Chapter 47: Mitch

 “I think death is merely a transition. Maybe we roam the earth as spirits, or maybe we float away to a new world, like to heaven or Atlantis. I’m unsure, but I’m not afraid to die. Death is simply a natural end that we all must come to eventually, and without it, there’d be no point to life.”

“Who said there was a point to life?” Patrick stared into my soul as he loosened his ascot. “Perhaps Shakespeare got it right and we’re merely players on a senseless stage.”

“Then you don’t believe in God? You don’t subscribe to what they teach us in church?”

“I believe in you,” he replied. “The rest of the world could disappear, but if you remained, there would be enough to believe in, enough purpose to fill my days.” The fire crackled and wheezed, telling us it would soon go cold, but Patrick’s hand against my own offered plenty of warmth. “Should you perish,” he continued, “my faith would be destroyed. For how could I forgive a God that would make me love you, only to rip you from my grasp?”

I lowered the pages of Skylar’s novel and put them on the coffee table. She was sitting across from me, alternating between reading some Brontë poems and typing on her laptop. The wall-mounted gas fireplace cast an orangey glow across her features, making her look at home in the warmth of the living room, while outside, night fell. Yet I could feel her eyes sporadically skipping toward me, to gauge my reaction as I read. That made it hard to concentrate.

“I like it,” I said, “but I think it’s best if I read the rest when we’re not in the same room together.”

She laughed, a nervous release that seemed to lessen the air pressure. “Am I that annoying?”

“No, not at all.”

She closed her laptop and placed it on the couch cushion next to her. “I don’t show my writing to many people, you know? I’ve had some bad experiences with people seeing my work, so I guess it’s nerve-wracking.”

“I understand. And I’m honored that you asked me to look at it.”

The freckles on Skylar’s cheeks merged together into a cluster of pink. “Oh, well, I respect your opinion.”

“I don’t know that I deserve your respect.” I scratched my knee; the denim that covered it was growing threadbare. “I do have a question, though.”

“Yeah?”

“You said that Mary is actually a serial killer, that she later kills Patrick?”

“Yes.”

I glanced back at the pages. “Are you trying to explain her homicides here, with her belief that life after death is better than the life we know? Does she believe she’s really just freeing her victims?”

Skylar seemed contemplative as she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Partly. But she’s also reacting to a patriarchal society that condemns her for pursuing a man while simultaneously persecuting her for being alone. Mary is driven to murder because her only other options are to die emotionally, or to commit suicide.”

I nodded like I understood. “Interesting.” I grabbed the pages and stood. “I think I’ll read the rest of this in my room.”

The temperature-change between the living room with its gas fireplace warmth, and the rest of the condo without it, was a shock, so when I reached my bedroom, my first instinct was to wrap myself in the fleece blanket that covered my bed. But there was Jo Beth, reclined and floating above my blanket, staring at her fingers. I was afraid to upset her; we hadn’t made physical contact since she’d died and I worried that if my hand passed through her, I’d experience brain freeze a million times worse than the chill I felt now.

“Don’t use Skylar’s novel to justify anything, Mitch.”

I shivered and hunched my shoulders, crossing my arms. How to get her to leave? “I won’t. How could I?”

“You could. I bet you will. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”

Then she disappeared. She always took off right after she’d had the last word.

Later that night, my sleep was restless. I dreamt of Mary, Skylar’s heroine, standing over by bed with a dagger poised, ready to stab me. When I begged for mercy, I realized it was Skylar standing there, or was it Jo Beth? Then I was unsure if I was awake or asleep, because lately Jo Beth got a kick out of interrupting my dreams. Yet when I opened my eyes, I was aware of no other presence in the room but my own. I got up, travelled the short distance to Bijou’s nursery, and once I saw the steady rise and fall of her tiny little chest, I was reassured enough to try and sleep again. But my eyes refused to stay shut and my mind wouldn’t stop racing. After another hour of twisting my sheets as I tossed and turned, I gave in, got up, and opened my laptop.

I checked my account balance. That was a bad idea, as it was even lower than I thought it would be. How was I going to be a responsible parent if I couldn’t provide for my daughter? All I had to offer her, or to the world in general, were some bartending skills, the ability to teach skiing, and a partial degree in cognitive studies.

Bijou started crying, right on time for her 3:00 a.m. feeding. I swooped in, lifted her, and got her a bottle. As I rocked her, cradled her, and watched her suckle, a cloud of love and protectiveness settled and surrounded me in a dense fog that was impossible to see through. “I’ll always put you first,” I whispered, though I knew she didn’t understand. Someday she would.

After I burped Bijou and put her back in the crib, I wandered down the hall to Skylar’s room. I stood outside her door, hesitating, knowing I shouldn’t enter. But that dream had seemed so real and she looked so like her sister, who apparently had wanted to kill me. Now I read in Skylar’s novel that she also has homicidal fantasies, that she thought of murder as an ’option.’

I cracked open her door, turning the doorknob ever so slowly, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak or that Skylar wasn’t having a wakeful night, like mine.

I found her asleep in the big four-poster bed that I knew used to belong to Jo Beth. For a minuscule moment, I allowed myself to imagine being nestled under those covers, holding the girl who stopped my vertigo in my arms. Then Skylar shifted in her sleep, switching from laying on her right side to her left and releasing a long, wistful sigh. Perhaps she could subliminally perceive my presence and some part of her sleeping mind knew I was standing there, watching.

“What do you want from me?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. Her brown hair was fanned out against the white pillow and her lips were slightly parted. At some point in the night she’d pushed down her covers. Her sleep jersey was loose enough to expose one shoulder. If I walked around to the other side of the bed, I’d be able to see more; her shirt hung at such an angle that I could probably get a really nice view of her body if I’d wanted to.

But what I really wanted was to see inside her mind.