Ghost in the Pages

by Angela M Hudson

  Ali closed her eyes, letting that sink in. She knew Sam well enough to completely understand how cold he could be when he wanted to, and if he ever said that to Ali, it would be enough to crush her. But she wouldn't take her own life. Not by a long shot.

  “I’ve never told anyone that before,” he confessed. “I don't know what came over me that day—”

  “Anger. Grief,” Ali offered. “If she hadn't died, time would have passed, you’d have forgiven her and what you said would've just been one of those things you apologized for. It was awful, yeah, but so is taking a baby’s life without even discussing it with the father. What she did wasn’t fair. She took her own life that day and essentially ensured that you suffered for the rest of yours.”

  Sam’s eyes shrunk with a smile as he took in Ali’s face, shaking his head. “You’re very . . .”

  “Emotionally invested?” She laughed. “How can I not be? I’m sorry, Sam. But I just think you're a really great guy, and I know, I can see how tough you've had it and I hate that!”

  “Well,” he said, sitting back again, “so do I. Because I’ve never really moved past it.”

  “Could that have something to do with living in the house where she died?”

  “Maybe.” He laughed to release the tension. “But this house belonged to my great-grandfather and, to be honest, I just never thought about leaving.”

  “I would have. I’d never have stepped foot in it again.”

  “Does it ever creep you out?” he asked. “Being here, knowing she died here?”

  “A little. But not enough to frighten me away.”

  Sam nodded.

  Ali got to thinking then. So many more questions circled her head now than what had before, mixing with lies and half-truths offered by third parties. It was hard to stay in tune with it all. “So . . . what was the relationship between Sarah and Grant?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He just seemed awfully upset about her death—”

  “They dated.”

  “They did?”

  “For a while,” he said, propping his bare feet up on the coffee table. “Then she met me.”

  Ali couldn't help but smile. It was kind of like her story—meeting Grant, falling for him, and then realizing how genuinely good Sam was. “How did he take that? Is that why he hates you?”

  “No. We were best friends for a while there.”

  “Then why does he hate you now?”

  “Because he loved Sarah, and he thinks that if Sarah had been with him, she wouldn't have killed herself.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don't know anymore. I think I did once, but now . . .” He chewed his thumb knuckle for a moment. “I think something happened to her. Or something snapped maybe, I don't know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She changed dramatically between the night before and the night of our wedding. Everything was fine when I dropped her off for her bachelorette party and then, at the wedding, she was pale and withdrawn and not at all happy.”

  “Could something have happened to her that night?”

  “No, see, I asked her that. And the girl she was with never left her side apparently.”

  Ali’s mind ticked for a while, thinking about it all. It would have been much easier if she’d actually known Sarah and she regretted not being here for it all. Ali felt she had a way of getting through to people and truly believed she could’ve made a difference to Sarah. And to Sam.

  “Did Sarah . . .” she started, worried Sam would clam up if she asked this. “Did she leave a suicide note?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You never read it?”

  “I gave it to the police.”

  “Didn't they return it?”

  “They gave me a copy.”

  “And you never read it?”

  “I couldn't bring myself to.” Sam lifted Ali’s feet and stood up. “By the time I could breathe again a year had passed and I was done grieving. I didn't want to reopen the wound and, truth was, I didn't care anymore why she did it. I needed to be angry at her, not understand her.”

  “But, you didn't think it could help you in some way to know why she did it?”

  “No. None of that mattered because I knew I was to blame. I told her I hated her, and if I’d been here, she’d still be alive.”

  “So you tortured yourself all these years for no reason?”

  “Look, I don’t know what was in that letter, but a buddy of mine down at the station said, and I quote, some ghosts are best left in the pages.”

  “And you trusted this friend?”

  “With my life. Hang on a sec.” He dashed away into the turret and the light came on. Ali heard his footsteps move up the iron stairs and then she heard nothing. A few moments passed before Sam came back down again, his shadow breaking the yellow ribbon of light splashing across the floorboards. He handed Ali a sealed envelope—yellow, the same one that had been on the floor that day after she saw, or thought she saw, the ghost. “Here. Read it.”

  “You want me to read it?”

  “Go ahead. You're so interested to know.”

  She took a deep breath and put on her glasses. “Do you wanna know what it says?”

  “Only if you think I should.”

  Ali got up off the couch and sat in the armchair by the fire, vaguely aware of Sam sitting down on the coffee table.

  Sam, Ali read silently,

  By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have thought often about dying but never, until today, truly wanted to be dead. I just want the pain to stop. I just want to reverse time and go back so that I never have to see the hurt in your eyes. I hoped I could live out my life and never tell you this but, Sam, my darling, that baby wasn’t yours.

  Ali looked up at Sam, one eye narrowed as the other widened in surprise. Why would Sarah tell him the baby wasn’t his in a suicide letter if it was something she had apparently, according to Grant’s version of the story, used against him in the past?

  Being that Ali heard all these stories from Grant first, it was impossible to make herself forget them all and see which parts were truth. Sam may not have known the child wasn’t his, and if that was the case, Ali got the sense that Sam had suffered a lot more over these years than anyone understood.

