Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (23 page)

“Not bad,” Simon murmured.

The next week was spent in research during which Emily and Andrew were rarely apart. The days passed, and they found themselves lost in each other. They talked about everything and anything, until they found they could not stop, until they were hoarse, even though their minds still swirled with the need to hear the other’s voice. They laughed, listened, and carried on like lost mates reunited after a lifetime. She didn’t pander to him, something that surprised as much as pleased him. She confidently parried his intelligence and wit, and in turn, he didn’t let her retreat without a fight, didn’t accept anything less than all of her. When night came, he didn’t want to leave her side.

He didn’t see the growing concern of his band mates, in particular, Simon’s critical stares at his “infatuation.” It was all too easy, he thought to himself. It was the thrill of falling without the crash. But he didn’t care. He was far too lost.

Early one morning, Andrew and Emily set off to City Hall to unearth any records they could find regarding the ownership of the house. They eagerly walked hand-in-hand up the stairs and into the great basilica. Emily laughed as she had to pull Andrew by the hand, his head lost to the towering stone and light.

“Come on, you. You’re acting like a tourist.”

“Bloody gorgeous.”

“I know, the renovation is spectacular.”

“I didn’t mean the building.”

She blushed and swung his hand. They spent the following hours trying to find the proper office to obtain the tax roll to determine when or if a Nick or Nora Chamberlain owned the house they were now living in. Andrew marveled at her tenacity, and she told him she marveled at his patience. After an hour of searching, they were about to give up hope when Emily pulled hard on his sleeve. “Look.” She pointed to a listing on the tax record that read,
The Chamberlain Detective Agency
.

“Do you think?” Her eyes found Andrew’s. “Do you think that he may have been a real detective after all? Nora said they were the inspiration for the Charleses.”

“I always thought Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were the basis for Nick and Nora.”

“No, but Nora told me she parties with them.”

“Emily, really.”

“Let’s see if we can find anything else.” She smiled at him, gave him a fast kiss, and pushed her curls behind her ears, thrilled to continue.

An hour later they had, unfortunately, come up with no information. There were no more records involving The Chamberlain Detective Agency, no liens, no tax bills, nothing. Around lunchtime they threw in the towel, thanked the weary clerk who had helped them, and headed down the sweeping steps to the floor of the rotunda.

“The acoustics in here must be amazing.” Andrew hummed under his breath, lost in his thoughts, his hand twitching at his side.

“You never stop thinking about it, do you?”

There was no need to ask her to qualify what she meant—he knew. His music. The Lost Boys. “No, I can’t. Sorry.”

A small wedding party gathered on the mezzanine above them, and they heard a violinist and cellist begin to play. The strains of music flowed out to meet the sunlight.

“Wait, stop. Let’s listen.” He took her hand in his and led her to a nearby bench. They sat down; he wrapped his arm around her.

“That’s Beethoven, a duo for violin and cello. If you listen very carefully, you can hear how the violin and the cello trade the tune back and forth, give and take, and then support the other when one has the melody line. See, right there? It’s like a conversation between the two instruments—it’s balanced—no one voice stands out above the other. Stunning.”

She looked up at him, his eyes slightly closed, a smile making its way across his lips.

“Would you play the violin for me sometime? I need the encouragement. I thought we’d find more here, and there was nothing online, either. We’re never going to find him. Even his own wife doesn’t know where he’s buried.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “We’ve got time.”

“No we don’t,” she answered with a frown. “We don’t. She said so.” She dropped his hand and stared at the wedding party before walking to the door.

“Hey, slow down,” he shouted after her. “What’s the rush? Why are you so upset?”

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not nothing. Talk to me.”

“It’s just that I’ve never—I’ve never been with someone that—I’m not good with long distance relationships.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your music is your life—it’s what you do.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter.”

A field trip of small children marched by wearing matching bright green T-shirts, parents shepherding them along. Would she ever want that kind of life; would he? Her eyes followed them as well.

“Buy me lunch. I’m hungry,” she told him and laced her fingers in his. “And I’ll stop acting like an idiot.”

“We have time, Emily.” But as he said the words he knew she did not believe them.

Their next stop was the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library. As they entered the building, Emily’s bad humor from before seemed to evaporate. The hushed whispers and musty smell of old pages filled even the modern lobby. He could see her eyes sweep from floor to floor, entranced no doubt with the desire to disappear into the stacks and be heard from no more.

“This way, please.” A smartly dressed woman smiled up at them from behind the help desk and led them to a microfiche room.

She spoke quietly so as not to disturb the other visitors and directed them on how to retrieve the files surrounding July 1st, 1935, the date of Nick and Nora’s death. The room hummed in the suffused light of the machines, the swish and whir of images passing through the screens. They were about to divide the film and sit at separate cubicles when Emily placed her hand on his arm.

“Stay with me.”

