Haunted Honeymoon

by Marta Acosta

  “Milagro, you’re supposed to work toward your own mental health.”

  “If I go to a mechanic, he doesn’t charge me by the hour and make me guess what’s wrong with my car. He just fixes it.”

  She glared at me for a moment. “We return to patterns that are familiar, our comfort zones.”

  “This is the very opposite of my life with my family, so your theory is completely loony.” Her mouth set in a line, so I changed the subject. “Let me show you how to fan out rose canes to encourage bloom.”

  I took off my cotton gloves to grip the branches as I demonstrated, and a large thorn caught on the back of my hand. It ripped my skin, and the jagged cut welled with glossy ruby blood.

  “I’m so careless,” I said, and licked away the blood, revealing skin that suddenly mended over. It was as smooth as if it had never been damaged. “Holy cow.” I held out my hand for Lily to see.

  She stared in amazement. “I heard you healed fast, but I’ve never seen anyone heal that fast.”

  “It’s because I’m a superhero, right?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  After Oswald returned we had cocktails on the terrace. AG and Mrs. Grant seemed much cozier than they had when I’d first met them. She handed him the first limoncello martini and he raised it to her before taking a taste and looking out to the horizon.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Is this what I’ve been missing all these years?”

  “It was your decision,” she said.

  He smiled a crooked smile like Oswald’s. “Grant men are helplessly drawn to impossible women.”

  Gabriel said, “That’s why I didn’t even bother with women. Although if I did, the Young Lady would be at the top of my list.”

  “Thanks, Gabriel. If I was a gay guy, you’d be at the top of my list, too.”

  Mr. Grant looked at his ex-wife and said, “Sometimes the world is too modern for me.”

  “AG, you were old-fashioned when you were twenty,” she said. “I think your body finally caught up with your mental age.”

  “You always called me a fuddy-duddy.”

  “Did I?”

  “I could tell some stories …,” he began, and Mrs. Grant glanced in my direction and said, “This is not the time.”

  The conversation turned to other topics, and I shared my weird experience about healing from the cut. “The question is, how can I use my super powers for good?”

  Edna started laughing and Oswald said, “You don’t actually have any powers,” and Lily said, “That shouldn’t be a concern right now,” all of which I found very discouraging.

  After dinner, Oswald asked if anyone wanted to go for a swim. I wanted to be with him, but I panicked just thinking about the pool. Why did the pool’s clear water hold such darkness for me?

  “I’m going to write tonight. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’d love a swim,” Lily said.

  I went to the maid’s room and wrote feverishly, filling up page after page, until my fingers cramped. I put the pen down and it rolled off the desk. When I bent down to retrieve it, I saw my initials scratched into the underside of the desk. Beside them was daisy, rip.

  The ooky factor rose in me again, so I decided to run off my tension. When I went into the night, I made a game of seeing how fast I could dart around rocks. “I’m a superhero!” I said to myself as I leaped over a boulder.

  After several laps, I stopped to tend the grave on the far side of the property. I pulled weeds and found rocks to add to the mound. “Daisy,” I said, trying out the name. “My dog, Daisy.”

  A flash of memory came, an image of a furry dog with golden eyes peering over the edge of a bed at me. Then it was gone, leaving me with a pang, a yearning.

  I practiced saying “Daisy” again, but nothing happened. When I turned back toward the house, I noticed the open door of the barn. Maybe seeing other animals would help jar my memory.

  I hadn’t visited the barn before, but I’d heard the Grant family talk about Ernesto, the ranch hand who had an apartment at the front of the barn. As I walked into the structure, the rich animal smells came to me.

  Stalls ran on both sides and cats prowled atop bales of hay and on rafters. Cats everywhere … and they reminded me of something.

  A bay horse swung his huge head over a stall door, startling me. “Hey, horsey,” I said softly.

  Just then I heard a woman’s laugh. It came from farther down the barn. I listened and heard the murmur of voices. I crept to a stall with light eeking out from beneath the door.

