Spirit Lost (22 page)

But nothing more happened that night, and at last Willy fell asleep, the book by her side, aware only of Aimee curled next to her and of the sound of her husband’s even breaths.

They had made Willy an astronaut and sent her up in this cold metal ship that was so tiny that the walls pressed in on her body. She rolled this way and that, trying to avoid the intense cold that stung against her neck and arms and legs. She could not escape from the rigid freezing trap—and then suddenly she could, she had twisted away and broken out of the space capsule and was flung into the black void of space, which was even more chilling than the capsule had been. She tried to cry out “No!” but her voice was caught in her throat, and there was nothing she could do to avoid the endless, whirling, sickening fall through an air so black and dead and deficient of warmth that she felt her lips turning blue. She grabbed out with both hands to catch herself and found nothing. She tried to open her eyes but found them glued shut. She could feel her heart slowing in her body even as her thoughts raced in horror at her fall. She knew she was dying, and not even her terror could prevent it.

Then, with the most gentle and minute of thuds, she felt her body hit something. In all of infinite, bleak space, in the midst of the eternal emptiness, something was suddenly there, a nudge at her side, which brought her back to consciousness. Willy opened her eyes and looked down at the cat, which lay pressed against her thigh. The cat was awake. Even in the dark of the attic, Willy could make out the gleam of the cat’s open eyes.

Taking deep breaths, Willy reached out and stroked Aimee. In return, the cat narrowed her eyes in a mute affectionate message. Aimee tucked her legs under her and purred but did not close her eyes or sleep.

Willy raised her arm to look at her watch. She had to push both her robe and sweater up her wrist to do so. It was only five-thirty. Her shoulders and back were
cramped and rigid from hunching against the cold, and yet she could hear the occasional pings of the three oil radiators as they worked to warm the room, and she could tell now that it was not so very cold here—what a terrible freakish dream she had been having!

She wanted to wake John to tell him about her nightmare, for it had been so real; she felt that she actually had been falling through dark, cold space, and she was as frightened as a child and needed comforting badly.

“John?” she whispered. She nudged him. She nudged him again. “John?”

He did not respond. He lay next to her, so still, that, suddenly panicked, Willy threw herself against him to listen for his breath and his heartbeats. He was still alive, only sunk in a profound sleep. Willy resigned herself to the comfort of his body against hers. She snuggled against him, hoping to relax against his warmth, but he felt strangely cool to her.

Dear God, she thought, what is happening to us? To him?

She lay awake then, alert, trying to
feel
anything—anyone that might enter the attic, trying to be aware of the slightest change in sound or temperature or shadow. She was aware of Aimee’s presence, how the cat moved across the bed after Willy had moved so that once again the animal had settled down, just touching Willy. She could hear Aimee purr, and several times as she twisted uncomfortably on the bed, she noticed that the cat was not sleeping but just lying there, looking content but very much awake. This gave Willy immense comfort.

She lay there holding her husband, straining to be aware of the slightest change in atmosphere, until the faint light of early morning stained the windows and the rumblings of passing cars and trucks on Orange Street informed her that a new day had begun.

She looked at her watch again. It was seven-thirty. She was exhausted and yet too disquieted to get back to sleep. While she had lain awake during the early morning, she had tried to think sensibly about the events of the past evening, but who could make sense out of such things? Now she was just as confused as ever.

Certain things were clear to her, though: She sensed a very real danger here in the attic for herself and for John. It seemed very possible to her that she could lose him
somehow, that she was losing him somehow. She would not concede that she had lost him yet.

She could not lie, cramped and cold and uncomfortable, in the bed any longer; she could not wait any longer to get things straight with John. So she rose, and being sure to shut the attic door tightly so the cat was shut in the attic—and feeling foolish as she did, thinking, Good, Willy, you leave that cat to protect John from a ghost, you’re thinking clearly today—she went down to the kitchen. Working as quickly as she could, she made a large pot of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast and carried it all on a tray back up to the attic.

John was still asleep.

“Good morning!” she called with a false heartiness. “Breakfast!”

But he was not to be roused so easily. She had to set the tray on the little mahogany table—pushing aside the small, elegant wineglasses—and go to the bed and shake John before he would wake up.

“Oh, Willy,” John said when he opened his eyes. “Don’t.” His head fell back against the pillow.

Willy was insistent. At first she joked with him, saying teasing things, but finally she grew rough and adamant: “John, I am not going to let you sleep now. We have to talk. You have to wake up. Now come on.” And she slapped his face.

With great weariness, John opened his eyes again and looked at his wife. “Let it go, Willy,” he said.

“Get up. Come have breakfast. It’s getting cold,” Willy replied, her voice hard. She pulled on John’s arms until he came up into a sitting position and then finally stood, his posture as rounded and stooping as a much older man’s. He moved to the chair by the table with great reluctance and, once there, just sat until Willy insisted that he take a cup of coffee in his hand and drink. He would not look at Willy.

Husband and wife sat across from each other in the two brocade chairs, and Aimee padded across the thick carpet to sit at Willy’s feet. She mewed lightly, and in response, Willy put some of her egg on a saucer and set it on the floor for the cat. She ate her own breakfast quickly; she was ravenous. She watched John; he sipped his coffee without interest. She was startled when he spoke.

