Cross My Heart

by Natalie Vivien

  Never again, no matter how hard she wishes for it?

  Just like I'll never see my father, my mother again—

  Tears sting my eyes.

  God...

  I press the palms of my hands against my eyelids, as if to push the tears away. But they come; they always come when my thoughts turn to my parents, and my parents' accident. Years have passed, so many years, but the weight of their loss still hits me when I'm least expecting it, hits me so hard in the chest that it steals my breath, knocks the wind right out of me.

  My sister and I used to sneak out of our house at night to go to this ruined playground a couple of blocks away: broken slides, see-saws split down the middle. But there was one intact swing, the kind suspended on chains with a narrow rubber seat. So we'd take turns on the swing, pushing one another recklessly high, pointing our toes toward the dim scattering of stars.

  And then, when the swing got as high as it could go, we dared each other to jump off into the air. Cordelia—always more agile and athletic than me—landed on her feet, like a cat. Every time I jumped, though, I smacked the dusty ground so hard that all of the oxygen was pushed out of my lungs. For seconds, I couldn't breathe, could only lie there, gasping. I didn't want my big sister to think I was a weakling, so I never turned down her dares. But my blood pressure rises even now, reliving the sensation of sailing out against the sky, dreading the inevitable thwack against the earth.

  The day that my parents died, I felt, again, like that little girl who leapt: unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to be. Helpless. Adrift.

  Throughout the funeral, I kept picturing myself jumping off of the swing and falling, falling, falling, never knowing when the impact would come, never knowing when the pain would climax, or ease, or end.

  It still hasn't ended.

  Because I feel that way all over again in moments like these, when I remember how my father's stubbly chin felt beneath my fingertips. When I remember the way that my good-humored mother used to say treasure in a faux French accent: tres-zure! When I remember how much life they both had in them, how much life was burned up, senselessly, that day...

  I fist the tears from my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, resting my hands on my knees.

  Calm down, Alex.

  I'll never get over losing them. Maybe I'm not supposed to.

  I can only hope that they, unlike Elizabeth, unlike Victoria, are at peace—and together. They have to be together.

  Please let them be together...

  I pause, and my eyes widen then, wondering.

  Is that what Elizabeth and Victoria want? To be together?

  My phone startles me from my thoughts, ringing on top of the suitcase that I've been using as a bedside table. I glance at the screen, register the number with some surprise.

  Lucia.

  Lucia? Why would she be calling me?

  I temple my hands beneath my chin for a moment, considering whether or not to answer. I'm not feeling up to a conversation. But maybe this is important. She's probably calling from Cairo, after all...

  “Lu?” I croak into the receiver, then clear my throat. “Hey. What's up?”

  “Oh, it's... Wow. It's you. Your voice, Alex. Did I ever tell you that you have the sexiest voice? If I didn't, I'm telling you now. You have the sexiest voice.”

  Despite the tears pooled at the corners of my eyes, I laugh softly, shaking my head even as I wipe my damp cheeks with the back of my hand. “Don't tell me you called just to hear my voice. I know you aren't that sentimental, Lu.”

  “No, no. I—well, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Uh-oh. The last time you said that, you tied me to the tent poles...”

  “Mm, that's right.” She chuckles, her voice velvety smooth. Lucia is Italian, born in Venice to a gondolier, and her melodic accent never fails to thrill me. My heart skips a beat; I lick my lips, sinking back against my pillow.

  “If I recall correctly,” she says, “you quite enjoyed being tied to the tent poles, Alex.”

  A blush creeps over my chest, my face, as I switch the phone to my other ear and stand up, walking over to the vanity mirror. I'm red all over, and my sore eyes are saucer-wide. Somehow, it feels wrong to flirt with Lucia, if only over the telephone, when—

  When what?

  Trudy and I aren't exclusive. We haven't even exchanged phone numbers. I don't know where she lives, how she lives. I don't know her background, her belief system, her political views, whether she's a cat person or a dog person, her favorite ice cream flavor.

  Still...

  “So, what's the proposition?” I prompt Lucia matter-of-factly, raking a hand back through my messy curls with a shaky sigh.

