Dr. Matthews traced his fingers down Marley’s cheek and forced his tongue into her mouth. Her hands were balled into fists so tight, she broke the skin on her palms with her fingernails. He ran his nose along her neck, smelling her. She couldn’t move; one shudder could mean rape or death.
“Mm, you’ve always been so delicious,” he said.
Marley searched every recess of her mind. She had never met Dr. Matthews before, but she couldn’t help thinking of the similar kisses she’d shared with Ethan. Her eyebrows pinched together, and she recoiled at his contact. He was so much like her ex-lover.
“No,” she said repeatedly, her hands reaching for her temples. “You’re dead.”
He stroked her arm. She cringed.
“Oh, I am. You made sure of that.”
“How—”
He smiled. “I’m special. Not all spirits can walk the world of the living.”
“I don’t understand. You’re a—”
“Ghost. Yes, Marley, and people like you—people I drive batshit crazy—anchor me here to this plane.”
Marley’s posture dropped and she wrapped her arms around herself to conceal her still-nude body.
“How did you change your face?”
He chuckled. “It’s just a face. Perception. Tell you what, don’t ask yourself how I changed my face. Ask yourself how I changed your thoughts.”
Marley no longer saw Dr. Matthews. Ethan was in front of her.
She inched toward the door. “Why me?”
Keep him talking …
“You’re my anchor. I feed on madness, and you’re an all-you-can-eat buffet. I torture you, you go crazy, I feed. Really, it’s a sweet deal.”
Torture me? Not again.
When Ethan stroked Marley’s leg, she didn’t shudder or fight. She let his hand roam higher up her thigh. She knew she had to make him vulnerable, so she went along with him. Remembering his dominance wasn’t difficult; he pulled her hair to guide her lips to his. After a moment of rough kissing, he shoved her head down.
When she began unzipping his pants with her fingers, he said, “Use your teeth.”
Marley knelt between Ethan’s knees and pushed him backward to gain easier access. With his fingers snaked through her hair, she used her tongue to manipulate the zipper into her mouth and trailed downward.
“Good girl.”
He relaxed, placing his palms on the frame behind him for support.
Ethan’s bulge sprang from his pants. Using both hands, Marley grabbed his balls and squeezed. He raised his arm to hit her, but she ducked and squeezed harder.
“What is the code?”
His only answer was a string of high-pitched vowel sounds as he tried to stand. She squeezed again, twisting just a little.
“Tell me!”
“Nine-three-six!” His voice was an octave too high.
“Stay,” she ordered.
Ethan nodded. When she released his genitals, he curled into a ball.
Marley ran to the keypad, entered the numbers, and exited the room. She wasn’t surprised when she found no one to help her; it was a long hallway with doors like hers—all without knobs. She was, however, thankful for the soiled linen basket. She reached inside, grabbed a hospital gown, and wrapped it around herself as she ran.
Marley was free, searching for she-didn’t-know-what. Then she found it: a room marked ECT. When Ethan was a psych instructor, he told her about electroconvulsive therapy. If someone shocked their brain long enough, their memories would disappear.
Marley closed the door behind her. She stacked the bookshelves, chairs, and anything she could use as a blockade.
The machine wasn’t too complicated—switches, buttons, sticky pads. Marley sat on the bed and joined the wires to the pads, then she attached the pads to her head. She wasn’t worried about bilateral or unilateral because she wasn’t expecting to survive. If the machine didn’t work the first time, she planned to repeat.
Marley flipped the switch, and the machine roared to life. She was about to tape down the large button when Ethan materialized. She grabbed the three-ring hole punch from the desk.
“No. Please, don’t do this.” His voice cracked. If Marley didn’t know better, she could have sworn his eyes teared up.
Marley, breathing heavy, gripped the hole punch as if it were a baseball bat. “You don’t care about me.”
Ethan ran his hand through his hair. “You … you have no idea. I came back for you. We were supposed to be together.”
