Everything to Gain (27 page)

Sarah muttered, "I would, but I won't."

"Just coffee, Anna, thanks," I said. I sat down on the sofa in front of the fire.

"Can I look around, Anna?" Sarah asked. "It's ages since I've seen your home."

"Sure, feel free. Go up to the sleeping loft if you like."

I leaned my head against the Early American quilt that covered the back of the big red sofa and closed my eyes, thinking of Lissa and Jamie. They had loved Anna, had loved to come here for milk and cookies and special treats. She had loved the twins in return, had always spoiled them, and had cared for them like they were her own.

Later, walking back up the hill to the house, Sarah said, "The barn looks great. Anna's done wonders with it. It's packed to the hilt with stuff, but somehow she's made it all work."

"Yes, she has," I murmured, shrugging further into my quilted coat, feeling the nip in the air all of a sudden.

"You know, Mal, she's very pretty, all that blonde hair, those soft brown eyes, doe eyes. Very appealing, really. But she could be absolutely stunning if only she wore a bit of makeup, especially eye makeup. Blondes always look so faded, so washed-out, if they don't do their eyes right."

"I know exactly what you mean, Sash. But I don't think she really gives a damn how she looks most of the time."

"No incentive, you mean?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't mean that." I hesitated thoughtfully, then said finally, "I think Anna's happy with
herself
. And with the way she looks these days. Healthy, full of vitality, no black eyes or bruises. She had a really bad experience with that guy she lived with, before she came here. And I think she gave up on men a long time ago. He used to beat her up constantly. He was
extremely
abusive, actually, and she was smart to get away from him when she did."

"I remember your telling me about it at the time. Well, I guess it's better to be on your own without a man than—" She broke off and stared at me, looking horrified, then grabbed hold of my arm. "I'm sorry, Mal, I'm so thoughtless."

I turned into her, put my arms around her, and hugged her to me. "You can't keep watching yourself, Sash, watching every word and what you say all the time. Life does intrude, I'm very aware of that."

"I'd give anything to make you feel just a little bit better," she murmured. "Anything, Mal, anything at all." She stood gazing at me, her dark eyes moist, brimming with emotion, all of the love and friendship she felt for me spilling out of her.

"I know you would, Sarah darling, and it is easier when you're around," I replied. I wanted to reassure her, and so ease her worry about me.

The stillness in the house was so acute it was tangible.

I stood in the middle of the long gallery, listening to that stillness, letting it wash over me, and I began to feel less agitated than usual.

Ineffable sadness dwelt within my heart, and yet I felt oddly comforted all of a sudden.

It was the house, of course.

It had always been a peaceful place, tranquil, benign, enfolding my family and me in its loving embrace. Ever since I had first set eyes on it, I had thought of it as a living thing, an entity rather than an edifice. I had never believed we had found the house all by ourselves, rather, that it had beckoned to us, drawn us to it, because it wanted us to occupy it, to love it and give it life.

And we had for a while.

My children had laughed here and run along its twisting corridors and played in its many rooms; Andrew and I had loved each other here and loved our family and our friends, and for a short time the house had truly lived again, had been happy. Certainly it had given us joy.

I walked from room to room, looking at everything for the last time before locking the outside doors and switching off the lights. Then I slowly climbed the stairs to my upstairs sitting room.

When I pushed open the door and went in, I saw that the room was dim and filled with shadows. It had grown much darker outside in the last hour or so since Sarah had left. But the logs spurted and hissed in the grate and threw off sparks, and there was a lovely warmth up here on this icy night.

I turned on a lamp and undressed, put on a nightgown and robe.

After pouring myself a vodka, I sat down in front of my portrait of the twins and studied it for a long time. I really had captured them on the canvas; this realization pleased me.

Eventually, my gaze settled on Andrew's portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was not quite as good as the one I had done of the twins, but the likeness was there, and I had caught his extraordinary blue eyes perfectly. They were exactly right.

