The Secret Life of Souls

by Jack Ketchum

  She slams down the receiver. Bart is beside her. He puts a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off. She’s fuming.

  “Hey, just don’t answer the phone for a while anymore, okay?” he says. “Let me handle it.”

  “Do you think they think about what we’re going through? Do you think they care? FFMN. Fucking assholes . . .”

  “Babe . . .”

  “If they call back, you go ahead. Answer. Ask them if they know what it feels like to see everything . . . something . . . someone they love get . . .”

  He puts his arms around her and this time she lets him. He leads her to the couch.

  “She’s going to be okay, hon . . .”

  The anger flares. “And what about the rest of us, Bart? You? Me? Robbie?”

  He breaks away and looks at her for a long moment, seems to be thinking. Then digs a card out of his shirt pocket. He flicks it with his index finger.

  “What?”

  He says nothing. Just keeps flicking at the card. On top of everything else it’s just plain irritating. Quit it, she thinks. For god’s sake.

  Flick, flick . . .

  From the top of the stairs we hear it. We hear it too standing in our bathroom, gazing into the mirror. Flick, flick. We sit immobile at the stairs’ summit, silent. We gaze at our reflection in the mirror. Our ears perk up. We listen to them down below.

  “FFMM,” he says.

  “Yes? So?”

  “That’s a big outfit, Pat. All I’m saying . . .”

  “What exactly are you saying? Stop it with the card, will you?”

  “All right. Consider this. They’ll pay.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  We brush our teeth. Careful of our damaged lips. We continue listening.

  “For the story, Pat. For Delia. Caity. What happened. They’ll pay. Possibly a lot. Diane Fleet, Hotline. Think about it.”

  We hear a pause, feel him assertive and feel her falter. She shakes her head, a tiny rustle. She sighs.

  “I’ve got to go take care of Delia,” she says. “Do me a favor and tomorrow find her a new tutor, will you? One, not half a dozen. One we can afford.”

  She rises off the sofa. We climb into bed. We wait.

  Her mom is rubbing this thick creamy stuff into her forehead.

  “Does that hurt?” she asks.

  “No.” It feels good in fact. Cool against her skin.

  Mom dips her hand into the cream, rubs it into the back of her neck. That feels good too.

  “You’re a brave girl,” she says. “You remind me of my mom, before . . .”

  “Before the accident, right? Before she . . . started drinking?”

  This is dangerous territory, she knows. They don’t talk about her grandma much.

  “Yes. You know that I was about your age when my dad . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “So between that and the osteoporosis . . .”

  “Bad bones.”

  “Yes, bad bones.”

  “Are my bones bad?”

  “No. Your bones are strong.”

  “Why do I remind you of her?”

  “Because before the accident, no matter how much she hurt, her eyes were always steady, strong. The way she looked at you. Always . . . certain. Your eyes are strong, like hers.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “It’s weird, mom. My eyes. I feel like I can see better now than before, in a way.”

  “Really? What do you mean?”

  How can she tell her? She isn’t even sure herself. Only that it’s true.

  “I don’t know. Everything’s different. Everybody. It’s not the same. It’s different.”

  We’re different.

  She stops rubbing and stares at her daughter, at her daughter’s ravaged face gleaming beneath the thin coat of cream. Delia stares back. Delia’s stare makes her uncomfortable. Why has she begun this conversation? She doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like where it’s going. She has this ridiculous feeling. It’s like her daughter could see into her just now, at just this very moment, right down deep into her soul. Those parts of her, maybe, that were her mother’s daughter. Not her favorite parts. Was that what she meant?

  Just who and what is she seeing?

  The cream feels silky on her fingertips. She continues rubbing, careful against her daughter’s tender skin.

  “All done, girl. Come on.”

  He walks her over to Delia’s room, knocks once, and enters.

  “You guys finished? We’re finished.”

  “Yeah, us too,” Delia says.

  She closes the book on her lap and Caity jumps onto the bed and curls up in its place.

  Robbie sits down next to her. Bounces a little, tested the springs on the new bed.

  “Pretty good,” he says. “What do you think?”

  His gesture encompasses the room. The walls had been pink. He’d never thought much of that. Now it was a simple cream. Much better, he thinks. His is still the same pastel blue as when he was a kid.

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  Her voice says it isn’t.

  He stops bouncing. “Yeah? So? What’s up? You want to talk about it?”

  “I’m scared, Rob.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “You think the ghosts went away? With the fire?”

  Damn. They still haven’t told her. He can’t believe it. Why would they . . . leave it up to him? Why couldn’t they have . . . ?

  Damn!

  “It wasn’t ghosts, Delia. There aren’t any ghosts. Never were.”

  “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

  He doesn’t want to cry. He can feel their eyes on him. Hers and Caity’s too.

  “It was me, Deal. God! I’m so sorry. I’m really, really . . .”

  And then the tears do come.

  He tells her everything.

  Patricia stands in the dark, in the doorway. Apart from her, the house is asleep.

  As her eyes accustom gradually to the darkness she watches her daughter sleep, Caity beside her. The rise and fall of their bodies as they breathe. Her daughter’s sweet face—in the dimness, that face undamaged, whole, unscarred. All gentle planes and angles.

