Imaginary Lover

by Sandra Chastain

  They talked about inconsequential things. She liked police action and mysteries on television, he liked science fiction and sports. She surprised him with the range of her reading, until she explained that she had read everything in the prison library, from history to the classics.

  Then the woman at the table nearest them suddenly stood and began to gasp. Frantically she tried to clear her throat, beating her fists on the table in acute distress.

  Dusty had taken first-aid classes during her time on the police force. Still, it took her a moment to recognize the problem. “Quick, Merlin, help her, she’s choking.”

  Nick had moved to the woman’s side and was glaring at her helplessly. He knew that Dusty was expecting him to do something. It wasn’t that he was frozen, or that he had turned into some kind of limp noodle, rather the opposite was true. He was a writhing mass of coiled energy, ready to comply. He just couldn’t remember what the hell to do. It seemed as if the moment stretched into forever, though he knew that everything was happening instantly.

  “Nicky,” Hattie’s familiar voice cut in sharply. “Administer the Heimlich maneuver before she croaks. Don’t worry. I’ve brought help, just put down your guard and let Siggy slip through.”

  In the blink of an eyelash a strangely garbed man with a beard was standing beside Nick clutching his rib cage in an exaggerated motion. Nick followed suit.

  “You can do it, Doctor Elliott,” the stranger said. “Arms around her and clamp down. Squeeze hard and fast. Then release her.”

  At first Nick’s actions felt strange, then as he repeated them, his uncertainty fell away and suddenly he was acting on his own. Seconds later a piece of meat came flying out of the woman’s mouth, and she gasped for air.

  “You did it,” Dusty said, giving him a hug.

  Without thinking, Nick clasped Dusty’s shoulders and pulled her close. He had done it. He could feel his heart pounding, the tension coiled there, and yet he felt a strength rushing through him, a wild exhilaration.

  For a moment he simply held Dusty, and, too surprised to protest, she let him. Then, with a look of alarm at her reaction to his touch, she pulled away and watched as he calmly sat back down in his chair.

  Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky as she said, “A little slow on the uptake, but you saved her, Merlin.”

  The rare show of emotion died. “No, it wasn’t me.”

  “Well, I don’t know who else you think it was. I was here, remember?”

  It was hard to admit the cold, hard truth, but he refused to take full credit. “I couldn’t have done it if that man hadn’t told me what to do.”

  “What man? There was nobody here but you, me, and the waitress, Merlin.”

  Nick looked around. The woman was being escorted toward the ladies’ room, and the rest of the diners were staring at him curiously. Nowhere was there a bearded man in a dark suit.

  Thoroughly shaken, Nick hurried through the rest of the meal, paid the bill, and drove silently back to the house. He was having difficulty accepting what had happened, and he refused to give voice to his dilemma. The woman had been choking. But he hadn’t had any idea what to do until he’d been directed.

  And he was a doctor.

  “You’d think she’d have at least said thank you,” Dusty finally said as they went back in the house. “I mean how many times do you get a chance to thank a person for saving your life?”

  Saving her life? The very thought made Nick tense. When he realized that Dusty was staring at him, waiting for some kind of response, he muttered, “It was nothing.”

  “Well, I thank you, even if she didn’t. And I thank you for lunch as well. As soon as I can find a job, I’ll treat you.”

  “Once you get Hattie’s money,” he said roughly, “you can buy the restaurant.”

  “I’ve told you before, I’m not taking Hattie’s money.”

  “And I told you there was someone there, in that restaurant. A man with whiskers, wearing an odd-looking coat. And …” he faltered, “for a moment I thought I heard Hattie’s voice.”

  “You’re seeing things, Merlin. Better lie down for a while.” But their banter had lost its bite. She was seeing the man as a doctor and remembering what he must have been to Hattie, how Hattie must have relied on him. Yet he took no credit for what he’d done, choosing instead to say someone else was responsible.

  What was the man’s problem?

  Nick read the changing expression on Dusty’s face. She was right. He had no intention of explaining; he still wasn’t ready to admit to his memory loss. Maybe he’d take advantage of the out she was offering.

  He’d take her advice to lie down before he made himself look like an utter fool, if he could get up the stairs without tripping. His limp was always more pronounced when he was tired or angry. Now he had to force himself to put weight on that hip, to keep from giving in to the pain as he climbed.

  Nick Elliott was just tired. After months in a coma and even longer in physical therapy, he’d turned his back on the medical community and checked himself out of the hospital. Nick knew about mental abnormalities, not from a medical standpoint, but a personal one. He’d experienced what he’d been told were self-induced flashbacks of recrimination meant to punish himself for the accident. But this was different. He’d seen someone. And he’d heard Hattie speaking to him, as if she were standing right there in the restaurant.

  “No, I’m not even going to consider that.” He swore and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Odd, he’d never smoked before the accident, when his life had slipped out of control. Now it was his way of spitting in the wind. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

  The acid smoke filled his lungs. He let it out, slowly and deliberately, pacing his exhaling like the muttering of a mantra. But this time it didn’t work. He didn’t relax. The tension just lay there in the bottom of his stomach without release.

