Waking Anastasia

by Timothy Reynolds

  Another movement on the desk caught her eye. I’m not alone! She turned to examine the one-gallon fish tank and once again saw the beautiful, long-finned, red and purple fish, swimming alone, nibbling at something on the blue gravel that covered the bottom of the little enclosure. A quick glance in Jerry’s direction assured her that he still slept, and a silly, impish grin spread across her face as she closed her eyes and pushed her face through the glass, into the water beyond. When she opened her eyes, the little fish peered out at her from behind his miniature Greek ruins.

  She stared back at the little creature, then with a quick flick of his tail, he was out from behind the ruins with his fins flared, ready for a fight. She tried to blow bubbles at him but with no air to blow or solid body to do the blowing, she ended up just making a face at him. Nonplussed at the odd threat, the majestic little fighter swam in her nose and out through her left cheek, quite effectively calling her bluff. She blew him a kiss and left him to his meal.

  As she withdrew her face from the tank, a faint reflection of twinkling white lights caught her eye. She spun to find a Christmas tree standing tall in the corner of the flat. The beauty and care in its decoration were quickly apparent. As she walked over to it, she felt more and more solid with each step. And then she could hear her own footsteps. By the time she bent over to peer at her own distorted reflection in a giant red glass ball, Ana was as solid as the world around her.

  A gentle poke with her finger sent the ball swinging slowly on its metal hook and she smiled, delighted. She moved from one ornament to another, admiring the delicate glass balls and bells, what appeared to be slender crystal icicles, and tin ornaments similar in style and workmanship to those on her own simple trees over the years. These miniature train engines, soldiers, and sewing machines looked to be antiques, though, not new, like her own.

  “Curiouser and curiouser.” Ana’s voice, unheard for so long, was magnified in the darkness of the loft. She spun a pirouette of joy, muffled a giggle with her hand, tossed a wiggle and a wave at the privacy screen, and stopped suddenly. How she had missed it up to now she had no idea, but in one corner was an enormous, black mirror on a stand at waist level. Thinking it extremely odd and highly impractical, she moved around directly in front of it to see what kind of reflection she got in the silly thing.

  No! Her dress was riddled with holes and covered in blood! It was all true! In the darkness she thought she was having nightmares, but here was proof that they were memories. She had been murdered. She collapsed into a ball on the floor, her arms wrapped tight around herself, and for the first time since the killing ground of the basement of the cursed Ipatiev House, Anastasia Romanova wept tears of both heartache and fury.

  There were no gunshots or bayonet stabs or screams of her family and servants to deafen her here. There wasn’t even Jimmy, her beloved spaniel, his whimpers of confusion and fear cut short by a bullet as the hot, choking gunpowder smoke filled the tiny basement room. True loss finally came home to the young Grand Duchess, and her tears flowed in a torrent, only to fade to nothing as they ran off her face.

  Ana let the emotion rip through her and she faded, nearly slipping back into the book, but she held on. Although she drew no air, she took a deep breath and straightened. I am already dead, am I not? Which means that it cannot get any worse. And, if I must be somewhere other than with my family, this place is good. She squinted and dared to look again at her horrific reflection in the strange black mirror. She concentrated on the damage to her dress and imagined the holes being stitched up and the blood blown away by the wind. At first nothing happened, but after a moment she could see a slight change. She concentrated harder, and the holes slowly closed up and the blood stains faded.

  With that simple, monumental task achieved, Ana half-smiled, and returned to exploring the flat, though with a bit less bounce in her ghostly step.

  JERRY’S MIND FELT like it was wrapped in a huge woolen blanket. Everything was dull and fuzzy as the effects of the painkillers faded and soft morning light begged to be noticed. Between the wine, the scotch, and the meds, his memory of the previous evening was spotty at best. Then a soft female voice in his semi-dream gave him something to focus on. It was a sweet voice, with a British accent and a hint of something else, something Eastern European, maybe. He couldn’t remember any of the station’s staff having such a unique blend of voice so he tried to drift back toward deep slumber to find out who the dream girl was.

