The Ghost of a Chance

The Ghost of a Chance

by Natalie Vivien

The Ghost of a Chance

© Natalie Vivien 2013

Rose and Star Press

Smashwords Edition

First Edition

All rights reserved

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Synopsis:

What if a new woman walked into your life while you were still haunted by the woman you lost?

Stunned by the accidental death of her partner, Darcy Morrow can summon little kindness for the beautiful nurse Alis Baker, the woman hired to tend her while she grieves, the woman with the too-blue eyes and a healing touch. But day by day, month by month, as the Colorado winter rages on, Alis' determined gentleness and unwavering compassion chip away at Darcy's frozen heart--even though Alis has a deep sadness of her own, one she carefully hides.

As their unrequited passion builds to something Darcy can no longer ignore, she must make a choice:  Will Darcy let Alis into her heart, or will the harsh winter--and a ghost from her past--destroy the possibility of a second chance at love?

Dedication:

For my darling

Chapter One

The white cat's eyes shine cool blue in my high beams. I shift into park, turn off the car, and step gingerly onto the iced driveway, perplexed.

Portia?

She perches queen-like on our front step, paws together, chin up. Perfectly still, smooth, an alabaster figurine—until I approach. Then she springs from the porch, landing soundlessly in the bizarre late September snow, and cocks her head back at me with complex feline meaning. A moment later, she's gone, swallowed up by the dark, flurrying night.

I hesitate. If Portia is here, at the house, maybe Catherine is, too... But the windows are black, and no footsteps lead up to the door. In the yellow lamplight, I make out only paw prints and my own faint marks from hours earlier pointing away, in the wrong direction.

My jaw tenses, and a shiver creeps, slow and deliberate, over my scalp. I grab the flashlight out of my glove compartment, toss the car keys onto the porch and then start after the cat, into the woods.

She waited for me. Portia sits in the middle of the old covered footbridge, her short legs straddling the gaping boards, her shadowed back facing me. I make a mental note to call someone—a carpenter—in the morning to test the soundness of the wood. I've been putting it off because Catherine insists it's safe; she uses the bridge all the time, back and forth, in her treks from the house to the cabin. But the creaks beneath my boots suggest otherwise, and, besides, the planks are unpainted and frozen solid. I grip the splintering banister with both hands.

Below, twenty feet or more, the creek has dried up. Boulders and silence.

When I step beside her, Portia strides forward and does not stop once she reaches the other side of the bridge. She pauses now and again, as if to determine whether I am still behind her, before continuing on at a measured pace over the well-trod path with all the confidence of a forest-savvy feral. The truth brings a halfhearted smile to my lips. Catherine has a Polaroid pinned on the corkboard over her desk at the cabin of Portia lapping cream from a porcelain bowl while sprawled luxuriously on a red tufted pillow. She's a refined princess, no she-beast; Catherine's made certain of that.

So why is she out here tonight, alone, in the cold?

I envy Portia's surefootedness as my own feet betray me, sliding over the hard-packed snow—too hard to make footprints without stomping—as well as her effortless night vision. The whirling flakes catch on my lashes, blurring my sight, clouded further still by my panting, puffed exhalations.

We're headed toward the cabin, but I had expected that. I blow on my fingers to warm them, trying hard not to think. It's silly, after all, to follow a cat anywhere. Cats aren't like dogs. They don't have the same protective instincts. They don't rescue little boys—or grown women—trapped in wells.

If nothing else, it will be nice to stop in for a quick visit. Catherine requires absolute quiet and isolation when she's working on her plays, so as not to disrupt the creative process. But we haven't spoken since last night...

I miss her.

Mrrrr-ow!

The cat leaps sideways. Spiked fur, like quills, lines Portia's spine, and her tail has fluffed up to three times its natural size. She is staring at me, glaring...or beseeching. It's so hard to tell. I'm not a cat person, like Catherine. Growing up, my mother never permitted animals in the house.