  Suddenly he felt a presence. He looked around, expecting to see Dusty. She wasn’t there.

  “Just hold on to your shorts, Nicky. He was there, Dr. Freud. I know he’s a bit out of date, but the good thing is he’s managed to keep up with the old and learn all the new stuff as well. I told the old darling about your memory problem, and he came back to help.”

  Nick stubbed out the cigarette and swore. He’d been confused after the wreck. But once he’d realized what had happened, he’d made himself accept both his physical condition and, later, his memory loss. Never had he deluded himself.

  Even during the worst of the horror he was forced to live with, he’d never hallucinated, never seen something or someone who wasn’t there. And he wasn’t going to start now.

  “No,” he said stonily. “Hattie’s dead. I buried her. She isn’t speaking to me. This isn’t happening.”

  “Sure it is, Nicky. And it’s all going to work out. Just like you told Dusty, just …” the voice wavered for a moment, growing dimmer as if it were moving away, “… go with the flow and look after her for me. You need each other.”

  Then Nick was alone, a fine film of perspiration dotting his forehead, his hands clenched in tight fists. He lay down and closed his eyes. As he lay, his hands uncurled and his body relaxed. The blanket that covered him moved so softly that he didn’t wake. The aura of warmth gently settled over him.

  There was a satisfied, musical laugh. “Poor boy, always fighting me. He’ll learn.”

  By late afternoon Dusty had made her room livable and explored the rest of the house. She discovered an entire room filled with costumes and props. The costumes were a godsend because the only clothing she owned was the outfit she was wearing and one spare. In Hattie’s wardrobe room she found an eclectic collection of skirts, jackets, and shawls she could wear.

  And she found the scrapbooks.

  There was book after book of photographs of Dusty growing up, beginning with her arrival as a thin, angry little ten-year-old and ending with a defiant frizzy-haired girl with too much eye shadow and a smart mouth. Hattie had chr
onicled every event. Lord knew how much Dusty had hated that, but Hattie had been in her element.

  There was a program from her school play, and ticket stubs from the numerous times Hattie had taken her to the theater. Dusty smiled grimly as she came across a playbill from a touring company’s production of Ghosts autographed to her by the actress.

  But it was the stack of letters beneath the scrapbooks that stopped Dusty in her tracks: letters from Hattie’s agent. For the thirteen years since she’d run away, Dusty had thought that Hattie had grabbed at the chance to get rid of her and get back on the stage. She’d been wrong. There were many overtures from the theatrical world and all had been rejected with the excuse that Dusty needed her.

  Hattie had put her life on hold until that last offer had come, the one she couldn’t turn down, her last chance at Broadway. Dusty felt her throat tighten. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known the truth, deep inside. She had. She had just been afraid that Hattie didn’t want her anymore. And before Dusty could be rejected, she’d left.

  All that time, Hattie had cared for Dusty, at her own expense. Now that it was too late, Dusty knew the truth. But the truth came with a price: following Hattie’s last request. Dusty knew that she had to do what she could to make it up to the woman she’d hurt so badly.

  Dusty would tell the damn story.

  As clearly as if Hattie were standing there, Dusty heard her say, “Thank you, child, I knew you would.”

  Dusty showered, washed and dried her hair, then donned one of the gypsy skirts and peasant blouses that went well with her boots. Helping herself to Hattie’s cosmetics, she fixed her face and pinned her hair back on one side with a rose. With a shawl of matching colors, she decided that she’d do her aunt proud, or as proud as a woman like Dusty could ever do.

  As she started down the stairs she ran into the good doctor, who looked up at her and visibly started.

  “You—you look very nice,” he said. “Are you going out?”

  “You know damn well where I’m going, you and Aunt Hattie and all the other spirits pulling the strings around here.”

  She didn’t mean to sound so sharp. But as surprised as he was at her appearance, she was that much so at his. He’d changed into a bulky red turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark flannel trousers. Draped over one shoulder was a leather bombardier jacket with an insignia on the arm.

  “What spirits?” he asked cautiously.

  “The ones who hover around us, poking us in the direction they want us to go.” She realized how she must sound and corrected herself. “Aw, forget it. I’m just on edge. I’ve never been a storyteller in my life. All this is giving me nightmares, and my knees are tap-dancing against my petticoat.”

  Nick allowed an amused grin to curl his lips for a second. “You’ll do Hattie proud,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  “You’re going to rehearsal too?”

  “Yep, it’s Hattie’s night to be the station volunteer on call. I’m filling in.”

  “On call? What’s that mean?”

  “Any time the station is open, one of the employees or the staff volunteers must be present to make certain everything is looked after. You know, lights, telephones, whatever.”

  “Fine, Merlin, lead on.”

  “I was going to walk,” he offered, locking the door behind, “but I’ll get the car if you’d rather.”

  “No, I’ll walk. Dare I ask if you’re feeling better? Or will that bring on another cold shoulder?”

  He didn’t know what it was about this woman that made him bristle. Then he remembered Hattie’s request that he look after Dusty—if it had been a request, if he hadn’t been imagining the whole thing. He glared at her, then forced himself to answer.

