Cross My Heart

by Natalie Vivien

  Maybe some squatters snuck into the house during its vacancy and shoved the letter into the shell—as an earnest gesture or as a joke. There's no question that the letter is old, but how old? I don't know, can't know... I don't even know if it was ever read by its intended recipient.

  Still, I tell Cordelia, “Yeah. I think Victoria wrote this letter to Bess. And...yeah, I think they were in love.” A rush of cold air blasts around the room after I pronounce the word love, and Cordelia stands up, startled.

  “Did you feel that?” she asks, looking toward every corner of the room. “Do you think—”

  “It's Elizabeth.” My voice is low, husky. I gaze down at my nearly finished plate of pancakes and swallow. “Maybe she was here all along.”

  “Listening?” Cordelia cringes.

  “Well, what else does she have to do?” I smile slightly as a cool gust grazes against my cheek, causing my hair to lift from my neck. “All she can do is listen. And wait.”

  “Wait for what? You're creeping me out, Alex.”

  “I'm creeping myself out.”

  “Okay, I have an idea.” Seating herself back in the chair, Cordelia wraps her arms around her knees and leans forward, staring hard into my eyes. “Now, don't say no right away. Think about it first.” She draws in a deep breath. “How about a séance?”

  “A séance? You think we should—”

  “Yeah! I mean, no, the thought terrifies me. Deeply. But think about it. These ghosts seem to have trouble communicating with us. Understandable, considering they're inhabiting the ethereal plane. Or the spirit world. Whatever. They're...elsewhere.

  “But a séance would make it easier for them, wouldn't it? Bridge the gap? That way, through a medium, they could tell us what we need to do, how we can help them—”

  “I don't know.” My stomach twists into a series of knots, but another gust brushes over my face, my mouth, as gentle and lingering as a lover's kiss. God, does Elizabeth want us to have a séance? Do people even do séances anymore? How am I supposed to arrange one? Why am I even considering this?

  But I know why, have known for some time now.

  Elizabeth and Victoria are lost, or trapped, or suffering, and if we don't help them, they'll stay that way—possibly forever. I can't imagine what it's like to be in their place, but I do know what it's like to feel soul-searing grief, to feel such deep anguish that you don't know if you'll survive it, don't know if you want to survive it.

  They're in torment, Elizabeth and Victoria both, and it would be too cruel to ignore that pain. It would be unforgivable.

  I would never forgive myself if I abandoned them now.

  They trusted us enough to reach out, to expose their vulnerabilities; the least we can do is attempt to ease their suffering. And if our trying involves holding a séance in the living room, I guess I'd better start searching eBay for a crystal ball.

  - - -

  “You're wet.”

  “It's raining. And we took Jack on the Maid of the Mist.”

  “His first time?”

  I nod, shaking off my umbrella and handing it to Trudy, who tosses it into the hallway closet with a lazy smile. “Seems like the boat got closer to the falls when I was a kid—” I begin, but then Trudy's kissing me, pressing me hard against the art nouveau-style mirror attached to the hot pink-painted wall. My mouth is wet from the mist and the rain, and soon Trudy's mouth is wet, too, as she licks my neck, nips at my ears...

  “I didn't mean to interrupt you, tiger, but we're short on time.” She unsnaps my henley and kisses the rise of my breasts.

  “Short on time?” I ask her, breathing hard.

  “The gang's coming over.”

  “You mean—”

  The ding of the doorbell cuts me off and causes Trudy to groan, her forehead falling softly against mine. “I told them seven-o'clock,” she whispers. “It's six-o'clock. I'm sorry, Alex. It's just—they really wanted to give you their reports in person, so...” She swings open the door—and gapes. “Oh. Hi, Ruby. Where are the others?”

  “They aren't coming,” Ruby says, shoving past Trudy and moving into the apartment, while, frowning, I begin to snap up my shirt. “Were you two in the middle of something? Comparing...notes?”

  Trudy huffs. “If you're only here to make snide remarks—”

  “I'm here to drop off these.” She flings a pile of folders onto a side table and angles me a sinister stare. But after a moment, she deflates: her shoulders sink, and she shrinks by about an inch, raking a hand through her spiky white hair. “Okay, look. I...I came here to fight.”

