll come."

  Alis lights up like a star and claps once, characteristically excited. I laugh despite myself.

  "But I couldn't possibly wear that dress."

  "It's so beautiful, though! I'm sure you're stunning in it." Her lashes flicker, up and down.

  "Well…" I tilt my head to one side, bemused. "I'm not interested in stunning anyone tonight. There's a brown suit hanging in there, toward the back. I'll wear that."

  I can't help but notice the look of disappointment in her eyes. "Oh, all right," she says, returning the red dress to the closet and bringing me the boring tweed suit in its place. Her mouth curves surprisingly for a moment. "You're such a librarian."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," I say, carrying the suit into the bathroom to change.

  ---

  Alis' house is immaculate but warm, cozy. A log fire burns behind a grate in the living room. I inhale the smoky aroma deeply, allowing its comfort to it fill up my empty places, if only for a moment.