  “Ah, all business, are we?” I wince, detecting the disappointment in Lucia's tone. But she pauses for only a moment before saying, in her natural, nonchalant way, “Well, okay. Here's the thing. I've been contracted by that team in Mexico City, like I told you, and since I've got to book a connecting flight, anyway, I wondered if you'd mind a visit before I head out to the excavation site. Say, in two weeks? I could fly in to Buffalo, see your house, see you...” She trails off suggestively. “You know, for old times' sake.”

  “Old times? We haven't been apart that long, Lucia,” I laugh softly, nervously, though my pulse is pounding.

  “It's a figure of speech. What, are you stalling?” Lucia is nothing if not observant. That's what makes her great at her job—and amazing in bed. I glance over at my bed now and imagine Lucia there; my heartbeat quickens even as my stomach twists uneasily. “If you don't want me to come, Alex, just say so. We're both adults, yes? There's no sense in playing games with one another. I only thought—”

  “Sorry, sorry. Of course I want to see you, Lu.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, and I grimace at my reflection, inwardly cursing. What am I saying? Then again... My brain makes some hasty calculations. Two weeks from now, Cordelia and Jack will be back home in Toronto. And maybe Trudy will have tired of me, grown bored of my face, of my ghosts...

  The thought makes my heart contract in my chest.

  I draw in a deep breath, take a moment to reorient my thoughts—and summon some courage. “It's just...”

  “Oh, God. What's wrong?”

  “Okay.” I force out a laugh, lower my voice. “I should warn you. You might be disappointed by my place. It has all the modern conveniences now—electricity, plumbing. It's practically a hotel.”

  “Well, we could always camp out in the backyard, right? Share a tent?”

  “Mm.” I swallow.

  “Besides, I won't mind some pampering before the dig. It's an all-male crew, aside from me.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I know. Imagine the state of those toilets. Anyway,” she purrs, voice honeyed, husky, “What do you say? I'm looking forward a rendezvous.”

  I sit back down on my mattress, folding my legs beneath me, eyes lingering on a portrait of Victoria Richards and the roughly sketched waterfall crashing behind her back. I wonder, abstractly, whether Elizabeth or Victoria is in the room with me now, invisible and listening to my conversation. If I were a ghost, I would take full advantage of every eavesdropping opportunity, but those proper Victorian ladies may have shinier morals than I do.

  Suddenly, a flicker of light winks in my peripheral vision. I glance toward the vanity, and an orb, like the one I saw on my first night in the house, streaks out of the mirror and shoots through the window.

  I'm too startled to react, and Lucia is still speaking: “...you know, I haven't seen the falls, so I'm counting on you to show me...all of the sights.”

  Heart beating fast, I force myself to ignore the orb, to focus, instead, on the conversation. I need to stay focused, because when Lucia says all of the sights, I know full well that she isn't referring to Niagara Falls—or any of its associated tourist traps. Her tone, as always, drips with sex—the taste of it, the scent of it; I feel undressed, licked by her voice alone. A shiver courses through my body—a
long with the remnants of fear—as I bite my lower lip and exhale a shaky breath.

  Then I say, all in a rush, “I've met someone.”

  “You—what?” She laughs curtly. “You met someone. Well, what do you mean? A female someone?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I see...” Lucia pauses, considering. “Hey, I'm up for it. The more the merrier.”

  “No.” My face flushes. “No, no, I mean... I'm sorry, Lu. This is... This is different. I think.”

  “Different,” she repeats, her tone dull, flat. “Different from me, you mean.”

  “Different from...from everyone.” As the words leave my mouth, I feel the truth of them reverberate. Trudy is different. She's different than anyone, everyone, I've ever known. And I feel different when I'm with her.

  I feel better.

  “Have to admit, Alex, you've caught me off guard. I never suspected that you, of all people—”

  “Me, neither.”

  “Well, congratulations. I guess.” She exhales a heavy sigh. “You're a fast one, aren't you? Oh, I'm being awful. No, really, I'm happy for you. I'm unhappy for me. Thought we'd have one last lusty week together... God, you're a great kisser. Did I ever tell you that? When you kiss me, I feel it all the way down to my—”

  “Lu—”

  “Right. Well, ciao. I promised to help Giorgio clean up the common area; it's littered with beetle shells. Another infestation. Gross. But pretty. Um... Keep in touch? No, that's stupid. We won't keep in touch. Have a nice life. And, really, I am happy for you.”

