Spirit Lost

by Nancy Thayer

  Chapter Ten

  They kept John in the hospital. For three weeks. Because the diagnosis was severe malnutrition and nervous prostration, he was kept in a dark room, his body fed with a series of IVs. The first week he was comatose.

  They kept Willy only overnight. She had so many scrapes on her arms and bumps and bruises on her head and body that they watched her for a brain concussion, and she had to be brought out of the state of shock she was in. But by the next morning she was in good enough condition for the doctors to let her leave the hospital.

  Because she had to tell them something, these kind doctors and nurses who had their forms to fill out, she told them that John was an artist. That she had been away for three weeks and she had returned to find that he had been working so hard that he had forgotten to eat sufficiently. That she found him in the attic in such a weakened state that it was necessary for her to drag him down the stairs herself and that the weakened balustrade had given way so that she had fallen from the second floor. And that was true, that was all true. It was also true that she had tried to call an ambulance and found the phone dead because of the storm. There was nothing for them to doubt in her story.

  When the cheerful nurse entered her room in the morning, whisked away the hospital tray that held Willy’s breakfast and said happily, “Doctor says you can go home now!” Willy had felt something recoil inside her. Home. She did not want to go “home,” not back to that house on Orange Street. She was afraid to go back.

  But looking out the window, she saw that the day was sparkling with the aftermath of the storm. The snow-covered landscape seemed sprinkled with glitter, and the sky was a sunny, innocent blue. What bad could happen on a day like today? She would be fine.

  Besides, she had to see about the cat. Poor Aimee; it was not much of a home Willy had brought her to. Willy wondered if the front door was still wide open.

  So she signed the necessary forms, and after a brief glance at John’s sleeping figure, she pulled on her coat and left the hospital.

  She found the house filled with a crisp, gleaming, refreshing winter’s light. Someone—no doubt some kind stranger passing by while walking to Main Street—had closed the front door. Willy stood just inside it, hand on the doorknob, ready for a quick escape. She could hear the furnace working away steadily in the basement; she could even feel the refrigerator thrumming in the kitchen. The life of the house seemed intact and pure.

  But the splintered, cracked, and broken sticks of wood that had once been balusters lay scattered across the first floor, reminders of Willy’s fall the night before. Willy looked up the staircase, where shards of wood still hung from the top railing. For one long moment she did not know if she would ever have the courage to climb those stairs again.

  “Aimee?” she called, partly for the cat’s sake, partly just to hear her own voice. “Aimee?” She was so worried that something had happened to the cat.

  But Aimee came to the top of the stairs and looked down at Willy. She opened her mouth to mew, stretched as she did, and her mew came out in a comical yawn.

  “Thank God!” Willy said.

  Still she knew she could not spend another night in this house, especially alone. She summoned enough courage to get herself up to the second floor, where she hastily packed a bag. Then, without a backward glance at anything, she grabbed up Aimee and left the house.

  For the three weeks that John was in the hospital, Willy stayed in a guest house with the cat. On the first day, she called a real estate agent and put the Orange Street house up for sale. The agent told her not to expect a quick sale—it was the wrong time of year—but that when the warm weather came, she would easily find a buyer. Willy kept putting off a date to take the agent through the house.

  That first week, Willy spent much of her time sitting by John’s hospital bed, waiting for his return to consciousness. She had a great deal of time to think, although her thoughts seemed to go in circles, leading to no sensible conclusion. When she wasn’t with John, she was taking her meals in the guest-house dining room or sleeping. She was very tired. She realized that she had a lot to recover from, physically and emotionally, and so she let herself rest. She lay curled late in the morning or early in the evening on the large antique four-poster bed in the guest house, Aimee snuggled next to her. She listened to the sounds of the house around her, the other guests coming and going up and down the stairs, the newlyweds laughing and nudging each other, the owner of the guest house walking through the large formal front parlors, arranging flowers, setting out fresh ashtrays. These sounds soothed her soul, and she lay immersed in them, as if in a certain safety.

