Pen Pal

We lie entangled on the forest floor, breathing hard, but otherwise silent. Then he groans and drops his face to my neck, hiding his eyes.

Staring up at the endless blue sky, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, knowing instinctively that this time, he’s the one falling apart.

“It’s okay,” I whisper hoarsely, dazed. “Aidan, it’s okay.”

He makes a muffled sound of pain.

“Shh.”

I softly kiss the side of his face and thread my fingers into his hair. He’s heavy and hot on top of me, trembling all over, and all at once, I’m flooded with a deep sense of peace.

Or awe, maybe. Or something else altogether. I’m not sure there’s a word for it.

Whatever it is, it’s beautiful.

My lips close to his ear, I whisper, “I loved it. I loved every second. Everything you did and said. Do you hear me? This is what I needed.”

He exhales a ragged moan.

“My beautiful lion. You’re so wonderful. You’re exactly what I need.”

He lifts his head and kisses me passionately, moaning into my mouth. “Kayla,” he says, panting. “God. Fuck. Did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

I chuckle. “Aside from some scrapes and bruises, I’m excellent.”

His gaze darts all over my face, searching for any sign that I’m lying. When he seems satisfied I’m not, he swallows and moistens his lips.

He says haltingly, “I got a little carried away.”

“Did you ever,” I reply with a grin. “Holy cannoli, what a smutty vocabulary you have. It’s even better than your normal one.”

After a beat, he starts to laugh. Softly, shaking his head, he laughs in relief, then kisses me again.

“I can’t help it. You bring out the beast in me.”

“Apparently! But now I would very much appreciate it if we could stand up. There’s a rock digging into my lower back, and it’s unholy painful.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

He withdraws, stands, tucks himself back into his jeans, and zips them up. Then he helps me stand, handling me carefully as he brushes earth and leaves from my skin.

“You’re all scraped up,” he says in a hushed voice, wincing as he dusts me off with feather-soft strokes of his fingers. “Your knee is bleeding.”

I sigh deeply in satisfaction. “That’s what happens when bunnies get fucked in the woods. I’m sure I’ll be sore as hell tomorrow. Where are my clothes? I’m getting cold.”

He leaves me briefly to gather my shoes, shirt, jeans, and his jacket from where he tossed them to the ground earlier. Then he helps me dress in silent concentration, handling me gingerly as if he’s convinced I might crack.

His tenderness and concern are touching. He’s being so sweet and gentle, the opposite of my dominant, snarling beast from only minutes ago.

It’s incredible how many different people one body can hold. We all walk around with a thousand strangers inside us, slumbering quietly until someone else wakes them up. Like the jolt of electricity that reanimated Frankenstein’s monster, all it takes for our sleeping giants to jump to life is a single spark.

When I’m dressed, Aidan takes my hand and silently leads me out of the woods. When we emerge into sunlight, we look at the sky, then at each other.

Something passes between us, unspoken and profound.

He looks away first, squeezing my hand and smiling.

That smile could break my heart.

We spend the rest of the day at his apartment. I have to take another shower to get all the remnants of leaves and dirt off my skin. Afterward, Aidan puts Neosporin on my cuts and scrapes and bandages my knee.

He looks unhappy as he does it, his brows drawn down, his lips pressed to a thin line.

Though my injuries are minor and gained in the most wonderful way, he hates to see me hurt.

I spend the night again. He wakes me up at dawn and makes love to me with a wordless urgency that leaves me breathless. Then he withdraws into that quiet place inside his head where he goes when he needs to hide.

But I don’t ask him what’s wrong. I don’t push. I let him be.

He’s not the only one keeping secrets.

By the time I get home, Fiona is already there. I find her in Michael’s office, which sends a spike of irritation through me.

“What are you doing in here?”

Holding a feather duster, she whirls around from his desk and starts when she sees me.

“Kayla!”

“Yes, it’s me. I live here, remember?”

Her smile is apologetic. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t hear you come in. You walk like a cat.”

Uncomfortable, I hesitate at the threshold. I haven’t been in this room since the accident. The door has been shut, and the air is stale. Something about it makes me feel claustrophobic.

“I didn’t want this room cleaned. I thought I told you that.”

“Did you?”

“Didn’t I?”

She laughs. “Well, if you did, I don’t recall.”

“Oh. Sorry. To be honest…neither do I.”

