by Steve Frech
“Congratulations, and now you can leave.”
She shook her head as though she pitied me. She went to leave but turned back.
“Do you know about Mr. Carrington?”
“He prefers me to call him ‘Thomas’.”
Her smile was that of a snake. I felt I had said the wrong thing, and quickly added, “And I know how you like to gossip.”
“This isn’t gossip. I’m willing to tell you to help you, but if you’d rather not hear it …”
I should have said no right away and asked her to leave again, but I couldn’t. Instead, I remained silent, which she took as her cue to tell me her sordid little story.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that he has an affinity for women and likes to drink?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, two years ago, he became particularly friendly with the nanny they hired to look after their daughter. The daughter saw them together and told Mrs. Carrington. It nearly ended their marriage, which would be scandal enough, but they rely on income from her family, since his family cut him off. So, Mr. Carringt—” She caught herself and gave a condescending smile. “I’m sorry, I mean ‘Thomas’, would be ruined. She said that she would cut him off unless he stopped drinking. It’s also why they hired a valet. She wouldn’t trust him with another nanny in the house.”
I stared at her with her infuriating smile.
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
She acted as though she was offended. “I’m only giving you advice that could help you, but suit yourself. I know he can be quite charming, but like you said, it’s your business. Not mine.”
With that, she left.
I spent the rest of the day turning her words over in my head, and catching myself fiddling with the necklace.
Eventually, after another slow day, I closed the pharmacy and returned home.
The door to Father’s room was closed and I could hear him sleeping inside.
I retreated into my own room and proceeded to write these words.
I’m now more desperate than ever to talk to Thomas. I know it’s nothing more than gossip; cruel gossip spread by a jealous girl that was only meant to put doubt in my head.
I hope the courier comes tomorrow. I want to see him. I want him to kiss me again, and reassure me that Patricia Fleming is nothing more than the horrid liar I know her to be.
Good night.
21
The tiles of the downstairs bathroom are nice and cool on my back.
It’s six-thirty in the morning and about an hour since my last dry heave. I’ve been downing Advil to stop the hammers in my head. My mouth tastes like asphalt, and I only got about three hours of restless, drunken sleep. The worst is over, but this is the kind of hangover that costs you an entire day.
I have to get up. Caitlyn will be awake soon and I need to make breakf-uuuuuck. Let’s not think about food.
I pull myself off the floor, go upstairs, take an ice-cold shower, and pull on some clothes. The shock to my system makes me feel semi-human.
I walk down the hall and gently knock on Caitlyn’s door.
“Caitlyn?”
There’s no answer, so I slowly open the door.
“Caitlyn, I want to talk—”
She’s not in her room.
“Caitlyn?”
“I’m down here,” she responds from the kitchen.
I find her sitting in the kitchen alcove with a bowl of Fruit Loops in front of her that she’s not eating; she’s only pushing her spoon around in the now-discolored milk.
“Hey.”
She continues stirring.
“You want me to make you anything? Toast? Waffles?”
She shakes her head.
“Caitlyn, listen, I’m really sorry for what I said.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a flat, unconvincing tone.
“No, sweetheart, it’s not. Not at all. I’m having a really hard time right now, and I know you are, too. I was a jerk last night and I’m sorry. You don’t have to pretend that your imaginary friend talks to Mom. If you want to talk to me about Mom, you can. I want you to.”
Without a word, she gets up and walks out of the kitchen, mumbling something about getting ready for school. She goes through the living room and up the stairs.
“You need to apologize to Ms. Hancourt toda—” I call after her but her door shuts.
I make some coffee and wait for her to come back down, but as the minutes wear on, I realize she’s running out the clock until the bus arrives.
Sure enough, her footsteps hit the stairs just as the bus pulls up at the end of the driveway. I get up and walk through the living room but only catch a glimpse of her back as she opens the front door.
“Have a good day, pumpkin. I love—”
The door closes behind her.
The house is silent.
“Damnit,” I whisper and head for the Writing Room.
*
For two hours, I try to get the words out, but I’m distracted. I’ll scratch out a few lines and then I’ll see Caitlyn’s wounded expression flash through my mind. I’ll wait for it to pass, scratch out a few more lines, and it happens again, and I’ll remember the horrible things I said to her.
Finally, I curse and hurl my pen against the wall. It’s going to be another non-productive day.
I can’t write, but I need to do something active. I don’t want to sit on the couch and wallow in the misery of this hangover or the memory of last night. The only solution I can come up with is to get some housework done.
To make the best use of my time, I’ll get some laundry going while I clean.
I collect the dirty clothes from my room and then head to Caitlyn’s room.
I open the closet and grab the clothes basket. I’m about to close the door but instead, I stare at the empty space under the hanging clothes, imagining a little girl hiding there, smiling up at me.
