Inescapable, p.21
Inescapable, page 21
But I’m inviting it by coming back.
A shiver ran up her spine. She wondered if she should have gone back to her mother’s house instead, but she knew that George’s ghost went where he wanted, did as he pleased. If there was going to be trouble, she might as well face it here.
“Just got to stay focused,” she said, tapping in the code and heading to the elevator. “Keep my thoughts on what’s real.”
The cables groaned as the elevator began to lift. Aimee leaned against the wall, her anxiety rising along with each passing floor. The decision to come home had felt like the right one when she’d made it in the antiseptic safety of her mother’s hospital room. It had felt like she was taking control. Now she wondered if it was crazy.
As she reached her floor, the phone in her purse buzzed, and she reached to grab it just as the doors opened. She stepped out of the elevator, and looked down at the screen. A text message flashed.
You still awake?
“Bear,” she breathed. She glanced up and down the hallway, terrified that George would see her waiting. The corridor was empty, everything the same except for the police notice taped next to the door to her apartment.
With trembling fingers, Aimee tapped in a reply: Yes. Just got back from the hospital.
She hit send.
Hospital??? What the hell is going on?! You okay?
Aimee let out a sharp laugh, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. She sat down against the wall, unwilling to go inside while she was texting Bear, but not ready to end the conversation.
It’s a long story. I’m fine. My mom is in the hospital. Stable now. Things have been CRAZY here. She paused, and added one last note: Really miss you.
The screen blinked as Bear’s reply began.
Miss you too. Need to talk to you again. See you again. Sorry. I’m in danger of sounding lovesick tonight. Been a long couple days. Miss you like crazy.
Aimee’s smile spread until her cheeks hurt.
That’s good, she wrote.
Bear’s next text came a moment later: You free tomorrow?
She felt a blush rise up her neck to set her face on fire. She glanced up at the door to the apartment. Then answered.
Is this a real date or a work date?
There was a longer than usual pause before he answered, and Aimee stared at her screen wondering if she’d lost the connection. Suddenly it appeared.
A little of both, but I promise that it’s going to end with me kissing you.
Aimee grinned. I guess that’s alright then.
Bear’s reply came a moment later.
Hope so. Goodnight, Aimee. I miss you.
“Miss you too,” she whispered.
With a relieved sigh, Aimee turned off the phone and stood. The door to the apartment waited, closed and foreboding.
“Alright,” she sighed. “Let’s do this.”
—
Aimee pushed the door open with her toe. It swung inward, creaking loudly.
She waited.
Oh, please be gone. Please be gone. Please, please, please, please…
Five seconds passed in silence. Then ten.
When nothing moved, she took a tentative step forward, fumbling blindly for the switch. She crept in from the security of the hallway, but left the door ajar in case she needed to make a quick escape. The condo was cloaked in shadows that seemed to crawl upward from the floor, scuttling over ceilings and perching in corners. Her hand blindly searched the bare wall. In the second before anxiety choked her, Aimee’s fingers found the light switch by the door. She flicked it on and the bulb flared to life.
The foyer was exactly as it had been when the EMTs had carried her mother out, Aimee weeping at her side.
“It’s fine,” she whispered, “just fine.”
She scanned the room: the broken coffee table, upended chair, and smashed pictures hinted at much darker events. Even the overhead light barely chased the shadows away. With a wince, Aimee let the front door fall closed behind her and took another step inside. Her heart lurched as the door clicked. She turned back, but it wasn’t locked, just latched.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” She cleared her throat, speaking louder. Making her actions real, if only to herself. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’m just getting my things. Cleaning up.” She didn’t say anything about sleep. She feared that would never happen, at least not here.
Aimee picked up the first broken frame from the floor, staring at it for a long moment. She and George, St. Tropez, two years before. With a sigh, she carried it to the garbage.
Time to move on.
An hour and a half later, the apartment was almost returned to its earlier state, the last of the glass vacuumed. Three garbage bags of broken frames and damaged items sat near the front door. By then, Aimee’s fatigue had become a palpable thing, tripping her at random moments, leaving her staggering. The third time she came into the bedroom to get something—but couldn’t recall what it was when she arrived— she slumped down onto the bed fully clothed.
Just going to rest for a minute, she thought, her eyes fluttering closed. Within seconds she fell into the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. The few hours until morning passed in what seemed like only moments. The dark shadows faded, replaced by thin bands of watery light as the city came back to life. Aimee stretched and sat up, stiff and cold.
The room was empty, the specter of George gone.
—
Early the next morning, Aimee drove slowly down the narrow street. It was luridly bright after the weeks of rain. Green swaths of grass abutted muddy sidewalks, a riot of colours exploding in flowerbeds. The entire world felt different, Aimee thought. She too had been altered by the last month. She pulled over to the curb and stepped out onto the sidewalk. As the car approached, the elderly woman lifted her head. The wide sun hat she wore tipped back, casting her face in shadow.
“Good to see you again, Aimee,” she said with a warm grin. “I’ve been waiting for you to return.”