Remembering what she said last week about the possible cause of my memory lapses, I grow even more uncomfortable. My cheeks heating, I shift my weight from foot to foot and clear my throat. “But I’d like to leave this room alone for the time being. It’s just…” I gesture helplessly. “I haven’t gone through any of his things yet.”

She says gently, “Oh, dear. I completely understand. I’ll start on the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Um…about that séance thing we talked about.”

Fiona brightens. “Yes, I spoke with my sister! She says we should hold it on the next full moon, which is in three weeks. Oh, and she also said you shouldn’t wear any perfume or jewelry. No other accessories, either, especially cell phones. Apparently, they annoy the spirits.” She chuckles. “Like the rest of us.”

My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Actually, I think we should just forget about the whole thing.”

Fiona gazes at me for a moment, thoughtfully pulling at the feathers on the duster with her fingers. “Oh?”

Her tone is mild, but it seems to require an explanation. I sheepishly provide one.

“I’ve decided I’m going to see a therapist.”

She raises her brows. “How can a therapist help with your ghost problems?”

I exhale, shaking my head. “Just the fact that I even considered the possibility that I’m being haunted strongly suggests the need for therapy.”

She looks as if she’s about to protest, but must change her mind because she only nods.

“All right. If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is. Thanks, Fiona.”

She walks past me, avoiding my eyes. As her footsteps recede in the direction of the kitchen, I worry that I’ve insulted her. I turn to go after her, but something I glimpse on Michael’s desk catches my eye, and I turn back.

A folded newspaper sits on the blotter next to where Fiona was dusting. From where I’m standing, I can’t read the headline, but I can clearly see the photograph that accompanies the article.

It’s a picture of Michael.

My pulse surges. My mouth goes dry. I feel a bit unsteady, as if the floor has tilted. For some strange reason, I’m suddenly afraid.

I walk slowly across the room and stand beside the desk. I want to pick up the newspaper, but don’t. I simply stand there and read the headline.

Local Man Drowns.

The paper has been folded over, so only the headline and Michael’s picture are visible on the left side, along with part of the byline.

I’m sure I haven’t seen this article before. I’m sure I didn’t put this newspaper on Michael’s desk. What I’m not sure of is how it got here.

Did Fiona bring it in?

My mind starts to race. I try to think of rational explanations as to why she might place this newspaper in Michael’s office, but can’t come up with any. She’d know it would upset me to see this. I’d chalk it up to my memory lapses, but I know I haven’t been in this office since the accident.

I know it.

A little voice in my head whispers Maybe it wasn’t Fiona.

Covering my face with my hands, I recite silently There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts.

Something hits the office window with a sharp bang.

I jump, letting out a little yelp, then stand with my heart palpitating and my shaking hands clutching my throat.

Nothing moves. The air is still. Outside the windows, the sky is a glowering, leaden gray.

Gathering my courage, I go to the windows and look out, scanning the horizon. I see nothing unusual. The yard is empty. The rocky beach is clear. It isn’t until I’m about to turn away that I discover the source of the sound.

On the ground below the window lies the lifeless body of a blue jay. Its neck is bent at an unnatural angle. Its legs extend stiffly out from the trunk, talons curved like claws. Its black eyes stare sightlessly up at me.

There’s a ghostly outline of the bird’s body on the windowpane where it hit, wings outstretched in flight.

Fighting the urge to scream, I turn and bolt from the room.

I lock myself in the master bedroom. Then I pace, wringing my hands and chastising myself for being silly.

Bird strikes are nothing new. I know they perceive the reflection of the sky on glass as being more sky, and that’s why they fly right into windows and break their little necks. It doesn’t mean anything.

Only it feels as if it does.

It feels sinister. Like a bad omen.

Or maybe…a message from beyond.

I stop pacing and stand still in the middle of the room. With my heart beating like mad, I gaze up at the ceiling and whisper, “Michael?”

Nothing happens. The moment stretches out until my nerves are frayed with tension. When a door slams shut somewhere downstairs, I nearly faint in terror.

I tell myself it’s only Fiona, but don’t quite believe it. That eerie feeling of being watched creeps over me again, but I’m alone in the room.

Or am I?

Suddenly, everything in the room looks sinister.

The shadow behind the nightstand. The porcelain clown figurine on the bookshelf. The stuffed teddy bear in my reading chair who has, though I’ve never realized it before now, teeth that look weirdly human.

Then there’s the indentation in the duvet cover on the bed.

