“Wait.”
I start to rise, but Cordelia catches my arm, drawing me back down beside her.
“What—”
“Tell me the truth: are you okay, Alex?” My sister tilts her head, worry creasing her brow.
“Of course I'm okay—”
“No, I mean, are you really okay? You can talk to me, you know. When I suggested this whole house-buying venture, I never thought you'd go for it. And when you did...well, I was kind of concerned.”
I blink and shake my head. “What do you mean?”
She lowers her gaze and pauses for a moment, as if considering her next words. Then she draws in a deep breath and meets my eyes. “After Mom and Dad's plane crash, we dealt with our grief in different but...kind of similar ways. I buried myself in home renovations, and you buried yourself in the past, stuck your head in the sand. Literally.” She smirks softly and squeezes my hand. “We both ran away from the pain. And we've never—we've never really talked about what happened, you know? It's this great big monster lurking in the shadows that we've become experts at ignoring. But ignoring the monster doesn't make it go away. And running from it doesn't make the pain disappear.”
“No.” I exhale heavily through my nose, clasping my hands over my knees. “I don't think the pain will ever disappear.”
“But it could become softer, maybe, if we leaned on one another a little more.” As if to prove her point, Cordelia leans against my shoulder, offering me a wide, though gentle, smile. “God, I wish I'd been there, you know? I could've stalled them somehow, or come up with some reason—some elaborate ruse—to force them to cancel their flight, and that would have changed everything, would have saved their lives—”
“We can't change the past,” I whisper, choking down a half-formed sob. “If there's one thing I've learned in my line of work, it's that. What's done is done. All we can do is learn our lessons from what's happened and move on.”
“But we haven't really moved on. Have we?”
When Cordelia meets my gaze, I see ten years' worth of sorrow shimmering in her bright green eyes. And I know that my eyes are a mirror of hers—same color, same pain. It's been a decade since the plane that my parents chartered crashed over Peru, but I still remember that day with crystal-clear perfection. Dad called me in the morning, so excited about taking Mom to Machu Picchu for the first time. It wasn't a working vacation, just a vacation-vacation, a rarity in my family. “I think this is exactly what she needs,” Dad told me; I could hear the hope, the smile in his voice. Mom had had a difficult couple of months, having lost her own mother to cancer, and Dad thought this trip would lift her spirits, give her an opportunity to feel joy again.
It probably would have, if they'd ever arrived at their destination. But the plane's engine malfunctioned, and the useless, burning hunk of metal went down in flames.
There are all kinds of hauntings. I've never been able to erase this image from my mind: my parents trapped inside a plummeting, smoking airplane with no chance of survival. Careening down from the sky. I see it when I wake in the morning, before I fall asleep at night. Did my mother scream? Did my father scream? Did they hold one another's hands? Did they think about my sister and me?
Were they afraid?
Of course they were afraid.
“Alex.”
I taste the tears before I feel them, hot and itchy, on my cheeks. Sighing shakily, I offer my sister a pained smile. “It still hurts as much as ever.”
“Yeah. It does.” She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I...I wish they'd gotten the chance to meet my little guy,” Cordelia whispers, pointing her chin toward fast-asleep Jack. “They would've loved him. He would've loved them. But, you know...” She pauses, chewing on her lip and staring at me before continuing in a low voice, “Sometimes Jack tells me that Dad visits him. Tells him things.”
My mouth falls open; I narrow my brows. “What—you mean, in dreams?”
Cord shakes her head. In the dimness of the room, her shining eyes look eerie, too bright, too wide, and a shiver races over my skin. “He swears he's not asleep when it happens. He says Dad appears in his room and tells him that he's happy, that he loves him, that he loves—and I quote—Axle and Crod very much.”
My stomach seizes; I gape at my older sister and clutch the sides of the mattress. “No, that's... Come on. He couldn't... He must've heard you mention—”
“I never have, Alex. I never even told David what Dad used to call us.”
I shake my head in astonishment. “How could he possibly—” I begin, but then I stop myself, remembering, with a chill, the ghost of Elizabeth Patton floating, cloudlike, on my staircase.