Something inside Marley bent. Visions clouded her thoughts— visions of herself at an altar with Ethan as he slipped a sapphire ring on her finger …
Marley stepped toward him once. Ethan didn’t move; he opened his arms and waited. A few more feet and she would be in his arms, if that’s where she wanted to be.
Those eyes are the wrong color, she thought.
“Too little, too late,” she said through gritted teeth.
Marley swung the piece of office equipment. As she let go, Ethan’s eyes grew wide with disbelief, as if he couldn’t understand how she’d broken free of his compulsion. The blow to the head rendered him unconscious.
Before Marley could change her mind, she returned to the ECT machine.
She unrolled a small length of medical tape and, starting on the left, adhered it to the top of the machine. Inch by inch, she came closer to the square button in the center. Her eyes burned with tears. It was time.
I’m coming, baby.
Marley’s last lucid thought was of Adam and his proposal.
Dear Diary,
Ethan gave me a ring. It’s blue and pretty. The sun makes it sparkly too. It’s a little tight for my finger, but he says that’s so it won’t fall off. We’re getting married. I love him.
April’s father, Bill, closed the door with his foot and set the groceries on the table. “April, I’m home!”
April, an Aphrodite at twenty-two, came into the kitchen, sat at the table, and peered into the bags. “Dad, you can stop bringing me groceries. I’m a big girl. Get anything good?”
“It’s all good, and I have to take care of my little girl.”
“Dad, canned asparagus is not good.”
“Well, it’s good for you.” He paused and cocked his head. “Did you leave the shower running?”
“No, that’s Martha.”
“Martha? Have I met Martha? Why is she taking a shower?”
“No, you’ve not met her exactly. She was hot, so she’s taking a cold shower to cool off.”
Bill put the groceries away as they talked. “Tell me about Martha. Does she work where you do? Where’s she from?”
“No, she doesn’t work. She’s a friend that keeps me company when you’re away.”
“Sooo, she doesn’t work. Independently wealthy or a freeloading dropout?”
April went to the fridge and pulled out a carrot. “Dad, be nice. She makes me laugh.”
“Okay, she’s a comedian. Making you laugh is a good start. Where did you say she’s from?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well?”
April ran a finger across the table, cracked off another bite of carrot, talked while she crunched it, and made smacking noises. “From my closet.”
“What did you say?”
April swallowed. “From my closet.”
Bill leaned against the counter. “You’re gay?”
“No, Dad. She comes out of my closet.”
“What the heck does that mean?” He turned at a noise in the doorway. “Oh my God!” He slid down the front of the counter to thump onto his butt. He stared.
“Dad, this is Martha.”
He stuttered and pointed. “Th-Th-That’s a polar bear!”
“Nothing gets past you, Dad. Martha, meet Dad.”
Martha rose onto her hind legs, her head scraping the ceiling. Water dripped from her fur, making a widening puddle on the floor.
“Really, Dad. Jeez.”
Bill’s eyes didn�
��t waver from Martha.
April went to her and placed her hand on Martha’s side. “Stop scaring Dad.”
Martha dropped back to all fours. “No sense of humor.” The voice was a deep rumble.
“It talks!”
“Duh, Dad.”
“Wh-Wh-Wh-Where did it come from?”
“I told you. My closet. And Martha is not an it.”
“No way it fits in your closet.”
“Sure she does.”
“How?”
“It’s bigger on the inside.”
“What?”
“Yes, pleased to meet you.” The bass voice filled the room.
“Who are you?”
“Watt.”
“What?” Bill’s voice quivered.
“Yes.”
“You’re who?”
“No, Watt.”
“What?” Bill’s shoulders curved in as he tried to make himself appear to be a smaller meal.
“Exactly.”
“Martha, stop it.”
The polar bear’s sigh made Bill’s sphincter tighten.
Bill tried again. “You’re what exactly?”
“Yes.” Martha’s huffing was her version of laughing. It didn’t help Bill’s clenched buns.