  “To fight?” Trudy's jaw drops. “Seriously? What—”

  “Tru, I came here because I'm upset. Because I miss you. Because I thought I could win you back. But the fact is...” Her face crumples. “I know I just need to let you go.”

  “Ruby...”

  “I've known you for years, Tru, and I've never seen you as happy as you've been since you met Alex. God, it guts me. But I love you, and I can't ask you to give this up. That would be...wrong. Damn it.” She smiles sadly, glancing between us. “Problem is, you don't look at me like you look at her. Never have.”

  Trudy, pale and shocked, places a hesitant hand on Ruby's shoulder. “Honey. Come on. Sit down, and we can—”

  “No. I'll be okay. Honestly. I guess I never realized how much I—you know, I try to act all tough, but—oh, never mind.” She swipes a hand across her eyes and shakes her head, squaring her shoulders. “I knew it was over when we went to the Manic Pixie Nightmare Girls show. You used to hang all over me, and suddenly it was like you wouldn't even touch me. You apologized when our shoulders bumped together, for God's sake.”

  She shoves her hands into her jeans pockets, sullen. “I only have myself to blame. I didn't try hard enough. I didn't ever let you in, not really. But even if I had, I think... I think you two would have found each other in the end.”

  Trudy exhales a shaky breath. Then she casts me a knowing glance and a soft, trembling smile. “I think we would have, too,” she agrees, reaching for my hand, entwining her fingers with mine.

  “Yeah.” Ruby ducks her head, staring down at her thick-heeled boots. “So...those're the reports. I sent you the email from the group address. Sorry. Don't blame them. Anyway, I should go.”

  “Wait.” Still gripping my hand, Trudy grabs Ruby's jacket lapel and draws her toward her, says, “You can't just go. Not after everything we've been through together.” She lowers her voice, and there's a catch in her throat when she says, “All love stories should end with a kiss.”

  Then Trudy stands on her tiptoes and touches her lips to Ruby's lips—lightly, lingeringly—and I watch as a single tear slips from the corner of Ruby's eye. “You'll always be here,” Trudy tells her, drawing back and pressing a fist to her heart.

  Ruby copies the gesture, though her fist looks tighter, and she pounds it hard against her chest, too hard. ”Take care of her, Alex,” she forces out, before spinning around and crossing the threshold, closing the door behind her with a bone-rattling slam.

  “Oh, my God.” Trudy sinks against me; I catch her, holding her up and guiding her toward the black velvet living room sofa. “Oh, my God. I'm so sorry, Alex. I just—I didn't expect that. Ruby and I have been drifting apart for months, long before I met you. But we kept having sex because—well, we both love sex. And we see each other all the time because of our Ghost Team work. We called one another FWBs. I had no idea that she felt—I mean, I would have never—oh, that was awful. I'm so sorry.” She sinks down onto the couch, cradling her blonde head in her hands.

  “Don't apologize.” I sit down beside her and sling my arm around her shoulders; she buries her face against my neck, crying quietly.

  “But I never wanted you to see me like this—”

  “How? Crying?”

  “Weak.”

  “Trudy.” I brush her hair back from her forehead, and she looks up at me, her blue-violet eyes wide, endearing, smeared with sparkly ey
eshadow and mascara. Her hair is drawn into a side ponytail with a ringlet curl at the end, and she's wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with a purple-and-white polka dotted blouse. She looks adorable, beautiful, sad; my heart aches to look at her, and it aches not to look at her.

  Oh, my God...

  Is this love? My sister described love to me once as “an addiction, without the guilt.” And I can admit, without qualms, that I'm addicted to Trudy Strange: her coyness and her sweetness, her compassion—and her passion. She's the most incredible woman I've ever known. Watching her kiss Ruby sliced me open... I realized in that moment that I can never go back to who I was before Niagara Falls. I can never be that Alex again; it would be an act, a sham. Some things are irreversible.

  Like death.

  Like...love.

  I remember the anguished expression on Victoria's face, on Elizabeth's face. I don't know what happened between them, but I do know that they are pining, long after death, for something they lost. They have no peace; they can't escape the pain, can't rest. I've been stuck in a similar loop ever since my parents died. The only relief I've been able to find has been through casual, detached sex with strangers and friends—but that peace fades quickly, too quickly. To be honest, I'm surprised I haven't taken up drinking or smoking or any number of bad habits to fill the void. I'm sure I would have, given time.

