Ghost Heart

by John Palisano

  I didn’t want to go to the hospital, but I had to.

  My guts tightened.

  Chapter Six

  Whistleville Hospital was abandoned. When I walked in, I didn’t see a single soul until I’d made it past the front desk, down past Ambulatory, and through Radiology. Finally, there was a skinny man behind a desk. He asked what he could help me with.

  I said, “I’m here to see Mike Mulling.” My mouth was dry, and I wanted to curl up and go to sleep. Hospitals always made me feel that way—even worse when one of my own was down for the count.

  He typed, looked, shut his eyes for a second, put on a smile. “You’ll need to go to Emergency. Did you come in through the main door?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “Emergency is on the other side of the hospital,” he said.

  “I think I can find it,” I said.

  * * * * *

  The woman at the desk in Emergency was not thrilled to see me. I think, at first, she saw my bruised face and thought I was a drunk who’d wandered into the wrong wing. Even after I told her Mike’s name, she had to do her best to conceal rolling her eyes. She picked up the phone, said nonchalantly, “I’ve got someone else here to see Michael Mulling,” then, “Okay,” then, looking up at me, “Someone will be right with you if you want to have a seat.”

  Within a few moments, a young, short fellow came out, carrying an iPad with a chart on it. He said his name and shook my hand. Asked if I’d follow him to a small room just past the large, gate-like doors. He swiped his card, they opened, and in we went.

  Inside the room, he said, “Mr. Rossmore,” which made me feel really old. “Are you related to Mr. Mulling?”

  “Nah,” I said. “We were close friends—since middle school.”

  He nodded. “Okay, well, at this time, I need to get permission from the family. Would you mind waiting here for a bit?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He was off. I sat. Waited. Checked my phone. Surfed Facebook for a few minutes.

  Mike’s aunt Jillian came in. Her face was puffy and her eyes were red. “Rick,” she said. “Oh my God.” She gave me a huge hug. Something was definitely not right. I saw the young fellow who’d walked me inside the ER hovering just outside, doing his best to look occupied, but definitely seeing how things were going to shake out.

  “We lost him,” she said, hugging me again. “He’s gone.” I felt her tremble and heard her gasp, trying to choke down her tears. My own eyes welled up.

  “That can’t be,” I said. “He was fine.”

  “I know,” she said and pulled away from me. Her face looked younger than I remembered, and her eyes were glossy and dilated. She held my shoulders. “We can’t even see him anymore. They took him away.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “This can’t be real.”

  She sat. I sat. She said, “We need to find the monsters that did this to him.”

  “I already put in a statement—right before I came here,” I said. “The detectives have the facts. It should just be a matter of time now.”

  She sighed. “But even if they catch them,” she said, “that won’t bring him back. Nothing will bring him back.”

  “How are his folks?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing there,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face. “They’re in shock—in with a grief counselor right now—that’s all I know.”

  I pictured countless visits to Mike’s house over the years. His folks were always great to us. Throughout school, they always made sure there were plenty of snacks. I was always welcome—no, expected—to stay for dinner. They let us alone, too. Mike grew up good.

  “They don’t deserve this,” I said. “Nobody does.” Funny thing? I felt a tremendous amount of guilt fall on me in that instant. Why was I still alive and Mikey gone? It was me that Damian had been after. Why did Mikey have to pay the ultimate price for that?

  I tried going over the fight in my head. Maybe if I’d said something different. Maybe if we’d had one last drink. Maybe one less drink. A million things could have gone another way if I’d been paying attention. Why didn’t I tell him to run? Why didn’t I do more? Why didn’t I jump up and shield him when they were hitting him? I could’ve saved him, but I didn’t. It was all my fault. I wanted to die. Right then and there, I wanted out. I felt dizzy and lowered my head to my hands. Then I wept—harder than I’ve ever wept in my life.

  * * * * *

  Just outside Emergency, there were brick walls lining the parking lot. I leaned on one and looked out over my hometown. The sky had turned a gorgeous soft pink and purple. Twin spires from the railroad tracks reached up, as did the steeple from the yellow Presbyterian church. Beyond those landmarks, the crescent-shaped shore stretched across the edge of town, with the dual beaches to the left, all the way to the veterans’ park to the right. Past the park, I saw the channel bridge and then Washington Street, which was where Donovan’s bar was, and where Mikey and I had been attacked. It was the last place he’d been alive.

  How could this have happened in our quaint little seaside town? Things like murder only happened in the city. If they did happen here, it was through an accident. People didn’t kill people in Whistleville. Nope. Didn’t happen.

  My stomach knotted.

  I’d never be the same. One of my oldest friends was gone.

  I took a picture of the sky with my phone. I imagined heaven had opened up for him and given us a beautiful sunset in his honor. Soon after I posted it, over a hundred notifications came through, all about Mikey. There was no way I could bear reading them. Too fresh.