  “Thanks. Ciao, Lu.” After I hang up, I cradle my cell phone in my hand for several minutes, staring at the dark screen, listening to the blood pound in my ears, my eyes restlessly darting between the mirror and the window. I should have been excited about a visit from Lucia. I should have started making plans, gathering, ahem, accoutrements for our nights together...

  But, instead, I just felt a cold kind of dread. I didn't only feel as if I would be betraying Trudy.

  I felt as if I'd be betraying myself.

  I shake my head, simultaneously irritated and confused.

  To work off my frustration and try to forget the phone call and the supernatural sighting in my room, I pass a couple of hours polishing the upstairs floors. The hardwood gleams like dark amber when I'm finished. Confusion sucks, but it's an excellent motivator. And all of that hard work tires me out. When I collapse into bed in the wee hours of the morning, tossing my library books to the floor, I fall asleep instantly, into looping dreams of Victoria—always reaching, whispering, her dress whipping around her ankles as the spray from the falls dampens her tear-stained face...

  Chapter Six

  I frown at the small black box positioned in the middle of my entryway floor. It's square and unmarked, and it's emitting steady white noise, like radio static, so I can hardly hear what Trudy and her fellow Ghost Team members are murmuring to one another. The four of them stand gathered a few feet away from my sister and me, heads bowed together, foreheads wrinkled in concentration. When I strain my ears, I catch some words here and there: EVP, poltergeist, residual haunting...

  A disbelieving smile forms on my lips as I consider how unlikely all of this is. I feel as if I've wandered onto a movie set—well, not the set of a horror movie, really, but of a horror movie spoof, because, in those hot pink jumpsuits, it's kind of hard to take the Ghost Team seriously. They look like a tribute to the '80s: all they need is poofier hair and some glam rock makeup to complete the look.

  Trudy, though...

  Hot pink is unquestionably her color.

  And though she's engaged in earnest conversation with her fellow teammates, she sneaks conspiratorial glances at me: a smirk, a wink, an appreciative appraisal. And her fingers keep toying with the zipper of her jumpsuit, tugging it down and then back up, exposing more cleavage than is publicly appropriate—before sealing the creamy pink skin away again.

  I lick my lips and distract myself with thoughts of ice cubes, icebergs, ice cream headaches...while, by my side, Cordelia casts me a knowing look and mouths, Nice friend.

  “So, Alex,” begins the man Trudy introduced as Igor. He looks like an Igor, frankly, with bushy black brows and a drooping mouth, as if he's in a constant state of disapproval. He's the loudest of the ghost-hunting group, the most intimidating, unapologetically unfriendly. When we first met ten minutes ago, he refused to shake my hand. Maybe it's a germ phobia thing, but I got the feeling that he just doesn't like me. And, if so, the feeling is mutual.

  “Describe the manifestations you've experienced,” he says in a bored, authoritative tone. “And use the four-S guideline: sight, smell, sound, sensation.”

  The dark-haired, middle-aged woman standing to Igor's right—Marisol—places a hand on his shoulder; he shrugs it off and steps away from her, scowling. “Oh, Igor.” Marisol smiles indulgently, almost fondly, at him. Then she bends down to turn off the static-emitting box and focuses her attention on me. “What Igor means, Ms. Dark, is we'd like an account of how the ghosts looked, whether there was any change in temperature during their appearances, and if they spoke to you, made any sounds at all. We've heard Trudy's account of the staircase ghost already. Now we'd like to hear your side of things.”

  “Oh, okay.” I glance at Trudy uncertainly. She offers me a warm smile and a nod of her blonde head, encouraging me to speak. I clear my throat, summoning up the memory of the two apparitions. “Well, the ghosts were like mist...kind of...and light,” I begin haltingly. “But they had shape. They were definitely, um, woman-shaped.” I meet Trudy's gaze, and her lips curve up into a flirtatious smile. She's wearing shiny pink lip gloss and a sparkly pink eyeshadow that emphasizes her blue-violet eyes.

