by A. L. Duncan
Oliver raised an eyebrow and feigned concern for her health. “You really should have taken a longer vacation. It would have done you a world of good. It’s obvious you’re still distraught over Teddy, as we all are.”
“Don’t patronize me, Oliver!” Ilene hissed. “I’m not one of the little ignorants you can maneuver with your chicanery.”
“What on earth has come over you?” the Major asked, his voice raspy with irritation. “My God, I don’t recall you ever acting out like this in all your years!”
“I’ve never been given a reason to, have I?” she retorted.
“I believe Miss Vaughn’s American independence has been a bad influence on our little Ilene, Father.” The undertones of sarcasm were clear.
Ilene glared at him with burgeoning ire. “I thank God that she has influenced me—to stand on my own two feet, to fight for what is right, and to stay fixed where I might!”
“Now you’re talking like your mother,” the Major rumbled. “By God, you’ve the same look in your eyes, too.”
She stared at her father in dismay. “So now it’s come full circle, has it? All my life I’ve been told how much I resemble my mother. ‘Oh, how you look so very, very much like her’, you’d say. And now, well, now I sound like her. So, tell me, Father, what else do I have besides her looks and her defiant tongue, hmm? Go on. What else do I do that reminds you so very much of your beloved Miriam? Tell me, Father,” she pressed. “Should I dance for you, play sonatas for you, like Miriam did? Should I bow to you and praise you and rub your feet and name you Excellent Giver?”
“Enough!” he cried, struggling to his feet.
Silence fell between them as they stared at one another, the Major blindly fumbling for his walking stick. Ilene spun on her heel and stormed toward the door past Oliver, who was still calmly swilling his wine.
Janie pushed her chair back and excused herself from the table, glaring briefly at Oliver’s detachment before following Ilene
“What’s this all about?” Anna asked. “What is it?”
“She’ll be all right, Anna.”
Anna made a shooing gesture. “You go to her, child. Those men ought not behave in the high and mighty way they do. I remember the Major’s wife running away from him like that a time or two in her day.”
Janie grimaced. “Again with the Miriam thing.”
“Oh.” Anna clicked her tongue. “Poor girl. All her life she’s worn that beautiful face in this family. It has been both a gift and a curse.”
“I think I can relate.”
Anna sighed and shook her head. “A peculiar thing, it is.”
“Well, I can’t put a finger on whatever it is.”
“I wouldn’t waste time trying. Old places like this have a few ghosts that will never be seen.” She pointed to her head. “Sometimes the worst things that haunt us are of our own making.”
Janie gave Anna’s arm a reassuring squeeze, then hurried up the stairs. She knocked on Ilene’s door and entered without waiting for an invitation. “You all right?”
Ilene was standing at the window, stewing in her resentment. “I can’t believe he did this to me. I won’t let him. I won’t let him do this to me!”
The words echoed strangely in Janie’s memory, and her mind suddenly unleashed staccato impressions like photoflashes. She felt an overwhelming sense of having heard those very words before. A strange sensation came over her. Everything became absolutely crisp, with every detail, every design, and every piece of furniture just as it had been in Miriam’s day.
Janie’s stark, blank look stopped Ilene in mid rant. “What’s the matter?”
The impressions danced in her mind’s eye: the Chippendale bed with carved canopy; the wallpaper; the matching bedspread, sofa, and chairs. They were all there, and all in the same locations.
“You haven’t changed a thing, have you?” Janie murmured.
The seascape painting over the mantle still reflected the lamplight, just as it had all those years ago. The mantle clock still felt oddly familiar, and the candelabra still dripped wax from the left hand candle a little off center. The room was virtually unchanged.
“Savonnerie carpet,” Janie mumbled. “Your mother got this as a wedding present from her parents.”
Ilene stared at Janie. “How did you know that?”
“It came with a Danish cabinet, pendulum clock, and a flattering bust of Julius Caesar, which your father decided to put in his room.”
Janie drifted about around the room, Ilene following her in stunned silence.
