in the air, or possibly in the sheets. It made my heart thump. I got up quickly from the bed, my eyes scanning the room for something out of place. The small clock beside the bed suddenly seemed very loud, the street noise a distant thrum.
A haunting is a subtle thing. It’s not flying dishes and bleeding walls. It’s not a mournful moaning down a dark, stone hallway. It’s odors and shades of light, a nebulously familiar form in a photograph, the glimpse of a face in a crowd. These nuances, these moments are no less horrifying. They strike the same blow to the solar plexus, trace the same cold finger down your spine.
As I stood there, my nose to the air, my limbs frozen, I took in the scent of him. Max. Whatever the alchemy of his skin and his cologne, it could be no one else. Like my father, rainwater and Old Spice, or my mother, Nivea cream and something like vinegar…unmistakable, unforgettable. I listened hard to the silence. A sound, soft and rhythmic, called me from where I stood. I walked over the carpet and into the master bath. Another huge space, embarrassingly opulent with granite floors and walls, brushed chrome fixtures, a Jacuzzi tub and steam-room shower. I paused in the doorway and noticed that the shower door and the mirrors were lightly misted. I walked over and opened the glass door to the shower. The giant waterfall showerhead that hung centered from the ceiling held tiny beads of water in each pore, coalescing in the center and forming one enormous tear that dripped into the drain below. My mind flipped through a catalog of reasons why this shower might have been recently used. This was a secure, doorman-guarded building. My parents, the only other people with access, were both away. I reached in and closed the tap; the dripping ceased.
My breathing was deep and there was a slight shake to my hands from adrenaline. Once a month, I knew, a service came in to clean. But I was sure they’d already been here this month, and I’d never known them to leave a faucet to run or surfaces wet.
I went to the cordless phone by Max’s bed to dial the doorman.
“Yes, Ms. Jones,” said Dutch, the eternal doorman, whom I’d passed on my way in.
“Has someone been in this apartment today?”
“Not on my watch. I’ve been here since five A.M.,” he said. I heard him flipping through pages. “No visitors last night or all day yesterday. Not in the log.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Nothing. Thanks, Dutch,” I said. I pressed the button to end the call before he could ask me any more questions.
The phone rang while it was still in my hand. I answered without thinking.
“Hello?”
There was only static in my ear.
“Hello?” I said again.
The line went dead.
SOMETIMES I THINK it’s not the ghosts themselves but the dark spaces where they might reside that are the most frightening. I was filled with dread as I continued my search of the apartment. I approached each space with a kind of reluctance, a turning away, wanting to cover my eyes like I might if watching a horror movie by myself at night. Looking back, I guess it was more that I was searching to find nothing than looking for something in particular. I wanted to do my due diligence so that if the worst were true, I could leave self-blame off my list of emotions. I wanted to know I hadn’t closed my eyes the way Elena had.
The sky outside had turned dark blue in the twilight, and I was starting to feel tired. The scent had deserted the apartment and the bathroom was now dry as a bone. I was already starting to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing. I flipped on some lamps to chase back the gloom that was settling on me. As I did, something caught my eye.
In the light I saw a small corner of white peeking out from beneath the coffee table. I got down on my knees and retrieved a matchbook. I turned it in my hand. There was an opalescent symbol embossed on each side, which could be seen only when it was held at a certain angle to the light. Three interlocking circles within a larger circle. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t place it. I felt my stomach start to knot; a light nausea crept up in my throat. I flipped the matchbook open. Inside a single note had been scrawled: Show this at the door. Ask for Angel.
IN MY DREAMS, I sit with him and ask him all my questions. He sits beside me like he did our last night together. The tears fall and he is talking, answering me with pleading eyes, his hands on my shoulders. His lips move but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He touches me but he is behind some invisible barrier. I can’t reach out to him and I can’t hear his voice. I try to read his lips but I can’t until he says the words I’m sorry, Ridley. He reaches for me again and I back away. The anger and the hatred I feel in these dreams are more intense than anything I’ve felt in my waking life. I realize there’s a gun in my hand.
That’s when I wake up, feeling desperate and helpless. I never believed in recurring dreams before. But any shrink will tell you that it’s your mind’s way of resolving something you haven’t been able to resolve in your waking life. Doesn’t take much to figure that out. Too bad it didn’t seem to be working for me.
9
In my mailbox at home there was a postcard from my father, sent apparently from their port of call in Positano. Having a wonderful time! it read in my father’s sharp, scrawling hand. Thinking of you as always. The thought of them traipsing around Europe snapping photographs and mailing off postcards, frankly, made me sick. I threw the postcard in the trash, poured myself a glass of wine from the half-empty bottle on the counter, and played my messages. I had an uneasy feeling, found myself looking around my apartment, peering through the doorway into my dark bedroom.
“Hey, it’s me.” Jake. “Can we get together tonight? Come to the studio around eight if you feel like it. We’ll go to Yaffa. Or wherever.”
I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. I was hungry and lonely and considered heading downtown to meet him.
Beep.
“It’s me.” A low male voice, smoky and depressive. Ace. “Haven’t talked to you in a couple of days. I’d like to see you. I have some things on my mind.”
Great. Another catalog of indictments his shrink was encouraging him to bring up against my parents-and me, I’m sure.
“Yeah,” I said to my empty apartment. “Looking forward to it.” I suddenly had the horrible thought that I’d liked my brother better when he was a junkie. Though he’d been equally depressive and blame-laying, he wasn’t nearly as self-reflective.
Beep.
“Hey, there, it’s Dennis. It was nice to hear your voice. Give me a call back when you can.” That Times sportswriter I dated briefly. He sounded enthusiastic. I knew he worked late usually, so I took a chance, went into my office, looked up his number, and gave him a call. I forced myself to sound light and flirty when he answered, gave him the same spiel I gave Jenna about wanting to return Myra Lyall’s call.
“A very weird, scary thing,” he said when he’d finished telling me basically all the same stuff Jenna had revealed.
“That’s terrible, Dennis,” I said. I let a beat pass. “Do you know her assistant well? I got a call from her as well-what’s her name again?” Lie.
“Sarah Duvall.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, she comes out for drinks every once in a while with my crew. Nice girl. She’s a bit adrift at the moment. No one knows if Myra is coming back, but no one wants to admit that she isn’t, so Sarah’s in a kind of professional limbo. It’s been weird for her.”
