Thirteen

THIRTEEN

Yep, I'm sitting in the room that I mocked for being a terrible place to sit. But it's quiet and it's small, and instead of being claustrophobic, that's comforting. It's me in my little cocoon with a blanket and a book. Even the glassy-eyed dolls seem more like what they were intended to be, friends for a child, keeping them company.

I lose myself in that book, a sweeping family saga filled with death and disillusionment. Maybe that seems the worst possible choice for a grief-stricken widow, but it too is oddly comforting, reminding me that this is the way of the world, and it always has been. Parents lose children, children lose parents, spouses lose partners. And they persevere. They stitch together the tatters of their lives and move on.

The problem is that their situation isn't mine. They move on to the rest of their lives, refusing to give in to grief when they have so much ahead of them.

How much do I have ahead of me?

How much good health? How much time?

I'll be waiting.

Those were Anton's last words, and some days, I find comfort in them, but other days I want to scream that I don't want him waiting over there. I want him waiting here.

When we made the vows "till death do us part," we'd really meant until my death did us part. Not his. Never his.

When a board creaks in the hall, I grumble and glare at the door as I set my book aside, as if I hadn't already surfaced from its spell.

A hand on the knob, the barest click of the plunger, as if they're hesitating there, uncertain whether to enter.

I sigh. "Come in."

It won't be Jin. He knows that I'm not the sort to say I don't want company when I secretly do. I could hope it's Cirillo coming to apologize, but the approach seems too soft and tentative for him. Shania then, which means I need to put on my best face because she deserves none of my snippy bullshit. Before I stomped from the séance, I should have spoken to her, to make sure she was okay.

Yep, I suck at this big-sister stuff. I was clearly made to be the bratty younger sibling.

When the door doesn't open, I call again. No answer.

With a stifled groan, I get up, go to the door, and swing it open.

No one's there.

I squint down the semi-dark hall. Shania's gone.

Damn it, I clearly zoned out for longer than I thought. These days, my distraction sucks up time like an industrial-strength vacuum.

I consider going after her. I'm not in the right mood, though, and I don't want to seem as if I only grudgingly checked on her. Give me a couple of minutes.

I thump back onto the recliner and pick up my—

Laura has moved.

Laura the red-haired pioneer doll. When I came in, she was on the shelf opposite me. She's still there. But she'd been facing sideways, her glassy gaze on the door. Now it's on me.

I vault out of the recliner, and as I do, something brushes my arm, which sets me scrambling all the more, nearly falling backward over the recliner footrest.

"Sorry."

The whisper comes at my ear, so soft it's almost a sigh. I spin again, and there's another sound, like an apologetic curse.

No one's there. No one can be there. There's one way in and out of this room, and I didn't step far enough through that doorway to let anyone enter behind me.

I look at the doll and remember who had moved it around the last time we were here, turning her head like that to make me jump and curse him out.

"Anton?" I whisper.

No answer.

"Anton, if that's you, can you say something?"

Silence.

"Can you do something? Anything?"

Nothing in the room moves. Tears fill my eyes.

Am I sure the doll wasn't already facing me? Am I sure I heard anything?

If you're there, give me a sign.

I don't say the words. They're too hokey.

Does that matter? Anton wouldn't judge me for hokey.

A rap at the door has me jumping again. Then it opens, and Jin pokes his head in. Seeing me on my feet, he frowns.

"Everything okay?"

I nod.

"I'm heading to bed to watch something on my laptop. Unless you want to watch something together.…"

"Not tonight." I pick up my book. "But I'll probably turn in early, too."

I follow him out. Before I go, I give one last look around the room. Then I turn off the light and shut the door behind me.

I'm lying awake in bed when a rap comes at the door, and I could almost laugh. I might even give a half snort into my pillow.

"Nic?" Shania whispers. "Are you still up?"

I roll out of bed and get to the door before she can leave. I open it to find her dressed in a T-shirt and sleep shorts with an eye mask propped on her forehead.

"Hey," I say. "I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't get to the door in time. I wasn't ignoring you."

"Earlier?"

"Downstairs?"

Her frown says she has no idea what I'm talking about, but she doesn't pursue it. The distant look in her eyes says she barely hears me.

"You okay?" I say.

She shakes her head, eyes brimming with sudden tears. I reach out to tug her inside.

"I…" she begins. Then she wraps her arms around herself and shivers. "Something…"

"Something happened? Come in. Talk to me."

