The Ghost of a Chance (13 page)

I glance in Alis’ direction once more, take in her
flushed cheeks and her kind smile as she talks with her friends, and I know, in
a crystal-clear moment of honesty, that my attraction to Alis has nothing to do
with alcohol.
 
I’ve felt it—and denied
it—from the beginning, when she cared for me after Catherine’s death.
 
And the guilt of that admission is almost as
unbearable as the grief that has enmeshed itself in my soul.

"I’m going outside to get some air," I
tell Marjorie, who vaguely nods her head beside me, half asleep.
 
"When I come back in, I’ll get you
settled for the night."

"So kind, Darcy.
 
Thank you," she murmurs, propping her head up on her elbow
and smiling sleepily at me.

I pat her arm and hurry away without another word,
leaving my heels on the entryway floor and sliding bare feet into my
boots.
 
I take my winter coat from the
hook on the wall and shrug into it, though I don’t bother with the zipper.
 
I want to feel the bracing cold.
 
I want its sting to sink into my skin and
numb me from the inside out.

"Darcy?"

I freeze with my fingers on the door handle and,
sighing, glance over my shoulder, offering something like a smile.
 
"Just going for a walk.
 
It’s a little stuffy in here, don’t you
think?"

"I do," Alis says, stepping nearer—near
enough to trail her fingers down the length of my zipper before slowly, head
bowed, zipping the opening closed.
 
"Mind if I join you?"

I breathe deeply, so deeply that Alis’ jasmine
perfume makes my limbs feel loose, my head foggy, though my heart awakens, its
pace faster, more urgent, the moment that Alis’ blue, blue eyes gaze into
mine.
 
"I could never say no to
you, Alis," I tell her truthfully, and with a dizzying pulse, I help her
into her coat.

"Everyone’s so drunk.
 
Well,
I’m
drunk, too," she says as we step outside,
shutting the door closed behind us.
 
"They’re starting to get silly and catty, and I’ve hardly spoken
with you all day, you know."
 
We
step down from the porch, and Alis slides her hand into mine.
 
"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."
 
I clear my throat, fixing my eyes on the
snow-laden branches as we move over the trail into the woods, trying
not
to
focus on the warmth and softness of Alis’ hand in mine.
 
"But you seemed to be having a good
time."

"Oh, I did.
 
I mean…
 
None of those girls are
soul
friends, but they’re good people."
 
She bites her lip and is quiet for a long moment.
 
"To be honest, I’ve never had a very
close female friend before.
 
My friends
tend to…"
 
Shrugging, she offers me
a small smile.
 
"They use me, I
guess.
 
And mostly I don’t mind.
 
But you…"
 
Her eyes drift away, pointing toward the snow at our feet.

"Me—what, Alis?"

She sighs.
 
"You’re different.
 
You’re…"
 
Growing very
still, Alis turns to face me, letting go of my hand but claiming my gaze.
 
Her cheeks are red, and her mouth is closed,
not frowning but not smiling, either.

"Is something wrong?" I ask her, brushing
a stray curl from the side of her face, pushing it to nestle behind her ear.

Before I can take my hand away, she leans into it,
then clasps it with her own hand, squeezing her eyes shut.
 
"Darcy…" she breathes, shaking her
head.
 
"I’m a terrible person.
 
I’m still married, and you—I mean, how could
I even
think
…
 
Oh, I’m
sorry."
 
Letting go of my hand, she
steps away, walks on, moving ahead of me along the trail.

"Hey, Alis—"

"I’m drunk," she says softly, laughing a
little.
 
"Don’t listen to me.
 
I talk too much when I’m drunk.
 
I…feel too much.
 
Too much blubbering, and too little sense."
 

Catching up with her, I thread my arm through hers
and smooth my fingers over her hand.
 
"You weren’t blubbering.
 
If
you want to talk about something—"

"I don’t," she says quickly.
 
"I mean, I can’t.
 
Not now.
 
Okay?"

I swallow, slowing my steps to match my pace with
hers, though I have less luck attempting to slow my tumbling heart.
 
"Okay."
 
I tilt my head back to welcome the icy touch of the air, open my
eyes to absorb the sharp light of the stars.

We walk together in silence—tense, heart-throbbing
silence—our boots crunching over the snow as the wind whistles thinly through
the snow-burdened trees.
 
When the cabin
looms before us, I pause, daring a glance in Alis’ direction.
 
Her face is closed, solemn.
 
She lifts her blue eyes to meet mine, and I
want to reach for her, want to draw her close, want to do whatever she needs,
anything to drive her sadness away.

A single tear slips over her cheek.

"Oh, Alis…"
 
Without a thought, I lean toward her and press my lips to the
soft place just below her eye, lingering for far too long, heart pounding so
hard that it sounds like a storm in my ears.
 
When I draw back, Alis’ lips are trembling, and she covers her face with
her hands.

"I’m sorry…" I begin, but she waves her
hand and takes several deep breaths, stilling her sobs.

"Darcy, you are the most beautiful person I’ve
ever met," she whispers, her shining eyes piercing through me.
 
For a long, heady moment, we stare at one
another, near enough to touch but not touching, near enough to kiss but not
kissing.
 
"I just… I wanted you to
know that," Alis says at last, stepping back, turning on her heel to face
our footprints on the trail.
 
"I
should go back.
 
I’ll set up sleeping
arrangements for everyone at the house.
 
They’re all too drunk to drive, and
I
can’t drive.
 
But we have plenty of room, and there’s that
pull-out bed in the living room, and a couple of air mattresses, I think—"

"Alis, don’t go—"

"I know where you keep all of the extra
blankets and pillows, so there’s no need for you to hurry back."
 
