The Ghost of a Chance Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the voice. Catherine's closer now. If I can muster up the strength
to stand, I'll find her soon, very soon. I feel certain of it.
    "Help me, Darcy! I need
you."
    "I need you, too," I say,
staggering on swollen feet, shielding my eyes from the thorns.
    "Mrrow." Portia prances
in front of me, tail up, and gestures with her small head as if to indicate Follow
me . Miraculously, the bushes, with a sound like bones breaking, uproot
themselves when she approaches them, effectively clearing a path large enough
for me to pass through, unsnagged, still whole.
    Speechless, I stumble along,
aching, bewildered, listening closely to every whisper of wind and crackle of
leaf, in my attempts to locate Catherine.
    And then, before I can acknowledge
the scene approaching through the widening gap, Portia sprints out of sight.
"Stop!" I'm running now, because here’s a clearing. The thorns bend
back upon themselves with a hiss, conquered. And sky! I open my arms wide,
embracing it. I hear birds, a stream. I hear flowers growing; the petals unfurl
first with a yawn and then a giggle. Spring. I've found spring.
    And Catherine's cabin, her woodland
writing retreat.
    There is a breath-holding urgency,
a sense of Something Important, as I gaze wonderingly at the square log
structure, mahogany in the yellow sunlight. I squint at the open windows,
scanning for movement, and my heart skips when Portia jumps onto the sill from
the inside, her white tail flicking, her eyes fixed on me.
    "Darcy, is that you?"
    I run, trip, catch myself on
still-bleeding hands, and run some more, all the way to the door, which creaks
open slowly, bidding me to come in, before I even lay a finger on it.
    I expect to find Catherine at her
typewriter, stabbing noisily at the keys—she loves the sound the letters make.
Each one sounds distinctly different, she says. She can recognize them with her
eyes closed. She proved it to me once. I spelled out, "I love you."
She tied a handkerchief over her face and recited each letter the moment after
I hit its key, then called me silly and kissed my fingers—every one of them, so
that none would feel left out.
    But the typewriter’s silent. The
cabin is empty, except for Portia, still perched at the window, half in and
half out. I swallow and move through the rooms—there are only four of them, and
all very small—before accepting the fact that Catherine is not here. How could
she be?
    Catherine is dead.
    I remember.
    I sit down on the bed carefully. I hold my back very
straight, my legs together, my lips pursed to the point of physical pain.
    But where did the voice come
from? I wonder idly, unable and unwilling to move now that my hopes are
gone; I feel the full weight of my solitude and close my heavy lids.
    Tap.
    The typewriter.
    Tap, tap, tap.
    There is no one at the typewriter,
but I watch the keys depress. Ink marks the white page. A word. A string of
words. A sentence.
    With a complaint from the bed
springs, I rise and make haste to the desk, too hurt to be afraid, and pull the
paper from the roller.
    I AM HERE. LOOK UP.
    My eyes lift to the mirror hanging
on the wall above the typewriter, and Catherine is there, her face beside my
face, gazing with such love at my reflection, hovering over my shoulder. Behind
me—
    I spin around and fall into her arms.
Catherine, here, so warm, so alive... Violets and lilacs. Skin against skin.
    "Come," she whispers in
her soft, lilting voice, planting a kiss on my neck, beneath my ear. I feel her
teeth, her tongue.
    "I'll do anything,
anything."
    Her lips curve against me.
"Come to my cabin."
     
    ---
     
    We bought the house and its
property, including the cabin, four years ago. Catherine was still living with
roommates in New York City at the time, and I had an apartment not far from
here with a nice view of the Rockies, in easy commuting distance of the
library. Maintaining our relationship across state lines was emotionally and
physically exhausting. Every other month, I would