“So, this is where you hang out, huh?” My frustration suddenly spills out. “You know what? I’d really appreciate it if you left my daughter alone and not get her into trouble at school. And while you’re at it, leave my wife out of it. It’s bad enough Caitlyn thinks you’re real, but telling her that you speak to her dead mother? What sort of friend does that? And I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry.”
Silence.
I’m standing here, berating an empty closet, like an idiot.
Basket in hand, I close the closet door, and began walking to the—
Clink.
I stop.
It came from inside the closet, like a coin dropping onto the floor.
I turn back and wait.
Nothing.
Putting the basket down, I go back and slowly open the closet door.
There, sitting on the floor of the closet in a small puddle of water and flecked in mud, like it’s just been pulled from the bottom of the lake, is Nicole’s wedding ring.
July 28th, 1900
I’m lying in bed.
I don’t know what to write … or even if I should write.
It had been weeks since I’d heard from him. Days of sitting and waiting. Carol hasn’t returned. I asked Father about her and he said that she sent a telegram that said she was staying in Philadelphia for a few more days. I think he’s lying. There was no telegram. He doesn’t know where she is or when she’s coming back. He’s quieter and continues to drink.
Mr. Carrington’s promise that he would send for me when Mrs. Carrington was gone was the only thing sustaining me.
So, this morning, I nearly sprang over the counter when the courier arrived. I tore open the letter. Mr. Carrington had made good on his promise.
I went about putting the items on the very short list together. I was about to head through the storeroom to the bicycle in the alley, when Father called out to remind me to have Mr. Carrington pay his account. In fact, he insisted upon it. I guess it has come to that. Father needed him to pay his account, now, no matter how small the balance
. I took some change from the drawer.
When I arrived at the Nightingale House, I did my best to make myself presentable and walked to the porch. I checked under the pot on the table and found the key he told me about. My hands were shaking and I felt short of breath. There were so many things I wanted to ask him. I opened the door and went inside. I called out his name but there was no answer. I walked to the dining room, thinking that I might see him through the window, out by the lake. There was a note on the table. It read: They’re all in Boston. Join me upstairs.
I placed the items on the table and walked up the stairs. The bedroom door at the end of the hall was open.
I nervously pushed it open and found him waiting by the fireplace.
Without a word, he moved to kiss me, but I stepped back. He asked what was wrong and I told him what Patricia Fleming had said. He grew upset and said that Patricia Fleming was telling salacious stories. It had all been a misunderstanding that was in the past. He also told me that Patricia Fleming was just jealous of me, because he had turned down her advances some time ago.
I asked him what his feelings were towards me.
He told me how beautiful I was. How much he cared for me and how empty he felt without me.
The w
22
I’ve been sitting here at the dining room for hours, staring at Nicole’s ring, when Caitlyn arrives home from school.
Caitlyn stops when she sees the ring on the table in front of me. She doesn’t look surprised or scared, as if she knew what she was going to find when she walked through the door.
“How was school?” I mechanically ask. It’s an absurd question. It’s a reflex; some part of me is desperately trying to deny what’s happening, because that would make it real.
“Katherine wanted to show you she was sorry.”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.
“… I’m going to go to my room,” she says.
She waits for a response I can’t formulate and goes upstairs.
*
The sun goes down, and I’m still at this table.
I’m trying to rationalize this. Maybe Caitlyn found it on the shore and put it in her pocket. That has to be what happened. She’s trying to reinforce the existence of her imaginary friend. That’s all. Everything else can be attributed to my lack of sleep, the stress, what had happened with Denise, what’s happening with Caitlyn … right?
I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with what’s right in front of me but I can’t ignore it. This is what it must feel like to have a psychotic break.
I need to let my mind escape, to run away from what is on this table. It feels like the air is pressing in on me. I keep expecting to see black fog building near the floor.
I have to focus on something else. I need normalcy. I have to do something else before I lose my fucking mind.
Something clicks.
It’s like the decision is made for me. It makes no sense, but it makes perfect sense.
I’ll escape into a world of my own making.
I’ll write.
I stand up and walk almost unconsciously to the Writing Room.
I sit at my desk, open up my notebook, and begin frantically writing.
It’s the most ridiculous nonsense I’ve ever written, but for some reason, I keep telling myself it’s good, even though somewhere deep down, I know this makes no sense. I’m writing a scene where my main character is chasing a girl down to the shore of a lake. I’m going into vivid detail, describing his rage and hatred of this girl. I have no idea who this girl is. She hasn’t been a character anywhere before. I’m so focused that I can see it in my head. I’m the main character, angrily chasing the girl to the water’s edge. I catch her by the hair and yank her backwards. She cries out. I shove her head under the water to quiet her screams. She struggles but she knows, she knows what happened, and she was going to tell, and no one could ever kno—
“I can’t sleep …”
I snap out of it. I’ve forgotten all about the ring. I’ve also forgotten about dinner.
