When Ghosts Come Home

by Wiley Cash

  “Okay,” her mother said again. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” Scott said, but Colleen’s mother hung on, waiting a beat for someone else to speak before relinquishing her role in their lives.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Mom,” Colleen said, “I’ve got it. Please.” She heard the phone hang up. “Jesus,” she whispered.

  “How’s it being back home?” Scott asked.

  “About how it sounds,” Colleen said. “I literally just walked in the door.”

  “When did you decide to do this?” he asked. “I called home and couldn’t get you, and then I drove all the way there at lunch, and you weren’t there. It scared me,” he said again.

  “Sorry to put you out.”

  “You’re not—” But he stopped. “Colleen, listen.” He pulled the receiver away from his mouth and spoke to someone else in the room. Okay, he said, his voice muffled by a hand he must have placed over the receiver. Okay. Thanks. Colleen pictured a flustered secretary or a young clerk standing at Scott’s door, a handful of papers for him to sign. Or maybe it was a seasoned attorney who Scott was anxious to impress, who was perhaps already frustrated that Scott had taken the time to drive home to check on his still-mourning wife.

  “Am I keeping you from doing something?” Colleen asked.

  “No,” Scott said, getting back on the line. “It’s just—it’s nothing. It’s just busy here. That’s all.”

  “I planned on calling you once I got here,” Colleen said. “I didn’t know you’d leave work and drive home to find me.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  “I just don’t want to be there right now because it makes me think of him, which is so crazy because he was never even there, there at home, I mean. He was definitely here. It’s just that—”

  “No,” Scott said. “I understand. I know it’s hard, and I know I’ve been working a lot and you’ve been alone. Colleen, if you need to—”

  “But do you?” Colleen asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you know it’s hard?” she said. “Do you?”

  “I do,” he said. “I know it’s hard on you, and it’s hard on me, but I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like for me.”

  “I know I don’t. That’s why I—”

  “Because you haven’t asked me.”

  “Colleen, am I— Am I just supposed to—”

  “You’re not supposed to do anything,” she said.

  “Well, was there some magic thing I was supposed to say?”

  “Jesus, Scott, really? Really? You don’t have to say anything, but sometimes things need to be said—” But what she meant was heard. She needed to hear something from him. She did not know what it was, but she knew he would not say it.

  The phone was silent. She could hear Scott breathing on the other end.

  “I can still feel him,” she finally said.

  “I know. I can too,” he said.

  “But I mean inside me, Scott. I can still feel where he was inside me. And now he’s not there, and he’s not here, and I don’t know where he is.”

  They were silent for another moment. Colleen waited. She heard something squeak on the other end of the line, perhaps his office chair.

  She could not control what happened next. Her body heaved, and she began to shed enormous, unstoppable tears.

  “Honey,” Scott said. He waited. “Honey,” he said again.

  “Did you hold him?” she asked.

  “Hold him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “In the hospital. After he was born. Did you hold him?”

  “Of course I held him, Colleen. Of course I did.”

  “I don’t remember it,” she said. “I don’t remember you holding him. I wish I remembered it.” She choked back a sob and coughed. She wiped her nose with her T-shirt. “What did he smell like?”

  Scott lowered his voice as if doing so could get her to lower her own. “I don’t—” He stopped speaking, and Colleen could sense that he was adjusting the phone in his hand or turning away from someone or something. “I don’t know, Colleen. I can’t describe it. I wish I could.”

  “Yeah,” she said. She sniffed, gathered herself as if pulling all her parts together. “I’ve wished for a lot of things.”

  “We’ll get through this, Colleen.”

  She laughed, and then she sniffed and used her shirt to wipe at her nose again. “Yes, Scott,” she said, “we will get through this.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Colleen. I’m your husband. And I’m his father. Just because I’m dealing with this in a way that’s different from yours doesn’t mean that I’m not going through my own shit apart from yours.”

  “Sorry to drag you into my shit,” she said.

  “I’m not asking you to apologize for anything,” Scott said. “I don’t think either one of us needs to apologize for anything.”

  She looked at the bed where her bag was lying, the Brazelton book peering out as if spying on her, as if asking her why she had not yet opened it that day.

  “He’d be four months old now,” she said. “The book says that at four months he would be cooing and chewing on toys. The book says he would be able to recognize our faces. He’d be able to read our emotions.”

  “Colleen, honey, I don’t know if you should still be carrying that book around.”

  “Why not, Scott? Why shouldn’t I? What do you want me to carry instead? I can’t carry our baby.”

  “No,” he said. “Of course not. Let me explain. I understand what the book means to you.”

  “It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me, Scott. It’s a book. I’m learning about—” She stopped for a second, and then she whispered, “I’m learning about babies. Who doesn’t want to learn about babies?”

  “I know it comforts you, but I’m wondering if it’s helping.”

  “I fell asleep on the plane today, and when I opened my eyes, I thought I saw him outside the window. He was watching me.”

  “Who? Who was watching you?”