  Her hand goes to her own face, her lips, her cheekbones, her brow. Flawless, perfect.

  She thinks, how can this be.

  She stands a long while, listening to her own breathing. In time, a synchronicity between her daughter’s breathing and her own. In this they are together. In this moment they are a match. The dog’s breath coming faster than theirs, her heart pumping faster, pumping blood which is alien to them.

  Yet the dog has saved her life.

  The hero dog.

  She reaches down and touches her breasts. With these she nursed her baby. She had been an easy baby. Full of life.

  Her baby still. Remember that. Keep that in mind.

  You have a duty here. Yes.

  The dog’s eyes are open and glint in the thin skein of night.

  She walks downstairs to the telephone on the island bar. Hits the button for recent calls and then the most recent.

  Brian Bishop. FFMN.

  She pours herself a short scotch and writes down the number to call tomorrow and by the time the drink is finished has already composed exactly what she wants to say.

  ELEVEN

  It’s not the same. A Green Room is a Green Room she supposes, with the familiar table of snacks and bottled drinks, the mirrored wall in front of her lined with brushes, combs, makeup, tissues and all that stuff, the rack of clothes, the too-bright lights. She’d been in them dozens of times but this is different somehow. She doesn’t feel like a star. She doesn’t even feel like a performer. What’s she doing here? She watches the grips and stagehands come and go and tries to settle deep into her oversized lounger, disappear into her red hoodie. Just disappear.

  Her mom seems fine with all of it. Standing by the door talking to this guy John Latoy
a, the anchor-slash-producer who she’s yet to meet, talking as though it were any other shoot in the world, Fruity Fingers or Chomp Chips or whatever. And maybe that’s the way she ought to think about it, just any old shoot, just another job.

  But it feels weird. They’re going to talk about her. She isn’t playing somebody. She’s supposed to be herself. Just be yourself, honey, her mom said. Nobody’s ever asked her to do that before.

  When her mom and the anchor guy walk over she wraps her hand twice around Caity’s leash so that she’s just that much closer to her and she feels just that much more secure.

  “How you ladies doing this morning?” Latoya says.

  Big smile. At least the teeth are real, she thinks. He’s one of those people, she can already tell, who speaks to kids like they’re all in the first grade. There are paper towels sticking up out of his collar to keep the makeup from messing up his baby-blue shirt and blue-and-red striped tie.

  “Delia, this is John,” her mom says. “He’s going to be interviewing us.”

  John sticks out his bony hand and she shakes it.

  “Pleased to meetcha,” he says. “Did you get to try any of those donuts? I like the sprinkly ones myself.”

  Her mom pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and reads the text.

  “It’s Roman,” she says. “Could you excuse me a moment?”

  “Of course,” John says.

  She punches in the number and walks off into a corner. John kneels down to Delia’s level. Tries to peer under her hoodie. She has her head down so he isn’t having much luck. He smells of cologne and hair stuff. Beside her she can feel Caity tense. The cologne and hair stuff probably offend her. She can’t blame her. Neither of them, it seems, are going to be instantly nuts about this guy.

  John seems oblivious. He reaches over and ruffles Caity’s head. Her ears go flat. He doesn’t notice this either.

  “So, how long have you two been buddies?” he says, agreeably enough.

  “Since I got her.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two years ago. She’ll be three in November.”

  “I see. So you’ve been friends a good long time, then.”

  She raises her head. Looks at him.

  “How come you want me and Caity on your show?”

  The smile gets bigger but she can tell she’s caught him off guard.

  “That’s a very good question,” he says. “Why do I want you on my show. Well, it’s not every day a girl’s dog saves her life, is it?” He turns to Caity. “Is it, old girl?”

  He ruffles the hair on her neck. She flinches.

  “It’s the kind of story that inspires people, Delia. You two—your friendship and what you’ve gone through together—that’s inspiring stuff! It makes people feel good. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Well, duh, she thinks.

  “But we got hurt,” she says.

  “Yes. Yes, you did. You got hurt. But you’re alive. And isn’t that amazing?”

  He reaches out to pat Caity on the shoulder but Caity’s had enough. She lets out a low growl. Just enough so John can hear. He pulls his hand away. “She’s not used to you,” Delia says.

  “I . . . sure,” he says.

  He stands. Keep that dog away from me, his face tells her. She has to repress a smile. He reminds her of Roman.

  “Well. We’ll see you shortly then, right? Pleasure to meet the both of you. You’re going to be just great. Just be yourself.”

  He turns and walks away and as though on cue he’s surrounded by staff asking questions, taking instructions. Delia’s instantly forgotten. And to her, that’s just fine. Her mom appears behind them, finishing up her phone call.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Sign on my behalf. Send me a copy. Transfer the funds to my Delia account. Not Bart’s. Thanks, Roman.”

  She clicks the phone off and sits down next to Delia. Puts her arm around her. Even with her mom there she still feels uncomfortable.

  “Are there . . . sides or anything?” she asks.

  “No, honey. You just say what you want to say.”

  “Like what?”