  For that first week she did not call Mark and Anne. Rather, she nursed a grudge within her and let that grudge grow. She hated them for not believing her, for deserting her, for letting her fight this fight alone. Mark had scoffed at her when she had called him for help. Anne had been too busy with her baby to even come to the phone. Willy thought she would never call them again.

  By the end of the first week, John had regained consciousness. Still, he was weak. He opened his eyes, he spoke sensible words to Willy—simple words that he would have said to anyone: “Hello,” “Thank you,” “I feel better,” “Okay.” He did not ask Willy how he had gotten to the hospital. He did not reach out for her hand or tell her that he loved her. But at least he did not call out Jesse Orsa’s name.

  One week after her fall, Willy sat watching John, who lay staring out the window. It had gotten dark; there was nothing there for him to see. Still he stared, his face aged and sad, and he did not seem to realize, or to care, that Willy was in the room. Willy began to cry softly. She turned her head so John would not see. When she looked back, his eyes were closed, and he was asleep.

  That night she called Mark and Anne when she got back to the guest house. She needed to hear the voices of friends. She determined not to tell them anything, not to let need show in her voice; she would only ask them how they were, if they were over the flu, how the baby was.

  “Willy!” Mark shouted when he answered the phone. “My God, where have you been? We’ve been out of our minds worrying about you! We’ve called your house a dozen times and no one’s answered. What’s going on? Are you okay? How’s John?”

  The concern, the friendship, the love in Mark’s voice, made Willy’s throat swell up, and she could not speak for a moment. When she finally did manage to talk, she heard herself, through tears, begging Mark to come to Nantucket. Mark said he would come.

  It was early evening. Willy had just left the hospital. John lay still in his white bed, his thoughts filled with shadows. He was not satisfied. A faint, tantalizing, thrilling music flickered just at the edge of his consciousness; he knew it was Jesse Orsa calling his name.

  It was easier than he had thought it would be to remove the tubes stuck into his arms. He knew his clothes were in the closet; he pulled his trousers on, tucking the hospital gown inside. He dragged his sweater on over his head, pulled on his socks and shoes.

  No one saw him leave the hospital. He walked out of his room, down the hall, down the stairs and out the door without anyone stopping him, without anyone calling out or questioning. It was as easy as falling through air.

  The evening was mild. There was no wind. John walked fast and did not feel the cold. In a matter of minutes he was on Pleasant Street, and then on the narrow one-way street that led between houses and gardens to wide Orange Street, where his house stood.

  He knew the front door would be unlocked, and it was. Inside, the house was warm and quiet. He could tell immediately that Willy was not here. He could hear Jesse Orsa singing and laughing, teasingly calling his name. He climbed the stairs with ease.

  The attic was illuminated by the street lamps; he did not need any other light. He saw the candlestick and candle lying on the floor by the bed and thought nothing of them. He saw his paintings leaning against the attic walls; those he thought of, for a moment, with regret.

  He thought of Jesse
Orsa, of her perfect body, her luxurious, seductive, greedy love. He did not let himself think of Willy.

  Jesse Orsa was calling him. Her voice was like a song, the sweetest song. He had to strain his ears to hear. She was what did not exist on earth; she was a mirage, a reflection on water, a trick of light. She was all that was not real, and yet she would be real to him. If he reached out, he could be the person who held light in his hands, who could see music before his eyes. With her he could do all this; he had done it with her before.

  So he climbed the slanted wooden steps to the widow’s walk. Carefully he unlatched the hook the carpenter had attached and lifted the glass door upward and back. The cold night air flowed in around him.

  John climbed out onto the widow’s walk. He stood for just a moment, looking out over the rooftops of Nantucket. He saw far below him the glistening waters of the harbor and the gleaming church spires. Dimly he heard the gentle buzz of noise of this little village. He heard Jesse Orsa call his name.