“Martha, don’t start that again.”
Bill took a deep breath to try again. “So you are who exactly?”
“No, that is the skinny guy in a blue box.”
“What?”
“Yes?”
“Martha!”
“He’s funny.”
“Dad, this is Martha Watt. W-A-T-T.”
Martha swung her head to look at April. “Well, you took the fun right out of that.”
“Dad, get up off the floor.”
“I’ll be in my closet.” Martha lumbered off and up the stairs.
He had made it to his feet when the sound of a rattle at the front gate came through the window.
“Your mom is here. I have to go.”
“Dad, please stay.”
As he faded away, so did the bags and food stuffs.
“Honey, I’m home.” April’s mother, Jean, walked in and set the grocery bags on the empty table.
“Hi, Mom. You know you don’t need to bring me food. Did you get anything good?”
“Got you some of that strawberry yogurt you like.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Jean talked while she put away the groceries. “So how was your day? What have you been up to?”
“Pretty good day. Got some writing done. Dad helped. He met Martha again, and it was kinda funny. You know how when I was little, his imagination made up Martha in the closet so she could jump out and get any monsters under my bed? Funny how every day he forgets all about her.”
“I hope that puddle means he wet himself.”
“Mom! That wasn’t nice.”
Jean harrumphed and kept working, stocking the food. “It’s his fault.”
April’s voice softened. “Mom, it was an accident. It wasn’t his fault.”
“That’s why he blames me, because he thinks it wasn’t his fault.”
“Mom, you know I love you. It was both of you. If you both hadn’t been swapping spit.”
“April!”
“Swapping spit, playing suck face, tonsil tennis, tongue wrestling, practicing CPR, lip humping. Kissing while driving takes two. Give Dad a break.”
Jean stopped unpacking, her face relaxed and her eyes became unfocused. “Your dad was a good kisser.”
“I’m sure he still is … if you give him a chance. I think he blames himself and can’t adjust and is frustrated.”
“It’s been a year. I don’t know about that.”
“Mom, my birthday is next month. For my birthday, I want you and Dad with me. At the same time … in the same room.”
“We’ll see. I won’t promise anything.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to go change.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Jean faded away and so did the groceries.
April listened to the kitchen clock tick for a few minutes.
“Maybe I should check munchie supplies.” April rose from her chair and checked out the cabinets and fridge. “Yep, need to go shopping. Cupboards are bare.”
April showered and dressed. As she was leaving her room, she paused and picked up a picture from the dresser. It was a picture of her mother and father.
“I miss you both. Heaven is supposed to be nice, so stop blaming each other.” She smiled. “Thanks for the story idea, Dad. Martha, keep watch. I’ll be back in an hour.”
She closed the door to the empty house and gave a skip on her way to the car. “Better be good on my birthday.”
Cheryl had sworn off therapists after a disastrous meeting with her high school counselor when she’d tried to explain her dropping grades and mood swings. The meeting led to social worker visits to her house, and, ultimately, her parents’ contentious divorce. The social worker told her that children do not thrive when parents bicker.
The experience established the two governing principles of her adult life: confide in no one regardless of the gravity of her situation and create an environment where her children could thrive.
She’d failed in both.
After much deliberation and one cancellation, she now sat in the office of Dr. Elaine Raddick, Psychiatrist.
Cheryl twisted the end of her skirt with shaking hands and avoided eye contact with Dr. Raddick. She glanced at the edge of the massive mahogany desk where her four-year-old son, Jimmy, was trying to play a game of peek-a-boo. Frilly curtains decorated the window through which sunlight filtered in, lighting a coffee mug with bold letters proclaiming World’s Best Therapist. The atmosphere was meant to incite confidence and invite patients to talk.
Outside, the late February sun provided light without warmth. A small space heater near Dr. Raddick’s feet warmed the room.
Dr. Raddick said, “So tell me why you’re here.”