  “How are we feeling this morning, good sir?”

  Jerry’s eyes snapped open. He clumsily blinked off the sleep and found a young woman perched politely on the foot of his bed. He struggled to sit upright, the sheets and blanket confounding him for a moment.

  “What the hell?”

  She smiled politely, almost regally. “And a pleasant good morning to you, fine sir.”

  He blinked, shook his head free of a headache that wasn’t there, and then the memory found him. She was the ghost. “But last night, you couldn’t . . . you were . . . but . . .”

  “Now I can. Quite stránno, strange. Anastasia Romanova, at your service.” She made a little curtsy.

  Anastasia Romanova? There was a Russian princess in his apartment? Jerry reached for his dark green, terry robe draped over the chair beside the bed. The young Royal turned her head away out of politeness. Although he was wearing pajamas, Jerry still threw on the robe after tossing the covers aside and standing up.

  “Are you a—”

  “A ghost? That is the only conclusion I can reach, unless you have another suggestion we can entertain. I have put a lot of thought into it, and the possibilities are quite limited. Any suggestions, sir?”

  Holy shit, what was happening? Had he finally snapped? “No, nothing, Your Majesty.” He led the way out to the living room area. Still shaken, he looked over his shoulder to see if she was following, which she was.

  She smiled. “Officially, it is, or was, ‘Your Imperial Highness’, but among my dear friends I was Anastasia, Ana, or even, to those who dared, Shvibzik—‘Little Imp’.”

  Jerry wandered into the kitchen, sleep still clouding his eyes, and started the coffee maker with Colombian roast. This was no time for decaf. “‘Little Imp’?”

  “A nickname.”

  Jerry leaned back against the counter, waiting for the much-needed coffee. “Your English is excellent, for a Russian Princess.”

  Ana leaned forward, her elbows on the kitchen island. “My Great-Grandmother was Victoria, Queen of England. My mother insisted that we be fluent in both languages, in addition to French. Until our last few months, when our captors forbade it, Mother preferred to speak English with us in our own quarters. As for my title, I am, or was, in fact, a Grand Duchess, not a Princess. I have always thought of princesses more as characters from fairytales.”

  “Sorry. My Russian history is a bit weak, to say the least.” The single-serve coffee filled the cup behind him.

  “Please do not worry yourself over it, Jerry. I neither asked for the title, nor did I ever really enjoy using it except in play. Call me Ana, please. And you may not know Russia’s history, but I do not know Russia’s predstavit’—present—so we both have much to teach each other.”

  Jerry glanced at the wall clock. Eleven o’clock. “Sorry, but I have to be at work soon, Ana, so I’m afraid the lessons will have to wait. Make yourself at home. It’s been almost a hundred years since your . . . since you were . . . it’s a new millennium but ghosts still aren’t all that common. Matter of fact, you’re my first.”

  “It is my first time, too. What year is it, Jerry?” The sadness in her voice broke through Jerry’s confusion.

  “The year? Now? 2016.”

  “Twenty-sixteen? Two thousand and sixteen?” Her sadness became deep loss. Her entire demeanour deflated. Her shoulders sagged, her head hung down, and her clasped hands trembled.

  “I’m sorry, Ana. What I’m trying to say is that you might not want to let anyone else see you. Hell, I
don’t even know if anyone else can see you.”

  “I understand. I will remain here, Jerry. I have a great deal to think on. To the world it has been nearly a century since my family was murdered in cold blood, but for me it feels much more recent.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. How much do you remember?” He sipped his coffee, welcoming the heat as it pushed a little against the damp of Victoria’s winter. “I’m sorry. Would you like a cup?” He nodded at his own steaming cup.

  “No, thank you. I am not certain if I can.” She frowned, thinking about his question. “I remember quite a lot, but as a wise man once said, ‘I do not know how much I cannot remember.’” She leaned close, her voice lowering. “I am boyashchiysya—afraid—Jerry. I do not think I should be here. Why am I? Where am I?”