“There was a Han Dynasty vessel with...apple blossoms.”
“I gave it to Oliver,” Ilene responded.
“And on the mantle, two pale green porcelain vases.”
“I broke one when I was seven, Father took the other. What are you doing?”
“I’m not sure.” Janie reached for a small brown clock. “This mantle clock was made by a clever Chinese peasant who made puzzles.” Janie picked up the clock and unlatched a hook in the back, her fingers sure in their task.
Ilene gasped as Janie pulled at what seemed a solid piece of teakwood. It stretched out into the shape of a Chinese dragon. “I never knew it did that. My God, Carolyn. You’re frightening the hell out of me!”
Janie pushed the dragon back into its square home, latched the hook, and replaced the clock on the mantle. She gripped Ilene’s arms and searched her eyes with urgency. “Ilene, listen. I know this is going to sound crazy, but, do you believe in...reincarnation?”
Ilene took a deep breath. “Right now, I’m not sure what to believe.” Reaching for the mantle clock, she, added, “Or disbelieve. How can you be sure you’re not experiencing the stuff mediums call...oh, what’s the phrase? Psychic intuition, or something.”
“I’m not sure what to call it.”
“You mean to tell me you can envision things?”
“Like it was my own memory. Just pieces, really. A flash here and there.”
Ilene set the clock on the mantle. “How long has this been going on?”
Janie shrugged. “Since I arrived, I guess.”
“And then you come into this room and describe its original furnishings precisely.”
Janie met Ilene’s steady gaze. “I know, you must think this is all a bunch of—”
Ilene waved her off. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
THE BRASS PLATE on the door said: Victoria Neale, Doctor of Psychotherapy. Janie had gathered Ilene’s cousin was a woman of some scientific renown. Foremost in her field, she had written several papers documenting the use of hypnosis in the analytic diagnosis of a person’s fears, paranoia, and causes of memory lapse.
Inside the quiet office, Janie and Ilene sat silently in leather chairs, Janie casually assessing Dr. Neale. Her hair was wavy, though stylishly shoulder length, with rich browns that caught the light from the window behind her. She inhaled softly at the pages in the file she was examining. Eyebrows lifted over the gold, wire-rimmed glasses, and the green eyes looked first to Ilene then Janie.
“Well, Cousin,” said Dr. Neale. “You certainly have made me earn my shilling today.”
“Is this sort of thing common?” asked Ilene.
“Certainly not rare. However, Carolyn’s level of detailed knowledge is quite unusual. Most cases of past-life recollection are vague, dreamlike. Being able to recall the past in the same detail as you might be able to recall what you ate for yesterday’s breakfast, for example, is an occurrence that is totally undocumented.”
“Leave it to me to do something unusual,” murmured Janie.
“Earlier you mentioned your brief encounter with your doppelgänger.”
Janie looked away uneasily.
“Instincts have a delicious way of presenting us with subtle truths,” Dr. Neale continued. “The guilt that surrounded this woman’s death in New York unleashed a Pandora’s box within your subconscious that not only let you see yourself more completely in this life, but in your prev
ious life, as well.”
“How is that even possible?” Janie asked.
“Again, very rare, but possible. It tends to happen when a person lives through a traumatic event that is literally a life-changing experience. The psyche becomes enhanced, and images from past lives can become acute. Or not. Some people become more religious when such a thing happens, ‘seeing the light’, as it were. Or they may become more mystically awakened, with a strong sense of awareness of the world around them. This is all very much a topic of debate, of course. Buddhists believe in reincarnation, heart and soul.”
Dr. Neale sat down and smiled as she held up a Bible. “Even in Christianity, though the point is frequently argued, Scripture tells how Jesus pronounced himself the reincarnation of the Prophet Isaiah before a temple full of Elders.”
“I guess this isn’t as farfetched as I thought,” Janie said.
“It’s just not often talked about in modern day. Scoffed at, surely. The concept is lost among ancient texts and truly not very practical, so it’s considered more of a myth or an allegory.”
