Inescapable, p.19
Inescapable, page 19
“Sorry, who’s not happy with me?” she asked, perching precariously on the edge of a couch strewn with at least twenty luridly-coloured cushions.
“Him,” Magda said cheerfully, her eyes on the space next to Aimee.
Aimee peered next to her, expecting George, but for now, at least, she couldn’t see him. She turned back to the psychic. “What do you mean?”
“You still have them with you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed, what?” Aimee choked.
“Why, your ghosts, dear. You’re drawing them in.” She sighed. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen them yet. I can see this one clear as day.”
Aimee glanced over again. She could faintly sense a shape beside her, but she forced her gaze back to the elderly woman who’d taken a seat in a nearby chair. “It’s my husband, George,” she said. “My late husband. I try not to think about him. Try to keep the thoughts away.”
Magda laughed, the sound warm and kind. “Is it working?” She reached out, taking Aimee’s hand. “Or does he come back?”
“Sometimes it works,” Aimee said, pulling her hand away and crossing her arms on her chest. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Magda smirked. “There’s a reason it happens, you know.”
“Why’s that?”
“Did you ever lay in the dark when you were a child, thinking about all those monsters under your bed?”
Aimee nodded.
“The longer you do that, the nearer they come,” Magda said. “Those fearful, black things we know we shouldn’t think about, but we do.” The woman’s voice dropped, and the room seemed to shift along with her tone. It no longer seemed like a comforting nest, but dark and sinister. “That’s what you’re doing. You’re calling them. Luring them toward your light.”
“Them?” Aimee choked.
“Yes. There’s the man here. Perhaps he’s your husband; I don’t really know. But there are more of them. Many more,” she said with a hard laugh. “Lordy, they hardly all fit in the room.”
“But how? That’s impossible!”
“You’re an open channel, Aimee, and you’re calling them into the light. It’s like what I do, but without my control.” Magda turned, nodding to the space next to her. “Look. You’re doing it even now.”
Aimee turned to see that there was a man next to her—a shadowy form—and he was growing clearer by the second. With a gasp, she bolted from the couch and backed towards the door.
“How’s he doing this?” she cried. Around her, ghostly figures began to fill the room like mist. “No! I don’t want him here! I don’t want any of them!”
Magda’s laughter echoed around her.
“It’s too late to stop them, Aimee. Your ghosts are already here.”
—
Bear stared at the address in his hand. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this.”
Jacqueline gave him an icy smile. “You do what any good writer would do,” she said, standing up from the couch and brushing away the faint marks of ashes from her lap. “You go find the truth.”
Bear looked back at the paper, and the single name. “But if it’s true, this changes everything. You stand to lose even more of your inheritance.”
Jaqueline rolled her eyes. “It’s never been about the money.”
“But your father’s legacy—”
“—is not going to be the troubled artist and the one ‘great love’ of his life who saved him.” She spat the words. “I’d rather the truth came out than people believe that line.”
“Then why?”
Jacqueline made a sound of disgust. “If this is true, then Aimee Tessier is a liar.” Her lips twisted in a mocking smile. “And the world deserves to know that.”
CHAPTER TEN
“What did she say?” Claudine asked for the tenth time.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I hardly believe that.” Her mother pulled the car away from the curb and drove slowly down the side street. “You tore out of there like the devil was at your heels.”
Aimee didn’t answer.
“Besides,” her mother added. “Magda always says something.”
“Fine. She didn’t say anything I didn’t already know,” Aimee grumbled.
The street met a larger thoroughfare clogged with a steady stream of cars. They paused, inching forward until the cars parted.
“But she did say something. Yes?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Aimee said. “Can we just go?”
Her mother hit the gas and the car accelerated. Aimee’s hands clutched for purchase on the seat.
“Go where?” Claudine asked. “Back home? Back to the condo? Back to Magda’s?”
“Back to the condo,” Aimee snapped. A car sped by, honking and her mother swerved. “Christ, Mom! Please watch where you’re going!”
Claudine tittered with laughter. “Stop being so jumpy. City driving always puts you on edge. Just relax.”
“It’s your driving, not the city.”
“I’m doing just fine. It’s all attitude, you know.” The exit ramp appeared and her mother crossed two lanes to meet it.
“Signal lights would help,” Aimee groaned, but Claudine ignored her.
For twenty long minutes, neither Aimee nor her mother spoke. The radio chattered incessantly about flood recovery and government programs. Housing prices were dropping everywhere affected. The cabin in Banff, Aimee realized, isn’t going to sell for what it’s worth. The taxes alone would be enough to sink her, yet another debt she couldn’t manage. The mere thought of asking Jacqueline to help had her fighting tears.
Goddamnit, George! Why’d you have to go and die? A part of Aimee longed to go back two years and warn herself and George of what was coming. The security she’d felt—that she’d come to expect—had been torn away so suddenly that Aimee still hadn’t adapted to it. (If one part of her wondered if this was why she kept seeing George, she ignored it).
