Pen Pal(42)

“Ten o’clock?” I repeat, astonished. I can’t believe I slept this late, but get distracted from that thought when another occurs to me. “How did you know how to turn off the alarm?”

A strange pause follows. It seems fraught. “I entered the code.”

“How did you know what code to enter?”

Another strange pause follows. She asks hesitantly, “How do you think I know it?”

Oh shit. I told her the code, that’s how she knows it. I told her and forgot.

I pass a hand over my face and exhale. “Because I gave it to you. Of course I did. Sorry.”

When I look at her again, she appears relieved.

“No need to apologize.”

A clap of thunder rumbles through the sky. The gray morning is about to erupt into rain again. And whatever this creeping memory loss is of mine, it seems to be accelerating.

“Are you quite well, dear?” asks Fiona, tilting her head and peering at me with an expression of concern.

After a moment, I say, “No. I don’t think I am. I don’t think I’m well at all.”

She nods, as if she already knows my condition is poor but didn’t want to say anything and risk offending me. She sets her bags on the floor next to the console table, shrugs out of her woolen jacket, unwinds the scarf around her neck, lays both on the console, then looks back up at me.

In a kind tone, she says, “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen and have a cup of tea and a chat?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and walks away.

Feeling queasy, I go downstairs. I find her in the kitchen, setting a teapot on the stove. She lights the burner, then sits down at the table and folds her hands together on top. Chewing on a thumbnail, I take the chair across from her.

I think she’s going to ask me about my health or suggest I take a nice vacation in the nearest mental institution, but she surprises me by saying gently, “I’ve always liked you, Kayla. You’re a bright, gifted young woman.”

Flattered but also taken aback, I say, “Well, thank you. I’ve always liked you, too.”

She smiles and nods in a grandmotherly way.

I look askance at her. “Why do I feel like there’s more coming?”

“Because there is. And I want you to remember that this comes from a place of concern for you and your well-being.”

I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands. “I know. I’m a mess. Believe me, I’m aware.”

“I don’t think you’re a mess. I think…”

When she pauses too long, I glance up at her, nervous. On her face is a curious expression. It’s part concern, but mostly anticipation. At least I think that’s what it is. She’s staring at me with a weird light in her eyes, like a person with a gambling addiction looks at a slot machine.

“What?”

She says ominously, “I think something is troubling you.”

I blink. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems obvious.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not speaking about the loss of your husband, dear.”

“O…kay. Then what are you talking about?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. But if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest, I’m here for you. I’m a very good listener.”

I stare into her piercing blue eyes and wonder what the fuck she’s talking about. “Um…”

Leaning forward, she prompts, “Has anything unusual happened lately? In the house, I mean.”

All the hairs on my arms prickle. A tiny shiver of fear runs over my skin.

“Yes, I can see that it has,” she says softly. “Why don’t we talk about that?”

My heart decides now would be a good time to do some acrobatics. My stomach follows suit and twists into a tight knot. My mouth goes dry, my hands tremble, and a high-pitched buzzing noise rings in my ears.

I whisper, “How did you know?”

Her smile is gentle. “I grew up with this kind of thing. Ghosts are quite common in the old country. Scotland is one of the most haunted places in the world.”

I blink again, sure I’ve misheard. Outside, another clap of thunder rolls through the sky, rattling the windows. An odd pressure builds in the room, a friction, as if the air itself has become charged.

“Excuse me, but did you just say ghosts?”

“Quite so, my dear.”

I sit back in my chair, laughing a little. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

She gazes at me steadily. “What you believe is immaterial, Kayla. Because ghosts most definitely believe in you.”

Rain begins to fall, pattering softly against the kitchen windowpanes. Drops slide down the glass like tears.

When I don’t say anything, Fiona fills the silence.

“Let me give you a few examples, then you can tell me if I’m off my rocker, as your expression suggests. Have you recently been hearing strange noises? Like creaking floorboards, for instance? Have you felt unusual cold drafts? Had the eerie sense you were being watched but no one was there?”

I swallow. It’s becoming difficult to draw a breath. The high-pitched ringing in my ears grows louder.

“What about strange problems with electricity? Flickering lights, exploding bulbs, the telly turning itself on or off?”