I kneel down, eye level with Portia. What do you want? I whisper, frightening myself with the quivering tone of my voice. I extend a trembling hand toward her face. The wind picks up, a high, dry whistle through bare branches, and I brace myself against the blast of cold air that smothers my lungs, stealing my breath, before gusting onward.

To my surprise, Portia curves her head, rubbing it against my palm, and begins to purr.

I smell Catherine's perfume and stand up.

We are not far from the cabin now, perhaps a mile away. It's possible that Catherine went for a hike. She enjoys walking, especially in the dark, and never seems to mind cold weather. She is small but hardy. And wild. My wildflower. Her scent is of flowers—sweet spring violets and white lilacs. It's here, all around me. She is all around me...

Catherine?

An uncertain smile flirts with my mouth. Is she hiding? Is this a game?

Catherine, I know you're here! I bounce up and down on my heels, rubbing at my arms with chilled, chapped hands. Come on, I'm freezing!

Portia snakes around my legs. She looks up at me, those round eyes huge and—and what? Condescending?

My cry is fainter this time, less confident. Catherine? I survey the path, the woods. To my left, an enormous boulder soars thirty feet above my head. When we bought the property, we dubbed that boulder The Rock and vowed that we would scale it together one day and plant a cheesy rainbow flag at its summit. Of course, I'm terrified of heights and have no intention of climbing it, but Catherine... Catherine is fearless.

I swallow. The cat, tired of my inaction, zips off toward The Rock, leaping onto one of its craggy outcroppings and roosting there awkwardly. Her meow is plaintive and unceasing; I cover my ears.

No. No, this is ridiculous. I'll just continue on to the cabin. Catherine will be happy for a break from her work. Oh, Darcy, you naughty girl, she'll laugh, with that upturn to her lips. Here I am, slaving away at the typewriter, and in you waltz with your irresistible mouth...distracting me from my important business. Her hands will fit into mine, so lightly.

We'll drink something warm and lie down, and she'll kiss me, my neck, that place she alone knows and always finds. How I've missed you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come. This time apart is excruciating...

Excruciating. A horrible word. I shake my head and rub my temples. The cat is still yowling loudly. I chew on my lip, squeezing my eyes shut tight. When I open them, I see it.

The wig.

I don't know how I failed to notice it there before. An arm's length away, dusted with snow but easily visible, Catherine's black wig lays disregarded, tossed off, forgotten.

Something is wrong.

I have known that from the beginning, from the moment I spied Portia on the step, so incongruent to the natural order of things. Wherever Catherine goes, Portia follows, a small white silhouette tracking her mistress’s unpredictable gait. But Catherine was not at the house, and Portia was waiting for me. Waiting to lead me here.

Catherine is here. Her scent spirals with the wind.

I take the wig in my hands, unthinking, and shake off the snow, pick out the twigs. It's damp but salvageable. I'll just find Catherine and put it back on her head. She must be so cold. Her final treatment was months ago, and her hair has begun to grow back, but it's still so thin and short, rabbit-fur soft. She shouldn't be out in this weather with a bare head, not in her condition...

The thought makes me giggle, an uncontrolled sort of giggle, and then a crazy, hysterical laugh, just like a madwoman in a movie might make, and I can't stop, no, I can't, because it's funny to be concerned about such trivialities as pneumonia when the truth is...the truth—

She has been lying right in front of me all along. I saw her without seeing her. I knew she was there but couldn’t acknowledge her, couldn’t see her like that, couldn’t make it true by seeing.

Portia wails, but her cry is stolen by the sparkling white gale.

I have to—I have to put the wig on her head. She can't lie there without it. She wouldn't want anyone to find her without it. I know her.

Knew.

No!

Portia starts, shocked to silence.

The scent is overpowering now, so sweet and purple that I feel lightheaded, nauseated, drunk. I stagger toward Catherine, fall at her feet. Her shoelaces have come undone. Maybe she tripped...