Cheryl’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Um … I’ve been depressed since Rob left.”
“Rob is your husband?”
Cheryl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I cry all the time …”
“Do you ever think about hurting yourself?”
What kind of question is that? “Oh, no! I’d never do that. Jimmy needs me.”
“And Jimmy is …?”
“My son.”
Dr. Raddick nodded and wrote something on her pad. “Tell me more.”
Cheryl frowned. “I’m not comfortable sharing my feelings.”
Dr. Raddick placed a warm hand on Cheryl’s knee. “I’ll never force you. I’m here to help, but you have to give me more.”
They talked for a while as Cheryl told the doctor about her husband. They’d been married for eight years. She had craved a child, and they’d tried in vain for years, spending a fortune on fertility specialists. Jimmy was the product of the second trial of IVF.
When Cheryl became pregnant, her doctor told her to get as much rest as possible, and she took time off from work. Jimmy was born premature at thirty weeks. He was the loveliest baby in the nursery and fought his infection with valor. When they brought him home after a month in the NICU, Cheryl knew she could not return to work.
She gave a small smile. “Jimmy thrived under my care. He started talking at fifteen months. Full sentences.” She told Dr. Raddick she was reluctant to send him to preschool because she feared he’d catch something from the other kids. She glanced at the therapist, seeking validation. “I thought Rob understood my connection with Jimmy. But he felt neglected or something.”
“Go on.”
“Rob left me on Jimmy’s birthday, right before I cut the cake. The timing couldn’t have been worse.” Cheryl said she’d spent the last few weeks miserable and exhausted.
Dr. Raddick gave her a prescription for sleeping pills and told her to eat well, exercise regula
rly, and avoid alcohol. “Sleep at the same time each night. Read a nice book. Take the medicine an hour before bedtime, and see me again in a week.”
Cheryl drove through downtown where she used to work a long time ago. People clutched their coffee cups and shopping bags and pulled their coats tighter as they walked the streets lined by bare, desolate trees. A few clouds hovered high in the sky, and Cheryl turned up the heat in her old Honda.
She picked up the prescription at the pharmacy. On a sudden whim, she drove to the library where she picked up a book she’d been meaning to read forever. From the kids’ section, she chose a few picture books. Jimmy loved Dr. Seuss. The supermarket was next, where she picked up a dozen boxes of Jimmy’s favorite mac-and-cheese.
Back at home, she opened a box of mac-and-cheese, cooked it in the microwave, and spooned it into two bowls. She used to sneak bits of broccoli into the mix, but she wasn’t planning on eating healthy tonight.
Then she took a hot shower, entered Jimmy’s room, and turned on the table lamp beside his bed. The pills lay in the bottle on the kitchen counter, untouched. She read the picture books aloud until she fell asleep in his bed, hugging the Superman pillow, her legs tucked under the SpongeBob blanket.
Eight months earlier, an online parenting group for stay-at-home moms brought up the idea for a book: Childcare, a Mother’s Perspective. Cheryl was asked to contribute a chapter on potty training; a topic she knew well, having struggled with Jimmy for almost two years.
It had taken her just one day to complete the outline when Rob had called. He was in Camp Pendleton before getting shipped out to Okinawa and wasn’t sure if he would have time to visit before leaving.
As the afternoon wore on, Jimmy got antsy, and Cheryl turned off her computer. He’d been cooped up indoors all day. She was terrified of all kinds of danger in the park, so they always played in the backyard.
Cheryl asked, “Want to go outside, Jimmy?”
He nodded and brought a ball from his room. She opened the glass double doors which led to the brick-lined patio and led him into the backyard. They played catch in the late spring cool breeze, running barefoot on the lawn.
He got bored after a while and asked, “Can I ride my bike, Mommy?”
Rob had taken Jimmy out on the sidewalk last weekend, and Jimmy had loved being outside. But Cheryl was scared. What if he lost control and rolled into the road?
A Haunting of Words Page 33