“I don’t mind experiencing a myth, I just don’t want to be diagnosed as a schizophrenic.”
Dr. Neale laughed. “I don’t believe you have anything to worry about. I am fascinated, however, at the coincidence of your returning to Aria Manor, living there just as you had in a past life.”
Janie scoffed at the idea. “Coincidence.”
“If that’s what it is.” Dr. Neale pulled a business card from her drawer and handed it to Janie. “If you’d like to try to put your pieces together, call me. I’d like to help.”
Janie reached for the card. She sat back and flicked a thumbnail against its edge while she considered her options. “One thing is for sure—whoever I was then, I was someone who made the Major very uncomfortable.”
“It is said that things always come full circle in the end.”
THE COOL MONTHS allowed the gentle nudge of winter to frost and glisten the evenings with a landscape of sparkling brilliance. On this particular night Janie lay awake in bed, replaying the afternoon visit with Dr. Neale not so very long ago. If it was true, if she had been at Aria Manor in a previous life, what could have transpired in that life that now evoked so many visions and a plethora of déjà vu? Little things like the way a certain flower would hang in a vase, or the feeling of each changing season in the atrium and its sometimes faint echo of music or the laugh of a dancing couple. Almost always, she felt the familiarity of sunlight as it shadowed the panes in the music room just so across the floor. It certainly was strange, she thought, eyeing the ceiling. Even now, she could recall the plaster panels there above her and how they once reflected the moon’s glow with such mystery, and the shadows were cast against one another in a way that created a remarkable sense of depth. Usually, on hot nights the windows were open and a slight breeze carried in the not-so-distant hush of waves, their whispers hypnotic. It was enough of a thought to make Janie fall asleep.
The drapes moved from a light wind, dancing softly in their crispness. A figure of a woman appeared at the door and inched across the room wearing a pale peach Victorian gown that fluttered in the breeze. Wisps of hair that were not pulled tight upon the head swayed like the soft tendrils of a willow. Janie sensed a presence and sat up. She recognized her visitor from her portrait. It was Miriam.
Miriam’s milky figure glowed in the moonlight like a marbled goddess, sultry in her essence and beautiful. With deliberate gait she stepped toward Janie. Silk folds clung to her breasts and nimble fingers slid down the buttons, parting the gown seductively. “I couldn’t sleep.” Miriam’s voice was an echo of Ilene’s, though softer. Her eyes held Janie’s with a wanting plea as she bent near. The image suddenly morphed into a terrifying figure of the Major, his eyes like hot rivets. With the wild excitement of a predator he held up his rifle, pointed it at Janie, and fired.
The shot startled Janie out of the dream with a horrible cry; it was her own. Beads of sweat dripped down Janie’s cheek and trickled onto her neck. She panted, panted. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and re-opened her eyes.
The ceiling was now lit by daybreak rather than moonlight. She sat up and looked around at the rest of the room. The windows were closed, as they had been when she fell asleep. The vivid vision, however, still lingered. Her tank top was soaked with sweat, and she ran her fingers through the disarray of her damp blonde hair.
“Jesus,” she gulped, sliding from the bed.
“Is this a bad time?”
Janie twisted fearfully toward the familiar, sarcastic voice of Carolyn’s ghost. She was slightly relieved to see Carolyn smiling at her. Janie sighed then pushed herself up from the bed and went over to the desk by the window, where she snatched her cigarette case and matches. The match flame caught the edge of paper and tobacco, and she inhaled deeply before she flung open the panes and allowed the brisk December wind to cool her flushed skin.
“At least you’re harmless. You are harmless, aren’t you?” After another inhalation, Janie turned around and faced Carolyn’s misty apparition. “You know, my world has turned inside out more times in the past eight months than most other’s have in an entire lifetime.”
“Congratulations. I wasn’t back in New York a hot twenty minutes before you turned my world inside out.”
With a disgusted sigh, Janie stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it outside, then closed the windows.“Look, you want me to say it? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save everyone else.”