The radio program switched to a sappy song about a man and the woman he loved, who didn’t love him back. Aimee reached out and flicked off the radio.
“So, are you going back to the condo to stay?” Claudine asked.
“No. Just to pick up a few more things,” Aimee said. “Do you mind if I crash at your place for a couple more days?”
“Are you going to talk to Magda again?”
“Mom…”
“I don’t mind if you stay, ma petite, but I think you should talk with her. She understands.” Claudine glanced over at her and the car shimmied. “These troubles won’t go away on their own. How long has this been going on?”
“A few weeks.”
“Magda could help with that.”
Aimee slumped lower in the seat, watching the buildings flash by. She couldn’t explain, and couldn’t escape. “If I talk to her again, will you drop this?”
Claudine laughed. “Yes. I suppose so.”
It took half an hour longer to weave through the mess downtown. Construction crews blocked streets, while industrial vans and restoration company trucks clogged the entrances to many buildings. Calgary was rebuilding, but it was far from finished. Nearing the apartment, traffic slowed almost to a stop. The streets looked so different from the other night when Bear had dropped her off, and they’d kissed.
Biting the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from smiling, Aimee pulled out her phone and tapped in a text:
Miss you, Bear.
She sighed, remembering their last moments when he’d stepped away and waved, and she’d wished for a moment that she had invited him upstairs, no matter what the consequences. Aimee tapped in another message, hitting send before she could think better of it.
Looking forward to seeing you again.
She stared at the screen, waiting.
There was no answer.
—
The condo lobby reeked of cleaning solution and mildew. Aimee coughed and covered her mouth.
“Mon Dieu!” her mother said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “I thought you said the apartment didn’t flood.”
“It didn’t,” Aimee said as they walked down the hallway, “but all the condos on the main floor did, and the underground parking. The whole place is a mess.”
She sighed in relief as they reached her front door. Closed. She hadn’t remembered if she’d shut the door or not. At least she’d had that much sense. Stepping inside felt like walking into a tomb: cold and empty. Aimee glanced at the thermostat, frowning when she saw that it was set to the regular temperature.
“Have to get the super in to look at it,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” her mother asked.
“Nothing,” Aimee said. “Just troubles with the heat again.” She rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering.
“Well, you gather up what you need,” Claudine said. “I’ll clean up the glass in the bedroom.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You’re the one having trouble with George’s ghost, not me.” She gave Aimee a quick hug. “You do what you need and I’ll deal with the mess. You go on.”
Aimee emptied the meagre remains of groceries out of the fridge, and gathered up a suitcase of clothes, darting in and out of the bedroom as quickly as possible. Barring the broken mirror above the dresser, the room looked completely untouched. Her mother ran the vacuum over the carpet, humming to herself. Aimee stepped past Claudine, and dropped her bags at the front door, waiting for her mother to finish. Reaching the foyer, she noticed that the answering machine was blinking. She pressed the button.
“Aimee, David Arturo here. Haven’t seen you around Banff in the last while, and needed to report a bit of trouble with the cabin.”
“Not now,” Aimee grumbled. She didn’t have time or money to deal with this.
“Nothing serious,” David’s message continued. “Just looks like some kids must’ve gotten inside. I took a couple through, and there was, uh…” He laughed. “The craziest thing, really. There was water running in the upstairs bathroom, like someone’d been up there, showering. Doors were all locked, but there were smudges on the mirror. Words. I um, I wiped it away before anyone saw, but it was kinda creepy.” He laughed again, but it sounded strained. “Like I said, stupid kid stuff, but it’s a little unnerving. Anyhow, if you could give me a call when you get this, I’d like to change the passcode on the alarm.”
The phone beeped at the end of the message. Aimee stood staring at the machine as if it could provide an answer to her unspoken question. Why are you doing this, George? She felt a vibration deep within her purse and with shaking hands, she lifted out her phone. There was a text message from Bear waiting onscreen.
Got your message, he wrote, but I’m going to be in New York for a few more days.
Aimee frowned as she typed in another text: Everything okay?
His reply came back a moment later.
A few things have come up.
Aimee had just started to write a response, when his next message came through.
Got to run. Bye.
She stared at her phone for a long moment, heart pounding. Years of marriage to George had made her an expert at reading the emotions hidden behind benign statements. (She’d had to in order to survive George’s temper.) There was no question in her mind: Something was up with Bear.
A man’s growling voice interrupted her thoughts. “Don’t like the idea he’s screwing around with someone else, do you?”
Aimee jerked her head up to discover George’s ghost leaning against the door frame, arms crossed on his broad chest.
“Jesus!” she gasped. If anything, George had grown more solid since she’d last seen him. Heavier, more intense. She stared at the edges of his form, searching for the hint of absence, but he was as solid as the table next to which he stood.
“Mom?” she called tremulously.
The vacuum continued to buzz. Aimee stared at the apparition’s hair—it was almost brown today with only a hint of his grey—and though his face was less lined, it was far more angry. He looks younger, Aimee realized, and that thought terrified her. This George wasn’t from her memory. She’d never known him this way.
