The Forgotten

by Tamara Thorne

  “You’re not going to budge on this, are you, Doctor?”

  “Tell you what. Let’s get your dosage back up and see if that doesn’t help. If it doesn’t, I’ll do some research and try to keep an open mind.”

  Lara’s smile was small but genuine. “Dr. Banning? Do you taste the bitterness in spinach?”

  “Yes.” He made a face. “Awful stuff.”

  “It doesn’t taste bitter to me.”

  “Our perceptions are dictated by physiology.”

  She nodded. “I hear ghosts. Maybe it’s in my physiology, but it’s not in yours, so you can’t conceive of hearing them.”

  Will shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Don’t humor me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “I know. But, Doctor, if the pills don’t help, would you consider making a house call? To hear for yourself?”

  “All right.” He rose, as did Lara. “I’ll phone Dr. Rawlins with your prescriptions.”

  “Thanks. Tell him to send them to the usual pharmacy.” She headed for the door of the little bird-free office he was using this week. “Thanks for listening.”

  “You’re welcome. Make an appointment for Friday or Monday, and call if you have more trouble.” He paused. “Do you have a friend you can stay with for a day or two—or who can stay with you—until you feel a little steadier?”

  “I might. I’ll think about it.”

  Will nodded. Lara Sweethome was not a hysteric. She even made some sort of sense with her ghost talk. But it was ridiculous to even consider such a thing. She was relapsing, that’s all there was to it.

  20

  “May I help you?” Kevin asked the heavyset guy at the reception window.

  “Yeah. You Will Banning?”

  “The doctor’s in session right now. I’m his assistant, Kevin. All his appointment slots are filled today, but—”

  “I’m not here for an appointment,” the man grunted. He glanced back at the waiting room with that uneasy I-don’t-belong-here expression common to many who entered a psychologist’s office. “I’m Harrison Beech.” He rested hirsute knuckles on the countertop.

  “You certainly are.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Beech. Why are you here?”

  “I’m from Glass Act. I’ve got panes waiting out on my truck.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. “Will Banning ordered replacement glass for a French door.”

  Kevin smiled, then directed Beech to a back entrance. The man lumbered out, and Kevin followed, watching from the window until the man pulled his Glass Act pickup truck toward the rear. He turned and beamed at the nervous-looking crowd in the waiting room then hurried back past his office and up the hall to unlock the back door, but Will’s door opened suddenly, barely missing him.

  “Sorry,” Will said. He was holding the door for Lara Sweethome, who was looking about as frazzled as she had when she came in.

  “Uh, glass guy’s here,” Kevin told him. “He’s at the back entrance.”

  Will nodded. “You take care of Miss Sweethome. I’ll let him in.”

  “Great.” Kevin smiled at the little lady and slipped her hand over his elbow. “Right this way, my dear.”

  21

  She smiled. Will watched Kevin lead Lara Sweethome away. He hadn’t seen one genuine smile the entire session—granted it was only twenty minutes, but still, not one—but let Kevin be Kevin and the woman lit up like she hadn’t a care in the world. I think I’m jealous. But a smile was a smile and, as he let Harrison Beech in, he realized how pleased he was that Lara actually had a smile in her, poor woman.

  “This way.” Will led Beech and his box of glass to his regular office and unlocked the door. The glass man entered and placed the glass on the empty desktop in the shadowed room. The room smelled of cleaners and furniture polish. Will turned on the light.

  Plywood covered the doors, and since the little courtyard had no outside entrance and hid the breakage from view, they had decided not to bother nailing the wood to the framing. Instead, they took everything out of the office but the desk and bookcases, and those had been cleaned, along with the rug and walls, by a service early this morning. Kevin had already had the upholstered sofa and chair hauled away, too. Will’s pristine desk chair had accompanied him into the spare office.

  Beech whistled, looking around. “I’d hate to see what that rug looked like before you had it shampooed.”

