Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

I cry out as I allow her to push my head under the water.

  OH MY GOD! IT’S SO COLD!

  But Caitlyn’s right. The shock is brief. I can hear her muffled laughter through water.

  I bob back to the surface. She’s still hanging on my shoulders. I can stand on the bottom but she can’t.

  “You’re mean,” I tell her.

  “I was helping you.”

  “Yeah. Some help you are,” I say, wiping my eyes and nose.

  Caitlyn spends the next hour or so jumping off the pier. She doesn’t go all the way to the end. The pier goes out about sixty feet, so it’d be a bit of a swim back every time. She could do it. I have no doubt of that. Our apartment back in Portsmouth was terrible but the one bright spot was that it had a swimming pool. Caitlyn spent almost every day of her summers splashing around. Whenever Nicole and I wanted some alone time, we’d encourage her to go swimming so she’d be tired and go to bed early. So, Caitlyn is a fantastic swimmer, but until she’s used to swimming in the lake, I don’t want her jumping off the end of the pier, where it’s really deep. However, she seems perfectly content to jump from the side.

  Eventually, she gets bored of it and swims up to my side. I know what’s coming.

  “Throw me, Dad!” she screams as she leaps up at me.

  I catch her under the arms and hurl her away into deeper water. Her arms flail and she laughingly screams as she flies through the air and splashes down.

  This was our favorite game when I would join her in the pool in Portsmouth.

  Before she resurfaces, I duck down and swim a few strokes underwater. She’s going to try to find me. This is how our little game works. I hold my breath for as long as I can and then burst upwards. She tries to catch up to me as I go back under and swim away slowly so that she can catch up. When I resurface, she’s right next to me. She leaps up, I grab her arms, and throw her, again.

  We would play this every day in the summer at the apartment pool, and I can tell you that every year, it gets more and more exhausting. I’m getting older and she’s getting bigger. Which is why I wouldn’t miss this for anything, no matter how tired I might be, because one day, I won’t be able to do it.

  And Caitlyn’s loving this.

  At the apartment pool, she could see where I was going, but the darkened water of the lake makes it a little more of a challenge.

  We keep playing. She screams with delight every time I throw her, but soon, I can’t throw her as far. I’m so tired that I stop going underwater in between throws. She swims back, laughing and crying out, “Throw me, Dad!”

  I do.

  Again, and again, and again.

  While my enthusiasm is quickly draining, Caitlyn is showing no signs of slowing down.

  “Throw me!”

  I grunt as I hurl her away.

  SPLASH!

  Her head bobs out of the water and she comes paddling back.

  “Again!”

  “Okay.”

  I catch her under her arms and throw her across the water. She resurfaces and swims back.

  “Again!”

  I do, but I’m so tired. Her legs aren’t even clearing the surface when I throw her. She splashes down, pops back up, laughs, and comes back.

  “Again!” she cries as she leaps at me.

  I can’t anymore. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t—but I don’t want to disappoint her. I try to throw her, but it’s more like a shove. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to care. She loves it.

  “Okay. That’s enough,” I say, breathlessly.

  “No! Again!” she cries.

  I oblige. I try to make it the grand finale and launch her as hard as I can.

  It’s better than my previous attempt, but that’s it. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I need to sit down.

  She resurfaces, more thrilled than ever.

  She hastily bobs her way back to me, laughing.

  “Again!” she cries, and leaps at me.

  I hate her. I hate my daughter.

  Enraged, I dodge to the side. As she falls past me, I put my hand on the back of her head and hold her underwater.

  She knows. She knows and she’s going to tell, and it will ruin everything!

  Suddenly, it’s night. The Nightingale House looks different, somehow. The yard is different. Mildred’s house is gone. I can feel my daughter grab at my wrist as she struggles.

  “Let him go.”

  Nicole.

  She’s standing right next to me, not the broken Nicole from my nightmare—no, it’s the Nicole I knew. But her eyes are filled with rage.