  I stared at the sky a few moments longer, and then there was a message from Vanessa. It read:

  You okay to come over? Would love to see you again.

  There was a wink after that, made with punctuation.

  ;-)

  Slipping my phone inside my jacket pocket, I knew it was time to go. I debated going to Vanessa’s or doing something else. I could treat myself to a good dinner at the Orange Café or somewhere else. That felt guilty. Indulgent. Selfish.

  Finding my car, I climbed inside, held on to the steering wheel and stared ahead. I felt like I was nothing and everything around me was nothing.

  What do I want? I thought. What do I need?

  I pictured a good hug from Vanessa. Maybe we could just hold one another for a while. Talk about things. Talk about what happened.

  Yeah. That sounded good. That sounded perfect.

  There were flurries falling when I got to Vanessa’s apartment, I swear it. There was a chance my imagination was just playing tricks on me, but I doubt it. Late September is certainly early for snow, but not unheard of, especially with the polar vortices slamming us every year. But what did I know? I’d only lived in Whistleville most of my life.

  There was a sense of relief and comfort as I walked up to Vanessa’s place. I wanted nothing more than to hold her and be held in return. I could feel her in my arms already.

  As I made it to the top of the stairs, I noticed something funny. There was a light creeping out from the side of her front door. I still had to make it through her long hallway, but I could tell. It sounded like people were laughing. I remember thinking that, damn it, she had people over, and I’d just wanted to be alone with her.

  I made it to the hallway and walked toward the door. There seemed to be cries mixed in with the laughter.

  Just as I was about to grab the knob and open the door, my blood ran cold.

  The noises were unmistakable.

  The sounds were unmistakable.

  She’d done it again.

  There was a man in there with her.

  I hoped it was some kind of sick joke.

  Leave, Rick. Get the hell out of here, I thought. You don’t need this shit anymore. You’re better than this.

 
Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was. There was a chance she was watching a movie, and the voices sounded like her and someone else, and she was just getting herself in the mood.

  I told myself that—convinced myself of that as I walked through the kitchen. The sounds were louder, of course, and didn’t sound recorded. It sounded like her.

  All the warmth went from my body, and I felt like I would vomit.

  How could she?

  She had even texted me.

  I read it again.

  Then thought: This wasn’t meant for me. It was for him. Whoever he is. She’d sent it to the wrong person. Fuck.

  I went to her door. Listened for a moment.

  Yup. Definitely having sex.

  What should I do?

  Open the door?

  No.

  How about I knock. Give them some time to at least get decent. I don’t want to see another man with her right in front of me. Best not. It’d be scarring enough.

  So I knocked.

  No answer.

  I knocked again. A third time. On the fourth, she said, “Hello? How can anyone be in here?”

  “Vanessa,” I said. “It’s Rick. You texted me to come over.”

  From behind the door, I heard her say, “Shit,” and then something unintelligible.

  Her footsteps, fast and angry.

  The door opening.

  Her pissed.

  Mascara running. Not tears. Sweat.

  The Big Guy sitting on the edge of her bed, her blanket barely covering his middle. He looked at me in the same way a cow looks at the sky—all vacant and surprised that he hadn’t noticed it before.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You broke in here.”

  “I did not,” I said. “The door was open. You wrote me. Asked me to come over. Here. I’ll show you.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket to grab my phone—but she shoved me before I could. “Get out,” she said. “Now.”

  You okay to come over? Would love to see you again.

  ;-)

  “Vanessa,” I said. “Please. What’s happening? I thought you wanted to be with me? I thought everything was cool?”

  “Get out of here. How dare you come here without an invitation? You don’t even trust me. It’s none of your business.”

  “What?” I said. “After this? How…”

  She shoved me again, screamed, “Out!” at the top of her lungs and pointed.

  My heart was broken, but I was pissed, too.

  come over…would love to…see you…again…again…again…

  That night hadn’t been the first time.

  “Fine,” I said and turned around.

  I didn’t make it two steps before something heavy hit the back of my head, and I fell to the ground, knocked out.

  * * * * *

  At some point, I came to. The hall light was out. The outside light was out. There was a nasty bump on the back of my head. Looking toward Vanessa’s door, I couldn’t see any light coming through, and I didn’t hear anything, either. Did she really hit me on the back of the head and knock me out? Did she just leave me in her hallway? What if I was dying? I felt pissed. Then I felt sad. Then I felt pissed again. Pulling myself up, I realized it’d gotten a lot colder than it’d been in a long time. Winter was on its way, no doubt.

  Touching the back of my head, I found that, yes, indeed, there was definitely a big bump. What the hell? Vanessa was crazy. I’d have to leave her once and for all. Enough was enough.

  I made my way to my car, then back to my house—the home my parents had bought and had been mine by default after they’d gone. The halls seemed so empty.

  For the first time in ages, I wished my folks were there. Even just one of them. There were still echoes. I’d turn a corner and remember seeing my dad from the same angle, sitting on the couch, from when I was a kid.

