by E. C. Bell
The kettle began to sing, and Rupert turned it off. He poured the hot water into the cups and handed us each one. “Dope it as you see fit,” he said, pointing to the middle of the kitchen table.
The instant coffee, sugar, and fake cream sat before us. I smiled, trying to make it seem as real as possible, under the circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Dubinsky.”
“It’s no bother,” he said gruffly. He held his cup—the one with his image on it—tightly in his work worn hands, as though warming them. “Now, what do you need to know?”
I opened my mouth to speak, not at all certain what was going to pop out, but James beat me to the punch.
“When was the last time you saw Karen?” he asked. I snapped my mouth shut, not certain whether to be angry at him for continuing to take over, or happy that I didn’t have to think of the first, hard question.
Rupert looked over our heads for a long moment. I realized he hadn’t added anything to the hot water in his cup. Just held it in his hands, warming them. “It was May fourth,” he said. “The afternoon of May fourth. My wife’s birthday. Almost a year to the day after she moved out of our place and got her own apartment.” Rupert’s mouth twisted. “And they fought—Ethel and Karen. About that damned job of Karen’s, as usual.” He looked up at us, and his eyes were so full of pain I felt sick. “Ethel doesn’t celebrate her birthday anymore.”
I couldn’t think of one thing to say to that man. I glanced at James, and for once it looked like he was struck as dumb as I was.
“Isn’t that all in her file?” Rupert said. “I—I don’t think I want to go through everything again.”
“I’m sorry if this is painful for you,” James said. “But we need to corroborate the information. See what needs to be updated.” He didn’t look down at the file. “Where did she work?”
“The Coffee Factory,” Rupert said. “We used to be friends with the owner and his wife—Len and Carol Wesson.” He pulled his cup to his lips and slurped. Swallowed and sighed. “They gave her the job after she finished school. We thought she could work there while she took some time to think about things. You know.”
“I understand,” James said. I didn’t, and frowned.
“What did she need to think about?” I asked.
“What she was going to do with the rest of her life,” Rupert said. “Things kinda blew up for her, after graduation.”
“How?”
“She decided that plans needed to change,” he said, after a small silence. “That’s all.”
“Thank you,” James said, then threw a glance at me.
“Do you have anything from her apartment?” I asked. “Anything you’ve saved?”
James blinked, and Rupert jumped as though I’d stuck him with a cattle prod. “Her stuff?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Rupert stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said shortly. “Ethel got rid of everything after the reporters were here. For that article they wrote, last year.”
The article I’d found online. About the fortieth anniversary of Karen’s disappearance.
We sat for a moment. Then James pointed past Rupert and into the next room. “That photograph,” he said. “When was it taken?”
Rupert swung his big frame around in the chair, causing it to creak. “That’s her grad picture. A year before she—disappeared.”
“Who’s the person in the picture with her?” James asked.
By that time, I was burning with curiosity. “Do you mind if I have a look?” I asked and stood.
“Go ahead,” Rupert said. “Just keep it quiet. The wife’s room is down that hallway.”
“I will, I promise,” I said. I walked up to the doorway and looked into the living room. Old-fashioned furniture was scattered about, with an equally old-fashioned CRV television parked against the far wall, but I paid it very little attention, because I couldn’t take my eyes away from the photographs on the wall above the overstuffed couch.
They were all of Karen. Karen as a baby. Karen as a little girl, playing with a small black dog. Karen sitting unsmiling on Santa’s lap, cheeks bright red from crying. Karen as a gawky teenager, staring into a huge bonfire, wearing the most godawful striped shirt and blue jeans with huge, billowing bottoms. Bellbottoms, I thought. They were called bellbottoms.
But it was the photograph of Karen in a long dress, hair pulled back with flowers in her hair, that caught my attention. She was half smiling, but it didn’t touch her eyes, and she was leaning away from the boy standing next to her. He had a big goofy grin on his face and was wearing an incredibly ugly bright green velvety-looking suit.
I guessed that was the photograph James had been asking about. It was much larger than all the others, framed in an ornate but cheap-looking gold frame.
“Yes,” I said. “Who is that with Karen?”
“It’s Bobby. Bobby Kimble,” Rupert said. “At their graduation. They were going to get married after, but it didn’t work out.”
Wondering just how their relationship hadn’t worked and whether that had anything to do with Karen being stuck at a softball diamond on Edmonton’s south side, I reached out to touch the frame. Well, straighten it, really. It was just off kilter, and it was driving me crazy. But I didn’t get a chance to touch it.
“Get away from that!” Ethel screamed. She’d crept out of her room while I was staring at the pictures. She ran down the hallway and grabbed me hard by the arm. “Get away from her! Now!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to figure out a way to get her to disengage without damaging her. I’d learned how in those defence classes I’d taken, but most of them involved breaking fingers and such, and I really didn’t want to hurt her. She’d been hurt enough. “Please let me go.”
I jerked my arm away from her hand, flinching when her nails scratched across my bare skin.
“Get out of my house,” she shrieked. “Both of you, now!” Then, she burst into tears and threw herself on the overstuffed couch.