“That’s a nice cat,” he said.

It was such a normal thing to say that Willy sighed with relief.

“Yes,” she said. “Her name’s Aimee. She’s smart, I think, and very affectionate. She’s stuck by my side ever since we got home.”

“I was going to get you a cat, Willy,” John said in the tone of voice of one who once remembered walking on the moon. “I really was.” He took a sip of coffee and sat there as if deep in thought. After a while, he said, “For Christmas. I was going to get you a cat for Christmas. But there were no kittens available. I didn’t think you’d want a grown cat.”

Willy watched John carefully as he spoke. She had never seen him think so slowly before or with such effort. It seemed he actually had to work to remember when it was he had intended getting her a cat.

“John,” she said quietly, leaning forward to get him to look at her, “we have to talk. I’m very worried about you. About us. About what’s going on.”

John looked at Willy for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was infinitely sad. “Oh, Willy,” he said, “I loved you so much.”

Alarmed at his use of the past tense and at his sorrow, Willy leaned farther and put her hand gently on his knee.

“John,” she said quietly, “what do you mean, you
loved
me? Don’t you love me anymore?”

In answer, John dropped his eyes. He shook his head slowly. “Not that way. Not the way I did.”

“John—” Willy began, her voice sensible.

John raised his head and looked at Willy. “I love her,” he said. His eyes were filled with tears. “God help me, I love her.”

Willy pulled her hand away from her husband’s knee and crossed both arms over her breasts, hugging herself for protection. The emotions that were surging through her were so powerful that she was afraid she would scream or hit, and so she rose and walked around the attic, holding herself tightly.

“Love
who
?” she demanded. “Who is
she
?” She was shaking so hard she could scarcely speak.

“You know,” John said, looking directly at Willy. He looked ravaged with sorrow.

“A ghost?”
Willy yelled in spite of her good intentions. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you’re in love with a ghost? Oh, John—”

John looked away from Willy. Softly, he said, “If I could change things …”

“Yes?” Willy challenged. “Go on. Finish your sentence. If you could change things, what? You would stop loving her and love me?” When he did not answer, she said, “Oh, John, really, this is preposterous! This is crazy! You’ve got to know it’s crazy.”

“I know that’s what you think, and I don’t blame you,” John said. “But it’s true, Willy. It has happened, and I can’t go back now.”

Willy stood shaking, the first hot, healthy surge of anger passing now and a chilling sweep of fear taking its place. She took deep breaths and forced herself to calm down. She walked back to her chair and sat.

“Can you tell me about it? About her?” she asked. When John didn’t answer at once, she said, “I think I deserve to know something.”

“Her name is Jesse Orsa Wright,” John said. “She lived about a hundred and fifty years ago. In this house, I mean. Her husband built this house for her. He was the captain of a whaling ship—” John stopped. He looked up at Willy with a tortured expression. “Oh, God, Willy,” he said. “I hate talking about her. I feel like I’m betraying her to talk about her.”

“You feel like you’re betraying
her
!” Willy said, her voice almost a shriek. “What do you feel like you’re doing to me?”

John caved in, fell back against the chair, looked down at the floor. He was very pale. Willy sat, breathing hard, looking at him for a while.

“And she’s a ghost,” Willy went on finally, composed again, her voice low. “She’s a ghost?”

“Yes,” John said.

“But you can see her. And hear her. And—touch her,” Willy prompted.

“Yes,” John answered again.

“What does she look like?” Willy asked.

A slight smile crossed John’s face in spite of himself—a smile of pleasure. “Willy—” he protested, catching himself.

“Please, John,” Willy said. “Tell me.” When he sat in silence for a moment, resisting, she added, “I won’t freak out. I promise.”

“She’s small. Slim. She’s … beautiful. She’s young. Very young. Like a girl. She has very long dark hair and very large dark eyes, and her skin is as white as a gardenia
petal.” He looked up at Willy then to see her reaction.

Willy felt as though she had been stabbed. The thought of this girl who was as lovely as a gardenia petal—she thought of a gardenia, its fragrance and creaminess and luscious beauty. John had described the girl well enough. Willy felt her own body grow larger and more practical, like a sack, as she sat there imagining her husband’s lover.

“I see,” she said at last. “And—and she comes to you often?”

“Yes,” John said.

“And you make love?” Willy asked, because she had to know.

“Yes,” John said, his voice very low.

“She’s really here, in the flesh, and you can feel her and see her and be touched by her—kiss her, all those things?” Willy pressed on in spite of her pain.

“Yes,” John answered simply.

Willy made a little snorting sound as she tried to sniff back her tears. She tossed her head. “Well, is she
nice
?” she asked.

“That doesn’t particularly come into it,” John said.

Tears ran down Willy’s face. “I mean, I mean, other than the physical, I mean, is she smart or interesting or clever or something?”

“She’s clever,” John said.

“Well, well, what do you
talk
about?” Willy demanded. “Does she tell you what it was like living here in the nineteenth century? Does she tell you that sort of thing?”

“We don’t talk very much, Willy,” John said softly.

And at that Willy buried her head in her hands and cried.