  I swung it open and saw the Grant family in armchairs in a comfortable room. A beautiful Oriental carpet was on the hardwood floor and sconces cast warm, diffused light.

  At a sideboard, a compact, muscled Latino dude was pouring drinks into wineglasses.

  “Aha!” I cried.

  Mrs. Grant looked at Oswald. “I told you she’d show up. You owe me a quart of Madagascar vanilla.”

  “Hi, Milagro,” Gabriel said.

  “I can’t believe that you’d leave me out of … what is this?”

  A delicious coppery tang scented the air and I saw the dark red color of my companions’ drinks.

  “It’s blood. You’re drinking blood.” Some things that we do in private, such as snacking on raw steaks, seem much more freaky in group settings. My craving for the drink conquered any ambivalence.

  Oswald, his hair still wet from swimming, said, “Let me explain.”

  I gave him a haughty look. “I’m not some unsophisticated rube. In fact, I’ve eaten fried brains at an Italian restaurant and I loved my grandmother’s menudo, which is a soup made with tripe.”

  “Hey, mamacita,” the Latino guy said. “I heard you forgot everything. I’m Ernie. Want a drink? It’s the usual, lamb, raised on new grass.”

  “Nice to meet you again, Ernesto. That sounds very intriguing. I think I will try it.”

  The others were exchanging looks as Ernesto poured viscous red liquid from a green wine bottle into a glass and added carbonated bottled water and a twist of lemon.

  “Thank you,” I said, and took the glass. As they all watched me, I took a sip of the salty, mineral-tasting drink and swished it in my mouth. “Yes, I get the grass notes and also something like chamomile. Delish.” Then I gulped down the rest of the drink. It hummed through me, making me feel alive and sexy.

  I pulled off my scrunchie and shook out my hair. Then I sat on the arm of Oswald’s chair, very casually, as if I was merely resting.

  Lily pivoted in her chair toward me. “Do you think it’s normal to drink blood, Milagro?”

  “The Masai subsist on blood, milk, and bark. Are you saying they’re abnormal? Excuse me if I find that culturally insensitive of you.”

  Lily looked pleased and said to the others, “Her level of denial is amazing. It’s a pity I can’t write a case study on her.”

  “Lily, don’t you ever go off the clock?” I said, moving my leg closer to Oswald’s and admiring his jean-clad thigh.

  The others began talking about investment property, but I put my mind to a more serious topic: maybe my superhero talent was receiving brain waves. I attempted to read Oswald’s mind and find out if he was sending any lustful messages to me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he probably was.

  The hour grew late and we all said good night to Ernie. AG walked Edna to her cottage, and Gabriel took Lily’s arm and guided her down the drive toward the house.

  When I bent over to retie my shoe, Oswald politely waited for me. I retied the other shoe and said, “I don’t like it when they’re not equally tight.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s strange having you know all about me when I don’t know anything about you.” The breeze blew his chestnut hair forward and I reached over and brushed it back. The zizz from him melded with the buzz from the cocktail in a most remarkable way.

  He said, “I don’t know much about what you’ve been doing lately. Everyone avoided talking about you b
ecause they thought it would upset me.”

  “Ozzy, how did we meet?”

  “It was at that book party for your ex. You were the sexiest thing in the room, and when I asked if you wanted to leave, you came right along. You’ve always been ready for a good time.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “I was definitely in need of a good time, then,” he said. “Later, though, you got bored here. Or you got bored with me.”

  “How could I be bored in a place like this? It’s fantastic. And you’re fantastic, Oswald.”

  He took my hand, and I felt the urge to lean into him and extend the wonderful zizzy feeling over my body. But something in the distance caught my attention.

  Far across the field I saw something that looked like a man, greenish in hue, dressed in a shirt covered in dried blood, with a white shroud draped over his head. He pointed a long, bony finger at me and his mouth opened like an abyss, like hell.

  I gasped and closed my eyes.

  “Milagro!” Oswald put his hands on my shoulders. “Babe, what is it! What’s the matter?”