  “Let. Him. Go,” she says.

  I blink.

  It’s daytime.

  I’m in the lake. My hand is still on the back of Caitlyn’s head, holding her underwater as she struggles.

  I quickly pull it away.

  Caitlyn bursts out of the water, hacking and coughing.

  “Caitlyn! Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

  She shakes her head, coughs again, and smiles. She leaps up at me and playfully screams. She hangs on my shoulders and tries to push me underwater. She thinks it’s a game.

  I can’t. I can’t do this. What just happened? What did I just do?

  “Sweetheart, stop. Please, stop. Stop!”

  Caitlyn falls off my shoulders and back into the water.

  I start walking back towards the shore.

  “Dad, where are you going?” she asks, disappointed.

  “Dad’s tired,” I say. “I’m going to sit down for a minute. You keep playing.”

  My legs are going to give out. I go to the porch, grab a towel and a chair, and bring them down onto the lawn to be closer to keep an eye on Caitlyn.

  What was that? Am I really so tired that I would be angry at Caitlyn for wanting to play with me?

  My trembling is not from the cold water. I wrap the towel around my shoulders. Caitlyn continues to laugh and play.

  It was so vivid.

  I can get irritable when I haven’t slept but that was something I’ve never experienced: hatred. Hatred for my own daughter. I can still feel the sensation of Caitlyn struggling against my grip. The rage in Nicole’s eyes. She never looked at me like that. I don’t even know where I would remember that from. It was a nightmare. Maybe I fell asleep on my feet. Is that what happened? Is that even a thing?

  I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  I need sleep. I can’t do another restless night, chasing the sound of dripping water, and having vivid nightmares. That reminds me that I need to look for that drip before it gets dark, but for right now, the sun is starting to warm me. My nerves are calming.

  “Dad, are you getting back in?”

  “Not right now, pumpkin. I’m going to sit here and watch for a bit, okay?”

  She pouts but then dives under the water.

  I know I shouldn’t while Caitlyn is swimming, but maybe just a quick nap. A short shut-eye to get my wits back. I’m not sure I can even help it. My eyelids droop. My breathing slips into a rhythm. My head lists to the right and I catch a glimpse of Mildred stepping off her porch and walking in my direction.

  “Damnit,” I whisper.

  “How we doin’?” she cheerily asks once she’s within earshot.

  Caitlyn waves. “Hi, Mildred!”

  “Hi, sweetie!”

  She turns to me and stops. Her smile vanishes.

  “Jesus,” she says, quietly. “You look like shit.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “It shows.” She plops herself onto the grass beside my chair. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah … well … not really. Problems writing.”

  She shrugs. “It’s probably gonna take some time. New house. New town.”

  “Having problems with the house, too … Mildred, the couple that lived here before us—”

  “The Thompsons?”

  “Yeah. Did they have any problems with the house? Leaking pipes? Drafts? Anything?”

 
She thinks for a moment. “They had raccoons under the porch in the summer of ’97. Other than that, they lived in that house for thirty years and loved every minute of it. Nothing like what you’re talking about and I’m sure they would have told me. We were close.”

  “Then why now?” I groan, more to myself.

  Caitlyn shrieks with laughter from the water.

  Mildred looks at her and then back at me and has a thought.

  “Caitlyn?” she calls.

  “Yes, Mildred?”

  “Tuesday night, we are having a sleepover at my house. Just you and me. We’re going to watch movies, eat cookies, and play games.”

  Caitlyn stops splashing. “Really?”

  I sit up. “Mildred, you don’t have to do that—”

  “Listen,” she says, lowering her voice. “You really look like shit. Literally, you look like a spent turd in a chair. Let me take her off your hands for one night. You can have the house to yourself. Get some sleep or, better yet, go out. Whatever you need to do.”

  After a brief consideration, I have to admit that it sounds like a great idea.

  “You sure?” I ask.

