Fog Heart

by Thomas Tessier

  ‘He really was in Bombay.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think the rest of what he said is true?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Carrie looked quite forlorn. ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘But if he did something terrible, that was a long time ago. What could it mean now? Why would it come up at all?’

  ‘The past is always part of the present,’ Oona said. ‘It’s always with us. It’s not something separate.’

  ‘I know,’ Carrie responded. ‘I do understand that. But how does that part of Oliver’s past connect with me, now?’

  ‘What kind of a man was your father?’

  ‘He was a good man. A good husband, a good father, a man of kindness, humour, intelligence.’

  ‘Was he honest?’

  ‘Totally,’ Carrie said. ‘He hated politics, but he believed in the importance of public service, and in all the years that he worked in the diplomatic corps he never compromised his integrity or took advantage of his position. In fact, it probably hurt him in a way because, aside from one brief period in London, he never got the plum postings he should have had.’

  ‘Was he there for the family?’

  ‘Always, no matter how busy his schedule might be. If he was needed at home, he found a way to be there. Birthdays, or school events, all the things you want your dad to be there for, he was there. Never missed one that I can think of.’

  ‘Sounds like you were very lucky.’

  ‘We were. My mom was great too – she still is.’

  ‘Is that right.’ Oona crushed out her cigarette and reached for another one. ‘Let’s stay with your father. What I’m getting at is, the qualities you associate him with in your mind are love and faithfulness, integrity, goodness – things like that.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And your father meant a great deal to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ Oona said. ‘When you began to experience these strange events, the very first image you perceived was?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘And the one thing you understood him to say was?’

  ‘Something about Oliver.’

  ‘And how did your father appear to feel on the two occasions when you saw him?’

  ‘Unhappy. Sad. Sorrowful. In pain.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘But we’ve been over all this before,’ Carrie said. ‘What’s it supposed to mean? That the ghost of my father was warning me about Oliver, in some way?’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t think of him as a ghost. Maybe he was a kind of language for you, like the lines from songs or books were for me. He was your image of goodness and truth, and he appeared to you in sorrow and pain, bearing the name of your husband. You have been trying to tell yourself something.’

  ‘You think I imagined all that?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  Carrie was upset now. ‘I was knocked down and strangled the last time. Was that a hallucination?’

  ‘No, those things were real,’ Oona said. ‘But they’re real on different levels and in different ways. They will lead you to an inner truth. Inside you.’

  Carrie gazed bleakly at her. ‘What truth?’

  ‘Are you a happy woman?’

  Carrie was about to answer with something predictable. Yes, she was happy in some ways, unhappy in others. That’s the way it is with people. Nothing is ever perfectly good or perfectly bad, and blah blah blah. But Carrie stopped herself. She looked down at the bedcover she was picking at with her fingers.

  ‘No…’

  ‘When was the last time you were a happy woman?’

  ‘I … I don’t know…’

  ‘Okay,’ Oona said. ‘It starts there.’

  * * *

  She liked Carrie, liked her very much. Carrie would make a good mother, if she ever got around to it. Why on earth did she waste her time designing rooms for rich idiots? The money was part of it, but that wasn’t much of a reason. It was what Carrie did, to express and define herself. As if an East Side apartment suite were more creative and definitive than a child.

  Ah, well, people find their way, somehow. But as much as she liked Carrie, she couldn’t feel sorry for her. Carrie had plenty of time. She could save her life thrice over and still find new opportunities and new futures, new happinesses.

  Oona had seen so many people like that. They came to her to have the truth revealed, for help and guidance. They lacked only the wit to see around the scariest corners inside of themselves. Too bad, but that was everything.

  Their lives crowded in on her. They killed her, but somehow always kept her alive to crush her and kill her again, and again. The truth about being Oona is it’s impossible to live, impossible to die. This is the truth, ha ha, poor me.

  Oliver was in love with her. Or the idea of her. This was the corner Oona could not walk Carrie round. Carrie would have to find her own way, if at all.

  Men always want the one thing they can’t have. No one could have her. Ever ever ever. The price was too great.

  Carrie came out of the bathroom, wearing a long flannel gown, prim but somehow fetching. Victorian? This is what I can’t ever ever ever have. But the rest was nearly better, the comfort, the closeness, the warmth. Carrie was a good person.

  ‘You didn’t look at my scar.’

  ‘Oh, I never even noticed it.’

  Carrie sat down beside Oona and leant close. Minty breath, clear skin, bright eyes, lovely clean lady. Hold me. Carrie ran one finger across Oona’s forehead.

  ‘See it?’

  ‘No.’ Perplexed. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I’m cursed with quick healing, among other things.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ Carrie said. ‘I’m glad. That was such a terrible thing. Do you remember how it happened?’

  ‘My mind’s a blank on the end of that session.’

  ‘Probably just as well.’ Carrie brushed a wisp of hair off to the side of Oona’s head. ‘Do you still think it’s coming back to you or—’

  ‘Oh, it is, sure. I get little tremors and flashes every day now. It’ll be all the way back soon enough.’