  As I made it to the third step going to the second floor, the wood creaked. It reminded me of how I used to skip it after it gave me away one night when I was supposed to be in bed. It still felt like, at any time, they’d be back, sitting at the dining room table, resting on the couch or in their rooms.

  They weren’t. I was alone.

  Curled up under my covers, with the lights out, my thoughts went to Mikey. I beat myself up, playing the scene over and over inside my memory. First I tried figuring out what I could’ve done differently. Then I tried to find something inevitable and out of my control—a moment where it’d have been impossible for me to change anything. There were no good answers on either front.

  I grabbed my iPod, put on some Dylan and somehow managed to fall into a deep sleep. The last thing I remembered was hearing the winds picking up outside; leaves blew against the house, making sounds like dry paper.

  Chapter Seven

  “Jimmy hasn’t been in the last two days,” Uncle Dave said. “You heard from him?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s odd.”

  “Odd is right,” he said. “He needs to communicate with us to stay with us.”

  “Got it,” I said and made for the back room, where I could call Mary. She’d know what had happened to Jimmy, if anyone.

  I sat at the desk in the backroom and dialed. She answered after one ring. “Rick?” Mary’s voice shook.

  “Hey,” I said. “How you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. Are you with Jimmy?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  She said, “He’s not with you?”

  “Nah,” I said.

  “I haven’t heard from him,” she said. “He’s not answering my calls or my texts. Nothing.”

  Uncle Dave hurried into the back room, his eyes wide; he waved his arms frantically at me. He slid a finger across his throat.

  “Hold on,” I said and looked up at my uncle.

  He mouthed, “Hang up.”

  Into the phone, I said, “Mary? I need to call you right back.”

  I heard her say “Okay” right as I slid the phone to off.

  “That thing off?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Sure?”

  I looked at it. “Yup.”

  “Okay,” he said. “They just found Jimmy.”

  “Found him?”

  “Drained of blood. Right under the bridge.”

  “Drained of…”

  “Blood,” Uncle Dave said. “He’s dead.”

  We walked toward the front of the shop, him leading, me following. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me.”

  “I just lost Mikey,” I said. “This can’t be happening.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  It didn’t even have time to sink in with us until we were distracted. Everything seemed surreal—a bad, waking dream. First Mikey, and now Jimmy. Within a week. What the hell?

  We made it to the front office just in time to see a dark blue Saturn pull into the parking lot. There was a girl sporting long blonde hair, dark shades and model figure. When she got out of the car, Uncle Dave raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Now that’s a woman.”

  I agreed.

  Then, as she got closer, I knew who it was.

  Minarette.

  What the hell was she doing at my shop? She had horrible timing.

  Holding a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, she came through the door all smiles.

  “Hi,” I said, as soon as she was through.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice musical. When she smiled, she had a dimple on one side of her face. It was hard to think about Jimmy with her sucking me in.

  “What can I do for you?” I said, trying to be cool.

  “Well,” she said. “My car keeps turning off for no
reason, and I heard you work at a shop, so I thought you might look at it for me.” Minarette put the box of doughnuts on the counter between us. “These are for you.” She looked at Uncle Dave. “And you, too.”

  He looked at her blankly for a moment and then said, “Honey? It costs more than a box of doughnuts for us to look at your car.”

  God, he could be such an asshole. Business. Business. Business.

  “Of course,” Minarette said. “I just wanted to bring you something nice. An extra.”

  At that, Uncle Dave lit up. “Well, fantastic,” he said, got up and opened the box. He chose one, sat down and inhaled it without so much as a thank-you. I said it for him, and added, “Let’s go outside so you can pop the hood.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said without missing a beat.

  She knew how to be charming, that was for sure. She’d practiced.

  Outside, she knelt on her front seat, reached down and pulled the lever. I raised the hood, found the support rod and did my best look-see. “Start it up,” I said.

  She sat and turned the key.

  It took two tries to catch.

  There was a lot of oil around the piston covers. Her coolant was low. The engine sounded good. After you spend years around engines, your ear gets tuned to hearing when an engine runs nicely. There are specific rhythms and noises. If something is seriously off, you can pretty much tell.

  “You said it just conks out on you?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Sometimes I’ll be at a red light, and it just shuts off. Or if I’m waiting at a drive-through or something like that. It’s weird.”

  “Let’s start with a tune-up,” I said. “Turn it off, please.”

  She did, and I replaced the support rod, then put the hood down. Minarette was next to me in a blink, that smile stretching across her face. Damn, she was pretty. One of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen up close. Her skin seemed to glow in the fall morning’s light. Her eyes were so blue—endlessly blue.

  “How much will that cost?” she asked.

  “Under a hundred bucks,” I said. “I’ll do my best to keep the costs down.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’d be perfect. Do you think that’ll fix it?”