  With Trudy, though, I step out of myself; I forget my personal tragedies and wake up to the present moment. I only need to hear her voice, see her smile, feel her hand in mine, and my mourning veil falls away. The world looks brighter in her company. I feel brighter, alive—and real.

  I clear my throat and catch a tear coursing from Trudy's eye on my fingertip, watch the way it reflects the light. Then I draw in a deep, quavery breath. “Trudy, if we're going to do this—really do this—we're going to have to get comfortable with...being uncomfortable with each other. It might be hard. We might mess up. Relationships are messy.” I offer her a slanted smile. “Or...so I've heard.”

  She laughs. “Pathetic, isn't it, being relationship virgins at our age?”

  “You forget,” I whisper, leaning forward to brush my lips against her ear, smiling at the sight of her cupcake-shaped earring. “We've been dating since we were fourteen. Call me corny, but maybe we were both just waiting—”

  “—for you to buy a haunted house and stumble up to my reference desk?” I feel her mouth curve against my cheek. “But, sure, I'll buy that, Corny. Hell, I'll build a hotel on that.”

  “What, is that Monopoly humor?” I laugh, pulling back to gaze at her with a raised brow.

  She tilts her head and pretends to be bashful. “Okay, confession: I'm a Monopoly freak. Sorry. Maybe I should've mentioned that up front.” She shrugs, casting me a coy, hooded glance. “I'm always the Scottie dog. And I always win.”

  “That sounds like a challenge, Ms. Strange.”

  “It is a challenge, Ms. Dark. But let's save the games for later. First...” She turns slightly and scoots onto my lap, sliding a hand beneath my shirt. “Let's give this relationship thing a go. Starting with the fun part. What do you say, Alex? Do you wanna get messy with me?”

  “Well,” I sigh, in a mock-bored tone, “I guess we've got to start somewhere...”

  “It is ever so tiresome, isn't it?”

  “Nice English accent.”

  “Thanks, mate. But my French accent is even better,” she grins, pulling me toward her for a never-ending, never-long-enough kiss.

  - - -

  “...five, six, seven, eight! Ah, looks like you landed on my Boardwalk, tiger.” Trudy, lying naked on the bed, holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers. “You owe me two-thousand smackers. Pay up or put out.”

  “Can't I do both?” I pause in counting my Monopoly dollars to cover Trudy's nipple with my mouth, biting her gently. Then, grinning, I hand over a wad of pastel cash.

  “Player,” she laughs. “I like your style.” She begins to place my money onto her neatly arranged, very thick, piles. She's beating me by a landslide. I haven't even bought a house yet, let alone a hotel...

  “You know,” she says, picking up the pair of dice and rattling them in her hand with a faraway look, “no one ever wants to play Monopoly with me. Ruby thought it was boring. All of my librarian friends would rather play Trivial Pursuit. But I've loved this game since I was a kid. Truman and I used to play it on the coffee table in our living room.” She smiles to herself, blue-violet eyes fixed on some long-past point in time. “We laughed ourselves silly making up crazy rules, or going around the board backwards, or stealing money from the bank. Those are some of my fondest memories of him.”

  She rolls onto her back then, toppling all of the houses and hotels, and reaches up to tug on my hair. “Have to admit—I've never played Monopoly with a naked woman before.”

  “Neither have I.” I grin, lowering myself to fit my curves over hers. My heart flutters as my skin connects with her warmth, her softness, as my mouth kisses her mouth and her leg moves between mine.

  “I think it's exactly what the game was missing. Adds a certain je ne sais quoi, no?”

  “Oui,” I chuckle, and then kiss her deeply, heedless of the scattered game pieces and the paper money drifting onto the floor.

  It's nearly ten; we made love in Trudy's living room...and then on the kitchen floor after dinner. I told Trudy about the scroll that I found, about my belief that Elizabeth and Victoria were lovers. Then we started to watch an episode of Ghost Adventures, but Trudy pretended to hear a “spooky voice” in the bedroom to lure me in there and have her way with me. Not that I offered up any objections...