  She sighs. “This isn’t acting, kiddo. This is just talking. Just listen to the questions and answer them. You’ll get the hang of it right away. You’ll see. Just . . .”

  “I know. Just be yourself.”

  They sit down in the cushy interview armchairs, Pat’s nearest where John’s going to sit and Delia beside her with Caity nestled between her knees. The stage set is your basic faux-All-American living room, coffee table in front of them, fake flowers in a vase on the table, framed prints on the walls, bookshelves, throw rugs, windows leading to nowhere.

  Pat thinks, talk about mixed emotions. Good god.

  She’s on a set. Not between, before, or after takes this time—a total first for her—with the purpose of actually being on TV. Live TV at that. She has no illusions. She’s there to perform. To sell this thing. Or rather to sell it further since Roman is already depositing the check from FFMM in her company account. And a goodly check at that. But she’s looking down the road. If they get this right maybe other gigs will follow. Even if it’s small-time stuff they need the money. She’s here to make this work. In that she is determined.

  But she’s also scared as hell that it won’t work at all. That any one of a thousand things could go wrong and screw the pooch entirely. A single moment. A single misstep. So much seems outside her control. It was live fucking TV! She could come off wrong somehow or Delia could or Caity could shit the goddamn fake oriental rug.

  Already she is sweating. The big soft-box lighting is pouring out tons of heat. Where was makeup when you needed them?

  And where the hell is Bart? He’s supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Where was your support when you needed it?

  Ed Cullen, the director, is sweating too and he isn’t even under these lights. He walks over and introduces himself and they shake hands.

  “I’m wondering if we can’t have Caity sit to the side for the first part of the interview,” he says. “Would that be all right?”

  “Why?” Delia says. “I thought . . .”

  She cuts her daughter off. They know what they want. “Sure,” she says. “No problem. Do you have someone who . . . ?”

  As if by magic a pretty young girl in headphones appears behind him. A production assistant. You could always tell them by the combination of brisk efficiency and out-and-out fluster.

  “Hi, I’m Bianca,” she says. “Okay if I watch Caity for a little while, Delia?”

  Delia peers out from under the red hood, her eyes in shadow.

  “I don’t know you,” she says.

  The PA’s smiling but she’s also tense, twisting at her belt loop with her fingers.

  Her daughter is being difficult.

  The hell she is.

  “Delia.”

  It’s a fucking command and she takes it as such.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” the PA says. “I promise.”

  Delia points to behind the stage-left camera.

  “You want her over there?”

  The girl smiles. “It’s as good a place as any. Just for the first segment, okay?”

  Delia looks down at Caity, tilts the dog’s head upward so that they’re eye to eye for a moment and then releases her and inclines her head stage left. Caity stands and walks solemnly behind the camera, leash trailing. The young PA is impressed.

  “I’d say she listens well,” she says. “But you didn’t say anything!”

  The girl walks over and picks up the leash and rustles the fur along Caity’s neck and then John steps onstage and sits down smiling and she forgets about the dog because there’s makeup at last, a woman dabbing at John’s face and another at hers which feels wonderful but when hers is finished and the woman bends down to do touch-up on Delia, Pat stops her.

  “She’s fine,” she says.

  That face is not going to be touched. No way.

>   “Okay, ladies,” John says. “Do you have any questions before we start?”

  She doesn’t. She’s ready.

  They mike them each and a few minutes later the countdown begins.

  Fucking 405. He’s been creeping along staring up at the SUNSET BLVD., WILSHIRE BLVD., SANTA MONICA BLVD. signs overhead and at the Getty Museum in the distance for twenty minutes now before traffic starts moving again. Fucking hellhole of a triangulation. And now he is three-quarters of an hour late and his wife and daughter are up there onstage already.

  The meeting with his guy at Wells Fargo had been pretty good, if a bit depressing by its very nature. Their credit’s still good. So either a home equity loan or a home equity line of credit seems equally doable. He’s leaning toward the credit line rather than the lump sum but he’ll have to discuss that with Pat.

  Thank god they have the house. Without the house right now he didn’t know where they’d be.

  He catches Pat’s eye and waves and she nods. So at least she knows he’s there. He sees Caity on a leash with some girl behind camera three. Then they’re on.

  “So what goes through a mother’s mind when something like this happens?”

  John’s voice has that same familiar intimate tone Pat recognizes from so many talking heads over the years. Was there some school for this somewhere? Classes in intimate-concern-speak? Legs crossed, he leans in close.

  His cologne wafts over.

  “God,” she says. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “I can imagine.”

  No you can’t. He leans in closer.

  “Tell me. What caused the fire in the first place, Pat?”

  “It was an accident, John. Faulty wiring in Delia’s room. In her dollhouse. My dollhouse, actually. A present from my mother.”

  “I see. So, the fire starts, and what happens next?”

  “Our son started yelling for us from upstairs . . .”

  “That would be Delia’s twin brother, Robbie, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The police questioned Robbie, didn’t they.”

  “Yes they did. He laid the wiring. He thought of it as a kind of present, a surprise. Lights in the dollhouse, you know? Robbie’s just a boy. He didn’t think. He didn’t know any better. Not his fault.”