  “What is it?” Sam got up and took the letter.

  “Sam, wait,” she started, but he read down a few lines quickly and then stumbled back on weak legs to sit on the coffee table, his hand rising slowly over his mouth.

  Ali watched the letter fall to the ground and come to a stop by the fire.

  “So you didn't know it wasn't yours?” she asked.

  “How could I have known?” he snapped. “How could I possibly have known? She never told me! She let me think . . .” His eyes went wide and his face pale. “All these years . . .”

  Ali wanted to say that she was surprised Grant never said anything—even if it was purely to use it against Sam—but then she wondered how Grant could have known the child wasn’t Sam’s, and if perhaps there was even more to this story than she first thought. She wondered also why Sam’s friend at the station would have told him not to read the letter. Surely learning the baby wasn’t his would bring him some peace. Then again, learning his wife cheated on him might be worse. It was hard to say.

  “It doesn't make sense,” he said. “It . . . she would never have cheated on me—”

  “Can you be sure of that, Sam?” Ali said, trying not to sound condescending. Clearly he didn't know his wife as well as he thought.

  “Ali, you don't get it. She must be lying to make me feel better. She just . . . she was like you,” he explained. “Think about it. Would you ever, in a million years, cheat on someone you love?”

  Ali shook her head, knowing that to her core.

  “She was the same,” he said, voice breaking. “How could she do this? I . . . I’m so co
nfused.”

  “Do you want me to finish the letter for you?” Ali asked, picking it up.

  Sam nodded, his entire life since that day breaking apart and reforming.

  “She writes, ‘I never wanted to hurt you by telling you that, but it seems I have hurt you more by letting you think the baby was yours, and now I feel trapped. I don't know how to fix this. When I saw Grant this morning’—”

  “Grant?”

  Ali read that again to see if she’d read it right. “She saw him the morning she died?”

  “But they clocked her time of . . . when she jumped . . . they said it was as early as seven. If he was here, it must have been right after I left for the milk delivery.”

  “And what would he be doing here at that hour?”

  Sam’s jaw came forward, rock hard. “Read on.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Read on,” he said more firmly.

  “‘When I saw Grant this morning he asked me to run away with him. Said he could forgive me for getting rid of the b…’” Ali stopped reading when she felt the air change—felt Sam die, like the words were acid on his soul. “The baby was Grant’s?” Ali said, as if it was news to her, but she’d already begun to draw that conclusion.

  “Read on,” he insisted, his tone void of emotion.

  “Okay, she says: ‘But I don't understand what happened between us, Sam. I don't love him. I love you. I was drunk and the entire night is just shadows. I remember bits, but I don’t remember why I did it or how we ended up in bed together. I hurt you, and you said you can never forgive me for having the abortion. How would you feel to know I cheated on you? I told Grant I couldn't leave you, and he told me you’re filing for divorce. Is that true, Sam? After what we promised each other?’” Ali looked over at Sam. “What did you promise?”

  “After the abortion I made a pact to keep trying at our marriage until we fixed things. I never,” he said through his teeth, “filed for divorce or ever even had any plans.”

  “So he lied to her, manipulated her?” Ali said, showing him the page as if it was proof. “Is he the reason she killed herself?”

  Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head, too emotionally worn to know what to do. After all, he couldn't go after Grant and accuse him of being responsible, but then he also had a duty to punch the face of the man that slept with his wife.

  “Sam?” Ali said. “When do you think their fling happened?”

  “I-I have no idea,” he muttered, flustered. “Maybe before we were married. Why?”

  “Could it have been a one-night-stand—the night before the wedding?”

  “She was only four weeks pregnant on our one month anniversary, so it’s likely. But she wasn't alone with Grant that night. When would it have happened? And why? She would never do that. She didn't love him—”

  “Could she have been lying about her feelings for him?”

  “No. That letter is a confessional. She said she didn't love him. She wouldn't have lied about that in a suicide letter.” He rubbed his face, his clouded mind beginning to come to life again and process it all. “Does it say anything else?”

  Ali read down for a minute but there was nothing else other than the sorry and the farewell. “No.”

  The thick hair atop Sam’s head pushed up like a wave as he rested his hands in it. “What do I do, Ali? How do I deal with this?”

  “Kill Grant?” she suggested, only half joking.

  He laughed. “And go to jail—waste the next twenty years of my life because of him?”

  “Then tear up the letter. Let the past be in the past. The . . . ghost in the pages, or whatever that guy said.” And now she understood why he’d said that. Maybe, back then, if Sam had read that letter, riddled with anger and hurt, he may have gone after Grant.

  “Yeah.” Sam nodded, tongue in his cheek. “You're right. She’s gone. The baby is gone. It should stay in the past. And it will.”

  Ali took off her glasses and put the letter down, relieved.

  “Right after I beat the shit out of Grant,” he added.

  “What, right now?” she said, following him to the door.

  “Stay here,” he commanded as he grabbed his coat, but Ali was hell-bent on doing the opposite. “Ali.”