  “Where? That’s easy. Believe it or not, this is Victoria, British Columbia, Canada—the city named after your great-grandmother. As for ‘why’, I have no idea, but we’ll figure it all out. In the meantime, relax. You’re safe here—I live alone, except for the fish, Sushi.”

  “Sushi?” She said the name slowly, smiling. “Such a gentle, beautiful name.”

  Moving to the couch, Jerry picked up the remote control and turned on the television. “Maybe, but it means a Japanese rice dish often topped with raw fish.” The date, time, and channel appeared briefly on the flatscreen as it started up.

  Ana clapped her hands, excitedly. “So this is not a dark mirror after all!”

  “It’s a television. Sometimes the stuff on here is violent and depressing, but there are a few chuckles—laughs—to be had, too. Think of it as radio, with pictures.”

  “Or motion pictures with sound,” Ana added.

  “Exactly! This is the remote control.” He held it up for her to see. “These two buttons change the channels—there are over two hundred. The buttons are all labelled. Enjoy.”

  “I will.” She sat on the other end of the couch. “My sincere thanks, Jerry. Now, should you not be preparing to go to your workplace?”

  “Definitely.” He put the remote on the table in front of Ana and got up.

  “Jerry?

  “Yeah? Yes?”

  “S Roždestvom Khristovym! Merry Christmas.”

  Jerry was caught off guard, having forgotten what day it was. “Oh. Merry Christmas, Ana. How did you know?”

  “A little trick I learned from Grigori: ‘See everything. Miss nothing.’ When you turned on the telly-vision, the date appeared.”

  “Smart girl. Grigori?”

  “Grigori Rasputin—a monk who was trying to heal my brother. He, too, was murdered. Have you heard of Grigori?”

  He chuckled. “Definitely. He’s almost as famous as you are. They even have a song about him.”

  “A song about Grigori?”

  “I’ll see if I can track down a copy of it for you.”

  Ana smiled and Jerry saw the imp in her. “Yes, please. Now, go—you have responsibilities, and I need to rest again. I never thought a ghost could get tired, but I find that it is taking a great deal of strength just to speak and hear. Now that I know that there is more than the dark and shadows of the book, I am less afraid to return to it for short times.”

  “No problem. You rest and I’ll work. Merry Christmas, Anastasia—Shvibzik.”

  The young Grand Duchess giggled, and returned to the book, but not before she winked at her host.

  When she was gone, Jerry rubbed his eyes with both palms and then blinked to clear his head. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Chapter Eight

  @TheTaoOfJerr: “Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up.”

  ~Hans Christian Andersen

  HIS FIRST SHORT day of actually tackling some of his new Station Manager duties went smoothly, in Jerry’s humble opinion. Being Christmas Day there was only a skeleton crew working—the current on-air personality, the producer, the security guard, and one or two others who dropped in briefly to wish the on-duty staff a Merry Christmas. Jerry was able to relax and take his time to discover some of the subtle differences between British Columbia advertising regulations and the ones he was accustomed to back in Ontario, as well as getting a better handle on his new staff, their duties, and their skills.

  His email in-box held pass-codes and H/R file locations from Manny, so Jerry took some time to appreciate both the depth and the talent of his new radio family. He was impressed. As he’d seen at his party, Manny had hired some really off-the-wall characters, but now that Jerry could peruse their resumes and accomplishments, he saw that Manny knew exactly what he had in each one of them. Yes, Jerry was definitely impressed. Unfortunately, it probably took him twice as long as it should have to get through the files because he kept getting distracted by thoughts of the strange, ghostly girl back in the loft. He wasted nearly an hour researching Anastasia and her life and family on the web, and emailing the results to his personal email account for later perusal.

  There was no shortage of theories, both political and social, of what had happened to Ana and her family, but at least now he was pretty sure he could put to rest all of the stories of her survival and later life. If he was going to believe in a ghost, he might as well believe that she was Anastasia Romanova. Once the first big stretch was made, a second one seemed so easy. “Of course I could get home and discover that it was all a delusion brought on by last night’s alcohol and pain meds, which would really suck.”