He pulled up a chair next to hers and draped his arm around her back as she readied the machine. Soon pages of the newspaper drifted by—old advertisements, black-and-white photos, and banner headlines, as though they should have their own soundtrack from a scratchy and muted record. Emily’s face glowed blue-gray in the reflection, her eyes wide and almost silver. July first, July second, July third…Emily moved the slides faster as if knowing what to look for. Andrew blinked, the light beginning to hurt his eyes. The date scrawled along the top of the screen, and he blinked again, the pain becoming sharper. Faster and faster the pages flew, a blur of text and photos and advertisements. Soon the pain became an ice pick behind his eyes. His hand rose to his temple, and he felt nausea rise in his stomach. Faster and faster still, Emily’s eyes scanning every detail somehow, until the images slammed to a halt. The word
Obituaries
, in a somber font, hung across the top of screen.

Nick Chamberlain Memorial Rites Held Friday

A memorial service was held for Mr. Nick Chamberlain at 9 o’clock at the Flood Mansion on Friday evening. Mr. Chamberlain was killed in an automotive accident on July first near Mendocino when his car lost control and plummeted off the roadway. Mr. Chamberlain was famous for his high-profile work as a private detective, as well as being instrumental in working with law enforcement to solve certain notorious crimes, especially the Walter’s Heist and the murder of famed film producer, Emile Latournow.

...

Andrew couldn’t read any more, the pain too much to take, and he staggered out of the room. Emily looked up from the machine as he turned the corner, and the color stripped from her face as she saw his hand clench the doorjamb. Pale and shaking, he slammed open the door of the men’s room and vomited in the closest stall. His head exploded. The sound of the sea and squealing tires roared in his ears. The sweaty feel of a steering wheel burned under his hands as he curled his fingers on the cold antiseptic tiles.

“Andrew! Andrew!” He could hear Emily calling from the hallway, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t face her. He was losing his mind, he knew he was. He had believed that once he found her this would stop, but the truth was, it was only getting worse. He was trading in one form of madness for another.

Andrew remembered the blunt voice of the doctor from long ago as he explained his diagnosis to his mum, and the scratch of his pen as he made notes on his chart.

“He’s quite advanced for his age. Startling, really. We often see spells brought on by this level of precociousness.”

The room was cold. His mother clenched his arm, and he could feel her love and worry evident in the press of her fingers, as though she could bring her young son back from his depression by the sheer force of her will.

“I see this form of neurosis often with child prodigies—it’s the dark side of their enormous talent, in a way. Andrew seems fixated with a figure he links to his music. This obsession, while common, can prove unhealthy if it is not absorbed into the active, creative mind. I believe that in pushing it away, he is taking the first step toward independence.”

“What can I do? What can I do to help?”

Andrew could not look at her. Her voice was so sad, and he knew he was responsible for making it so. He kept his eyes shut, feeling he had hurt her too badly to ever achieve forgiveness.

“He needs rest, and I strongly suggest you begin counseling to allow him to remove this unhealthy fixation from his mind.”

“No!”

Claudia’s hand tightened. It was the first sound her ten-year-old had made in several days.

“No! I don’t want her to go away.”

Claudia looked at him, not with fear or scorn, but with her patient compassion.
She doesn’t have to
, her eyes told him.

So Andrew agreed to all the tests and the talks to pacify the doctors and all involved. He was bright enough to know what to say and do so they would think he was fine. Cured, as they would later exclaim.

Then years and years later…the 215th straight day of touring. They took their last encore and departed the stage. The recent loss of his father had compelled him to perform, plan, and write, to drive himself faster than his grief. He needed his muse more at that moment than ever before, and he hated that he was so weak as to want a fantasy. Paper-thin exhausted, all he wanted to do was to collapse.

“Fuck you,” he remembered screaming at her in his mind. “Just fucking leave me alone.” He flung his guitar to the ground and stalked off to the dressing rooms. Sitting before the mirror, he could hear her pleading with him, begging him to stay. “Bloody go to hell.”

The next night, in the middle of the set, he reached out to her as he always did with that particular song. She was gone. He couldn’t remember her, not a detail, not a whisper. Suddenly a vision came into his mind, a car careening against a guard rail, a woman’s screams, her screams, his muse’s scream. His hands couldn’t move; he stopped dead in the midst of the refrain. His skin felt freezing and clammy, his hands trembled, and his heart was pounding so erratically he swore he was dying from a heart attack. Christian and Simon covered as best they could, long enough for him to stumble backstage.

“A breakdown,” the shrink later informed Simon and Christian, both ashen-faced and silent. “He can’t keep on like this. It’s insane. He’ll drive himself into an early grave.”

So they forced him to stop, to take a breather, because he couldn’t do anything else. And now, now he was spiraling out of control again. Except the vision was clearer now—a living nightmare.