  “No way! If you're going to punch that sick bastard in the face, I wanna see it. Especially after . . .” Ali thought about the drugging incident and a horrible cold rush of realization flooded her. Had he drugged Sarah? Was that how she ended up pregnant? It would explain her demeanor—described as being withdrawn—and it would explain why she had an abortion. It would explain why she couldn't understand what had happened between her and Grant.

  “Ali, what is it?”

  “Sam, I need to tell you something.” Ali felt like her blood had left her body. She needed to sit but she couldn’t move.

  “Make it quick.” He shut the front door. “And this better not be a ruse to stop me from leaving.”

  “That night when the tree fell on the house, I had a fight with Grant—”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, but you don't know the real reason.”

  “Enlighten me.” Sam was getting impatient and didn't see what this had to do with Sarah.

  “He gave me cold and flu pills at his house,” she started, giving Sam the full story. His eyes started in an open, somewhat bored position as she said cold and flu pills, and quickly became wider before he shut them tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose again at the end of the story. “Sam? Say something.”

  “Stay here,” he said softly, his voice controlled in a way that scared Ali. He turned and jerked the door open so fast it hit the wall and rattled the entire house.

  “Sam. I’m coming with you.”

  “I said stay here!” The words echoed down the street.

  “No way. Do you think I’m just going to let you go over there and end up ruining the rest of your life?”

  He got in his truck and shut the door. Ali jumped in the passenger side.

  “Get out, Ali.”

  “No.”

  “Now!”

  “No.” She folded her arms and sat back. If she didn't know Sam better, she could have sworn he wanted to open the door and literally kick her out.

  “You are too stubborn for you own good, Ali.” The engine ticked over and roared to life. “I don’t want you there for this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because some things need to be said, need to be dealt with. What you just told me . . . what if he did that to Sarah? What if that’s the reason she had sex with him?”

  Ali unfolded her arms. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “What do I do with that?” His voice cracked. “I wanna kill him, Ali.”

  “I wish I could tell you what to do, but I… I just don't know. I think, maybe, the best advice I can give you is to sleep on it—not do anything tonight while you’re this angry.”

  Sam considered that for a moment, his hand shaking on the steering wheel. Ali was right. Anger begot violence and violence usually ended in either pain or death, and then jail. He didn't want his entire life flushed down the toilet again. Sarah, and her death, needed to live in the past.

  “He needs to pay for what he did to her, and to you.”

  “I know.” Ali put her hand on Sam’s knee. “And we’ll think of something, I swear, but let’s just go inside for now and we can deal with it when we’re thinking clearly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” Ali smiled and opened her door, but as soon as the cold air touched her bare feet a hand shoved her hard in the back and she stumbled out of the car. Sam threw it in reverse, the momentum closing Ali’s door, and left her on the driveway screaming for him to come back. All her thoughts, all her fears, every scenario that played out involving Sam, Grant, and this horrible information ended only in Ali talking to Sam behind glass, but there was nothing she could do. By the time she got her car out Sam would be too far gone to follow and she
had no idea how to get to Grant’s. All she could do now was hope and pray that the piece of scum wasn’t home.

  Ali stepped down onto the road and then sat on the curb, turning to look at the house, the distinct feeling of being watched burning into her back. It wasn't an illusion, and it wasn't a trick of the eye this time, because as her gaze lifted to the turret window, the light still on, she could see a woman standing there as clear as she could see the house. The face remained for only a flash but it made Ali’s spine tingle and her body shake from the inside. The only thing scarier than a ghost in the house was a ghost that felt no need now to hide.

  ~17~

  Jailbreak and Red Tape

  Di handed Ali a warm cup of tea and put a firm hand on her shoulder to calm her. “I’ll call the station again and see if Marv has heard anything yet.”

  “Thanks,” Ali said, sipping the hot, flavorless drink. Her nerves had simmered somewhat since Di came out to find her shivering cold on the grass, but the deep pit of worry in her stomach had left a hollow void. She had no phone on her and no shoes, since she was too terrified to go into that house alone, which meant Sam had no way to contact her if he was in trouble. If he needed bail money.

  “Oh you have?” Di exclaimed into the phone, giving Ali the “okay” fingers. “That’s good news. Our young Ali was worried.”

  Ali put her cup down and sat up taller, trying to hear what the muffled voice on the other end was saying.

  “Well, he’s a better man than I am,” Di said. “Does anyone else know about the accusations?” She looked disappointed then, deflating a little. “Right then. Mum’s the word.”

  When Di hung up the phone, Ali expected her to spill the news in one breath as fast as she could, but instead she sat calmly at the table and sipped her tea.

  “So?”

  “So?” Di looked up from her cup, eyes widening. “Oh. Sorry, petal. Yes, Sam’s fine.”

  “Well,” she prompted, “where is he? What happened? Why did we hear sirens half an hour ago?”

  “Oh, nothing bad, don’t worry. Sam went to Grant’s place and they had words—”

  “Did he hit him?”

  “No, he kept his cool, bless him.” Di smiled proudly. “It’s like having the old Sam back.”