Sliver Of Truth

There was only static in my ear.

“Hello?” I said again.

The line went dead.

SOMETIMES I THINK it’s not the ghosts themselves but the dark spaces where they might reside that are the most frightening. I was filled with dread as I continued my search of the apartment. I approached each space with a kind of reluctance, a turning away, wanting to cover my eyes like I might if watching a horror movie by myself at night. Looking back, I guess it was more that I was searching to find nothing than looking for something in particular. I wanted to do my due diligence so that if the worst were true, I could leave self-blame off my list of emotions. I wanted to know I hadn’t closed my eyes the way Elena had.

The sky outside had turned dark blue in the twilight, and I was starting to feel tired. The scent had deserted the apartment and the bathroom was now dry as a bone. I was already starting to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing. I flipped on some lamps to chase back the gloom that was settling on me. As I did, something caught my eye.

In the light I saw a small corner of white peeking out from beneath the coffee table. I got down on my knees and retrieved a matchbook. I turned it in my hand. There was an opalescent symbol embossed on each side, which could be seen only when it was held at a certain angle to the light. Three interlocking circles within a larger circle. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t place it. I felt my stomach start to knot; a light nausea crept up in my throat. I flipped the matchbook open. Inside a single note had been scrawled: Show this at the door. Ask for Angel.

IN MY DREAMS, I sit with him and ask him all my questions. He sits beside me like he did our last night together. The tears fall and he is talking, answering me with pleading eyes, his hands on my shoulders. His lips move but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He touches me but he is behind some invisible barrier. I can’t reach out to him and I can’t hear his voice. I try to read his lips but I can’t until he says the words I’m sorry, Ridley. He reaches for me again and I back away. The anger and the hatred I feel in these dreams are more intense than anything I’ve felt in my waking life. I realize there’s a gun in my hand.

That’s when I wake up, feeling desperate and helpless. I never believed in recurring dreams before. But any shrink will tell you that it’s your mind’s way of resolving something you haven’t been able to resolve in your waking life. Doesn’t take much to figure that out. Too bad it didn’t seem to be working for me.

9

In my mailbox at home there was a postcard from my father, sent apparently from their port of call in Positano. Having a wonderful time! it read in my father’s sharp, scrawling hand. Thinking of you as always. The thought of them traipsing around Europe snapping photographs and mailing off postcards, frankly, made me sick. I threw the postcard in the trash, poured myself a glass of wine from the half-empty bottle on the counter, and played my messages. I had an uneasy feeling, found myself looking around my apartment, peering through the doorway into my dark bedroom.

“Hey, it’s me.” Jake. “Can we get together tonight? Come to the studio around eight if you feel like it. We’ll go to Yaffa. Or wherever.”

I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. I was hungry and lonely and considered heading downtown to meet him.

Beep.

“It’s me.” A low male voice, smoky and depressive. Ace. “Haven’t talked to you in a couple of days. I’d like to see you. I have some things on my mind.”

Great. Another catalog of indictments his shrink was encouraging him to bring up against my parents-and me, I’m sure.

“Yeah,” I said to my empty apartment. “Looking forward to it.” I suddenly had the horrible thought that I’d liked my brother better when he was a junkie. Though he’d been equally depressive and blame-laying, he wasn’t nearly as self-reflective.

Beep.

“Hey, there, it’s Dennis. It was nice to hear your voice. Give me a call back when you can.” That Times sportswriter I dated briefly. He sounded enthusiastic. I knew he worked late usually, so I took a chance, went into my office, looked up his number, and gave him a call. I forced myself to sound light and flirty when he answered, gave him the same spiel I gave Jenna about wanting to return Myra Lyall’s call.

“A very weird, scary thing,” he said when he’d finished telling me basically all the same stuff Jenna had revealed.

“That’s terrible, Dennis,” I said. I let a beat pass. “Do you know her assistant well? I got a call from her as well-what’s her name again?” Lie.

“Sarah Duvall.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, she comes out for drinks every once in a while with my crew. Nice girl. She’s a bit adrift at the moment. No one knows if Myra is coming back, but no one wants to admit that she isn’t, so Sarah’s in a kind of professional limbo. It’s been weird for her.”