  “I thought I saw …” My heart was racing.

  “There’s nothing here. It’s just me. No one can get past the guards at the gate, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

  I opened my eyes and saw nothing but the dark field.

  “See, Mil, nobody’s there.”

  I already knew there was no body. It was the vengeful spirit of my boyfriend, Wilcox Spiggott.

  fourteen

  You’re No Body Until Somebody

  Bloods You

  Despite my stories about supernatural creatures, I wasn’t a superstitious chica. I understood that the ghost was actually a manifestation of my own guilt.

  “It was a rat,” I said.

  “What is it about you and rats?” Oswald said. “It’s the country. There are lots of animals here. Which reminds me, you should watch out for skunks at night. One was near the house yesterday.”

  “Maybe I should go inside.”

  As we walked back to the house, I kept glancing to the field, but my hallucination was over for now.

  Oswald kissed my cheek and said, “Sleep well.” When I was alone in the bedroom, I locked the windows and the door. Better safe than scary.

  Gabriel came to my room soon after I got up the next morning and told me, “I’ve got to make a run to the City, but I’ll be back tomorrow.” He took my gloved hand in his. “Do you like your therapy?”

  I twined my fingers with his. “Do you see any improvement in me … in who I am?”

  “Honey, I always thought you were fabulous.”

  “Thank you, Gabriel. It would be wonderful if Oswald thought I was fabulous, too. I’m so lucky to spend this time with him, to have another chance at our relationship.”

  Gabriel kissed my hand. “Yes, well, take care of yourself.”

  My disappointment at seeing him leave was alleviated when I went to the parlor and Lily told me she was going to try to put me in a relaxed, focused state.

  “You’re going to try to mesmerize me, aren’t you? Mesmer coming from Franz Mesmer, who had a whole school of spiritualism based on animal magnetism. These days we use “magnetism” to describe sexual attractiveness, but Mesmer thought our bodies contained magnetic fluid. Wacky.”

  “How do you know about Mesmer?” Lily asked while I arranged myself on the purple velvet sofa.

  “I wrote a story in college about a man who was so charismatic that he could convince people at a glance to do his bidding. Of course, no one is that charismatic. Charismatic is derived from an ancient Greek word, ‘kharisma,’ meaning gift. Hmm …”

  “What?”

  “Some words and phrases raise my ookiness level. You should ask me about that when I’m under.” I crossed my hands over my chest and said, “Okay, mesmerize away.”

  “Why don’t you come sit here?” She indicated the chairs.

  “This is more dramatic.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but said, “If you’re more relaxed there, you can stay.”

  “Totally relaxed. Yet focused. Keenly focused.”

  “Good.” Lily dimmed the lights and moved a chair next to the sofa. She had a small penlight that she clicked on and held it in front of my face. “I want you to focus on the light and imagine yourself in a wonderful safe place. Where are you?”

  “I’m lying on the ratty old sofa in my friend’s nightclub. A wonderful band is practicing a new song.”

  “Good,” Lily said somewhat skeptically.

  “It’s a great club. What music do you like?”

  “Hmm? Classical and soft jazz. Relax and start counting backward from one hundred.”

  “One hundred, ninety-nine.…,” I began, and when I was in the eighties, I got bored so I switched over to Spanish. By the time I got to quince, I went to French, because I could count up to quatorze in French.

  “Now, Milagro, are you comfortable?”

  “Very.”

  “You’re safe here and warm. Let’s go back to the night you were supposed to meet Wilcox. You were excited and happy to see him again.”

  “I’m always happy to see cute guys. He’s cute, right?”

  “So I was told. You go to the restaurant to meet him. You’re wearing a pretty dress.”

  “Which one?”

  “Whatever you want to imagine. You walk into the restaurant—”

  “Hold on. If he’s a surfer, maybe I would have gone with jeans.”

  “You wore a dress.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Lily clicked the light off. “I don’t think you’re in a relaxed, focused state.”