  With ease, with grace, with one swift, simple, exhilarating movement, he flung himself from the widow’s walk into the welcoming spacious air.

  John lay safely in his hospital bed, and his mind ranged free. Perhaps it was simply that his body, in its fierce, independent acceptance of the nourishment flowing from the IV and of the true rest he was receiving now, was, in its one-tracked, unimaginative, unimpeded, completely physical way, rejoicing at his return to health. And so he was on a physical high that was causing the vividness of his vision. Perhaps that was so.

  But this vision was as real as anything else in his life.

  John saw himself stepping off the widow’s walk into the dark void and knew that this act held the same kind of bravery and curiosity as those actions of the educated sailors and their illiterate crew who sailed their ships away from the safety of land into the vast, terrible seas.

  He thought of the men who lived on whaling ships for years, touching no women, hearing no civilized songs, feeling the ever-changing turbulence of the ocean as it sucked and slammed against the ship instead of the steadiness of land. Seeing the blackest nights and brightest days men could see. Feeling extremes of heat and cold and hunger and thirst and fear and triumph and awe. Those men had committed sacred acts, as did any mere human who ventured forth into the unknown.

  John saw himself stepping off the roof of the house on Orange Street, and it was as if he were setting forth on a voyage. He felt himself fall, the dark air surging upward past him, like waves sweeping past the keel of a ship, chilling him, purifying him, transforming him. He saw his body land hard and break and felt his spirit immediately rise—a miracle, it was like flames shooting upward from the heart of the sea. And he knew that who and what a person was was always a fiery thing, no matter the vessel that contained it.

  He saw Jesse Orsa waiting for him in the darkness. He felt the flames of his spirit spiral around a center, and looking down, he saw that he possessed his body once again; he saw his hands, his feet, his arms, shimmering into shape. Why did people think that ghosts were cold?

  He saw Jesse Orsa smile and hold out her hand. She was very lovely, as lovely as he had ever seen her, the sweet pink skin of her body showing through the lace and satin gown she wore. Her dark hair was piled in an elaborate fashion, adorned with jewels. He knew that she was dressed in celebration of his arrival.

  The known world had vanished. John knew only darkness and the presence of Jesse Orsa and the fire that both consumed and provided him. A sound like kettle drums or deep thunder throbbed around him.

  Slowly, John realized two things: that if he went with Jesse Orsa, he would never be with Willy again.

  And he would never be an artist of any kind.

  What was Willy to him?

  She was his wife. She was the pattern of his days, the rhythm of his years, the orange-and-brown leaves of autumn that dipped in the breeze, the heat of summer, the food and hearth that warmed against the winter’s chill. She was the woman who had chosen him long ago and stayed with him through eight years of changes and angers and compromises and perplexities. She was his friend. Her love was a lover’s love, and more, because she saw him truly, not as an illusion, but as he was. So her love was the love of an equal, and she needed him and required of him all the things she gave.

  In some way she was part of him even now; she was there, flame in flame that burned in him, inseparable.

  She needed him, she wanted him, she called him back. Even though Willy was not present in the hospital, seated next to him, calling his name, still John heard her call him, through the flames, for Willy and John were husband and wife, and her needs burned through him—her voice, her incandescence as smooth and brilliant as a mirror, reflecting his own gleaming heat.

  This was their marriage. It was not every marriage. Jesse Orsa had not had that with Captain John Wright.

  John saw Jesse Orsa waiting for him. He knew she saw him in his body, handsome and young and willing. He sensed how she saw him, how in spite of her own ghostliness she could not see the fire burning in him.

  He saw that because Jesse Orsa was a spirit lost in longing, she wanted of him not who he was in all his depths and complexities but who he was simply, superficially: his body, as it was now, because it resembled her husband’s.

  But Willy wanted all of him, greedy spirit and cantankerous mind along with body, the real body, that was now young and handsome but that would eventually age. Willy would love him as he grew old; as he would love her. It was Willy who wanted him, and so he wanted Willy, who loved and accepted him, surface and depths.