“Did you ever think that maybe we weren’t meant to be saved?”
“Who are you now, the Devil’s advocate?”
“Why are you so hell bent on blaming yourself for failing to save everyone in your life?”
“Because everyone deserves to live, Carolyn.”
“Stop playing God!”
Seething, Janie held her breath and her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I don’t play God.”
“Then why try so hard to change things that are beyond your control?”
Janie let out a snort of exasperation. “Change things? How is it that suddenly people all around me are dying and I can’t do anything about it?”
“Who is it that you’re trying to save?”
“What?”
“Who is it you’re trying to save?” Carolyn repeated slowly.
Janie shook her head in aggravation. “Maybe you need to ask yourself that question. You’re the ghost here.” Janie laughed ruefully as she ran a hand over her face. “What the hell am I doing? I’m debating with an apparition, for Christ’s sake.”
By the time Janie looked again, Carolyn’s pale figure had dissipated, and Janie was left alone with her thoughts.
CHRISTMAS EVE AT the manor held its usual charm. Bartley lit tapered candles in every window. Liz put up ropes of pine, cranberries, and bows on every banister. And with Anna in the kitchen, the scent of baked fruit breads and sweets filled the rooms with mouthwatering scents. Janie sat comforting Ilene as she mourned over the anticipated loss of Aria Manor.
“Oliver will never appreciate Aria Manor as much as I do,” Ilene sobbed. “My only consolation is that he’ll see it as a possession and therefore retain it as an investment.”
The two watched from atop the foyer steps as Bartley placed a tall ladder under the chandelier. Ilene turned to Janie. “I’ve never thought of myself living anywhere else. How could I possibly be happy in Bristol, or anywhere else for that matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Janie replied. “Sometimes a startling change isn’t all that bad. It’s a little messy at the beginning, just until you get the hang of it.”
Ilene let the notion settle within the silence, then dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, God. There’s just so much to do, so much to plan. I wouldn’t know where to start.” With a deep breath, she laid her head upon Janie’s shoulder. “There is so much I’m going to miss.”
Janie turned to look squarely at Ile
ne. “It’s not like you’re never going to see Aria Manor again, is it? Surely you’ll be able to visit.”
“Of course. But I’m afraid Angela will turn this whole place upside down with her modern and very ugly tastes. She likes polka dots and poodles, for God’s sake.”
Janie laughed and wrapped an arm around her. “I wouldn’t condemn others having different tastes. Perhaps this is a good thing.” At the wry look from Ilene, she continued. “No, I mean it. It’ll certainly be a motivation for you to see more of the world. It wouldn’t hurt you to be a little restless now and again, you know. And maybe a little polka dotted poodle would liven up the place. It would give Bartley something to starch.”
The Major burst through the front door, tossing an exuberant command over his shoulder. “There’s only one way to take down and drag a bull elephant, gentlemen. With force!”
Janie kissed Ilene on the cheek. “Think I’ll see if the Major needs any help.”
Gil, Michael, and the Major had done “the man’s job,” as they called it, of fetching a Christmas tree. They had chopped down a fir and wrestled it to the manor, but they couldn’t get it through the door to get it situated in its designated spot in the foyer.
The Major stood there, carefully weighing his strategy while sipping on a sherry. “We ought to just shove the bloody thing through and have done with it,” he observed.
Janie met up with Liz and Anna as they stood in the doorway to the servants’ hall. Anna scoffed at the situation. “Every year it’s the same thing, and it’s never a pretty sight.”
Janie walked up at the tableau of the three men frowning at a large fir tree.
“Ah,” breathed the Major. “Carolyn.”
“Denys. Need some help?”
“Good girl. Make sure we don’t lose any branches this year.”
Humbly, Janie smiled. “Well, I’ll do my best.” She poked her head around the protruding trunk and eyed Gil and Michael. “Hey, fellas. What’s the trouble? Why not just turn the tree around and put the narrow end through first?”