  “Yes. I apologize for my abruptness. As I’m sure you can understand, administering emergency procedure can be very risky. You can be sued if your results aren’t acceptable.”

  She didn’t answer. But she didn’t believe for one minute that this man would stop to worry about being sued before acting. No, it was something else that held him back. As for that weird story about the man with the beard, she was still working on that one.

  Nick took a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips.

  “I’m surprised that you smoke. Most doctors don’t approve.”

  “I don’t. Approve, that is. But I don’t give advice either—not anymore.”

  She watched him take two quick draws and stub the cigarette out. He didn’t do it smoothly, not like a man who’d been a longtime indulger. “How long have you been smoking?”

  “About a year, since the accident,” he amended.

  “The accident didn’t do you in, so you’re looking for another way? You have a death wish, do you?”

  He didn’t answer. Hell, he’d wrestled with that question too many hours with no clear answer.

  “Let’s just say that I don’t care much what happens to me.”

  The flat acceptance in his voice was obvious. She felt a kind of tug deep inside, a response to his casual dismissal of concern.

  “I know what you mean,” she murmured. “There was a time when I first got out of jail that I went to the beach and stood looking out at the horizon. The waves lapped at my feet, riding higher and higher as the tide came in, burying my feet in the sand. I didn’t want to move.”

  “Why did you?”

  She gave an uneasy cough. “It was very strange. I heard Hattie’s voice. She said that I couldn’t do it. It was time for me to come home. And I did.”

  Nick knew that she was telling him something that she probably would never admit to anybody. He knew, and he understood.

  “When did that happen, Dusty?”

  “Two days before I came back.”

  The silence fell between them, deep and eerie. They shared some strange common thread that neither wanted to acknowledge, but neither wanted to break off.

  Finally Nick kicked a discarded soda can, sending it across the street in a clatter. “Why were you in jail, Dusty?”

  “I was a police officer accused of taking a bribe.”

  “I don’t believe that!” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I did my time. It’s over—in the past, behind me. This is now and now is whatever I decide to do.”

  “It’s never over,” he said. “I’m still doing my time.”

  She took a chance and glanced over at him. He was a thousand miles away. Pain had carried him there and held him in the netherworld where he was a prisoner.

  “I think keeping yourself prisoner is the most binding of all. How long before you let yourself out of jail, put yourself on parole, Doctor Elliott?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, reaching for another cigarette, then replacing the pack in his jacket pocket without opening it when he realized he was already holding one. “My now is still mixed up with the past.”

  “But you’re the wizard. You can change that. You can change the future, too, according to Aunt Hattie.”

  “Only on the Orient Express,” Nick said sadly, reaching the station door and opening it.

  Dusty took a deep breath and stepped inside the shadowy reception area. She turned and, taking Nick’s hand, redeemed an imaginary ticket. With the motions of a mime, she punched a hole in the ticket and handed it back to him.

  “This isn’t China, but the Stone Mountain Express is leaving any minute, sir. Welcome aboard.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to watch the other storytellers,” Betty Hirt said. “Then, later, after you see what we’re doing, we’ll go over your part.”

  “Fine,” Dusty agreed, slipping into a seat in the small theater, high up in the darkness where she felt safe from prying eyes.

  Nick had left her in Betty’s hands and assumed his place at the reception area by the door. The other members of the ghost brigade arrived and, after being introduced to Dusty, murmured their condolences and began to chat among themselves. It was obvious that most of them had done this before. Only
a few nervous first-timers hovered around the fringe area.

  At last the lights dimmed, and one by one the story-tellers took the stage and began their tales. Each story was limited to five or six minutes and, as David Thomas explained, was the teller’s own interpretation of the story they’d been given.

  There was the salty old sea captain who, with his appearance and heavy brogue, invoked the sound and smell of the sea. His tale about the maiden who kept the light burning in the lighthouse to save her love was totally believable.

  There was the elderly African American who told a slave tale of old, holding his lantern and speaking in dialect so perfect that Dusty felt as if she were in another time.

  A tall dark-haired girl with a sad expression told of a revolutionary war hero who was beheaded and walked his post forever after without his head. And a Cajun, complete with accent, took the listeners to the pumpkin patch and scared them into never returning again.

  “The story coming up is my favorite,” Nick said, sliding into the seat beside Dusty. “The teller is Betty Hirt’s husband, and his is the last one on the tour.”

  Moments later a burly, jovial man launched into the tale of a circuit-riding preacher whose body was moved all over the swamp in an attempt to cover up his murder. It wasn’t the story that was so entertaining, but the teller, who might have been Hattie’s counterpart on any Broadway stage.

  Applause broke out, then the lights came on and the participants, more relaxed now, began to plan their customary trek to the coffee shop for coffee and sweets.

  “I have your script here, Dusty,” Betty said, holding out a thin stack of papers. “Normally we ask you to read it and then return the script. Once read, you’re expected to tell the story in your own words, in your own way. But we decided that wouldn’t be fair to you since you didn’t audition as a storyteller and time is so short.”

  “So, does that mean I can memorize it as is?”

  Betty looked at David helplessly. “Normally we like you to make the story your own, but in this case we’ll do whatever makes you more comfortable. Shall we go over the story now?”