  “Go on,” Igor mutters, impatient.

  “Right.” I bite my lip, shake my head. “I recognized one of the ghosts,” I say, looking up toward the stained glass window and indicating it with my chin. “Elizabeth Patton. Former resident. She looked the same as she does in that window up there—same age, same hairstyle, long dress. Only she was less colorful and more...” I smile weakly. “Ghost-like, I guess. Floating right above the stairs.”

  “And the other sighting?” This prompt comes from Ruby—Ruby, as in, Trudy's friend-with-benefits Ruby.

  Granted, Trudy might know more than one woman named Ruby, but the Ruby standing before me is undoubtedly queer. Aside from her gaydar-activating aura, the Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians button pinned to her jumpsuit kind of clued me in. Her bleached white hair is short, almost a buzz cut, and her eyes are shockingly green—too green, lime green. Contacts, maybe. She has a long, lean, lanky silhouette, similar to—I'm chagrined to note—my body type.

  Yeah. So Trudy has a type.

  I thought I had a type, too...until I met her.

  God, am I jealous?

  Ruby's staring at me, her strange eyes narrowed, a frown downturning her lips, and she grips a little notepad in her hands, pencil poised, awaiting my response. Has Trudy told her about me? Does she know that Trudy and I—

  “Alex?” Trudy watches me curiously, confused, I assume, by my silence. “Anything wrong? Do you want to take a break? We could—”

  “No, sorry.” I cross my arms, exhale a small sigh, and look to Marisol, avoiding Ruby's—and Trudy's—gazes. “The other sighting took place outside, in the backyard. I wasn't the only witness. My sister”—I nod to Cordelia—“and her son Jack were there, too. They saw the ghost before I did, actually.”

  “And where is Jack?” Ruby asks, trailing her green gaze along the steps, as if she suspects we've tucked him away upstairs.

  And, in fact, we have. Jack is playing in the middle bedroom with the junior archaeologist kit that I bought him this morning from the Boulevard Mall. The box promised “hours of fun,” so Cordelia and I are hoping that the indoor projects will keep him busy for as long as the Ghost Team is here. We discussed it, and neither of us feels comfortable with exposing him to paranormal questionin
g. We're still coming to terms with his I-see (and speak to)-dead-people revelations, after all.

  “He won't be joining us tonight.” I meet Ruby's probing gaze and hold it; after a long, tense moment, she glances away. “But I'd be happy to take you out to the backyard, and Cordelia and I can show you where the ghost appeared.”

  “Well,” Trudy says quickly, gesturing to her cat-face wristwatch, “we've got to move things along. It's already seven-thirty, and Marisol has to be home with her kids by ten. Igor, Marisol, Ruby—why don't the three of you and Cordelia go out into the backyard? Record her experience, and I'll start setting up in here with Alex. Igor, install a camera on the exterior of the house. Marisol, run a couple of EVP sessions—”

  “And what should I do, Trudy, while you're”—Ruby slides her gaze over me, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly—“setting up?” She over-enunciates the final two words, making it crystal-clear that by “setting up” she means...something else. Though she pastes on a small smile, it looks grotesque, unsettling, in contrast to her glowering gaze.

  “Oh, the usual.” Trudy regards Ruby with a calm, natural curve to her lips, tilting her blonde head to one side. “Use your Spidey senses, Rube. See if anyone tries to get in touch with you.”

  “While you get in touch in here. Right?”

  Unflustered, Trudy ignores Ruby's insinuation and explains, for my and Cordelia's benefit, “Ruby's our team clairvoyant. She makes a living reading palms for the tourists. Unlike most of the mediums in Niagara Falls, though, Ruby's the real deal.”

  “Aw, shucks.” Ruby pretends to be flattered, but her expression gradually shifts, darkens, and I notice, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that her nails have been filed to sharp points. “Hey, maybe the sisters would like to have their palms read?” She directs the question to Cordelia and me, but her eyes are, uncomfortably, locked onto mine. “Free of charge.”

  Predictably, Cordelia's jaw drops. “Sure! Thanks! Oh, my God, I've always wanted to have my palm read. I went to a psychic fair once but chickened out at the last minute. How about you, Alex? You'll do it with me, won't you?”