  And now, post-sex, we're playing Monopoly—or...we were. God, I should be exhausted by now—sore, sleepy, spent—but I seem to have an endless supply of energy where Trudy's concerned. She crouches over me now, blonde waves tickling my face, and licks my neck, laughing when she finds the top hat game piece tangled in my hair.

  And then my cell phone rings. Cordelia's ringtone. She knows I'm on a date with Trudy; she wouldn't call unless she had to, unless something big had happened. Anxiety seizes my gut as I reach for my phone, lying nearby on the bedside table.

  I glance at Trudy apologetically. “Sorry. It's my sister.”

  “Answer, answer.” She kisses my shoulder and rises from the bed with a luxuriant stretch; then she steps into the adjoining bathroom and closes the door.

  “What's up, Cord?” I sigh into the phone. “Something wrong?”

  “Um.” On the other end of the line, Cordelia draws in a deep breath. “I don't know if I'd use the word 'wrong,' but...I'm kind of freaked out and would rather not be here without you right now. Do you think you could—”

  “Sure.” I glance toward the bathroom door regretfully. Trudy had asked me to stay the night; I was going to text Cordelia to tell her not to wait up for me. But my big sister sounds scared, really scared, so I start to dress, sliding my shirt over my head and searching the room for my carelessly flung panties. “I'll be there soon. I'll have to call a cab. Maybe half an hour?”

  “Half an hour,” Cordelia repeats, voice shaking. She sounds quiet and small, like a frightened little girl. My heartbeat quickens, and I feel nervous, lightheaded.

  “Cord, are you okay? Are you or Jack in danger? What's—”

  “No, no, we're fine. Only, you know,” she laughs hoarsely, “living in a house haunted by a lively trio of ghosts. Kind of hard to convince yourself that there isn't something under the bed when—”

  “Wait.” I pause, one leg jammed into my khakis; I fall back onto the bed, mouth hanging open as I stare at the lavender wall. “What do you mean, three ghosts?” A chill rakes over me, and goosebumps pucker my skin. “There are only two—”

  “Well, now there are three. Elizabeth, Victoria, and—according to Jack—a tall, dark, and handsome fellow named Xavier. Well, tall, dark, handsome, and creepy. I guess some girls are into that, but I'm not, and when I saw his face in the mirror, I had ha
lf a heart attack. I'll probably have the other half waiting for you to come home.”

  “Oh, my God... Okay, I'm on my way. Wait outside if you have to. Love you!” I drop my phone in my pocket, look down at myself to make sure I'm fully dressed—shirt, pants, socks, shoes—and then knock hurriedly on the bathroom door. “Trudy? I'm so sorry, but I've got to go. A third ghost appeared at the house tonight, a man this time, and Cordelia's afraid. Do you want to come with me and—”

  “Just let me grab my jumpsuit and my stuff!” she says, opening the door and eagerly racing for her closet. “Another ghost? What are we dealing with here? The Hellmouth?”

  I grimace. “I hope not. I'm no vampire slayer.”

  “Of course you aren't.” She scoffs as she rifles through filmy blouses and colorful dresses, finally finding her jumpsuit and drawing it out. “Vampires are a myth. Zombies, on the other hand—oh, could you hand me my bra? It's right there, draped over the lampshade.”

  I dangle her lacy lingerie on my finger, and Trudy kisses my hand, knight-in-shining-armor-style, before taking the bra from me and putting it on. “Thanks.” With lightning speed, she slides on a new pair of underwear—embroidered with her name on the beribboned waistband—and then she steps into her jumpsuit and zips it up. “All set.”

  “I'll call a cab—”

  “No need. I've got wheels, tiger. C'mon. Let me chauffeur you—but I do expect a tip.” She smiles, wrapping her arms around my waist and drawing me tight against her. “And by tip, I mean Monopoly sex—just to be clear.”

  “Got it.”

  After Trudy puts on her boots and grabs her ghost-hunting kit, she leads me out of the apartment, to the complex's rain-slick parking lot, where her car, a toy-like aqua blue Aveo, awaits. Its bumper is plastered with stickers, but I can only make out a few of them in the dark: Lesbrarian; Librarians do it between the covers; Reading is sexy; and Have a nice gay!

  “This is the cutest car I've ever seen.” I stand behind it, gaping.

  “Her name's Scylla.”