  Will looked down. Small dark bloodstains still dotted the carpet, an almost solid line of them marking where the back of sofa had been. The walls were clean, but scrubbed down to an old coat of paint in places. The inside of the wood door appeared to be in good shape, at least.

  “Bloodstains are hard to get out,” Beech said.

  Will nodded.

  “Birds?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “We’ve had a few calls about broken windows in the last week or two.” He scratched his chin. “Usually, we get about one a year.” He looked around again. “Usually it’s a really clean picture window, the bird’s intent on whatever its little birdy brain is telling it to do and it just”—he slammed his fist into his palm—“Bam! Right into the glass. The hell of it is, the thing’s probably chasing its own reflection. Usually it just stuns or kills the bird. Sometimes, when it hits just right, we get some business.”

  “So it’s usually just one bird?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes two or three.”

  “The calls you’ve had recently,” Will began, “were there more birds than usual?”

  Beech scratched his jaw with gusto. “My beard grows too fast. I get these ingrown hairs. Anything I can do for that, Doc?”

  “I’m not that kind of doctor. Sorry. About the birds.”

  “Yeah. Four seagulls creamed themselves down at one of the restaurants on Crescent Drive. But that was a big picture window and the sun would’ve been reflecting in it when they hit. Four’s not that many, but those are big birds and they hit just right.” He grinned. “Expensive. I did one of the others. It was just a small window on a house. Already had a crack in it, but there were half a dozen sparrows dead on the ground beneath it. The other call was nothing, just a single bird, but it packed a punch. Some sort of hawk.” Beech scratched a little more then nodded at the broken doors. “Now this, this is just plain weird. Looks like you had a massacre in here. How many birds?”

  “A flock. Crows. I don’t know how many.”

  “That’s one for the books. If these were clear sliders, it wouldn’t be quite as strange, but with the white panes, it’s just freaky.”

  Will glanced at his watch. “I have a patient waiting. If you need anything, go see Kevin at the reception desk.”

  “I might need to talk to you again.”

  “Not a problem. I’m running short sessions all day. I’ll be free ten minutes out of every half hour.”

  Harrison Beech pushed stray locks from his forehead then whistled again. “That’s a hell of a short hour. Don’t the crazy people get an hour?”

  “Many of my patients usually have longer sessions, but we’re very busy today.”

  “Everybody’s going nuts, huh?” Beech guffawed. “Maybe people are gonna start slamming into windows, too.”

  22

  “Really?” Kevin’s eyes widened as he leaned over the counter until he was only a foot from Lara Sweethome’s face. “You have a ghost?” He handed her an appointment slip. “What’s it look like?”

  “I hear it,” Lara said. “I’ve never seen it, but it’s my mother. I smell her perfume, too.”

  “Your mother? That’s nice!”

  “No, it isn’t nice.”

  “Oh, she was an old meanie?”

  “Not exactly. She was irritable. She had reason to be because she’d been an invalid since I was thirteen. She wouldn’t leave the house.”

  Visions of Norman Bates’s mom danced in Kevin’s head. “Wouldn’t or couldn�
��t?”

  “Wouldn’t. She lost both her arms and she didn’t want anybody to see her, so she called herself an invalid for years and years before she actually became ill and died. Before that, she walked and walked, but only in the house.” She leaned even closer. “Do you know what she could do?”

  “What?” whispered Kevin.

  “She could feed herself with her feet. She could hold a spoon in her toes and have soup. Or use a knife and fork to cut a steak.”

  Kevin couldn’t help it, he started to tremble with contained laughter. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  But Lara giggled too. “It’s okay. I guess it’s good she wouldn’t go out. Can you imagine if she’d wanted to go to a restaurant?”

  They both tittered. “Why didn’t she get prosthetic arms?”

  “She didn’t believe in them. She said she lost her arms because she’d sinned and was being punished.”

  “My God. What did she do?”

