The main brick building of Holmwood Hospital had two wings off a domed central building. Like two arms waiting for a hug. Or a straightjacket waiting to grab you and never let you go.
The receiving room smelled of oranges and cedar. The tall windows on one side of the room faced Lighthouse Park in the north of Roosevelt Island, while the windows on the west wall showed a long lawn, shaded with trees, before glimpses of blue water and gray buildings from the East River and the Manhattan skyline. A man sat at a baby grand piano in the center of the room, playing Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”
More than a dozen small sitting areas in varying shades of royal blue and sea green were spread across the room, each arranged carefully to allow visitors to have private conversations. I sat down in one of two soft chairs that flanked a small side table. Every sitting area had its own skylight, potted plants, and area rug. Comparing Holmwood to Spring House was like comparing filet mignon to hamburger.
“Für Elise” stopped and started again. My fingers tapped out the notes of the opening on my jeans, each hand playing its part. Wait, am I playing the actual song? I watched the small man at the piano playing, watching his hands move across the keys while my fingers mimicked his motions. Yes, it went: E-D-sharp-E-D-sharp-E-B-D-C-A . . . My mouth fell open. I know how to play piano! I wanted to stand up and shout it to the entire room, then thought better of it. But I knew. Other songs came unbidden into my head: “Moonlight Sonata” and “Ave Maria.” I knew classical music: Chopin, Bach, Debussy, and loads of others. Holy shit. Was my memory returning? I thought and thought but nothing else came to mind.
I wondered if the man playing piano would get up soon. Maybe I could give it a try?
The orderly who’d taken my name and directed me to this room now returned, this time accompanied by a pale, freckled woman with her curly red hair cut to chin-length. Rebecca. She was older than her pictures, of course, with lines around her eyes and a sort of fragility about her. She was thin, dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt.
“Hi again,” the orderly said brightly. “Rebecca, this is Madison. She’s your visitor.”
I stood, reaching out to shake her hand. Rebecca ignored the gesture and rubbed one hand across her upper arm and reached into a pocket with the other, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. She didn’t look at me.
“I want to go smoke,” she said. Her voice was plaintive, like a kitten mewling.
“Then go out to the courtyard,” the orderly said. “Madison can join you there instead.”
Rebecca gave the barest of nods and shuffled toward a set of frosted glass double doors. “She’s not having a great day,” the orderly said to me, lowering her voice, “but you can try. You have one hour. If you need anything, if she disturbs you, or she gets disturbed, just come find me at the desk. Okay?”
I nodded and thanked her. I could have asked what Rebecca might do that would disturb me, or vice versa, but I’d been in Bellevue. I’d seen a gray-haired woman climb up onto a table, raise her hospital gown, and pee all over a checkers game. I’d seen a guy in his thirties who had to be buckled down to make him stop playing with his junk. In group therapy at Spring House, I’d watched a woman act out her father dashing a puppy’s brains out against a wall, and a week later watched a boy about my age pluck his eyebrows out while he talked about the death of his little brother. I knew disturbed.
In the courtyard, the blue sky hung above an open-air patio, complete with potted flowers, Ficus trees, benches, and tables. Rebecca sat on a white stone bench at a white stone table, smoking a cigarette and rubbing her upper arm reflexively. She didn’t look at me. I’d rehearsed what I was going to say to her, a version of the same story I’d told her mother, but what if Tamara never had a sister? I mean, it’s one thing to lie to the roommate’s mother, but to the roommate herself?
“You’re here about Tamara,” she said, suddenly.
“How did you—?”
“My mother,” she said, dismissing the woman who’d raised her with a gust of smoke.
“Did she tell you—?”
“I hate being in there when he’s playing,” she interrupted, her voice bitter. “I used to play, but then the meds . . .” Rebecca held up one freckled hand. It seemed to vibrate with tremors. “The shakes. That’s the price of mental health. An unsteady hand and a nicotine addiction. I never smoked before they committed me. Now I can’t stop.”
She was quiet a moment. I squirmed, unsure of what to say.
“Tamara was an only child,” she said, eyeing me.
Shit. Busted.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I—”
“Don’t be,” she responded, looking away again. “I don’t get many visitors. Except my mother. But I’m pretty sick of her. She doesn’t understand why I won’t just ‘get well’ and be her prize-winning show-daughter again. Like that goddamn Pomeranian.” Most of this speech was delivered with a sneer, while “get well” came out in falsetto British. “She still have it?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“The dog. The annoying fluffy lapdog. She said you came by the apartment.”
“Oh. Um, I didn’t see a dog—”
“Or hear one? You would have—the fucking thing was constantly yipping the last time I was there, it must have been three years ago? I guess she got rid of it. Or maybe it died. It’s not like living with her was doing me any favors. That was why I moved in with Tamara in the first place. To get away from her.” Her cigarette had burned down to an ashy nub while she spoke, but she tried taking a drag from it anyway. Near the filter it glowed red and she inhaled and let out a small puff of smoke, then stubbed the butt out on the patio beneath her feet. “I was away when it happened, you know,” she said. “I was in Niagara Falls. He told me to go, so I went.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
“He was beautiful. Handsome. He brought the piano in for me. For me! And Tamara was jealous. She went crazy, threatened me with a knife, ripped up a bunch of my clothes. He said he needed some time with Tamara to try to fix things. See, he was her boyfriend. But I was his secret. He had other secrets. Another woman. A blonde. Maybe she was his wife. That was why he told me to go. Just for the weekend. And then I came back, and Tamara was dead.”