Right.
Contrary to my former convictions, ghosts are—distressingly—real.
Does that mean Jack truly saw my father's ghost?
I feel dizzy, off-balance, as if the floor is shifting beneath us. Given the wretched state of this house, the floor might be shifting, but more than likely, I'm just overwhelmed by all of these revisions to my worldview.
The thing is, Dad loved anagrams; he used them all the time, and he made anagrams of my and Cordelia's names—Axle for Alex and Crod for Cord. He rarely called us by our given names. In fact, I worried when he called me Alex, because it usually meant he was upset with me, or about to start in on a serious conversation.
He called me Axle on the phone the day that he died.
“I know you're a big nonbeliever, Alex,” Cordelia says softly, “but I've done a lot of research into the paranormal, and I just don't think Jack's making this up. It isn't only that I want it to be true. And, God, you know I want it to be true.” She faces me and nods, but then her eyes fix on something far off, and she breathes out a heavy, weary sigh. “It doesn't matter, anyway. We can't bring them back. I...I really wish we could.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
We hold onto one another, sobbing quietly, for several moments, and it's strange and comforting at the same time. We never did this before; we never mourned together. The funeral was too hectic and crowded, and afterward, we were too exhausted and depressed to talk.
Now it feels terrible to cry, to remember, to grieve all over again, but it also feels necessary—and long overdue.
Thank God Jack is a heavy sleeper. He never stirs, not even once.
By the time I hug Cordelia good night, my throat is sore, and my eyes are puffy and stinging. I stumble into my bedroom, blinded by tears, too tired to wash my face or change into pajamas. I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare into the vanity mirror. After a long moment, I imagine that I see a face there—a face that isn't mine. A hard face. Angry, scowling. A man...
But when I shake my head and look at the mirror again, my own face gazes back at me, cheeks red-streaked and pale.
I curl up on my side on top of the new striped comforter and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Four
Cordelia is as good as her word. Within a week, the house—which we've named Victorianus Rex, V. Rex for short, in honor of the dinosaur weather vane—has a new roof, a fresh coat of mauve exterior paint, shiny kitchen appliances, and a glorious hot water heater. Cordelia also contracted an electrician to take a look at the wiring, and a plumber to inspect the ancient pipes. The boards are gone from the windows, and that transformation alone has made V. Rex feel like a home, with its sun-washed (and freshly polished) staircase and hardwood floors gleaming like tiger's eye.
I dip my paint brush into the can and glide it along the edge of the molding in my bedroom, Elizabeth's old room. The color I chose is the same shade of burgundy red as Elizabeth's boots in the stained glass window. While I'm not purposefully trying to appease her ghost, I can't deny that the reality of her presence always hovers at the back of my mind, subtly influencing my choices for the house's decor. I assume that whoever buys this place will be a history buff, anyway, interested in maintaining the period integrity of the building, so I'm opting for some Victorian-s
tyle furnishings—antiques and reproductions—to set the stage. I've discovered, unexpectedly, that I kind of enjoy interior decorating. There's really no need for me to decorate a house I'll soon be selling, but it'll be an added incentive for the next homeowner—since I intend to include all of the furnishings in the sale.
Well, obviously.
I won't have much use for a green velvet-upholstered fainting couch on my dig sites. Though, granted, it might come in handy if Lucia and I work on a project together again...
I tilt my brush on the paint can's rim and kneel on the floor, staring at the red-streaked wall. Truth be told, I haven't been thinking about Lucia at all during this past week. And she hasn't sent me any more texts, so I can only assume she hasn't been thinking of me, either.
But I have been thinking about another woman—a woman with long yellow hair and an endearing inability to speak about anything without resorting to sexual innuendo.
I flick my gaze toward the stack of library books on the top of Elizabeth's vanity. It's been seven days since I met Trudy Strange, and aside from the small matter of the ghost, she's been topmost in my thoughts. Sure, I've tried to distract myself with the renovations, with ordering frou-frou decorative elements from online stores...
