Free The Ghost of a Chance by Natalie Vivien Page A

an ache stirs deep within me. I squirm in my chair, pressing
hands to my flustered face. Marjorie would likely be stunned if I told her
about my experience, and more than a little embarrassed—as would I.
    I can't tell her. I can't tell anyone.
    The waitress returns with our dinner plates, and we
eat in companionable silence.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
    It's snowing. I peer outside, through the living
room window of the cabin, and frown at the gauzy curtain of snowflakes. The
frozen ground is freshly white. At least the room is warming; I started up the
generator when I arrived, around ten minutes ago.
    Ten minutes, and no sign of
Catherine.
    I sit down on the couch, restless,
one hand absentmindedly stroking Portia's back. She purrs her appreciation and
flops onto her side, eyes closed. I watch her, envious, and then stand up and
walk into the bathroom.
    The "C" is still visible,
a faint curve, on the mirror glass. I trace it with my fingertip, and a longing
consumes me with such violent passion that I have to fight the urge to
collapse, to fall to my knees.
    "Where are you?" I
whisper, looking up, down, behind; my heart beats hard within my chest: anxiety
and lust. I moan softly, then sigh.
    What will I do if she's gone away
for good? To...heaven? Or wherever it is that lost souls end up? I don't want
to think about that. I pace in the living room, chewing on my thumbnail. It's
early evening. After Marjorie and I parted ways, I felt a compulsion to come
back here as quickly as possible, to attempt to determine what it is that's
keeping Catherine trapped in this place. Is it me? Narcissistic thought...
    "Unfinished business,"
Marjorie said.
    I glance at the typewriter.
Obviously, Catherine's play is incomplete. But how could she expect to— The
answer comes to me before I finish the question. I walk over to the desk and
grasp the back of the chair. If I help her with this, if she writes the rest of
the play, she may disappear afterward. "The end" could be the end of
her presence in my life. I press the heel of my hand to my head, which has
begun to ache.
    No.
    I can't deny her this, no matter
how painful the consequences for me.
    "I'm here," I breathe,
low and quavery. "Use me to do this, Catherine. I'm here. At the typewriter."
    No sooner do I seat myself at the
desk than I feel her enter my body, all at once this time instead of limb by
limb, and I'm falling deep down within myself, peering out through my eyes as
if through a periscope; everything appears blurry, far away.
    The only senses that remain to me
are sight and hearing, and the lull of the typewriter keys grows distant, white
noise. I'm sleepy but have no eyes to close, no body to rest. My mind drifts,
empty now, in a hazy state of meditation...
    It's the cat that draws me back. I
feel her weight on my lap first, her warm body vibrating with purrs, and then
sense a weight, light and familiar, in my hands, which lay—I blink, vision
clearing—upon the desk in front of me.
    I'm clasping something. A small
black velvet box.
    Shaking, I open it.
    The heart-shaped diamond ring
gleams, starlike, in its four-pronged setting. I can only stare, open-mouthed,
inwardly reeling, as the significance of the jewel in my palm hits home.
    Catherine wanted to marry me. She
was going to propose.
    I put the ring box on the desk and
try to swallow, but my mouth and throat are too dry. Half-consciously, I pick
up the play manuscript and flip through the last few pages. New. Just written.
And there's another sheet in the typewriter now, with only a single line of
print.
    "Tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow."
    I read it, and weep.
     
    ---
     
    The ring raps lightly against my
chest, inside my jacket, as I walk back to the house, the metal warm now from
the heat of my skin. It dangles from my neck on the silver chain I always wear.
I can't bear the thought of putting it on my finger. I'm hot, with emotion,
love, rage; the snowflakes melt upon contact with my face. I feel