I back up onto the bed and wave her toward the chair beside it.

She takes the chair but says nothing.

"What happened?" I prod.

"I…" She inhales deeply. "Can I not talk about it? Please? I know we're supposed to, but I also know it was just…" She taps her temple. "I was dreaming about Dr. Cirillo saying he was being blocked, and in the dream, there was…" She swallows and shakes almost convulsively. "It was a dream."

"It might help to talk about it."

She hesitates and then blurts, "I thought I woke up, and there was someone in the room and he had his hands around my throat. But then I woke up for real, so I know it was a dream." She touches her throat. "I'm still freaked out."

I turn the light on to get a look at her throat.

"There's a red mark," she says. "But it's from me rubbing it."

"It's the stuff about Brodie Kilmer, isn't it? You thought he was in your room."

"No, it was someone older, with dark hair and—" She glances away. "Yes, I think it was supposed to be Brodie."

"Any time you want to go home, Shania, you only have to say the word. I'll drive you back to Toronto right now if you like."

She shakes her head vehemently. "It was just a nightmare, and I feel like a baby even coming in here."

"No," I say firmly. "This is a séance, and nightmares are going to happen." I consider telling her about my hypnagogic hallucination, hearing footsteps in the attic after Cirillo's story, but it might just give her more nightmare fodder.

I continue, "It's also going to conjure up grief over your sister. I never forget that you're mourning, too. If it seems I do, please say so."

Another firm headshake. "I don't want to make this about my sister. If anything, I'd rather not tell Dr. Cirillo that I lost someone."

"Absolutely. If you aren't comfortable with that—"

"I mean I don't want to make this about me. It feels like talking about something horrible that happened, and a friend pipes up with an experience that pales in comparison. Like when I say I lost my sister and someone says their dog just died."

"If you mean that the loss of my husband is bigger than the loss of your sister, that's not true at all. I only had Anton for three years."

"But he was your husband. The love of your life. When you talk about him…" Her eyes mist again. "All I can think is that I want that. I want to find someone I can talk about like that."

I soften my voice. "And I want you to find someone who talks about you like that."

"You loved him so much, and I just hope he was worthy." At my frown, she blinks. "Oh, that sounded awful. I mean I hope he knew how you felt."

"He did," I say. "And I hope your sister knew how you felt." I settle in. "Can you tell me about her? You can say no, and I suspect, since you don't talk much in group, that you'd rather keep those memories to yourself. Or share with people who knew her."

"No one knew her," she says, and there's a sad twist of bitterness in her voice. "Not even me, really. She was good to me, really good, and I loved her, but I didn't know her. After she died, I was going through stuff and found her high-school journals, and I got to know her. It sounds awful, but that's when she became a real person. After she was gone, and that's just… It hurts."

I reach out tentatively, and Shania falls into my arms.

Shania continues, "In her journals, she fretted over boys and hung out with her best friends. There were teachers she hated and classes she loved. It was such ordinary teen girl stuff that I keep thinking how much I'd have liked getting to know her better. But she was already gone."

Shania's sister died of an infection. I know that much. One of those mundane things that's maybe even worse than a car accident, because it seems like it should be easily fixable.

People aren't supposed to die driving home, but they're really not supposed to die from a cut that doesn't even require stitches.

"Can you tell me something else about her?" I ask.

She smiles and wipes her eyes. "I can."

Shania and I talk for an hour about her sister, which gives her a chance to relive those memories and me a chance to get to know her better. Get to know Shania, I mean. Her sister sounds lovely, but the person I'm interested in is Shania and that conversation gives me a little more insight into the young woman I've befriended.

Shania's first memory is of her sister. It'd been Canada Day weekend, and the fireworks scared three-year-old Shania, so her sister distracted her by looking at the stars instead, as she held her hands over Shania's ears. Shania never forgot that, and while she still hated fireworks, she always went along with family or friends, to lie on a blanket, with her headphones on while she looked at the stars.

Years later, when Shania was a teen, her sister had been in the hospital for an illness on Canada Day. Shania stayed with her, and they'd snuck onto the roof to watch the stars and distant fireworks. They'd been caught by one of the nurses, and her sister had an excuse, but Shania had blurted the truth, unable to face lying. The nurse let them stay on the roof and, afterward, made a point of talking to Shania, which had started her on the road to becoming a nurse herself.

By the time Shania leaves, I'm ready to sleep and I drift off easily. What I drift off into, though, isn't dreams. It's memory.