I’llcall Jackie in the morning. She deserves more than that but she has herappointment at the clinic tomorrow. I’ll tell her I think she should go aheadwith the abortion. Tell her that everything is going to be alright. Tell herwe’ll get through this, even though I don’t believe it myself.
Thechair is comfy and the attic is hot. I close my eyes, tilting my head back onthe head rest. The tension drops from my shoulders; my arms dangle over thesides of the chair. As I start to drift into sleep, all my body hair stands onend. I sit up and look around. It’s dark but I see the outline of boxes in thelight filtering from downstairs, where the others are bumping around. It won’tbe long before they’re up here. The air in the attic gets colder and I wonderwhere I’ve left my jacket. I rub my arms with the palms of my hands. For once,I am desperate for sleep and settle back into the chair. Not very professional,but it’s not the first time someone has fallen asleep on this job.
Ihalf-dream about Jackie, the way she sits on the bed and brushes her hair. Howthe blonde strands rise up to meet the bristles as she moves to the crown ofher head. I fall into the rhythm of it, the rise and fall of her arm, the tiltof her head.
Itis then I feel a tiny hand rest on my forehead. It wakes me. I know I’m notasleep. I am not dreaming. It is not a breeze and it is not a spider web. It isa child’s hand that is so soft and so small that I want to grab hold of it andsqueeze it. I feel the fingertips and the palm and the side of the thumbresting as if checking whether I have a fever. Only two people have ever feltmy head like this: my mother when I was very young, and Jackie. I do not movebecause I don’t want to disturb it. I open my eyes wide but even in the dark Ican see there is no one there. The hand feels warm and dry. I think of what thewoman said about the presence. I don’t want it to go. I can feel it breathingon me. Small, feathery breaths, warm and quick. How the hell can it bebreathing? I sit there for two or twenty minutes—I lose track—with the hand placedon my forehead. It never moves and the pressure doesn’t change. The breathingon my face gets closer and closer. I think about Jackie and her blue eyes thatlook brown in the dark. I think about how I am making her get an abortion. Ithink about her blond hair. I tell whatever is there, “Sorry,” and thebreathing gets really close then. Small, dry lips indent my cheek.
Thenthe hand is gone. I whisper, “come back,” but I know it is no longer there. Iwipe the grit of fiberglass from my eyes and squint into the room. When Bobthrows open the attic door, appearing in a square of yellow light, I am stillin the dark, exploring my forehead with my fingertips and trying to hide fromhim that I am crying.
Later,Bob will walk away with the housewife’s phone number. Turns out she’s divorcedand lonely too. Jamie and Trent will finish their close-ups and then swan offin their top-of-the-range RV. I will walk down those attic stairs on wobblylegs, call Jackie and tell her to stop. Cancel the appointment. If she wantsthat baby, then she should have it. No matter what my opinion is. As for me andher? I still don’t know. I just know that this particular ghost is not mine tomake.
Butfor now I have to put batteries in this doll. It says “Mama” and the whole atticspace is filled with its electronic voice.
The PickApart
PaulMcMahon
Ashleyhad come to bury her father. Nothing more. Jimmy knew this, she’d made itabundantly clear, and yet he kept pushing closure on her as he steered therental car toward her father’s home.
“Somethingdrove him to it,” Jimmy said. “You said he seemed happy over the past year. Ican’t believe you don’t want answers.”
“Ididn’t drive through three states to solve a mystery,” she said.
“Ofcourse not, Ash. No one ever sets out to solve a mystery, but sometimesmysteries fall out of the sky.”
“Jimmy—”
“Leavingthem unsolved only makes us feel antsy, you know? Like there’s something wewere supposed to do, but we’ve forgotten. Don’t you want to know why your Dad’sfriend refused to take over his business? This is a motor head, a mechanicwe’re talking about. This guy should have jumped at a chance to own ajunkyard.”
“Idon’t want to talk about it, Jimmy.” Ashley resumed looking out the car window.Men were so full of shit. Dad, with his monthly “everything is rays ofsunshine” lies, that fat lawyer with his “your Dad wanted you to inherithis land” lies, and now Jimmy and his goddamned “mysteries fall out of the sky”lies.
“I’mjust saying, is all,” Jimmy muttered.
Shehadn’t wanted him to come. They’d only been dating a few months. Last week he’dbought a toothbrush to keep at her apartment, but she wasn’t sure how she feltabout that. He’d hovered at her elbow throughout the afternoon’s wake,constantly asking if she was “okay,” if she “needed anything,” if he could “doanything