  Carrie stroked Oona’s cheek. ‘Oh, Oona…’

  Oona was not in the mood for pity. ‘Roz told me that I put on quite a show.’ She laughed as soon as she said it.

  ‘It was terrible to see, and for you.’

  ‘Maybe I’m only kidding you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe I really like it.’

  ‘Oona, you couldn’t.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not the way you suffer. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘You could be wrong.’

  Carrie shook her head. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I don’t know if I am,’ Oona said. ‘That might be the part I never let on to myself. That I like it. You know?’

  ‘You like helping people. That part of it. But not all the pain that comes with the voices and visions. You might like what comes out of the process, not the process itself.’

  ‘You may be right. Carrie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Oona composed a mischievous grin on her face. ‘What would you do if I asked you to kiss me?’

  Carrie answered with a tolerant smile, ‘I’d kiss you.’

  Oona, you can be surprised. ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  Carrie put her hands on Oona’s shoulders, and her lips moved just past Oona’s lips to kiss her first on one cheek and then the other. Carrie pulled back a couple of inches, but kept her hands on Oona’s shoulders. She smiled warmly.

  It was all rather slow, gentle, touching. Sweet, in a way. ‘I feel like de Gaulle.’

  Carrie laughed. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw a movie with some fellow kissing de Gaulle like that. It must be the European method, right?’

  ‘You could say that.’


  ‘On the other hand, it’s not French-kissing.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘How does a man French-kiss a woman?’

  ‘He puts his tongue in her mouth.’

  ‘Does she do the same to him?’

  ‘She can if she wants.’

  ‘Would you kiss me like that?’

  ‘Do you want me to kiss you like that?’

  Oona nodded once. Carrie kissed her. It was lingering, but not too long. Warm, soft, gently exploratory.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘Because you wanted me to,’ Carrie replied.

  ‘What else would you do if I asked?’

  Half a beat. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘Why would you do anything like that?’

  ‘If you want it and need it…’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because you’re very special and—’

  She didn’t hear the rest. Oona could feel the blood humming in her own veins. Darkness flickering at the furthest corners of her vision. Wind swirling against the window glass. The ceiling turns colours for you, and faces appear in the grain of the paint. Voices speak to you and in you and through you. They say you are so special, so very special. You have a gift, a talent. You are so special they will do anything for you.

  They will love you to death, and back again.

  See? It’s never any good.

  ‘Oona.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  After a long while, Oona said, ‘Hold me, please.’

  * * *

  When Oona awoke early in the morning, Carrie was right next to her, propped up on one elbow and looking at her. Spooky. She wasn’t used to anybody being a step ahead of her like that. But Carrie immediately smiled lovingly at her and Oona began to enjoy the feeling of cosy intimacy in the grey light. In a way, it was what she had wanted – someone, this someone, to be with her all night long and be there with her in the morning.

  ‘I always wake early in a strange bed.’

  Oona smiled and stretched. ‘My bed’s not so strange.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  Oona crawled onto Carrie, who let herself sink back into the pillows and mattress. They hugged, and Carrie held her, and Oona nestled her face beneath Carrie’s chin, kissing her neck lightly. She was suddenly desperate for this warmth, this flesh. Oona’s fingers trembled as she undid the buttons on Carrie’s nightgown. She buried her face between the breasts, nuzzling them, touching them with her lips and tongue. Carrie held her as a mother would a hungry infant, and for a few moments Oona began to lose herself in a warm, enveloping fog of serene acceptance.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What—’

  They both sat up. Carrie felt the wetness on her chest, and then saw all the blood. Oona held her hand to her face, as blood trickled out between her fingers.

  ‘Nosebleed,’ she burbled in alarm.

  ‘Lie down on your back.’

  Carrie dashed off, and was back in a few seconds with a cold wet towel. She used part of it to wipe away the blood, and then pressed it gently to Oona’s nose.

  ‘Just hold it there.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not bad,’ Carrie said comfortingly. ‘The air-conditioner, probably. It makes the air very dry. I’ll get some ice to wrap in the towel.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not the fucking air-conditioner,’ Oona said, trying to focus on her anger to keep from crying. ‘It’s not that. It’s me and my fucking talent. I can feel it in my skin. I can feel it in the roots of my fucking hair. Oh shit shit shit.’

  Carrie sat down beside her and stroked her forehead. ‘Look, it’s stopped already.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It was nothing, Oona, just a little nosebleed.’

  ‘I hate it!’ Oona screamed, the tears coming now. Her body jerked and twitched, and her eyes blinked furiously.

  Carrie sat closer to her on the bed and stroked her forehead soothingly. ‘I’m here, don’t worry. You’ll be all right.’

  Carrie helped, being there. Oona felt herself easing out of it. A brief contact, that’s all it was this time. Hello, hello, remember me? Your lady friend can’t save you.