“After last time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”
“Well, I’m glad you came all the same,” Magda said. Her teeth flashed white in the smoky half light which shaded her face. “He’s still following you.”
The hair on Aimee’s head crawled at the comment. She peered behind her, but all she could see was the quiet suburban street.
“I wasn’t sure if he was still there,” Aimee admitted. “After what happened with Mom, I was hoping he’d gone.”
“Oh no. Not gone,” Magda snorted. “Not by a long shot. He’s tired himself out, but he’s still there. He’s lurking on the edges of the light even now. Skulking, if you will. Waiting to see what you’ll do next.” She stood and slapped her pant legs, dust and bits of grass flying up from her hands to dance in the air.
“Why?”
The old woman shrugged. “I’m guessing the outburst with Claudine tired him. Depleted his reserves.”
“You know what happened then,” Aimee said, shoulders slumping.
“Oh yes,” Magda said brightly. “Your mother called this morning. I think she’s as emotional as I am.” She laughed. “If only where you’re concerned.”
“You said he’s depleted, but not gone. Do you think George will return?”
“No doubt about it.”
“You mean he’ll get stronger again? Be real again?”
“Yes, of course,” Magda said cheerfully. “He’s feeding off your energy, after all.”
Feeding off me, Aimee mind chattered. The sun, the heat, the sound of a lawn mower buzzing in the distance all rushed together, leaving her weak and breathless. She wobbled on her feet.
“You alright, dear?” Magda asked. “You’re looking a bit peaked.”
“Yes…no.” Aimee shook her head. “I don’t know. I just need to deal with George.”
Magda nodded. “Then we should begin.”
—
Magda’s foyer and other overly-decorated living room were much as Aimee had remembered, but this morning the house was filled with the warm scent of coffee and fresh bread. Aimee’s mouth was watering even before Magda brought in a tray of coffee and scones and set them on the table.
“Eat and talk,” Magda said. “And we’ll see what we can do.”
Magda started with questions about their past, and the way they’d met, laughing as Aimee admitted she’d been George’s student and later muse.
“Aha! That explains his obsession,” Magda chortled. “He’s still following you. Still madly in love.”
“But it wasn’t always like that. I mean, we had troubles too.”
“Troubles?”
“Normal things. I wanted to marry,” Aimee said. “George didn’t. Same with children.” She shook her head. “George always seemed to get his own way.”
“But you did marry. I wonder if you know how much power that gave you over him.”
“Power? I really don’t think so.” Aimee shook her head. “You wouldn’t say that if you actually knew George.”
“Perhaps.” Magda shrugged. “Or perhaps you just couldn’t see his obsession with you. He’s tethered to you for a reason.”
“George was always the wanderer. Not me.” Aimee frowned. “I don’t think you realize how difficult things could be.”
“Then tell me.”
Aimee launched into another story as Magda refilled her cup, her stories a shuttle passing back and forth through the loom of the years. Aimee’s stomach was full, her eyes heavy, when she finally came to George’s death. The weight of the months since he’d died hung in the room, Aimee’s voice hoarse from disuse and emotion.
“I asked him to stay,” she said, wiping away a wayward tear. “Begged him.”
Magda frowned at her words. “Oh dear.”
“But it was too late,” Aimee continued. “He was already gone, and I was left behind to pick up all the pieces.” She reached for the tissues at her side, dabbing her face. “And now everything’s broken. The will, the cabin, the lawyer’s fees. Everything.”
“So now you’re dealing with his reappearance, and the other…”
“Artists?” Aimee prompted.
“Yes. Other than those visions, how are you coping?”
Aimee slumped against the couch, letting the cushions support her limp body. “I miss George every single day,” she said weakly.
“But you’re still working. You’re still—”
“People tell you that when someone dies it gets easier with time,” Aimee snapped, a long dormant anger reappearing under the heavy layer of grief. “But that’s just a lie to make themselves feel better. It doesn’t get easier. It’s just that you learn to cope better. The pain is the ocean, and you learn to swim it or you go down in your own grief and drown.”
“Go on,” Magda urged, passing her another tissue.
“I’ve learned to swim, because I have to. I have friends and some family. I have bills to pay. Things I need to do. I have a life, for what that’s worth.” She gave a teary laugh. “It feels like I’m going crazy. I used to imagine George with me—I do that sometimes with the artists whose work I’m repairing—but with George it’s different. I need him, you see? I miss what we had. I ache. Every minute of every day. And no amount of crying will make it go away.”
Magda’s sinewy hand reached out. At first, Aimee thought she was going to touch her lips, to stop her from speaking, but her forefinger came up and paused in the centre of Aimee’s forehead.
“And that,” she said in a low tone. “Is what feeds him.”
“What?”
Magda pulled her hand back, but Aimee could still feel the warmth, like a dot, in the centre of her forehead. “Your grief,” she said. “Your pain.” Magda tapped her chest with her wrinkled fist. “That, right there. He feels it. It calls him to your side.” Her eyes flitted sideways and she squinted. “Calls the others too.”
