by Merry Jones
“She didn’t kill herself, Alain. People don’t slash themselves in the face.”
He gazed at his wine. “They do if they hate their bodies enough. Greta suffered body dysmorphic disorder. Her thigh was ringed with scars from her dogged attempts to remove her leg.”
I tried to imagine it. Couldn’t.
“She was incredibly beautiful, yet she believed she was an abomination.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen patients who’ve succeeded in cutting off a foot. Genitals. An ear. A thumb. But not a leg.”
Neither of us spoke. Darkness slithered down my back. I pictured detached body parts, wondered how people disposed of the unwanted foot, thumb, penis, or ear. I swallowed wine, tried to think of something else. Saw dark water and tendrils of hair. Felt the needle stitching my leg. Across the patio, a shadow again disturbed the bushes. Had there been a breeze? Did Alain have a cat?
“Greta was in a bad state that night. She felt hideous, deformed. Unable to look in a mirror. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”
“Alain, you can’t blame yourself.”
He made a clucking sound. “No, you’re right. I’m not to blame. And yet, people close to me keep coming to harm.” His eyes penetrated the darkness, riveted on me.
“But you couldn’t have prevented any of it.”
“Greta wanted her leg off. She begged me—”
“But her leg wasn’t what got cut.”
“I knew she was suicidal.”
“But it wasn’t suicide.”
“Maybe not.” He paused. “But you’d be surprised, Elle, what passion can lead people to do.”
I didn’t move, couldn’t. My lungs were raw and sore. Someone had tried to murder me, and darkness whirled in my mind. When I looked up, Alain was there, reaching for my hand, guiding me to my feet, leaning down. Kissing me.
Pain shot up my leg. I leaned against him to take weight off it. Or maybe just to lean against him. His body wasn’t much taller than mine, lean, solid. Strong arms slid around me. The candles quivered and the bushes rattled with something unseen, and I accompanied Alain into the stucco house with red, blue, green, and yellow décor.
But as he led me toward his bedroom, Charlie whispered that he loved me, that we were soul mates. I held back, smelling Charlie’s Old Spice, recalling how real he’d seemed that morning. How happy I’d been with him.
“Are you okay?” Alain kissed my cheek, my neck.
I put a hand up, pressed it against his chest, a stop signal. “You’re married,” I breathed. It made more sense than the truth.
He straightened, bit his lip. “Yes. But I’ve told you. It’s not a marriage. My wife—she’s not my wife any more. She’s too damaged.” He took a breath. “But if you’re uncomfortable, I understand.” His arm was still around me, but only to help support my weight. Not to possess me.
Charlie persisted, insisting that we’d be together forever. Calling me “Elf.” A dead man was in my head, claiming me.
“Shall I take you back to the hotel?” Alain waited.
Charlie made puppy dog eyes and pleaded. Yes. Go to the hotel.
I ignored him. Remembered his bare butt in our shower with a babe. Dead or alive, he had no right to ask me to be faithful. I reached up, touched Alain’s face, guided it to mine and planted a kiss on his lips. Yes, he was married, even if in name only. But I’d nearly died that day. And selfishly, I needed to be held by someone other than Charlie. I needed to find comfort in the arms of a man who was actually alive.
I didn’t spend the night. In fact, we didn’t even make love. I’d planned to and we would have, but Alain’s phone rang before his shirt was even off. He ignored the call and, finally, it stopped ringing, but began again immediately. He apologized that it was probably the clinic, some problem with a patient. He said he’d just be a moment and answered the call, speaking Spanish but, by the urgency in his tone, I knew something serious had arisen. By the time the call ended, I’d replaced my garments in their original positions and slipped into my sandals, ready to go.
On the way to the hotel, Alain apologized repeatedly, explaining that he had to attend to an emergency. He held my hand as he drove, asking if I’d see him again the next night. Promising that there would be no more interruptions.
I didn’t commit, suggested that we speak in the morning. I was ambivalent and more than a little embarrassed about being so easily seduced. After all, I didn’t really know Alain. I knew some things about him—his profession, his height, smooth skin, straight nose, and strong bones. His kisses. But nothing else, really. So why had I slid my hand under his shirt and unfastened his belt?