  * * *

  They heard the front door open, then close.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  It was late in the morning. Carrie had prepared a breakfast of coffee, juice, eggs, toast and grilled cherry tomatoes. Oona felt a little better. Tired, lazy, but calm. Carrie was talking about going out for a drive that afternoon. The Litchfield hills or something. Countryside, anyway, not many people about. Oona had no idea and didn’t care one way or the other.

  ‘A lot of movie stars live up there, you know.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Richard Widmark—’

  ‘No way! I love him.’ Ooh, God, yes, to be killed by Richard Widmark. That’d be tops. ‘Think he’ll be home?’

  Carrie laughed. ‘Not to us.’

  Carrie was talking about the Litchfield hills, the Hamptons, some such thing. Oona half listened, half talked. She poked the remote but couldn’t find anything on television. Where’s Richard Widmark when you need him?

  The door, the footsteps.

  Roz walked into the bedroom and sat down in the small chair beside the dressing table. She was wearing shorts and a light sleeveless summer blouse. She looked at them.

  ’Tis hard for such to view unfurl’d

  The curtain of the future world.

  Yet – witness every quaking limb,

  My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim,

  My soul with harrowing anguish torn—

  ‘Roz,’ Oona said, faintly. A day too soon, wrongly dressed for someone who’d just come off a jet plane.

  ‘Hi, Roz,’ Carrie said. ‘You’re back early.’

  Nor sought she from that fatal night,

  Or holy church or blessed rite,

  But lock’d her secret in her breast,

  And died in travail, unconfess’d.

  Pockets of blackness opened up inside Oona, and she began shrieking hysterically, great jagged sounds ripping out of her as she rocked and bounced uncontrollably on the bed.

  ‘OH NO NO NO NO NO HINNY DON’T GO DON’T LEAVE ME—’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Carrie said, as she turned to Roz. ‘Can you give me a hand with her, Roz, it’s—’

  Carrie cried out as if she’d been wounded. She saw the same thing Oona saw – Roz looking so sad as she sat in the chair, Roz blurred and distorted, Roz disappearing. Gone.

  PART III

  23

  Oliver wasn’t surprised to open the door and find Roz standing there with a cold, thin smile on her face. This was what he had had in mind all along. Oona and Roz wouldn’t want to set foot in England so he reckoned they would either ignore him or try to gain an edge by confronting him in Munich. They obviously didn’t think they could risk ignoring him. So. Excellent.

  ‘Where’s Oona?’ he asked immediately.

  Roz shook her head in disbelief. ‘You think I’d let her hop on a plane and come all this way? Oona isn’t allowed in downtown New Haven most of the time, and never on her own.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t understand anything, do you?’

  Oliver led Roz to part of the loft where there were several chairs and a sofa, the closest thing to a social area. He saw no reason to be polite with her; she was merely an obstacle, soon to be removed. Perhaps Oona was parked at a local hotel.

  ‘I know everything,’ he said, as he perched on the arm of the scuffed Naugahyde sofa. ‘I know all about the two of you.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  ‘Then why did you hop on a plane and come all this way?’ he asked, mimicking her words. ‘Why bother?’

  ‘I want you out of our lives.’

  ‘And how do you propose to accomplish tha
t?’

  ‘It works both ways,’ Roz told him. ‘We know about you, Mr Spence, and you’ve got more to lose than we have.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘A lot more, I would say.’

  ‘Have a seat, Rosalind.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She stood a couple of yards away from him. Smart slacks and blouse, a light summer blazer. She had a tight grip on the Gucci handbag hanging from her shoulder – too tight. Roz looked rigid and tense. Oliver liked that in other people, it always made him feel more relaxed.

  ‘What is it you think you—’

  ‘You’re a murderer, Mr Spence,’ she cut in. ‘You should be put away for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you notified the authorities?’

  ‘You’ll undo yourself sooner or later.’

  ‘You have nothing to tell anybody, Roz,’ he said, scornfully. ‘Mumbo-jumbo about something that supposedly happened in Bombay a long time ago? Knowledge that came in a seance? That would make a great story. The press and television people would be all over it, doing follow-ups on the pretty child-killer who got off easy, moved to America and became a successful medium.’

  There was hate in her eyes. He liked that too.

  ‘If necessary, we’d face it.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘What I know about Oona is fact, Roz. What you know about me amounts to nothing.’

  ‘What do you want with her, anyway?’

  ‘I fancied her. She feels the same about me.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘She told me so,’ Oliver insisted. ‘Before we all went into the back room for that session, she whispered in my ear.’

  ‘You do have a problem reading other people.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Believe me, Oona doesn’t fancy you.’

  ‘She may not fully realize it herself yet,’ Oliver said, with a trace of annoyance.

  ‘Ah, so that’s how it is.’ Roz seemed more at ease now, and that was foolish, but her manner was starting to irritate Oliver. She glanced briefly at the surroundings. ‘I waited for your lady friend to go out. Will she be long?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does she know—’

  ‘Marthe doesn’t care. About anything.’