My hands find hers. Her skin is as soft as ever, her fingers dangling, limp. The red polish on her nails is chipped. I'll repaint them for her. I should do it now, before—

I can't seem to cry. My heart has imploded, but the tears won't come. A heaving has started up in my chest; I hear it before I feel it, and then there is pain, deeper than nerve endings, at the root of my soul, or what remains of it.

Glassy-eyed, I lift my gaze and begin to hum something. Catherine... My lover is dead. Her neck is broken. I drop her hands; my own no longer respond to thought. There's a break in communication.

She looks like a doll, except for the blood. The flush in her cheek, like a painted-on blush, and the blank, empty stare... But she's missing her hair.

I kneel at her side and take the wig from my lap, patting it smooth as best I can. Oh, so carefully, I cradle her dear head, mindful of the new twist to her neck, and adjust the black locks, tucking her own short hair beneath the cap. The hair falls over her shoulders, familiar. I stroke it, remembering, as if from very far away, the first night we made love. She was wearing this wig then. Afterward, she put it on only for special occasions—our anniversaries, my birthday. She had so many wigs, in every color, every style; why had she worn this one today?

I lay my ear on her chest. Nothing.

Portia has joined us, padding about on the frozen earth, brushing her face against Catherine's forehead, suddenly frantic. I pet her back, and she arches with pleasure. Her tail curls around my arm.

It's more than I can bear. Portia is warm, and Catherine is cold.

Catherine will never be warm again. She fell. She broke.

I feel myself falling, too, but upward, soaring, higher than trees and clouds and snow. I want to shatter against the stars.

Chapter Two

Someone is touching me, my arms, and then my face, my brow. It isn't Catherine.

Catherine's dead.

Catherine's dead, I say aloud, to myself. To no one.

Yes, she is.

Eager to view a different landscape than the one burning behind my eyelids, I look, uninterested, at the woman seated beside me. Her hands, ringless, grip a plastic bottle of medication and rest awkwardly on her lap. She's dressed all in white. A nurse. I know her.

All at once, I become aware of the weight on my stomach. Pain arcs, like an electric shock, up and down my spinal column, exploding at the base of my head, when I raise myself onto my elbows. A perfect circle of white rests heavy and warm upon my middle. Portia, sleeping. So cleanly white. There’s no blood on her fur, but I... I hold a hand up before my face but close my eyes, fearful of what I might see.

The nurse closes her fingers over mine and gently lowers me back to the pillow.

You haven't sat up in days. Her voice is low, sincere. You've been...delirious. I'm here to make you well, but gradually. After the trauma you've undergone... Watery blue eyes—odd, pale as clouds. Well, the therapist will be here soon to speak with you. Now that you're awake, I'll give him a call. Excuse me, please. She pushes her chair back with a dull scrape and moves into the other room, the kitchen. My kitchen.

I wonder how they found me. And who found me. I wonder what they've done with Catherine.

Portia stirs, unwinds, stretches. Her extended paws reveal long nails between pink pads. I should trim them. Catherine always took care of Portia's needs. But I have to now. She's my cat now.

I glance at her warily.

Portia, will you stay with me? I whisper, wondering.

A yawn, so wide and long that I count her teeth. But then she steps forward and sits upon my chest. Succubus. I ignore the aching pressure of those paws on my bones. She bows her head to me. Confused, I copy her, lowering my head—grimacing again, against the painful shock—and our foreheads meet.

I promise to protect you, Portia, I whisper, as the tears begin. I can't feel them but know they’re there. We have to try...for her. She would want us to be friends, don't you think?

The cat rubs her face against my neck and purrs into my ear. It feels like a kiss.

---

A noise: the door opens, and I jump. I must have fallen asleep. I'm still lying in our—my—bed, and the light is gone, replaced by a dark so thick that I wonder for a moment if I've gone blind, and then feel a bit disappointed to realize I haven't.

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