But I can't get Ms. Reference Desk—with her haunted house fetish and her embroidered underwear—out of mind. And, honestly, I don't want to.
Cordelia and I have been so busy working on the house, though, that I haven't had time to stop by the library again. I haven't even cracked open the books I borrowed about the Pattons. Every night when I fall into bed, I'm sore, spent, too exhausted to read or even keep my eyes open. I've always admired my big sister, but I have a new-found respect for her line of work and the seemingly endless supply of energy—and enthusiasm—she has for home repair.
Tomorrow Cord and Jack are taking the day off, skipping over the border to spend some time with David, so maybe I'll swing by the library in the morning, see if Trudy's there. She made it pretty clear that she isn't into exclusive relationships, and for all I know, she never dates twice.
But she charmed me, surprised me...
And really, really turned me on.
I've got to give it a try. Worse comes to worst, she'll turn me down, and I'll come home and eat ice cream on my Victorian fainting couch. Maybe the ghost of Elizabeth will take pity on me and haunt the staircase again, just so that I don't feel alone.
I lift my paint-spattered hand, tracing a finger over my lips. I keep reliving Trudy's kisses, hard but so sweet... She tasted sweet—
“Auntie Alex?”
“Mm?” Startled, I disrupt the balance of the brush on the paint can, and the bristles smack onto the hardwood floor wetly, leaving behind a blob of dark red that looks a little too much like blood. I frown at the mess but then smile at Jack curiously. “Hey. What's up, my intrepid nephew? Isn't it kind of late for you to be awake?”
“You have to come. You have to come now.”
“Oh. Okay.” Frowning again, I stand up, gazing down at the messy-haired boy. Normally, when he approaches me, he's excited about something, eager to share a new discovery. But now he just looks like a scared kid. “Is something wrong? Where's your mother?”
“Outside. In the backyard. And...” His green eyes are saucer-wide, his cheeks pale as ash. “Someone else is with her.”
“What?” A thousand scenarios—each more dire than the last—race through my mind. Everyone warned me that Cascade Avenue was dangerous, but I shrugged their fears away. I never honestly thought...
Without another word, I fly out of the room, down the staircase, and I hurl myself through the back door. A split-second later, I curse myself for not grabbing my phone or a weapon of some sort—but just as quickly, those thoughts are replaced by cold, paralyzed shock.
Because there isn't an armed man standing in my backyard with Cordelia.
There's a ghost.
And...it isn't Elizabeth.
It's the woman from my dream.
I'm acutely aware of the goosebumps on my arms, of the sharp, pointed stars overhead, of the shush of cars on the road in front of the house: the natural contrasting starkly with this floating proof of the supernatural.
“Alex,” Cordelia whispers, though she doesn't look at me. Her eyes are trained on the ghost—a lithe, pale female form wearing what appears to be a long white dress. The ghost's hair, too, is long and white, or colorless. I blink at her, dry-mouthed, frozen in place, remembering how she beseeched me in my dream, her back to the falls, her hand held out, showing me something—
“Alex,” Cordelia says again, her voice a frightened whisper, “um...I think your house is haunted.”
“I think it is, too. I mean, I know it is.”
“You know? You knew it was haunted before—”
“Sorry. I should have told you, but—”
“Yeah. You really should have told me.”
“But I've never seen her before—”
“Her name is Victoria.”
“What?” Cordelia and I hiss simultaneously, wheeling around to face Jack. He looks small and uncertain, standing in the doorway behind me, his white face cast in shadows.
“Her name is Victoria,” he says again, quieter this time, his narrow shoulders cowering.
“How do you know that, Jack?” I swallow, staring into his too-wise eyes.
He shrugs, pointing his gaze down to his bare feet. He's wearing baby blue Spider-man pajamas, which make him look even younger than he really is. “She told me.”
“She told you. When?” I shake my head, baffled. “How? Where?”
“When I was playing outside today.”
“Are you sure? It wasn't in a dream or—”
“No,” he interrupts me vehemently, lifting his green eyes to meet mine. “Not a dream. It was real, just like when Grandpa comes. And when Bess comes.”