  In his vision, he chose Willy.

  And with Willy came the knowledge that he could try to be an artist. Perhaps only that, only try. If he left the living world now, he would know secrets. But he could never pass them on. If he lived, he could try to explain what he had learned. He could try to portray light held in the hands, music seen with the eyes. There were no guarantees that he would succeed.

  But for him, the voyage, the curiosity, the attempt, the bravery, lay on earth, not here in death.

  The challenge of his life would be to paint, to paint what he had learned here.

  Jesse Orsa held out her hands, and there was a question in her eyes: Why was he delaying?

  John shook his head.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I cannot come with you.”

  “But you can!” she called.

  “I won’t,” he replied. “I want to live.”

  Her eyes blazed with anger. It seemed her body shimmered and sparked. He felt her flare with rage and indignation. Even so, she was very beautiful. John knew that somewhere along the years she would find a man who pleased her who would not be able to resist her many lures.

  In spite of her brilliant anger, John saw Jesse Orsa fade. Or perhaps it was he who was fading. The darkness they were in was being invaded by light, and the fire within him steadied so that the outline of his hands and arms became clearer. He was returning to his hospital bed. He was returning to what he had chosen: life, and Willy.

  He fell into a deep and healing sleep.

  The four friends sat in the Hunters’ living room in Cambridge; they were laughing and drinking champagne. Aimee lay curled on a sofa cushion next to Willy. Baby Peter lay on a blanket on the floor in the middle of the room, staring enraptured at the light bouncing off the silver champagne bucket. From time to time he cooed at it and reached out to touch it; feeling the cold, he shrieked. Anne had out her address book; she was writing names, addresses, and telephone numbers down for John and Willy. “I don’t care about everyone else, but you’ve got to call the Martins,” she said. “They’re more fun than anyone in the world.”

  “We may not have time to see anyone,” Willy said, “if John gets involved with his painting.”

  “I’ll make time,” John said. “I promise. I’m not going to let two months in Bermuda go by without some sunshine and good times.”

  “I think I’ll get pregnant,” Willy
announced, stretching her toes out to warm them by the fire. She laughed all by herself at the others’ expressions. “Why not?” she asked.

  John grinned. “I’ll see what I can do for you, lady,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re so lucky!” Anne exclaimed. “Two months of sunshine and sex by the sea!”

  “You should write ad copy,” John told her.

  “You are lucky,” Anne said. “You know you are.”

  “I know,” Willy agreed, leaning toward John.

  “I know,” John said, pulling his wife close to him. “God, do I know.”

  The four sat in silence, sipping their champagne, watching the baby kick and gurgle on the floor. They heard the fire crackle and tasted the bite of alcohol against their tongue. They were happy.

  When Mark had come to Nantucket a few weeks before, summoned by Willy’s call, he had quickly taken charge. He had escorted the real estate dealer through the house because Willy didn’t have the heart to do it; he had cleaned up her sewing room first. And he had carefully packaged up all of John’s finished canvases, and taken them back to the mainland with him. While John lay recovering in the hospital, unaware, Mark, with Willy’s permission, took the paintings to various galleries in Boston.

  No gallery liked the black paintings, but several had expressed interest in the nature studies: the shell and feathers, the few harbor scenes. One of the better galleries had taken some paintings on consignment, and a painting of feathers, shell, and berry had already sold. It brought only a few hundred dollars, but it had sold.

  John was elated. He and Willy had already decided that they needed to go away somewhere for a while, to get far away from Nantucket and winter and all that had happened so recently. The owner of the gallery had advised him to paint more water scenes, more nature scenes; John was good at that, the owner said, he would like to see more. So John and Willy were going to Bermuda for two months, to work and lie in the warming sun, to be together. The cat would live at the Hunters’ while they were gone. When they returned, they would look for a new house in Boston.