That might be most creepy of all.

As I do almost every morning, I made the bed when I rose, smoothing the covers and neatly arranging the army of small decorative pillows Michael scoffed at but I adored. I like the bed to look tidy, as an unmade bed makes everything else look messy, so I’m somewhat anal about the habit. Sheets tucked in, pillows placed, covers perfectly smoothed.

But now there’s a distinct indent on one side of the bed. It’s the side closest to the door, the one I never sleep on.

Michael’s side.

The indent is approximately the size and shape of a body.

I exhale a ragged breath and give myself a pep talk. “Calm down, Kayla. You’re losing it. There are no ghosts in this house.”

The doorbell rings. When I get my handbag from the dresser, dig my cell phone out of it, and look at the camera feed, no one is there. The front porch is empty.

That’s it. I’ve fucking had it. I’m not about to let a stupid electrical problem drive me insane!

I quickly scroll through my call log to find Eddie the handyman’s number, then stand there hyperventilating until he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Eddie. It’s Kayla. Remember me? With the leaky roof and the electrical problems?”

“Sure, I remember! Hey, Kayla! How are you, man?”

“I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

His laugh is low and breathless. “Grooovy.”

He sounds stoned. What a surprise. “That’s…nice. So the reason I’m calling is because I wanted to get the number of your therapist.”

“Oh, for sure! I just, uh…” He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I don’t actually remember it.”

“Won’t it be in your cell phone?”

He sounds confused. “Cell phone?”

Yep, totally stoned. Either that, or I was right about him living in a commune with no modern conveniences. This number must be a land line. I sigh. “How about if you just give me his name?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, no problemo. His name’s Letterman. Dr. David Letterman.”

I frown. “Like the talk show host?”

Another confused pause. “Who?”

So he doesn’t own a television, either. At any rate, this conversation is going around in circles. Time to say goodbye. “David Letterman. Got it. I’ll give him a call. Is he in Seattle?”

“Nah, he’s right down on Winslow and Olympic, across from the museum of art. That little red brick building with the green awning.”

I know the building well, so I thank Eddie and promise him again that I’ll give his number to anyone who might need a handyman. Though I think he’s probably far more skilled at dealing pot.

When we hang up, I go downstairs to my office and google the doctor on my laptop.

There’s no listing. Eddie was probably so high, he gave me the wrong name.

I consider calling him back, but decide it’s a lost cause. Next, he’d likely give me the name of his dentist.

Feeling defeated, I stare at the computer screen for a while. I know therapists in Seattle will be more expensive than ones on the island, and I don’t love the idea of taking the ferry back and forth to the city once or twice a week. I could try to find someone in Bainbridge, but I know the pickings will be slim.

Then I consider the possibility that maybe Dr. Letterman is the only shrink on the island. Or maybe he’s not a shrink at all, but a voodoo doctor who’ll want to sacrifice a chicken and read its entrails to see what’s wrong with me. That seems a little more up Eddie’s alley.

Except David Letterman doesn’t sound like a voodoo name.

I’m starting to get exhausted from my little mental guessing game, so I decide I’ll take a drive downtown later this afternoon after Fiona’s gone and pop into Letterman’s office.

You can tell a lot by someone’s office. If he’s got a nice secretary and the place doesn’t look like its recently hosted any black magic ceremonies, I’ll make an appointment. I’ve got dry cleaning to pick up, anyway, and the cleaners is only a block over.

Hopefully, my clothes are still there. I dropped them off before the accident.

When a sharp pain stabs me behind my left eyeball, I mutter an oath.

Just what I need, a headache.

I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. I must drift off to sleep, because when I open my eyes again, the light has changed. Shadows slink up the walls in long gray fingers. When I look at the clock, I’m surprised to discover I’ve been asleep for more than four hours.

When I emerge from my office, the house is quiet. Fiona’s gone. I go upstairs and change into a fresh shirt, then drive downtown and park on the tree-lined street outside the building Eddie said Letterman’s office is in.

As I’m getting out of the car, I happen to glance at the restaurant across the street.

The Harbor House is a seafood place with a patio overlooking the water and live jazz on Friday nights. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals alike. Sometimes during the summer, there’s even a line to get in.

But it’s not summer now, and there’s no line. I’ve got a clear view of the restaurant’s entry.

Walking through the front door with his arm slung around a curvy brunette’s shoulder is a man I’d recognize anywhere, even from the back.

Aidan.