  She sank lower into the beanbag chair and rested her head against the wall. She closed her eyes. “Him, Scott,” she said. “Our son. I pictured him flying beside me, right outside the window. I wanted to open the window and touch him, but I couldn’t open it. Of course you can’t open the windows on airplanes.”

  “Colleen,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Colleen, have you been drinking?”

  “Jesus, Scott. Really?” She sat forward, struggled to stand up from the beanbag chair. “I’m talking about our son recognizing my face and that’s what you want to ask me? Jesus, Scott.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Of course not. Of course that’s not what I want to ask you.” He paused, and Colleen stood beside her bed. She knew that Scott’s eyes were scanning his office, his mind churning through ideas in the hope of finding something to say to her. “You just mentioned seeing him outside the plane. It just seemed like, I don’t know. How’s your mom?”

  “She’s sick, Scott. She’s got cancer. She’s skinnier than hell and she’s already annoying the shit out of me. It’s been a great visit so far.”

  “What did she say about you showing up at home?”

  “She said, ‘Holy shit, Colleen, you showed up at home. Now, go call your husband.’ I don’t know, Scott. Hang up and call back and ask for her.”

  “No, I want to talk to you,” he said.

  “Then let’s talk,” she said.

  “I love you,” he said. “I wish I was there, or I wish you were still at home so I could see you.”

  “It’s better this way,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “It sounds like—” He lowered his voice, and Colleen imagined him hunched over in his chair. “Are you leaving me?”

  “I’m not doing anything, Scott. I’m visiting my parents. You’re working. I’m here. You’re there. It’s better that way.
”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know for how long.”

  “Did you buy a return ticket?”

  “No,” she said.

  “But you will?”

  “Of course I will,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said. “I love you. Even if I don’t know what to say, I can tell you that.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she said.

  They hung up and she put the phone back on its cradle, and then she lifted her suitcase from the bed and set it on the floor. She climbed onto the bed, lay down, interlocked her fingers and placed her hands on her flat stomach, and closed her eyes.

  It was full dark in Colleen’s bedroom when she opened her eyes again. She was lying on her side, curled into the fetal position, her hands still cupped to her stomach. It took her a few moments to recognize where she was, but as soon as she realized she was in her bedroom back at her parents’ house, she was able to hear the sound of their voices drifting upstairs from the kitchen below. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the dark ceiling. She had lain right here in this bed and listened to those voices for more than half her life, but this was the first time they had felt strange and foreign. She did not feel like she belonged anywhere or to anyone, and in that moment a glimmer of freedom slashed through her like a knife.

  When she sat up, she realized that her head was pounding, and she left her room and walked into the bathroom and sipped water from the sink. She splashed water on her face and opened her eyes as wide as she could and looked at herself in the mirror. She smiled a grotesque smile. She frowned. She whispered, “Oh, I just felt like coming home. I thought y’all would enjoy the surprise.”

  Dinner was being made downstairs, and she knew by the smell of it that her mother was making country-style steak, mashed potatoes, and some kind of green vegetable. She knew they would all sit down at the table, where a green plastic pitcher of sweating sweet tea would be waiting. She knew her mother would ask her everything she could think of except How are you and Scott? and Colleen would do her best to answer without rolling her eyes or crying or staring into her lap until her mother got the hint, and the whole time she would be thinking about borrowing her mother’s car and driving to the store for a six-pack of Budweiser and parking by the beach and climbing into the dunes and drinking every single one of them before burying the bottles in the sand and driving home.

  But first Colleen would go downstairs. She would eat dinner and drink sweet tea. And she would answer the questions that she was able to answer. And she would say over and over, “We’re fine, Mom. I’m home now. Everything’s fine.”

  She turned the water on in the sink again and splashed it over her face. When she turned it off, she heard the sound of someone coming up the stairs. She dried her face and hands with the towel hanging by the sink, and then Colleen peeked into the hallway and saw her mother carrying a tray toward her bedroom.

  “Mom,” she said. She turned off the bathroom light, and the hallway fell into near darkness. She could see her mother’s hands where they gripped the tray; the boniness of her arms made her hands appear monstrous. “Mom,” she said again, “are you bringing dinner to my room?”

  “Why not?” her mother said. “You’ve been traveling all day. You don’t need to sit downstairs with two old people and listen to them gossip.” She turned and pushed Colleen’s bedroom door open with her foot. Light cut into the dark hallway. She looked back over her shoulder and gave Colleen a nod. “Come on,” she said, “before it gets cold. I’m not carrying this down the stairs to reheat it.”

  She set the tray on Colleen’s bed. It was just as Colleen had expected: country-style steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a glass of sweet iced tea. Her mother had wrapped a knife and fork in a paper napkin and left it resting beside the plate.

  “You didn’t have to do this, Mom,” Colleen said. She sat down on the bed and picked up the glass of tea and took a sip.

  “No, I didn’t have to do this tonight, but I did,” she said. She sat down beside Colleen. “You didn’t have to fly all the way home from Texas today, but you did.”

  “That’s true,” Colleen said.

  “And I’m glad you did,” she said.

  “I feel bad. I should eat with you and Dad.”