  “I’m not really sure.” The smile returned. “There were so many things. She was going to become a nun, but got kicked out for having relations with a priest.”

  Kevin touched her hand in mock shock. “A straight priest?”

  Lara smiled. “Then she became a Playtime Pussycat, but got kicked out for doing club patrons.”

  “Doing them? What do you mean?”

  Lara blushed. “Once, when she was drunk, she told me about it. She specialized in, well, uh, masturbating men right in the restaurant or the club room, wherever she was working. She said she did it hundreds of times before she finally got caught and canned.”

  “You mean she gave them hand jobs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s the sin. A hand for a hand.”

  Lara smiled. “I never thought of that. Well, I never wanted to think about her doing that, so of course I didn’t.”

  Kevin wanted to ask how Mommie Dearest lost her arms, but quelled the urge. “Tell me about the haunt. What does she say?”

  “I’ve never heard her talk, thank heaven for small favors. She walks. She slams doors and opens them, and sometimes her perfume just suddenly overwhelms me, it’s so strong. But mostly, it’s the walking. She pushed me over last night.”

  “And it’s scary?”

  “Very. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Does the doc still say it’s your imagination? Don’t answer that. Of course he does.”

  “Have you heard a ghost, too?” Lara asked softly.

  “No. But I’ve seen one and, honey, it’s a doozy.”

  “Where did you see it?”

  “In our house. Yesterday. It was so scary that we stayed in a hotel last night.”

  “Did you tell the doctor?”

  “Not yet, but I will when things calm down a little.”

  “He won’t believe you.”

  “He’ll have to believe something because my partner saw it, too.”

  “A witness! You’re lucky. I asked Dr. Banning to make a house call if the meds don’t get rid of my ‘imagined’ ghost. I don’t know if he will or not.” Lara’s expression grew somber. “Kevin?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do about yours—your ghost?”

  “Well, I guess I’m going to hope it was a one-time-only thing. And if it is, we’ll chalk it up to bad clams or something.”

  “What if it comes back?”

  “Honestly, sweetie, I don’t know. Move, maybe. I mean, our ghost is that ugly!” He made a face. “What about you?”

  “I can’t afford to move. I’ve been reading up on getting rid of ghosts, but I don’t know very much yet. My book says they can’t cross salt.”

  “Salt.” Two phone lines began ringing. “Oh, darn. When it rains, it pours. I’ll see you in a few days, Lara. We’ll talk then.”

  She waved and left, then Kevin fielded a rash of calls from people wanting last-minute appointments. He told them to call back tomorrow or to seek other help. It was all he could do since he didn’t double-book in advance. (He filled the usual emergency half-hours, though. So much for Will getting a lunch hour. Or for himself.)

  “How’s it going?” Will asked. His patient, all paid up, nodded at Kevin and swept by.

  “Well, you’ve got five people out there waiting.”

  “Five?”

  “At last count.”

  “They have appointments?”

  “Yes. Doc, I’ve turned away four walk-ins, and eight calls for same-days. Unless you want to work evening hours.”

  “If I thought I could hack it, I would. Our last appointment is when?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  He shook his head. “If there’s an honest-to-God emergency, I’ll take one beyond that, but that’s it. I’ve been here since eight A.M. and I’m exhausted already. How many med checkups do we have today?”

  Kevin consulted the computer. “Four.”

  “Get hold of them and reschedule, tell them to call Gabe, that their prescriptions will be filled now, but that they must keep the new appointments. Might as well do the same thing for tomorrow, too. Use your judgment.”

  “No refills for potential abusers?”

  Will sighed. “You know what’s up. If the patient is a problem, don’t put off the appointment. Ones with potential problems, well, tell them they’ll get enough to tide them over until the rescheduled appointment—try to make it next week. I’m sorry to put so much on you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks. Call Gabe and coordinate things with him, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Is Gabe busy today?”

  “Swamped.”