  “Quelle bummer. I thought things had changed.” I told her how I used to earn money at F.U. by being a psychology test subject. “I didn’t score well for hypnotic susceptibility.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that first?” she asked, and I heard a note of irritation in her voice.

  I sat up and looked at her. “Because I wanted it to be like a Hitchcock movie, where the beautiful and brilliant psychiatrist uses hypnosis to draw out the memories from the fascinating amnesiac.”

  Lily blinked for a few seconds and twirled one curl around her finger, so I said, “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “This is supposed to be healing, not fun.”

  I shook my head. “I think it could be both, like a spork is both a spoon and a fork. Let’s go outside.”

  She narrowed her hazel-green eyes at me, which I didn’t think was in the shrink handbook, and said, “I’ll go outside if you’ll do something for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you outside.”

  “Okay.” When we were in the garden, I said, “Okay, what is it?”

  “Let’s work awhile.”

  I soon became engrossed in replanting a conifer that had outgrown its container.

  When I stood back to admire my work, Lily said, “Who is your favorite humorous writer?”

  I was glad she was going to talk about books. “I have lots, but Mark Twain would be one of my top three.”

  “What’s his style? What’s his voice?”

  “It depends on his topic, but he often wrote in first-person, past tense, and his narrators are frequently ironic or terrifically deluded,” I said. “I can recommend a few books, if you like.”

  “What’s a ‘serious’ literary voice?”

  I shrugged. “I was taught to write in present tense, third person, stripped-down emotionally detached prose.”

  Lily raked leaves from under a bush. “Tell me about the time your mother left you at the mall, but this time describe it in present tense, third person.”

  “But I already told you what happened.”

  “You said you’d do what I asked if we could come outside. This time don’t call her ‘my mother Regina.’ Say ‘her mother.’” Lily did the eye squint thing again, and I realized that she had an edge under the smooth professiona
l surface.

  “Fine,” I said, and I wondered why I felt so annoyed. “The girl is ten years old and her mother takes her to the big indoor mall. At first she’s excited because her mother never takes her anywhere and she thinks her mother wants to be with her,” I said in an affectless voice. “Her mother is very thin, perfectly groomed, and perfectly coordinated in new clothes.”

  “How did the girl feel?”

  “She’s proud of her mother,” I said, surprised to remember how I’d felt at seeing her looking as striking as a crane in a flock of frumpish pigeons. “Her mother tells her to sit on the bench by the fountain and wait.”

  “What happens then?”

  “The girl does as she’s told because she wants her mother to be pleased with her. Her mother is never pleased with her. The girl waits and the hours pass. The girl watches other people buying and eating food, and she’s hungry because it’s lunchtime. She thinks of going to look for her mother, but that would make her angry and the girl will be locked in her room again.”

  My mood, the happiness of being in the garden, was gone.

  “Go on, Milagro.”

  I took a breath and then said, “Her classmates walk by, but they ignore the girl because she’s new to the school and she isn’t allowed to visit anyone or have anyone over. Her mother doesn’t like the mess and noise of children.”

  “Does the girl just sit?” Lily asks. “Or does she do anything else?”

  “The girl has books in her backpack that the librarian gave her. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books. So the girl begins to read. Soon she forgets that she’s hungry and she forgets that she’s waiting and she forgets everything but the world between the covers. She’s in that world with Laura and her family.”

  “What is she feeling?”

  “She’s feeling what they’re feeling: the bone-chilling prairie winters, the sweetness of an orange at Christmas, the terror of scarlet fever, the happiness of a family who loves one another.”

  My throat constricted and I turned my face away from Lily.

  “What happened to the girl then?” Lily said quietly.

  “She wants to be one of them, living within the pages of a book. Night comes and the mall empties. A cleaning lady sees the girl and speaks to her in Spanish. She takes the girl by the hand. The lady’s hand is warm and firm and the girl misses being touched so much and no one has touched her or loved her since her abuelita died. She is so small and alone and her grief is so enormous. All she wants is human touch and she cries and begs the woman, ‘Please can I live with you?’”