  “Why?” her mother asked. “So you can hear him grumble about driving back to the Wilmington airport tomorrow morning? Listen to me annoy him with my theories on that crashed airplane?”

  “Why’s he going back to the Wilmington airport tomorrow?” She unwrapped the silverware and scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes. They were salty and warm.

  “There’s an FBI guy from Florida who’s coming up to fly that airplane out of here,” she said. “Your father’s picking him up tomorrow morning.” She sighed. “And he’s staying with us for a few days.”

  “Here? Where?”

  “In the office, I guess,” she said. “I’ll tidy it up in the morning. We’ll worry about it then.”

  Colleen cut a piece of steak and swirled it through the potatoes.

  “I’m glad to see you eating,” her mother said. “It doesn’t matter how old you get, you’re always happy to see your child eat the food you’ve made for them.”

  “It’s good,” Colleen said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had food like this.”

  She could actually feel her mother wanting to ask what she and Scott ate for meals in Texas. Colleen had never been a very good cook, and Scott wasn’t either. She would’ve been ashamed to tell her mother that they heated up foil-covered TV dinners in the oven or went out for dinner on nights when Scott didn’t work too late. At that moment, Colleen couldn’t picture a single meal they’d made together in the kitchen since they’d moved to Dallas. Colleen imagined Scott coming home to the empty house and opening the freezer and turning on the oven. She wondered if he was feeling the same heavy loneliness she felt, or if he felt anything at all. It was too much to take with her mother sitting on her bed watching her eat, so she shook the image of Scott from her mind.

  “You said Dad doesn’t want to hear your theories on the plane,” she said. “What are they?”

  “Drugs,” her mother said. She sat up straighter. “I think it’s a drug plane.”

  “You think Rodney Bellamy was flying a drug plane?”

  “No, I don’t think that,” she said. “I don’t know how he was involved. That just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Me either,” Colleen said. She wanted to bring up what her father had told her about Rodney and his wife having a little boy, but she didn’t. She didn’t want her mother to read her face and turn the conversation toward her and Scott and what had happened to them.

  “Do you remember the story I used to tell you when you were really little about the Magic House?” her mother asked.

  Colleen laughed, more out of surprise than humor. The story of the Magic House had lingered in the corners of her memory since childhood, and she knew she might never have thought about it again had her mother not just mentioned it. “Yes,” Colleen said. “I remember it.”

  In the story, Colleen’s mother would be lost in the woods, and she would discover a house that was an exact replica of their own. She would be surprised when her key fit the lock, and she would go inside to look around. In each room—the kitchen, the living room, Colleen’s room, her and Colleen’s father’s bedroom—she would find a different version of Colleen, some older, some much younger. Colleen’s mother called it the Magic House because it was a place she could always go to find all the Colleens that Colleen had ever been.

  “I was thinking of that story just now,” her mother said. “I was thinking of it when I walked up the stairs and saw that your bedroom door was open. I thought you were in here, and I thought of the Magic House and I wondered which version of you I would find.” She stopped talking and looked around the bedroom. She unfolded the napkin and laid it ac
ross Colleen’s lap. “I always told you that whatever version of you was in front of me was my favorite version. That’s still true,” she said. “Right now, you are my favorite version of you.”

  Colleen smiled.

  “So we’re in the Magic House?”

  “Yes,” her mother said. “We’re in the Magic House.”

  Wednesday, October 31, 1984

  Chapter 6

  It was Jay’s feeling that something was happening outside the house that woke him in the middle of the night, but it was the bright light that found its way through his window and past his blinds and onto the wall on the other side of his room that made him sit up in bed and listen. He could hear car engines and voices. He heard someone laugh. He thought of what he’d heard the night before when he’d woken to Janelle’s and Rodney’s whispered voices, and he wondered if he had stumbled into another nighttime event that would have eluded him had he slept through it. And then he heard what sounded like a gunshot. Seconds later, someone’s fist was beating on the front door.

  The light came on in the hallway, and he heard Janelle call his name. She’d spent the day in tears, setting the baby down only when Mr. Bellamy or a neighbor or friend of the family could convince her to rest, to sit on the couch, to lie down on her bed, to hold the phone to talk to their mother. He did not know whether or not Janelle had slept, but her voice sounded clearer and stronger than it had since they’d learned the terrible news that morning.

  Another bang on the door.

  “Jay!” Janelle called from the hallway.

  “I’m in here,” he said. She opened his door and clicked on his light. Her hair was messier than he’d ever seen it, and her eyes, though puffy with sleeplessness and grief, were wide with uncertainty at the sound they had both heard.

  “What’s going on outside?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jay said. “I just woke up. There’s somebody at the—” But he wasn’t able to finish before the window behind him exploded and pieces of glass blew through the blinds and something heavy landed on the floor by his bed. Janelle screamed, and Jay rolled off his bed and onto the floor, his feet touching whatever it was that had just been thrown into his room through the window. It looked like a tree trunk or a piece of firewood, and for just a moment Jay allowed himself to understand that he would have been killed had it hit him on his head.