  Will nodded. “Tell him I won’t send him anyone I absolutely don’t have to. Are you seeing him for lunch?”

  “And leave you here alone with patients up front? I don’t think so.”

  “Kevin, you’re wonderful.”

  Kevin twinkled. “Tell Gabe.”

  “I will, if you’ll do one more thing for me.”

  “I’m at your command.”

  “Whatever you order for lunch for yourself, get the same for me? Charge it all to the office.” He paused. “We do have a few minutes off, don’t we?”

  “We didn’t, but now we have twenty minutes. One of those med patients was scheduled for noon. I’ll call him right away.”

  “Twenty minutes, huh? Today that sounds positively hedonistic—so order up something good. We’ll eat and talk about something fun.”

  “I know just the topic. Gabe and I spent last night in the Caveman Room at the Candle Bay Hotel.”

  “The Caveman Room?”

  “Well, they have a prettier name for it, but believe me, it was the Caveman Room last night.”

  Will looked skyward, then at Kevin. “I don’t think I want to hear too much about that.”

  “Okay,” Kevin said blithely. “Then I’ll tell you about our ghost.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Kev.”

  “I’m not. Our house is haunted.”

  “Who’s next?” Will asked abruptly.

  “Huh?”

  “Who’s my next patient?”

  Kevin glanced down. “Adam Goddson.”

  “Is he out there?” Will nodded toward the waiting room.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  “No, Doc. Go back to your office. I’ll bring him. The natives are restless out there. If they see you, they’ll mob you.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” He eyed Kevin. “Can it?”

  “Let’s put it this way. You have five patients. Three of them arrived in the last hour even though they aren’t scheduled until after lunch. They want to see you.”

  “I bow to your judgment,” Will said quietly. “I’ll be in my office.”

  23

  Except for the Crescent, the little city of Caledonia was located across Pacific Coast Highway from the ocean. The town was long and narrow, built like a vagina, according to the wisdom of Pete Banning. Main St
reet was the slit, the center of town, down in the valley. The lips—that’s what Pete used to call the twin sets of low hills rising on either side—cradled the slit. The inmost ones had been well built-up for years, but the outer hills had seen real construction only in the last two decades. Pete’s brother, Will, lived on top of the outer lip that bordered by the highway. Quite a few people lived there now. But when Mickey Elfbones was a kid hanging out with Pete, a trail had run for several miles along the hill above the highway.

  It was still there in places, just a worn dirt track that had ceased to be of interest once you couldn’t hike it without running into homes. When Mickey was a kid, it was vaguely off-limits because of lack of fencing, but the hill was wide, and though parents told kids not to hike up there, they’d done the same when they were kids, and nobody much cared, as long as you were on your feet. Just your feet. No bikes. Even then there were metal NO BICYCLING signs posted, and if you did it and got caught, the cops could write you a real ticket.

  Of course, kids did, though not as much as you’d expect, and Pete, who was all for breaking laws, happened to like that one a lot because it pissed him off when asshole kids would fly by while he and Mickey were on patrol. They did that a lot when they were nine, ten, eleven years old. Pete loved to patrol. They pretended they were soldiers, and they’d scrutinize the town and the highway with cheap binoculars as they walked.

  But there was this one kid, Andy Faircloud, a grade older than them, and a lot bigger, who loved to honk this stupid horn and race between them on his bike, which usually had a card snapping in the spokes. Pete tried to knock him over, but couldn’t, and he wouldn’t even entertain Mickey’s suggestion that they rat him out to the cops or his parents. That was chickenshit, Pete said.

  So one day, around Halloween, they hiked up the hill and hid behind some bushes. There, they opened their backpacks and put on Grim Reaper robes and painted up each other’s faces to look like skeletons. Mickey had wanted to use masks, but Pete said those weren’t scary enough. After the makeup, they put on black gloves on which Pete had painted white skeleton hands. It was really pretty cool.