I finished my drink, poured another one, lingered over this, then drained the glass suddenly, in one big gulp.

Rising, I went into the bathroom. I turned on the taps and ran a bath. When it was full, I took off my robe, threw it across the bath stool, and walked across to the sink.

My art knife was there, where I'd put it earlier, its razor blade encased in a sheath of plastic. The blade was sharp, very sharp. I knew. I had used it for cutting thick paper, posterboard, and sometimes canvases. It would do the job nicely.

I had read somewhere that this was a painless way to die, if one can think of dying as painless. Lying in a tub of water, slitting each wrist, bleeding gently until unconscious, until death came.
Painless
.

Picking up the knife, I examined it before stepping over to the bath. I placed it on the edge of the tub near the taps and lifted my nightgown.

As I began to pull it up over my head, I heard the faintest sound. It was laughter.
Someone was laughing
. In the next room. I was so startled I was frozen to the spot. Finally I let the hem of my nightie fall.

I went out into the sitting room.

Lissa stood there in the center of the floor wearing her nightgown.

"Mommy! Mommy!" she cried and laughed again, her light, tinkling laugh. It was the same laughter I had heard a moment ago.

"Lissa!" I took a step forward.

She laughed and ran out into the corridor.

I rushed after her, calling her name, shouting for her to stop, to come back, as I followed her down the stairs, along the entrance gallery and into the kitchen. She wrenched open the back door and flew out into the snow, laughing, saying my name.

It was dark outside.

I couldn't see her.

I stumbled around in the snow, calling and calling her.

Suddenly she was there, standing right next to me, tugging at my nightgown. "Hide and seek, Mommy, let's play hide and seek."

She ran away, ran into the house.

I chased her. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in gasps as I raced up the stairs. I saw her dash through the door of my upstairs sitting room, but when I got there the room was empty. I looked in the bathroom, hurried into the adjoining bedroom, only to discover I was alone.

Shivering, I glanced down at my nightgown.

It was soaking wet at the bottom, and my feet were frozen. I had run outside with nothing on my feet. My teeth began to chatter, and I got my robe and put it on. I dried my feet on a towel and found a pair of slippers in my clothes closet.

Where was Lissa hiding?

I went from room to room on this floor and covered every room downstairs. I even made it to the basement.

The house was empty except for me.

I'm not certain exactly how long I searched for her, but eventually I gave up. Returning to my little sitting room, I threw some logs on the fire and poured a vodka to warm myself.

Puzzled by what had just happened, I sat down on the sofa to think.

Had it been a dream? But I hadn't been asleep.

I had been in the bathroom, and I had been wide awake.

Was it wishful thinking? Possibly. No. Probably.

Had I just seen Lissa's spirit? Her ghost?

But were there such things?

Andrew used to say this house was full of friendly ghosts. He had been joking, hadn't he?

I didn't know anything about parapsychology or ectoplasm or psychokinesis. Or the occult or any of those things. All I knew was that I had seen my daughter, or thought I'd seen her, and that the image had been so strong I had believed her to be real.

Baffled, sighing to myself, I finished the glass of vodka, lay back against the sofa's cushions, and closed my eyes. Suddenly I felt exhausted, wiped out.

"Mommy, Mommy."

I paid no attention. Her voice was in my head.

"Butterfly kisses, Mommy," she said, and I felt her child's soft lips against my cheek, felt her warm breath.

Snapping my eyes open, I sat up with a jerk.

Lissa was standing there, looking at me.

"Oliver's cold, Mommy," she said, handing me her teddy bear, and then she climbed onto the sofa and snuggled down into my arms.

Sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains awakened me, and I turned and stretched, almost falling off the sofa. Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I glanced around, feeling completely disoriented.

I had obviously fallen asleep on the sofa. I had a crick in my neck, my back ached, and my mouth was dry. I felt parched. My eye fell on the half-empty bottle of vodka, and I shuddered.

It was then that I remembered.