And why had I almost hopped into bed with him? Was I pathetically desperate? Lonely? Seduced by the Mexican moonlight? All of the above? Yes, maybe. But, in my defense, I’d also been shaken by Claudia’s and Greta’s deaths, topped by my own injuries. And by the suggestion that I’d been attacked and might still be in danger. I was just plain vulnerable and needy. And Alain had not missed the opportunity to take advantage of that. After all, he had a history of womanizing. I’d heard him on the balcony with Greta. He’d admitted having an affair with her and indicated one with Claudia. And they hadn’t been the only ones.
Still, his kisses tingled on my lips. And I felt chilled without his arms around me.
Even so, I was going back to my room, alone, and that was for the best. Alain had moved too fast. All his talk about death and danger—had it been out of concern for me? Or had it been a ploy to frighten and lure me into his bed? Either way, by the time I got back to the hotel suite, I felt both foolish and relieved, as if the emergency call had rescued me from my own impulsive behavior.
When I came in, Becky was playing Scrabble with Susan and Jen, who sprawled on the sofa.
“Becky?” I was surprised to see her.
“How was dinner?” Jen didn’t look up.
“Fourteen points,” Susan wrote down her score.
“How was that fourteen?” Becky frowned.
Susan moved a tile aside. “Double word score.”
“Damn.”
“You’re not with Chichi tonight?” I took a wineglass from the kitchenette, poured some of what they were drinking.
“He’s got a private fiesta.”
“Becky thinks he’s got a hot date.” Jen reached for a bag of tortilla chips.
“No, I do not. He’s calling when he’s done.”
“Which might be late if she pays him by the hour.”
“Shut up, Jen.” Becky threw a handful of tiles at her.
Jen chuckled. Winced. “Oh fuck. Laughing hurts.”
“Good. You deserve to hurt. Talking like that about Chichi.” Becky retrieved her tiles. “Elle, tell us about dinner.”
“I hope you had a frickin’ awful terrible boring time,” Jen munched a chip.
Becky looked at me. “Why is she so nasty? Just because she hurts?”
“Seriously? Jen’s always nasty,” I sipped wine.
“No. I’m nasty because Elle is dating my effing doctor.”
Susan picked new letters. “Damn. No vowels. Not a single bleeping one.”
“She’s winning,” Jen explained. “She’s actually killing us, but she’s whining anyway.”
“Well, my letters stink.”
“So what did you have? Is he a good cook?”
“Grilled fish.”
“Jen, ‘coulk’ is not a word.”
“Hell if it isn’t. Like when you coulk your bathroom tiles.”
“That’s c-a-u-l-k.”
“No, it’s c-o-u-l-k.”
“Where’s your computer? Google it.”
I sat on an easy chair, leaned back, and sipped wine. Their voices flittered around the suite like chamber music. Tightness eased out of my shoulders, thoughts out of my mind. I felt safe, protected by familiar faces. Very tired. And glad to be home.
And, then, minutes later, Alain knocked on the door. I sunk into the chair. What did he want? Hadn’t we said good nigh
t?
Susan let him and his black bag in.
“I’m on my way home, but first I thought I’d check on my patient.” He walked in without being invited, as if he had a right to be there.
Well, I realized, he did. The suite was part of his surgery package.
“How are you feeling, Jen?”
“Miserable.” She began to rattle off complaints. The pills weren’t killing the pain. She felt tender here and swollen there. She still had a fever. She was afraid she was scarring.
He went to the sofa, his gaze skimming over Becky, twinkling as it passed me. “Hi, ladies,” he smiled, taking Jen’s hand and leading her into the bedroom even as she continued her list of grievances.
We heard muffled voices; Jen’s whining, his comforting.
“Elle, play Jen’s letters.” Susan waved me over to the table.
I didn’t want to move, but obeyed automatically. Looked at her letters.
“It’s your turn,” Becky said.
I looked at the board. Checked the letters. A-L-R-R-C-U-T. Terrible letters. Useless. I searched for spare E or S to tag letters onto. I wasn’t good at Scrabble. Didn’t have the patience or the concentration. My letters could form cat. Cult. Cut. But I needed a link.
“Elle?” Susan urged.