A glassy look came into her eyes, like she was under a spell. I didn’t say a word, in case my voice might break it.
“They kept asking me if she had any enemies. Anyone who would want her dead. And there wasn’t! And no one knew who he was, or where to find him, except me. Because of the piano. And I didn’t tell. They didn’t believe me, anyway. No one had ever seen him. The apartment wasn’t in his name. It was in Tamara’s. Nothing she told me was true. Maybe he wasn’t even her boyfriend. Maybe, he was just . . .” she said, taking on a nasty nasal tone, “a projection of my disease. But then if that were true, how did I know about the piano?” The nasty tone became playful and she smiled at me.
I couldn’t tell if the smile was sincere or not. She was angry one second and sweet the next.
“The piano in there?” I asked, gesturing toward the reception room.
“No! Not that one. That one my mother donated. I mean the one they brought.”
“They who?”
“The movers,” she said smugly.
“Movers?”
“The piano movers, the delivery men. When they delivered it to the apartment, they told me to sign. One Steinway Model M Grand Piano. The left corner of the fall was chipped—you know, the part that covers the keys? I played for hours on that thing. I even gave lessons to our downstairs neighbors on it. And when they came back later to take it back, they told me to sign again. So I signed. And there the address was at the top: Adderly House, Tarrytown, New York.”
Adderly House? Tarrytown? Why did that sound familiar?
“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if it was another mental institution or resident house.
“Noah’s Ark.”
“What?”
“Noah�
�s Ark. In case of flood. I once thought I was Joan of Arc, you know.”
Okay, now we might be heading into disturbed territory. “You did?” I asked.
“As if that weren’t grandiose enough, I also thought I might have been touched by an angel. An archangel. Michael. Isn’t it a beautiful name? I wanted to be called Sable but no one would call me that. What’s your name again?”
“Madison.”
“That’s not your name.”
“What? How could you know—”
“I know your name.”
“You do?” A strange warmth fluttered in my chest.
“Yes, yes, I do, I do. ‘I know your name,’ the young queen cried, ‘It’s Rumpelstiltskin!’ ”
I sagged. She had no answers. She was just crazy.
“The archangel used to sing to me. So beautifully. But the evil witch scared him away. And now I remain in this dungeon where he cannot find me,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Spinning straw, spinning straw. Counting matchsticks.” She pulled a cigarette from the pack with a shaky hand and lit it. “One match left,” she said and blew smoke upwards.
She was silent a few moments, smoking. I stared at the closest Ficus tree, wondering whether I should leave. “Are you going to see my mother again?” she asked suddenly.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” I said.
“Don’t. She’ll mother you to death.”
On the subway heading back into the city, I kept running Rebecca’s disjointed conversation back through my head. Tamara had destroyed Rebecca’s clothes and threatened her with a knife. Was the ghost just acting out the same events that led up to her death? Was Tamara’s mysterious boyfriend the one who’d killed her? And why did Adderly House sound familiar? And then it came to me: Tarrytown. Tarrytown was also known as Sleepy Hollow, where the legend of the Headless Horseman came from. Tarrytown was also where that ghost hunt I’d seen advertised in Derek’s store was happening. I was almost positive that ad had mentioned “Adderly House” on the flyer. It had to be a coincidence.
Didn’t it?
There was one way to be sure.
Chapter Nine
“I really don’t think you should be going alone,” Derek said, leaning over the counter. Explaining why I wanted to sign up for the ghost hunt at Adderly House had taken almost an hour. During that time two tourists had come in, each actually buying a couple of books. I thought it might have been the first time I’d seen paying customers in his store.
“Are you offering to come with me?” I asked. “I thought you hated this stuff.”
“Look, not only do I not believe in ghosts, but I also don’t believe in the business of ghosts. It’s all a scam and the people who perpetuate it are crazy at best, con artists at worst. Do you really think they’ll be thinking about your safety? More likely they’ll just be trying to film something scary they can upload to YouTube. Or wait, are these the guys who are trying to start another crappy reality show?” He took the flyer from my hands and gave it a quick scan. “Hm. Looks like they’re actually associated with SUNY Mount Vernon. Well, I can at least drive you. How else do you plan to get to Sleepy Hollow?”
“Don’t the trains go there?”
“Madison, seriously. I’ll take you. It’ll be much faster.”
“I don’t even know if they’ll . . . Oh shit, what time is it?”
“It’s 3:05.”
“Gah, I’m late! I’ll call you when I’m on my break.”