“I think it’s time for you to go,” Rupert said. He sounded suddenly and absolutely exhausted. “If you need any more information, give me a call.”
“I will not allow them to call this house,” Ethel cried from the living room.
“Understood,” he said. He pointed to the front door and then followed us out.
“Call my cell,” he whispered, handing James a business card. “If you find out anything.”
“Will do,” James said. “And I’m sorry we upset your wife.”
“Having our daughter drop off the face of the earth upset my wife,” Rupert said. “And it’s not going to get any better until we find out what happened. So, no matter what, give me a call if you learn anything.”
“Will do.”
“Anything at all.”
“Understood.”
He shut the door, but we could still hear Ethel sobbing into the big overstuffed pillows of the old-fashioned couch. I almost felt like asking Rupert if he wanted to come with us, just to get him away from all the pain. But I didn’t.
“God,” I said as we drove away. “That was horrible.”
“What did you expect?” James asked.
“I thought—I don’t know what I thought . . . ” My voice winnowed down to nothing. Karen’s parents didn’t know that she’d died. Didn’t know where her bones were. Hadn’t had a chance to put her to rest. They’d been living in limbo for over forty years. And it looked like limbo was their own personal form of hell.
“Karen has to know that her family needs closure, so they can finally move on even if she isn’t willing to.”
“With any luck we’ll be able to give them some,” James said. He put the car into gear and drove away from Karen’s family home. “But first, we have to find that guy in the photograph.”
“The guy in the horrible green velvet suit?” I asked. “Bobby Kimble?”
“That’s the one,” he said. “I think we need to find out what he knows.
”
I HAD TO see my shrink, so James dropped me off in front of Dr. Parkerson’s building.
“You want me to pick you up?” he asked.
“Nah,” I said. “I’ll take the bus and catch up with you at the office.”
I headed into the office building and up to the fourteenth floor. My appointment was at 4:30, and at 4:18 I was sitting in her waiting room, waiting.
I was by myself which did not surprise me. To be honest, it would have shocked me if anyone else had been there. I was supposed to have her attention, solely and completely, for fifty minutes, starting at 4:31.
Someone else in that waiting room would have meant that I had to share my time—share my shrink—with someone else. When I first started, I thought it would have been just fine to share her with someone else, so her focus wasn’t so absolutely and completely on me, but I found that I had those thoughts less and less.
She was mostly non-threatening. Distant, which was probably for the best, but approachable enough that she hadn’t scared me off in those first few visits. It would have been easy for her to do, because I was a wreck after my mother died, and I got worse when she didn’t come back to me.
I couldn’t tell the shrink that, of course, because that would have made her think I was crazy, and I wasn’t crazy. I was deeply in grief and suffering from PTSD, due in no small part to being kidnapped and then having to save my kidnapper’s life after she tried, unsuccessfully, to blow her brains out in front of me.
Dr. Parkerson had offered me a whole array of drugs on my first visit. Antidepressants, sleeping pills, the works. I told her no thank you.
“I want to work this out drug-free,” I said.
“It will be easier with the drugs,” she’d replied, but hadn’t pushed. Not really.
She’d ask me how I was sleeping. About the nightmares, and the panic attacks, and the headaches. I’d say they were getting a little bit better, and then she’d offer me the pills. And I’d say no thank you.
Then, there was the experiment with IRT.
IRT. Imagery Rehearsal Therapy. She’d suggested it as a course of treatment soon after I started going to her. I was supposed to come up with better endings for my nightmares, and then replay them, over and over, until the nightmares didn’t have any power over me.
I’d tried it once, thought it was stupid, and didn’t do it again, even though she suggested a few times, ever more strongly, that I really needed to give it a chance.
I think I surprised her when I actually took her advice about exercise seriously. First with the self-defence classes, and then with softball. But throughout, she kept offering the drugs. And I’d say no every time, even though not sleeping and the nightmares when I did were getting old. Really old.
I picked up a magazine and stared at the cover without seeing it, waiting for the door to open and her to say, “Come on in, Marie. I’m ready for you now.”
I looked at the time on my phone and then shut it off. I tucked it into the pocket of my hoodie, then sat with the magazine in my lap, forgotten, thinking about nothing until it was my turn to spill my guts all over her beige Berber carpet.
But nothing about ghosts. Never anything about ghosts.
DR. PARKERSON CONVINCED me to stay in softball, just like Jasmine said she would. I said I would. I think she was so pleased that she didn’t offer me drugs. Just set up my next appointment in two weeks’ time and asked me to reconsider the IRT. One more time. Please.
I said I would, but forgot about it by the time I reached the bus stop.
Karen:
Making Joanne Feel Better, for Some Reason
JOANNE SHOWED UP at Diamond Two the next day, looking like hell. She stood by the edge of the diamond and stared at me until I reluctantly walked over to her.
“What happened to you last night?” I asked. “Kelly caught, so you can guess how the game went.”
“Sorry,” Joanne said. She stared down at her feet. “I just couldn’t take being here while that—person—was hanging around, staring at us. You know?”