“Are you with us?” Becky asked. “Maybe she’s pulling another Elle.”
“I’m fine.” I added C-A-L to another L. Formed CALL.
“Six points.” Susan wrote it down.
Not a great word, but at least they’d leave me alone. Fortunately, Jen and Alain emerged from the bedroom before Jen’s next turn.
“Well?” Susan asked.
“Apparently, I’m doing great,” Jen grumbled.
“So we can cancel the funeral arrangements?”
Alain chuckled. “Well, at least you can postpone them. The patient is recovering very well.”
I got up, made room for Jen to spread out on the sofa. “Everything all right with your emergency?”
His smile disappeared. “Very strange. It was a mistake. Nobody from the clinic called. The nurse who gave her name isn’t even on duty.”
“You mean someone faked it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But what would be the purpose?”
I didn’t know. I remembered being in his arms, unbuttoning his shirt. The roughness of his whiskers on my neck. The phone ringing. Had someone wanted him to get out of his house? To rob him?
His eyes met mine, laughing. “If I didn’t know better, I might think someone was trying to ruin my evening.” He turned to Jen and handed her a vial of pills. “Take these as needed. One every six to eight hours. They will reduce swelling and pain. You’ll sleep better.”
Then, he looked at us one by one, “Ladies, I bid you good night.” As he headed for the door, he said, “I’ll call in the morning.” His eyes held mine for a moment, and he left.
As the door closed, two phones rang simultaneously. Norm was calling for Jen, Chichi for Becky. Susan picked up her phone to call Tim.
I sat watching my wineglass for a while. Then, abandoned, I wandered onto the balcony and stood at the railing, alone.
Something tickled my face—a mosquito? I swatted at it, refusing to wake up. Smelling hyacinth. Odd. Probably a scent from outside. The door to the terrace was open, the breeze blowing the slats of the vertical blinds. Their flapping was soft, soothing. I turned my head, wishing the pillow wasn’t so thick and my shoulders weren’t so burned, and sank back into sleep.
But something tickled my cheek again. This time, as I slapped at it, I opened my eyes, annoyed. Ready to hunt down the bug even if it meant waking up.
But the tickle hadn’t been caused by a bug. Someone was there, in my room, standing beside my bed.
I don’t know which came first, my shriek or my jump. The shadowy form didn’t move. It stood perfectly still for the immeasurable duration of time it took for me to surface from the depths of sleep, struggling to identify it. Was it Susan? Jen? Becky? No, Becky was with Chichi. So, was it Alain? No. I couldn’t tell; it had no face. A ghost then? Certainly not Charlie. Was it Greta or Claudia, paying me a visit? These thoughts flashed simultaneously as I gawked at the shadowy form, which seemed to be facelessly gawking back at me. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe I was still asleep, dreaming. I closed my eyes, lying stiff on the mattress.
Smelling hyacinth.
Were there smells in dreams? I opened my eyes again. Saw the open terrace door, the vertical blinds swaying in the breeze. Moonlight beaming through the slats, lighting the form of a woman in a long loose robe. Her face was wrapped, hidden behind a veil.
A veil? Oh God. Was this the woman Charlie had been with—the one on the beach? Why was she in my room, beside my bed? How had she gotten in? Who was she? I tried to ask, but couldn’t make a sound. Tried to get up, but couldn’t move.
Of course I couldn’t. It was a nightmare. In nightmares, you couldn’t move or make sounds. But the good news was that, if the woman was in a nightmare, she wasn’t real. I was safe, asleep. Except that I didn’t feel safe or asleep. I felt paralyzed, helpless, at the mercy of a shadowy veiled stranger. Madam Therese surfaced, “I told you: you draw the dead.” Her tone was impatient, tired of reminding me. Was the veiled woman dead? What did she want? I tried again to speak, but like the rest of me, my voice was still. Only my heart moved, thrusting itself against my ribs.
Stop it, I scolded myself. You’re just asleep. She’s a dream. Dreams can’t hurt you. In fact, if you concentrate hard enough, you can take charge and force the dream to change.