“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” I say, looking up. “Did you want me to—?”
The doorway is empty.
“Caitlyn?”
The house is still.
I hold my breath in the silence.
… drip … drip …
It came from the living room.
I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to see. I want to close the door and wait for the sun to rise, but that would mean Caitlyn is out there with it, and I know whatever it is, it won’t leave us alone.
I step out of the Writing Room and look up the stairs. The only light is the dimmed glow coming from under Caitlyn’s door.
… drip … drip …
It’s in the dining room.
I quietly walk across the living room, into the dining room, and stop by the table. I search again for the source of the dripping water. I press my ear to the wall. Maybe it’s inside—
Clack.
I nearly cry out.
It came from the kitchen.
There’s a faint, rusty groan of a door opening.
I step into the kitchen and turn on the light.
The basement door is open.
I take out my phone and pull up the flashlight app. My hands are shaking so bad, I almost drop it. I point the light down into the darkness of the basement. Particles of dust drift in and out of the beam. I begin descending the stairs at an agonizing pace. I keep the light pointed to my left, to illuminate the basement as I continue down. Finally, I arrive at the landing at the bottom of the stairs.
The old wooden shelves sit against the stone walls. The single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I walk to the center of the room and pull the chain.
The bulb snaps on.
The shelves and carboard boxes sit undisturbed, collecting dust.
Everything is as it should be.
I release the air I’ve trapped in my chest and turn off the flashlight app.
Rational thought returns. I’ll call the plumber tomorrow.
I pull the chain again, plunging the basement into shadow, and begin walking back to the stairs.
“I can’t sleep …”
I stumble across the landing as I turn around.
A girl is standing in the middle of the room.
Her head is turned towards the floor. Her wet hair falls about her face, obscuring it from view. Her soaked nightgown clings to her frail body. Drops of water fall from the hem to the floor.
… drip … drip …
I scramble back against the wall and try to bring the light back up on my phone, but the image of the girl begins to fade.
As it fades, a soft whisper emanates from the shadows.
“I can’t sleep …”
August 2nd, 1900
I’m sorry that my last entry ended so abruptly.
I haven’t written for days. I couldn’t bring myself to describe what happened.
I didn’t want to write but I feel I have to. Something’s changed. He has changed. He changed that day, right there in the room. Of course, I was awkward and he was strong and forceful … I asked if he loved me. He wouldn’t answer. He only smiled. When I asked again, he grew annoyed and changed the subject, saying I should get back to the pharmacy before my father became suspicious.
After we dressed, we went downstairs to the front porch. I was still trying to make sense of it all. Then, I stupidly remembered Father’s request that he pay his account. Mr. Carrington found that terribly funny and laughed. When I asked him why it was funny, he said that of course, he would pay. He went back inside and returned with a ten-dollar note. I told him I didn’t have enough change. He laughed even harder and told me to keep it.
I felt stupid and ashamed. I asked when I would see him again, and he said, “When I need more deliveries.”
I became upset, which stopped his laughter, and made him more irritated. He told me to have a safe journey, went back inside, and closed the door.
I didn’t go to the pharmacy. I went home and took a bath. I took care to keep my hair from getting wet because Father would have noticed. Afterwards, I went to the pharmacy and found Father reading a newspaper.
“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”
I told him that it was such a lovely day that I had taken a longer route back.
He asked about my bloodshot eyes and I told him that a bug had flown into my eye while I was riding to town. I gave him the ten-dollar bill and told him Mr. Carrington had paid his account. It made him happy.
I felt myself growing upset and asked if I could have the rest of the day off. He said I could.
I went home and didn’t leave my room for two days. I told Father I wasn’t feeling well, which wasn’t a total lie.
More days passed.
I felt more distant from Father than I ever have, not that we’ve ever been particularly close.
One afternoon, I made the mistake of asking when Carol might return. I thought that she might be someone to talk to, but Father spat back, “I don’t know and frankly, I do not care.”
He’s spending less and less time at the pharmacy, and more time at home, drinking, leaving me to run the store. He’s also warned me not to include our home address on any correspondence about the pharmacy. I can only assume it’s because of debt collectors.
There’s been no further word from Thomas, no orders or stops to the pharmacy.
And today, I had the most unwelcome visitor of all.
A group of young women were walking past the store window and one of them looked in. It was Patricia Fleming.
We locked eyes.
I could see her tell her friends to go on without her and she came in through the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
I was in no mood to play her little game, so I simply glared at her.
“Is that any way to treat a customer?” she asked.
“If you’re not making a purchase, I must ask you to leave.”