She spat out the word person like it was the worst possible swearword she could think of. Maybe it was.
“You coming back to play?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “We gotta do something about—”
“Marie,” I said shortly. “Her name’s Marie.”
“Whatever,” Joanne said. “Just as long as we run her off, for good this time—”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I said. “She didn’t cause us any problems last night—”
“You mean to tell me she stayed?” Joanne’s voice wound up, tight and angry, until it was almost out of hearing range. “She stayed, and watched, and got to know everyone . . . ”
“She didn’t get to know everyone,” I snapped. “She just watched the game. Like everyone else. What the hell is your problem with her, Joanne?”
“I told you!” she cried. “She’s gonna exorcise us all. We’ll be gone. Gone!”
“She’s not going to do anything like that,” I said.
“What, did she promise that she wouldn’t?” Joanne snapped. “Fuck, you’re as stupid as everyone else. You can’t trust the living. Why can’t you get that?”
“Whatever, Joanne,” I said, and shrugged. “Does this mean you won’t be playing anymore?”
“What?” Joanne looked stricken. “I never said that. I just said—”
“Marie’s going to stay,” I said. “And the rest of us are going to play. If you can’t handle that, then I guess you’re done.”
“But—”
“Done.” I turned away from her so I didn’t have to see the anguish on her face. I watched the two living men cut the grass and waited for Joanne to disappear.
It took her a long time. I could almost feel her eyes on me, but then the air lightened, and she was gone.
I hoped Mr. Kelly and Mr. Middleton would show up early, because I needed to talk to them. Joanne was going to be a real problem, and I figured they were the only two who could get her under control.
It was going to be a long day. Of that, I was certain.
MR. MIDDLETON SHOWED up just before the second living game started and hunched his way up into the bleachers, settling directly behind home plate, so he could see every pitch.
“Karen!” he called, when he had himself properly settled. “Come up and keep an old man company.”
I glanced up to see if Andrew was still in his seat. He was. Thought for a moment about asking Mr. Middleton to come to me and then let it go and went up and sat beside him. For a while, we just stared out at the diamond as the living warmed up.
“Did they rake the infield?” he asked. His usual question.
I nodded. “And they pulled some of the weeds by the backstop.”
“Good. It was starting to look unkempt.” He glanced over at me. “So, what about the Joanne situation?”
“Right to it,” I said and smiled. “She showed up today.”
“That’s good,” he replied. “She needs to get back in the game. It’s good for her well-being.”
“Joanne’s well-being?” I snorted laughter. “She doesn’t have a ton of that, even when she does play.”
“She’s better than she was, Karen. You remember what she was like when she first showed up?”
“I do,” I said, and shook my head. “She was a real mess.”
“That she was,” he said. “And now—”
“Now, she’s still trying to run off a living human being, just because she can see us,” I said. I could hear the anger in my voice and tried to tone it down. Mr. Middleton did not respond well to anger. “I mean, what are we supposed to do with that?”
“We can be understanding,” Mr. Middleton replied. “And give her the space to get over whatever’s bothering her.”
“Marie’s bothering her,” I said. “And Joanne won’t get over anything until she’s gone.”
“Any chance of that?” I could hear the ho
pefulness in Mr. Middleton’s voice and sighed. It wasn’t just Joanne who continued to be shaken by Marie’s presence at the ball diamond.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He sighed and shrugged. “So we have to come up with another plan. Something that will mollify Joanne. Get her back on the diamond, and playing.”
“Are you and Mr. Kelly still betting on the games?” I asked, half-joking. “Is that why you want her back?”
“She’s a good ball player,” Middleton said, his voice stiff. “You know that.”
“So you are,” I said. “Betting, I mean.”
“What of it?” he said, then laughed. “All right, so you caught me. But you know the games are better when she’s playing.”
He was right about that. No matter how crazy she was, she was a good back catcher. “So what do we do?” I asked.
“We convince her that there is nothing to fear,” he said.
I stared out at the empty diamond. “How the hell do we do that?” I finally asked.
“Watch the language, girl,” Middleton said.
“Sorry. What can we do?”
“We’ll talk to the rest of the players and come up with a plan,” he said. Then he frowned and pointed at the pitching rubber. “Does that look crooked to you?”
That let me know that the Joanne conversation was over for the moment. But as I discussed with him whether or not the chunk of rubber nailed to the ground that the pitchers used to push off when they threw was crooked—and it was—I knew that we weren’t finished. Not by a long shot.
THE DEAD DRIFTED in as the live game slowly played out. I saw Joanne by the far fence, talking with Rita Danworth. She pointedly ignored me, looking everywhere but in my direction.
Mr. Middleton called the meeting before the game, assembling everyone behind the bleachers as the last of the living left the diamond and the lights blinked dark.
“We need to talk,” he said. “About the Marie situation.”
“Damn straight we do,” Joanne said. “Gotta get rid of that bitch, pronto.” She glared at me, the first time she’d looked at me since her return. “Just because some of us have gone soft on the living, doesn’t mean we need to take any more chances.”