  Mildred nods and turns back to Caitlyn, who is still waiting for an answer.

  “You bet your cutie little booty. Tuesday night, we’re having a Girls’ Night.”

  Caitlyn excitedly splashes. “Okay!”

  “Thank you, Mildred,” I say. “That’s incredibly kind.”

  She waves me off. “It’ll be fun. I would offer to take her tonight or Monday, but I may have a gentleman caller.”

  *

  That night, I’m tucking Caitlyn into bed by the soft glow of the night-light.

  “Are you excited to stay over at Mildred’s on Tuesday?”

  She nods, exhausted from playing in the lake.

  I kneel beside the bed and stroke her hair. Her little medallion rests on the nightstand.

  “Are you liking school?”

  She nods, again. “I really like Ms. Hancourt.”

  “Good. Are you making friends?”

  “I made one friend.”

  This is the first mention of a new friend since we moved.

  “Really? Is she in your class?”

  “No, but she follows me to school sometimes.”

  “Oh … Does she live in town?”

  “No. She lives here.”

  “Here? What do you mean?”

  “In our house. She’s the one I told you about. She’s happy we’re here, because she hasn’t had anyone to play with in a long time.”

  My heart sinks. It’s back. Since that night with the necklace, she hasn’t mentioned her imaginary friend. I thought it was over. Now, she’s retreating into make-believe, again.

  “This is your imaginary friend?”

  “She’s real. She stays in my closet.”

  I glance over at the closed closet doors. “Is she in there right now?”

  She glances over my shoulder and an odd smile plays on her lips.

  “No.”

  “Oh … Then, where is she?”

  “She’s behind you.”

  It’s the certainty with which she said it that’s causing the goosebumps to race across my skin. I know that it’s the power of her suggestion, but it suddenly feels like there is someone standing behind me—and I can’t turn around. It would only encourage her behavior.

  “Okay,” I say, quietly. “That’s enough for tonight.” I kiss her forehead. “Get some sleep.”

  I lean back and her eyes are already closed.

  I stand, motionless. Finally, unable to resist, I turn around.

  A man is staring at me.

  I catch my scream mid-throat. It’s my own reflection, staring at me from the mirror of Caitlyn’s vanity.

  I look back at Caitlyn. Her eyes are closed but she’s lightly smiling. I can’t tell if she’s asleep. As I walk across the floor, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s someone else in the room. Fighting the urge to look back, I step into the hallway and close her door.

  14

  The next morning, after another night of troubled sleep on the couch, Caitlyn and I are discussing her upcoming sleepover while I make waffles for breakfast. She’s excited, but something is gnawing at my chest. It finally hits me as the bus rumbles away with Caitlyn on board; tomorrow night will be the first night that Caitlyn and I have spent apart since Nicole’s death. Granted, she’s only going to be next door, but the idea of us not sleeping under the same roof casts a shadow over my afternoon. I spend another day, staring at the blank page, unable to write. I even stupidly get emotional over the idea that one day, Caitlyn will move out, and I’ll be alone. Yes, I’m perfectly aware that she’s eight. I’m attributing my heightened emotions to my lack of sleep.

  So, throughout the course of the day, I decide that tonight, Caitlyn and I are going to have some fun.

  *

  I’m waiting to pounce when she comes in through the door after school.

  “Do you have any homework?” I ask.

  “A little,” she answers, apprehensively.

  “Let’s do it. Let’s get it done, right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you and I are hitting the town.”

  We rifle through her reading and math assignments. I try not to help her too much, but I want our evening underway and make my math hints entirely too obvious.

  Once we finish, we head out to the car.

  “What do you feel like for dinner? Anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “Can we have waffles?” she asks. “I know we had them for breakfast, but I like waffles.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  We find an IHOP just outside of Kingsbrook and feast on Belgian waffles, swimming in syrup and piled high with whipped cream. After that, we go roller skating, which is painful on such a full stomach, but she holds my hand as we skate around the rink, so it’s worth it. I’m treating it like I won’t see her for months, rather than a simple twenty-four-hour period where she’ll be next door.