  A soft beep came from the clock on the wall and Jerry looked up to see that it was already six o’clock. The time had floated by, its passing unnoticed. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, shot back the last of the lukewarm herbal tea at the bottom of his new CKVB mug, winced at the bitterness, then stretched his neck left and right and in slow circles in both directions to get the kinks out. He logged off his computer, and while it was shutting down, he changed his voicemail message.

  He was tired, but happy, and it took very little effort to put energy into his voice. “Feliz Navidad, you’ve reached Jerry Powell at CKVB, I’ll be back at the station at noon on the 26th. Please leave a message at whatever sound you hear after my voice, and I’ll get back to you when I return to the office. Ciao for now.” He pressed the buttons to save and set the message. “Good enough.”

  He grabbed his duffel coat off the hook behind the door and turned off the lights, but before he could close the office door, the Account Manager, Lee-Anne, seemed to appear out of nowhere, dressed in a long, tight, red, curve-announcing cashmere sweater, and black yoga tights, her own jacket draped over her shoulder. She moved in close, in what Jerry now thought of as “full-flirt mode”.

  “Jerry, how’s your headache, hon? I never did finish the neck rub I started last night. What do you say? In your office?”

  “Lee-Anne, hon, my headache is long gone, but thanks for the offer.” Politely squeezing past her, Jerry shut his door and started down the hall, shouldering his way into his coat as he went. “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of letting one of my headaches keep you from getting home to Tom and the kids, especially on Christmas.”

  Lee-Anne followed at his side, making it a tight fit in the hall. She brushed her long, impossibly silky hair back over her shoulder. “Oh, they’re at my Mom’s. I’m meeting them there for dinner, but I still have some time.” They reached the front reception desk and the uniformed security guard sitting at his evening post.

  “Well, I appreciate you bringing in that Sales Summary, Lee-Anne, but it could have waited a few days.” He smiled at the guard. “Good night, Samhail. Thank you for watching over us. Have a good night, and I’ll see your relief around noon tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Powell. Merry Christmas, sir.”

  “Merry Christmas, Samhail.” He was still having trouble remembering it was Christmas, especially without the obligatory dinner with his family. As stressful as it could be, he’d never missed Christmas with his family before.

  Lee-Anne wasn’t finished. “Trust me, Jerry—some things can�
��t wait.” They left the building and stepped into the parking lot and a chill wind. She struggled with her coat and although Jerry knew the struggling was an act, he stepped behind her and helped by lifting up the jacket. Lee-Anne tried to lean back into his arms but Jerry was ready and side-stepped her move.

  “You’re right, Lee-Anne, and there are two terrific little kids who can’t wait for their Mommy, so why don’t I walk you to your car so they don’t have to wait another minute?”

  “You’re so sweet, Jerry. I must compliment Manny on his choice of a Station Manager.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Johansen. And I think he has good taste in Sales Reps.” In spite of her need to flirt with the new station manager, Jerry knew from her file that Lee-Anne was very good at what she did. He was sure she used her sex appeal to aid her in her work, but she also had a wall of local and national sales awards to prove she wasn’t all tits-and-giggles.

  “And this Sales Rep tastes good, too.” Having reached her little red Lexus, she leaned over to kiss Jerry, but he smoothly and deftly slipped out of her reach.

  “Merry Christmas, Lee-Anne. Drive safely.”

  Visibly disappointed, Lee-Anne pressed the remote and unlocked the car with a beep. “Merry Christmas, Jerr-bear.”

  She drove off, throwing him a very flirty finger-wave as she went. Jerry laughed, and started off for home, his stride strong and invigorated by the brisk sea air.

  “Women—can’t live with ’em, pass the pretzels. Now I suppose I should get home and see how my house ghost is doing.” He hummed to himself, then started to sing, “All I want for Christmas is a normal life, a normal life.”