“So, what do I do? How do I get rid of him? Them?”
Magda tipped her head to the side, as if listening to something far away. After a moment she nodded. “Do you really want to?”
Aimee pulled back, frowning. “Of course I do! I wouldn’t be here otherwise!”
“So you say,” Magda chuckled. “But you wouldn’t even give me the time of day when I spoke to you in the store.”
“That, well, you surprised me. And I thought there might’ve been other reasons for you to talk to me. I wasn’t certain I could trust you. Now I do.”
The old woman’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “If you want to get rid of George, you must move on. Let him go.” Her eyes narrowed into slits: “You need to find your own joy. Not his.”
Aimee’s heart sank. “But how? George has been my entire life for a decade.”
“And now he’s not. So, do you want to be happy?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Not ‘of course,’” Magda chided. “Tell me, how. What do you want, exactly?”
“Well, I—” Aimee stumbled. “I want to be happy. To take pleasure in things the way I used to. To enjoy my friends the way I used to.” She blushed as Bear came to mind. “To find love again. But sometimes it just seems really hard.”
“Why is that?” Magda asked, though the mischievous look hadn’t left her face. “What’s holding you back?”
“Because,” Aimee said with a shaky voice. “I still miss George. I miss him with every single breath I take, every fiber of my being.”
At her words, the room darkened. Both women looked up in surprise. It was as if the entire house had sucked in a breath and now held it, waiting. “Do you feel that?” Magda whispered. “He’s caught hold of that emotion. He’s pulling himself back to you.”
Before Aimee could respond, a voice—a different voice—interrupted, angry and otherworldly.
“Aimee.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Magda gasped. “They can’t usually do that.”
“Do what?!”
“Make sounds like that.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s not good. I think he might be stronger than…”
Magda’s words disappeared as the room abruptly darkened. It was as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun, only the shadows came from everywhere and nowhere at once. From all corners of the living room a murky form coalesced. It drew together like clotting blood, thickening in one corner of the room as the tendrils of shadow drew together like snakes.
“No,” Aimee whimpered. “This can’t be happening!”
The elderly woman rose from her seat, her eyes darting here and there. “Oh yes,” Magda said with an angry laugh. “It is.”
“Aimee!” The voice was louder now, insistent. The figure in the corner had began to twist and ripple into a human shape. It wasn’t just shadow but form with the first hint of colour. Blood seemed to pulse just under the surface of the walls.
“It’s George,” Aimee cried. “He’s found me again!”
“Yes, he has,” Magda said grimly. “But he’s not allowed to stay.”
The elderly woman stood from the couch, placing herself between Aimee and the ghost. Her voice rose in a litany of prayers in a language Aimee didn’t speak. They were loud and powerful, seeming to echo from all corners of the room rather than from the old woman. In their aftermath, George’s shape loosened and then faded. The swirling nest of shadows scattered, disappearing into corners of the room and along baseboards, absorbed back into the sunny home with its cozy interior. Outside the window, it seemed that a cloud moved out of the path of the sun. The couch was drenched in sunlight once more, the voice gone.
Magda gave Aimee a stern look. “He might be tired right now, but he’s very strong, dear. It’s going to be a fight to untether him from your life.”
Aimee stood, grasping the old woman’s hands in trembling fingers. They were warm where Aimee’s were ice.
“What do I do?” she whispered. “How do I break the chain?”
“We’ll smudge your house, and give you some prayers, but that’s only half of what needs doing.”
“What’s the rest?”
“You must face him. Show him he’s not welcome.” Magda pulled her into a hug. “Most importantly, you must find a way to rediscover your joy. That part I cannot help you with.”
—
With a bundle of sweetgrass and sage in her purse, and a hennaed incantation inscribed on both palms, Aimee left Magda’s bungalow and drove slowly back downtown. At each stop light, she turned her palms over. Layers of symbols borrowed from Aimee’s Roman Catholic upbringing and religions she didn’t recognized ringed the edges of each hand; the center of her palms were marked with words from Aimee’s own life, each line of text spiralling to the center where a single handwritten line repeated over and over again, a litany.
You didn’t know how to be faithful. I forgive you and release that memory.
You never understood my own art was worth pursuing. I forgive you and release that memory.
Your rages terrified me. I forgive you and release that memory.
You never protected me from Jacqueline’s hatred. I forgive you and release that memory.
The studio was never mine. I forgive you and release that memory.
You didn’t care for your health, even though your death destroyed any stability I had. I forgive you and release that memory.
I grieve the children we could have had together. I forgive you and release that memory.
The student / teacher affair was inappropriate. I forgive you and release that memory.
You loved me as a muse, but never understood me as my own person. I forgive you and release that memory.
On and on the words went, filling her open palms with the repressed grief and pain she’d uncovered in the last months. Many of the phrases had emerged from questions Barrett Cardinal had asked her and she wondered how different her life would have been if she’d never met him. But the truth couldn’t be hidden any longer. Today, her skin wore these indelible messages as her heart had for years. She hoped it would be enough.