My heart thuds in my chest. “Bess...”
“Who's Bess?” Cord asks, still fixed in place, still gaping at the ghost. “Who's Victoria? What the hell is—”
The ghost vanishes.
“—going on?” my sister finishes weakly, blinking at the space the ghost—Victoria—had occupied, now an empty plot of overgrown grass. For a moment, Cordelia wavers on her feet, shaking her head, silent. And then she says, “I need a drink. And probably some therapy.”
“Come on,” I sigh, stepping forward stiffly and threading my arm through hers. “Let's go inside, put Jack to bed. Then we'll get hammered, and I'll tell you everything I know.”
---
Two bottles of wine later, Cordelia and I are flushed and drunk—but only fractionally more relaxed. We tucked Jack in right after the ghost disappeared and then stumbled down to the kitchen, one of my favorite rooms in the house now that it's been furnished with modern appliances—including a microwave. I didn't inherit any of my mother's cooking prowess and tend to live on takeout and reheated leftovers. Right now Cord and I are sharing a box of vegetable fried rice, sloppily pinching the rice granules between our trembling chopsticks.
“All right, so we know who Bess—Elizabeth—is, but this Victoria? Where'd she come from?” Cord asks, slurring the words. She downs the rest of her glass of wine and cradles her head on the round, heavy table that we found at a local antique shop. The books I borrowed from the library are scattered between us. We pored through them, searching for any mention of a Victoria, but aside from paragraphs about the English queen—no luck.
“Was she Elizabeth's friend, neighbor?” Cordelia's sleepy eyes lift, and she catches my gaze meaningfully before adding, in a low voice, “Lover?”
I draw in a deep breath and shake my head. “I'd be lying if I said that thought hadn't occurred to me. But I'm kind of biased...and we don't have proof of anything. All I know is that the placard at the library by Elizabeth's drawing read Victoria Richards. And the woman in that drawing is the same woman in the drawings by my bed—Elizabeth's bed.” I pause, considering. “You never to
ok Jack to the library here, right?”
Cordelia shakes her head.
“So he couldn't have known the ghost's name was Victoria just by seeing her. She really must have spoken to him, told him who she was. There's some connection between Elizabeth's ghost and Victoria's... There has to be. But what? Do you think Jack might know?”
“I'm almost afraid to ask him.” My sister sits up and offers me a tired, watery smile. “For all of my fascination with the paranormal, Alex, I'm kind of freaked out to discover that this stuff is real. I mean, I believed Jack had talked with Dad's ghost...but I haven't ever seen Dad's ghost. Now that I've seen Victoria—God, it's like I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know if I should be excited or terrified. I don't know what any of it means.”
“Me, either.” I reach out and squeeze Cordelia's hand.
“Like, why did these people become ghosts? Are their spirits unable to find peace? Is Dad's spirit unable to find peace? Shouldn't he be with Mom somewhere, drinking scotch on the rocks on a fluffy white cloud?” A single tear leaks out of Cordelia's bright green eye. “Is there no peace for anyone?”
“Cord.” I squeeze her hand again. “Look, we aren't—I don't know—ghostbusters. Or psychics. Or parapsychologists. We need help. We need to find an expert, someone who can put all of this stuff into perspective.”
She laughs softly. “Right. So who you gonna call?”
I return her wry smile, but then, all of the sudden, I remember something Trudy said to me at the coffee shop: I'm an amateur ghost hunter. Granted, she may have been kidding. Or exaggerating. Or even showing off. But, hey, it's worth a shot. Plus, this gives me a solid excuse to talk to her again, without coming off as, well, lovesick.
Which, yeah, I kind of am.
God, I had no intention of falling for a woman in Niagara Falls.
Of course, I had no intention of buying a haunted house, either.
Ever since I arrived in town, my life has felt haywire, out of control. Marie from Rainbow Realty tried to convince me that I had come here for a reason, and Trudy, more or less, said the same thing. But is that reason a good reason? Was I wrong to take this detour from my rootless life?
Cross My Heart Page 7