“You going to answer me?” George asked. “Or just stare?” He took a step closer, and Aimee backed away until she was standing with the exit door to the condo at her back.
“Go away, George. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He smiled darkly. “Who d’you think he’s fucking behind your back? Some assistant of his? A friend, perhaps? A little piece he’s keeping on the side?”
Aimee’s eyes sparkled with anger and tears. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Bear wouldn’t cheat.”
“Maybe not, but you are!” George took another step closer. “You’ve been trying to get him in bed with you for weeks. You think I don’t know that, Aimee?”
“So what if I have? You’re dead! It isn’t cheating if your husband’s dead!”
“You BITCH!”
The ghost spun back toward her and Aimee yelped, darting out of his way. George’s jaw was a hard line, hands rolled in fists. This version of him looked more like the strapping young man who’d partied his university days away, laughing and drinking with the East Coast art crowd. Aimee’d never known him, but she’d heard the stories. Fights in bars. Fights with other artists. A string of arrests that only money and Margot’s affluent connections had hidden away. This George had been mean.
“Mom!” Aimee shouted. “I think we should go!”
The vacuum turned off, and George glanced back toward the bedroom at the same time her mother’s voice wafted forward. “Just a minute, Aimee dear. Almost done.”
The vacuum started again.
“Mom, please!” Aimee shouted, panic rising. “We need to LEAVE!”
“Not a chance!” the ghost snarled. He reached for Aimee and she dodged him again. “I’ll have an answer from you!” George said. “No fucking WAY am I tolerating you sneaking around behind my back!”
“You’re not real,” Aimee said in a shaky voice. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not—”
He lunged again. This time she was too slow and he caught her by the arm. Aimee screamed. Shards of ice seemed to embed themselves in her flesh, her body consumed by a cold that reached to her core. “I’m every bit as real as you are!” George roared. “And I want a goddamned answer! How long have you been fucking him?!”
“Mom!” she screamed, struggling to escape his talon grip. “George is HERE!”
“Mon Dieu!”
George released her as Claudine stepped into the room; the vacuum fell from her hands. “Notre Père, qui es aux cieux. Que ton nom soit sanctifié...” Her mother’s voice rose in prayer as Aimee swung open the front door. She kicked the bags out of her way, tumbling into the hallway. The prayer was cut off with the bang of the door swinging shut on Aimee’s heels. A sound like a hurricane rose from within, the door reverberating from inside.
“Run, Aimee! RUN!” Claudine shrieked from the other side of the door.
“Mom! Open up!” Aimee turned and rattled the handle, but it was locked. Locked! “Come on! You need to get out!”
Trapped inside, her mother began to scream.
—
Bear stood in front of a sagging Brooklyn apartment building, his gaze on the graffitied brick and sad, slumping window frames.
“You want me to wait?” the cabby called.
The offer caught him off guard and Bear turned around, frowning at the man who hung half-out the car window. “Yeah,” he said, fishing out a twenty and pressing it into his open palm. “How much will that buy?”
The cabbie shrugged. “Five minutes,” he said with a grin. “Ten at most, unless I get another call.”
Bear nodded. “Thanks, man.”
He headed up the steps, his mouth steeled in angry lines. It was an expression that had served him well in high school, when he’d been one of the few Indigenous students in the advanced placement program. If it worked on jocks, Bear thought, let’s hope it’ll work on drug dealers too.
The front door was locked, a good choice given the area. The apartment’s intercom panel was in questionable repair: beneath the line of buttons, the speaker hung partly askew, wires dangling. Bear checked the name on the paper, then pressed 5-0-4 with a silent prayer to avoid electrocution. Thirty seconds passed before a woman’s voice answered, younger than Bear had expected.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, hey,” Bear said, unexpectedly nervous. “I’m sorry to bug you but I was wondering if we could talk a min—”
“Not buying,” the woman snapped and the speaker went dead.
Bear pressed in 5-0-4, waiting. A minute passed. He punched it in again.
“I said I’m not interested!”
“Don’t hang up!” Bear rushed. “My name is Barrett Cardinal. I’m an author from Canada. I’m writing a book about George Westerberg and I need to talk. Please! Just for a moment.”
There was no answer and Bear was just about to retype in the code when the door suddenly buzzed, the lock releasing.
“Fine,” the voice on the intercom said. “You have five minutes.”
—
The doctor had left minutes before and the hospital waiting room was empty save for Aimee and the police officer who was interviewing her. Constable Singh was a middle-aged woman with a weary expression, dark, hooded eyes, and a broad-shouldered body. She exuded patience as Aimee turned away time and again, her thoughts on her mother, battered and bruised in the other room.
“If you don’t know exactly what happened,” the officer said, "then just tell me what you remember.”
“But I honestly don’t know!” Aimee sobbed. “I was in the hallway.”
The officer nodded. “The police who arrived on the scene said that the door had been locked from the inside. You couldn’t get in until you found your keys. That true?”
