The Shape of Night(46)

* * *



—

That night I lie awake, acutely aware of my houseguest sleeping just down the hall. I have not mentioned a word to Simon about my resident ghost because I know what he’d think. I saw his watchful glances at dinner as I kept refilling my wineglass with the elegant Chardonnay he’d brought from Boston. I know he thinks my drinking is the real reason I’ve been unable to finish my book. Booze and writers may be a cliché, but in my case, as in Hemingway’s, it’s true.

No wonder I see ghosts.

I hear the floor creak in the hall and the sound of water running in the guest bathroom. It’s strange having someone else, someone real, in the house. Certainly ghosts don’t flush the toilet or run the faucet. It’s not a ghost who shuffles back to the guestroom and closes the door. I’m not used to living with human sounds now; it’s people who seem alien to me, and I resent this invasion of my home, even if it’s only for one night. This is the advantage of being a writer; I can go days without seeing another human being. The outside world is fraught with conflict and heartbreak; why should I leave my house when everything I want and need is within these walls?

Simon has upset the equilibrium and I feel the disturbance in the atmosphere, as if his presence has charged the air, which now moves in uneasy eddies through the house.

    I am not the only one who feels it.

The next morning, when I come downstairs to the kitchen, I find Simon already awake and hunched at the table, gulping coffee. He’s unshaven, his eyes are bloodshot, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he isn’t wearing his trademark bow tie.

“You’re up awfully early,” I say as I go to the coffeepot and fill my own cup. “I was planning to be up first and make a nice frittata for breakfast.”

He wipes a hand across his eyes and yawns. “I didn’t sleep well. I thought I might as well get up and hit the road early.”

“Already? But it’s only seven.”

“I’ve been up since three.”

“Why?”

“Bad dreams.” He shrugs. “Maybe this house is too quiet. I can’t remember the last time I had nightmares like this.”

Slowly I sit down at the table and study him. “What kind of nightmares?”

“There’s nothing less interesting than someone else’s dreams.”

“I’m interested. Tell me.”

He takes a deep breath, as if just the recounting of his nightmare requires the marshaling of nerves. “It’s as if he was sitting on my chest. Trying to squeeze the breath out of me. I wondered if I was having a heart attack. I actually felt his hands around my throat.”

He. His.

“I tried to fight him off, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, the way it always happens in dreams. And he kept choking me until I really thought…” He takes another breath. “Anyway, I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. I just lay awake, listening for him. Half expecting him to come back.”

“Why do you say him?”

“I don’t know. I guess I could just as well say it. I only know it had me by the throat. And here’s the weird thing, Ava. When I woke up, that feeling of being choked was so vivid, I was desperate for a glass of water. I went into the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, and just for an instant I could have sworn there were marks on my neck.” He gives a sheepish laugh. “Then I blinked and of course there was nothing. But that’s how shaken up I was.”

    I stare at the exposed skin above his shirt collar but I see nothing unusual. No bruises, no marks left by phantom fingers.

He drains his coffee cup. “Anyway, I might as well hit the road early and beat the traffic back to Boston. I’ve already packed my bag.”

I walk him outside to his car and stand shivering in the crisp sea air as he loads his bag into the trunk. Birds trill overhead and a monarch butterfly sketches colorful zigzags through a clump of milkweed. It is going to be a glorious day, but Simon seems desperate to escape.

He turns to give me a goodbye peck on the cheek, and I see him cast a nervous glance at the house, as if he doesn’t dare turn his back on it. “Now finish the damn book, Ava.”

“I will.”

“And get back to Boston, where you belong.”

I can’t help but feel a sense of relief as I watch him drive away. The house is mine again, it’s a beautiful summer morning, and the whole day lies ahead of me. I hear a noisy meow and look down to see Hannibal sitting at my feet, tail twitching, breakfast no doubt on his mind.

Food is on my mind, as well.

I turn back to the house. Only as I climb the stairs do I notice the FedEx package sitting on the porch swing. The driver must have left it yesterday afternoon, while I was busy inside preparing for Simon’s arrival. I pick it up and recognize my own handwriting on the address label. It’s the same FedEx package I sent to Charlotte Nielson last week and I stare at the reason it’s been returned to me.


Three Delivery Attempts.



    I stand on the porch, ignoring Hannibal’s meows, as I consider this bounced-back package. Remembering what Donna Branca had told me: Charlotte hasn’t returned any of my emails and she hasn’t been answering her phone. I’m more than puzzled by this. I’m now thoroughly alarmed.