So I did. I concentrated on making the woman disappear. On changing the content of the dream altogether—making it be about something benign and pleasant—puppies, for example. I shut my eyes and imagined a new puppy with floppy ears, a soft, downy coat, a waggy tail, and eyes filled with wonder. What would I name him? Charlie? Very good, naming a dog after Charlie. Yes. I smiled at the thought. Calmer, I opened my eyes again.
The woman was leaning over me, her eyes ablaze. Her veil tickled my cheek.
I skittered away, yelping.
“La venganza,” she hissed.
I had no idea what she was saying. I huddled against the headboard.
“Conseguir la venganza.” She raised her fist. Lord. Something glittered in her hand. A knife?
I crawled backward, away from her, bumping into the nightstand, knocking the lamp over. The woman swung her fists, repeating her syllables. I shielded my head with my arms, bracing for an onslaught of punches or the slashing of blades. But neither came. In fact, except for the flapping of the slats against the sliding door, the room was harshly silent. Cautiously, slowly, I peeked through my arms. Didn’t see her. I pushed my hair off my face, sat up, looked around.
No one was there.
I shivered. Had she really been there? Had she been a dream? I hugged a thick pillow, trying to stop trembling. It had to have been a nightmare. Not surprising, given all the dreadful things that had happened that week. I pulled up the blanket, leaned back against the headboard, slowed my breathing. Steadied my hands. I touched my face where the veil had tickled it, imagined the scent of hyacinth. It had been so vivid. The slats kept rapping against the glass, sounding ominous now. Moonlight cast shadows, the shadows took on menacing shapes.
I should get up, have a snack. Turn on the television. Reconnect with normal and tangible. I pondered it, but my body didn’t want to move. My head was thick with sleep, my legs ached. So I stayed in bed, neither awake nor asleep, my head covered and my eyes closed. I was thinking about getting a puppy when, in Jen and Susan’s room, someone let out a bone-rattling scream.
The blanket tangled around my legs. I kicked to throw it off, but it resisted, wrapping around my bandage, clinging to it. I yanked at it, ignoring the pulse of pain as I aggravated my wound. Ripping and pulling, I finally managed to get free and hop to my feet.
Another scream. “Fuck!”
Running in the dark, I banged into Becky�
�s empty bed, grabbed onto the dresser, propelled myself out the bedroom door.
“Jen!” I yelled. “Susan?” I sped across the expanse of living room, seeing Claudia’s fall and Greta’s spaghetti face, and finally thrust open the door to Jen’s and Susan’s room. Dreading what I’d see, I flicked on the lights.
Susan sat calmly on the side of Jen’s bed, her hand on Jen’s forehead. “It’s nothing, Elle. Just a nightmare.”
A nightmare? Apparently, they were going around.
“It was not a nightmare.” Jen was trembling. The bandages around her chest hung loose and ragged, unraveled. “It was a fucking ghost.” She pointed at me. “It’s you and your damned spirit aura.”
“Don’t be an ass, Jen,” Susan removed her hand. “It’s not Elle’s fault. There’s no such thing as a ghost.”
“WTF, Susan. I know what I saw.”
“You had a nightmare. You’re taking weird medicines. And you still have a fever.”
“No, seriously. Maybe Elle attracts bad juju, like that gypsy said.”
“She wasn’t a gypsy,” I said, even though I had no idea. Madam Therese might indeed have been a gypsy. She’d sounded like she’d come from South Philly. Or maybe the Bronx. And she’d never said anything about juju. All she said was that I had a stained aura and attracted the dead.
Jen was still ranting. “—ever since we got here. Women dying next door. Elle nearly drowning. And now a fucking ghost attacking me.”
“Nobody attacked you,” Susan said. “Nobody was here. I would have seen them.”
“What did she look like?”
Susan glared at me. “Elle, I just said nobody was here.”
“She was a ghost,” Jen ignored her. “So that’s what she looked like. Like fucking Casper, only black.”
I pictured the dark veil draped over me, felt its tickle.
“That proves it was a dream,” Susan smirked. “No self-respecting ghost would dress that way.”
“You think it’s funny? It’s not effing funny, Susan.” Jen huffed.
I sat on the foot of the bed, across from Susan. Put a hand on Jen’s arm. Even with her face hidden by the splint on her nose, Jen’s fear showed. Her eyes bulged. Blue veins pulsed in her forehead.