  By the time we make it back to the house, I’m wiped out, but Caitlyn is wired.

  “Okay. That is a wrap. Go get ready for bed,” I tell her.

  “I’m still awake.”

  “How? How is that possible? Because I’m beat.”

  “That’s because you’re old,” she laughs.

  “Hardy har har, Little Missy. Get ready for bed. You need a good night’s sleep for Mildred’s tomorrow.”

  “Ugh …” She rolls her eyes and heads upstairs.

  I sort through the mail as water begins to run through the pipes in the wall, on its way to the upstairs bathroom. There’s some junk mail for Nicole. It’s irritating to get the odd mailer from a magazine or credit card company addressed to her. It’s an unwelcome reminder that she’s gone.

  The water shuts off and a moment later, I hear a rhythmic thumping coming from her room.

  “Caitlyn?”

  I climb the stairs and find her jumping on her bed.

  “Hey! Knock it off! We talked about this,” I admonish, but not too harshly.

  “You said I could do anything I wanted tonight,” she says, in between leaps.

  “Except break the bed, young lady.”

  She lands with a giggle in a sitting position.

  “So, ‘anything I want’ doesn’t mean ‘anything I want’?” she asks.

  Great. She’s beginning to grasp the concept of technicalities.

  “Fine. One more thing, but I have to approve it, and then you have to go to sleep.”

  She scrunches up her face in thought and it’s like a lightbulb turns on over her head.

  “I want to play hide-and-seek like at Sarah’s birthday party!” she proclaims.

  I nod. “All right.”

  She flies from the bed and down the stairs.

  “Just one round,” I say, following her. “Then you have to go to bed.”

  She s
tops in the middle of the living room and gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Do you want to turn the lights off like at Sarah’s party?” I ask.

  She hesitates and grows worried.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We can leave the lights on.”

  She frowns. “Then it’ll be too bright.”

  The evening is suddenly in danger of ending on a downer.

  “I’ve got it!” I proclaim and head towards the kitchen.

  There’s a bag of tea candles in the pantry that Nicole and I purchased forever ago at IKEA. I bring them into the living room and hold them up. Caitlyn approves. We spend the next twenty minutes or so placing lit candles in every room, hallway, and even on the stairs. The only room we ignore is the basement. Then, we turn off the lights.

  The effect is breathtaking. This is the lighting the house was built for. Every room is filled with a soft, flickering glow and dancing shadows.

  “All right,” I say, once we return to the living room. “You want to hide first, or should I?”

  “I want to hide first.”

  “Okay. I’m going to go into the bathroom and count to fifty. You better hide good.”

  She eagerly nods, but stands rooted to the spot, not wanting to give away the direction she’s going to run.

  “Here I go.” I slowly begin stepping backwards towards the bathroom. “One … two …”

  “Dad! You can’t start counting until you’re in the bathroom!”

  “Three …”

  “Dad!”

  I finally back into the bathroom and slowly close the door as I continue loudly counting. “Four …”

  The door clicks shut.

  Her footsteps hurtle across the living room and up the stairs. I feel bad that the house won’t let her conceal where she’s going and continue counting. Her footsteps run down the upstairs hall and suddenly stop right above me. Then, in between the numbers I’m calling out, I can hear her talking but it’s too muffled to understand. Her tone sounds like she’s quietly pleading with someone. I wait, straining to hear …

  She stops talking.

  What is she waiting for?

  Oh, shit. I’ve stopped counting.

  “Thirty-nine …” I call out.

  Immediately, her footsteps resume down the hall, and as best as I can tell, stop in the upstairs bathroom.

  I continue counting, speeding it up to reach the end.

  “Forty-eight … forty-nine … fifty!” I open the door and step out. “Ready or not, here I come!”