Everything came rushing back to me. Lissa had been here last night. She had been in her nightgown, holding Oliver, and she had said he was cold; she had given him to me and had crept into my arms.

I
had
held her. I know I had.

No, it was a dream. A hallucination. My imagination playing tricks. The vodka.

I heard Nora's step on the stairs and her voice calling, "Mal, Mal, are you up there?" And when I glanced at the clock, I saw to my shock that it was nine-thirty.

Nine-thirty
.

I hadn't slept like this since Andrew had been killed. In fact, I had hardly slept at all until last night.

"Freezing cold out," Nora announced coming into the sitting room. She stood in the doorway, eyeing me. "Not like you not to be up and about," she went on, "lolling around like this. You haven't even made the coffee this morning."

"No, I haven't. I only just woke up, Nora. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. I've been on it all night."'

She glanced at the vodka bottle, said succinctly, "Not surprising. But a good sleep was what you needed."

"I'll be down soon."

"Don't rush. Coffee takes a few minutes," she said as she hurried out.

I went into the bathroom and bent over the tub to flip the plug and saw, to my amazement, that the bath was empty.

But it couldn't be. I'd filled it last night. Filled it to the brim. I had been going to kill myself last night by slitting my wrists with my art knife.

The knife was not there.

This is ridiculous, I thought, looking around for it. I had put the knife on the edge of the tub near the taps. It was gone.

I spent a good twenty minutes searching for my art knife, but without success. It had vanished.

The whole business of the empty tub, the missing knife, and the kitchen door both puzzled and disturbed me. Demented with grief I might be, but I knew I wasn't crazy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

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"I'll be in my studio if you want me," I said to Nora a little later that morning.

"Oh, that's good to hear," she said, and there was a pleased note in her voice.

"I'm going to clean out some of my stuff, not paint," I said, looking at her as I pulled on my barbour.

Her face fell, but she made no comment, simply went back to preparing the vegetables for yet another one of her interminable soups. She was determined to feed me, and about the only thing she could get me to eat was soup or porridge. I was never hungry these days.

The icy wind stung my face as I walked quickly down the path which led past the terrace and the swimming pool. The studio door was locked, and as I fumbled with the key I shivered. Nora had been correct again. It was freezing cold today, below zero.

Warm air greeted me as I stepped inside my studio.

Last year I had installed gas heating, and I kept it at fifty degrees in the winter months. I went over to the thermostat and pushed the switch up to sixty-five.

Glancing around the studio, I saw that Nora had made an effort to tidy it since I had last been in here in November. But even so, there was a lot of mess and clutter. Brushes were lying around, and there were palettes with dried paint on them, a stack of new canvases piled haphazardly on a table, and several of my oils propped up against the side of the old sofa.

Taking off my barbour, hanging it on the coat stand, ignored the mess I had supposedly come to clean. Instead I looked for another art knife with a razor blade. I was certain there was a new one in a drawer of the chest I used for storing supplies. But I was wrong. All I could find were new sable brushes, crayons for drawing pastels, small pots of oil paints, a new paintbox of water-colors, and a lot of colored pencils.

I stood staring at the chest, biting my lip. Apparently the only art knife I had was the one which had gone missing.

How was I going to cut my wrists if I didn't have a blade?

I could gas myself instead. My eyes focused on the gas fire set in the wall.

The intercom on the phone buzzed, and I picked up the receiver, "Yes, Nora?"

"Were you expecting your mother, Mal?"

"No."

"Well, she's here. At least her car's coming up the front drive."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

"Good thing I'm making this soup for lunch," she said, then hung up.

After lowering the heat in the studio, I went out, locked the door, and ran back up the path to the house. It was not like my mother to come without calling me first; also, I was surprised she had ventured up to Connecticut in this bitterly cold and snowy weather.

She was coming in the front door as I strode into the long gallery.

"Mom, this is a surprise," I said, embracing her. "What's brought you up here on a day like this?"