Facing forward, she carefully avoids my
gaze, though I can see her hands shaking and want to hold them, to hold
her.
 
"Stay out here as long as you’d
like.
 
I know this must be a difficult
night for you because of…"
 
Her
voice trails away, and she’s already leaving, running now, running from me.

"Alis, don’t go," I call weakly, hoarsely,
watching her slip into the darkness until she disappears.

Stunned, unable to think, I trek automatically
toward the cabin, and though Portia greets me with a friendly
mew
and
weaves her warm body around my bare, chilled legs, I have never felt more
alone.
 

---

There’s a knock at the door.

I ignore it, groaning and rolling onto my back on
the couch, upsetting the kittens, who were hunched and dozing on my hip.
 
Eyes closed, I fling an arm over my aching
head.

The knock comes again.
 
And again.
 
And again.

"Catherine, could you get that?" I
whisper, then make a bitter, gravelly laugh that sounds more like a sob.
 
Suddenly, a wave of sorrow rocks my chest,
seizing my heart.
 
I double over,
internally pained without any understanding as to why.
 

Then I remember.

It’s Christmas.
 
Christmas morning.

My mouth forms a harsh curve.
 
Perhaps Santa Claus has come to give me a
present.
 
The chimney is too
narrow.
 
He’d have to use the door.

"Skip it.
 
I’ve been a naughty girl," I call out, sitting up too fast and then
leaning over to place my head on my knees.
 
The room spins around me, the floor rising up to tilt beneath my
feet.
 

Knock, knock, knock.
 

At last, my muzzy brain begins to focus, and I lean
back against the couch, shaking my head and smoothing my hair.
 
If Alis were out there knocking, she would
have likely come in by now, or announced herself, asked me if I was all right.

With a sigh, I rise and fling the door open, hugging
myself in my thin and very wrinkled dress and squinting at the searing white
sunlight.
 

"Merry Christmas!"
 
Marjorie stands uncertainly before me, her
grey hair a little mussed, her coat collars uneven.
 
She holds a large wrapped box in her arms.
 
"Did I wake you?" she asks.

"Oh, um…
 
What time is it?"

"Nearly eight o’clock.
 
I’m an early riser.
 
I’ve been up since five and waited so that I
wouldn’t disturb you, but I’m afraid I have—"

"No, no, it’s fine," I assure her
groggily, managing a genuine—though probably odd-looking—smile.
 
"Come in, please.
 
And Merry Christmas to you, too."

"Thank you, honey.
 
I won’t stay long.
 
I’ve
got a sad sort of tradition on holidays, you know.
 
I watch DVDs of all of the old movies that Lloyd and I saw at the
cinema together.
 
I like to imagine his
spirit sitting beside me, laughing at the same tired jokes…"
 
She smiles softly to herself and places the
package she was carrying on Catherine’s desk.

"I wish you hadn’t brought a gift,
Marjorie.
 
I don’t have anything
for—"

"Oh, dear, that isn’t from me, Darcy.
 
I found it right outside the door, picked it
up while I was waiting for you to answer and brought it in here for you."

"But…"
 
I approach the box gingerly, eyeing its plain brown wrapping.
 
"Well, who’s it from, then?"
 
Curious, I pick up the box and am surprised
to find that it weighs very little.
 
Whatever is inside it must be terribly small or light.
 
There’s no gift tag, no marking
whatsoever.
 
It appears to have been
wrapped in a recycled paper grocery bag.
 

With a shrug, I set the box down and face Marjorie
again.
 
"I’ll open it later.
 
But I suppose you’ve come to meet the
kittens?"

Marjorie laughs, pointing down to the floor: one of
the kittens has flopped itself on top of her boots and begun to purr.
 
"Think this one’s trying to tell me
something?"

I smile, kneeling down to pet the kitten’s tiny
white head.
 
"Pretty sure you’ve
just been adopted."

"Well, that was easy enough!"

"Here."
 
I move to the bathroom and open the drawer in the shelving unit above
the sink, removing, with a silent pang, one of the hair ribbons Catherine
stored there.
 
It’s yellow and silky,
and I knot it loosely around the kitten’s neck.
 
"For now.
 
I’ll get
her a proper collar tomorrow, and then when she’s ready to go home with you,
we’ll have no trouble finding your kitten."

"Oh, what a darling."
 
Marjorie leans over carefully to stroke the
kitten’s back.
 
"We’ll be great
friends, you and I."
 
She looks up
at me, a playful gleam in her eyes.
 
"You know, I think I’ll call her Scarlett.
 
Lloyd used to call me Scarlett, and of
course he was my dashing, handsome Rhett."

"She seems like a Scarlett to me," I
laugh, as the kitten wrestles with the ribbon, biting into its fabric with her
tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
  

Marjorie sits down on the couch and holds the kitten
on her lap, cooing and fawning, her face soft and serene.
 
I sit beside her, stroking Portia, who curls
up against my side and purrs with contentment.

"A kitten for Christmas," Marjorie sighs
happily.

I squeeze her hand.
 
"I hope the two of you will share many happy Christmases to
come."

"Oh, I’m sure we will."
 
But her eyes dim behind her glasses as she
gazes at me.
 
"What about you,
Darcy?"

I look away, picking tiny white cat hairs off of my
red dress.
 
"I’m fine."

"You’re far from fine."

"Well, I’ll
be
fine.
 
Eventually."
 
I sigh deeply, giving up on the cat hair and gathering Portia
onto my lap.
 
Her purrs grow louder; I
feel the rumble of them beneath my hand, a soothing pressure.
 
"I hope."

"You know what would help you feel better right
now, don’t you?"