I ran the three blocks to work. Billy was running the register and bag check by himself, while Trendon was restocking comics. A few customers were browsing the racks. Mac was in the back office with the timeclock. He made an exaggerated point of looking at his watch when I clocked in. “Sorry,” I said, panting for breath.
“Just don’t make it a habit.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Am I on register or bag check?”
“Take over for Billy on bag check.”
“Got it, boss,” I said.
I went behind the counter, opposite the cash register, where Billy was standing, pale as always. With his full lips and sizable beak-like nose even his neutral expression always seemed snide, like he was sneering inwardly at the world. He was wearing his usual uniform of black pants, black comic book t-shirt, and combat boots, with his shoulder-length black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Today’s t-shirt was a big green face with the word “Hulk” under it. About my height, Billy usually made eye contact when we were talking. Sometimes those eyes had bags under them, especially when he’d been out drinking the night before. Today was one of those days.
“That’s a rarity,” he said.
“What is?” I asked.
“You being late. I think you’re the only person who always gets here early.”
“Yeah, Mac seemed kinda pissed or something.”
“I doubt it. Nothing to worry about. Mac likes you. You’re honest and friendly and you come in on time, plus you’re a hot chick who likes and knows comics. You’re lucky he’s already married, or he’d have asked you.”
“Ugh,” I said, dismayed by the mental picture of Mac on one knee, holding out a small velvet box.
Billy laughed, clearly pleased that he’d gotten the reaction he wanted. “Speaking of your love life, how’s the Sasquatch?”
“Oh, he’s fine, as long as he has lots of shaving cream,” I said.
Billy raised a pierced eyebrow. “What, can’t he get electrolysis?”
“Too expensive. And painful. Bigfoot’s kind of a wimp, didn’t you know?”
“Aw, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Your date turned into a douche.”
“He’s not a douche!” I said, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant when referring to a person.
“He’s not?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” I stopped and thought about it while Billy rang up a customer.
When the guy was done paying, he handed me his bag check ticket, and I gave him his bag. He thanked me and went out. “So, how do you define a douche, exactly?” I asked.
“Well, he probably wouldn’t thank you for giving you his bag from the bag check, for instance. That guy’s okay. It’s more like a dude who just does what his friends do, what other people do, just because he thinks it will be cool. He’s obsessed with coolness and dressing well and what other people think and is probably a bit of a jackknob as well.”
“A jackknob?”
“A dick.”
“Did you make all of this up?”
“Some of it.”
“Oh, good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because,” I began, but then realized I didn’t feel like finishing the sentence, and simply said, “Just because.”
I’m really bad at slang, so I make up my own. It was good to know that Billy made up his own too. Slang was just another thing I didn’t know about. It would have opened the conversation up to questions about what else I didn’t know about, and why. And I didn’t want to answer those questions right now. The only person at the store who knew my background was Mac, and he’d assured me he’d keep it confidential. It just never seemed like the right time to spill my deep dark secret to my co-workers.
Now that I thought about it, it seemed weird how I’d told Derek, who I barely knew, but hadn’t told the people who I worked with and saw multiple times a week. But then I’d been considering dating him when I told him. Had been. Why did my brain phrase it that way? Was I no longer considering it? Maybe he was a douche after all.
Then again, he was a douche with a car who had offered to drive me to a ghost hunt he didn’t even believe in. So maybe he wasn’t a douche. He didn’t dress well enough. And that reminded me: I had a phone call to make.
“Hey, Billy, you mind if I take a short break in about an hour?”
“Nah, that’s fine. You going to get food?”
“Nope. Need to make a phone call.”
“Why don’t you just
use my phone?”
“I don’t want to put a bunch of charges on your phone. Plus, Mac.”
“Where are you calling? China?”
“No, just, um, Tarrytown. In Westchester, I think?”
“That’s fine.”
“Um, it’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“The call.”
“Need to call Bigfoot?”
“No . . .”
“Gynecologist?”
“No!”
“Is it—”
“Okay, okay. It’s a ghost hunt, all right? I’m signing up for a ghost hunt.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“That’s awesome!”
“It is?”
“Duh. Is it one of the reality TV ones?”
“I have no idea. I don’t really watch much TV.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“I saw this flyer,” I said, unfolding it from my back pocket.
He scanned the page and handed it back to me. “Upstate, huh? How are you getting there?”
I folded the paper again and stuck it in my back pocket. “Sasquatch—whose name is Derek by the way—is driving me.”
“I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I wouldn’t want to cut in on your supernatural date, Maddy.”
“It’s not a date.”
“Does Sas—I mean—Derek, know that?”
“I think so. He doesn’t think I should go. He doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“That’s pretty narrow-minded.”
While Mac was out getting himself some coffee, Billy gave me his phone and I called the number on the flyer. The phone rang. And rang.
“You have reached the voicemail of Professor Eric Gannon,” said a recording. “If you are calling about volunteering, please—” BEEP BEEP interrupted the voice on the phone “—your name, age, gender, and your rating—” BEEP BEEP the phone went again. I pulled it away from my ear. The screen read “Incoming call.” The same number I’d just called appeared below it.
A Shade in the Mirror Page 9
