Alice Hoffman
She came to me on the first of May, on the anniversary of the occurrence. This often happens. People have strong regrets at such times. They are reminded by the weather or by a tree in bloom. We live in the same town, although I’m in the outskirts, near the cemetery. Everyone knows where. They know what I do. There were flowering azaleas on my lawn, so perhaps she didn’t notice the brambles or the weeds. I was at the window when she pulled up. I was there before my dog began to bark. Frankly, I’d been expecting her. I was surprised it had taken a full year for her to come to me, but people have their own timetables.
She wore a blue spring coat and a plaid dress and black pumps. Her hair was dark and plain and I could tell she had been crying even though she was wearing sunglasses. Her face was puffy. I didn’t listen to gossip, but in a town as small as ours it would have been impossible not to know, plus it was in the newspaper. Not just the Monitor, but the Boston Globe as well. It was an event. A personal catastrophe, the kind people talk about long after it’s over.
When I invited her in, she hesitated. I could tell she didn’t completely believe in what I did, and had come here as a last attempt, even if she didn’t trust me. Her friends had likely pulled her aside and suggested she call me. It was a town full of old houses, and old houses had past lives. Occasionally those lives continued, even when the new occupants wanted them gone. They had to be helped along. I’d learned the cleansing method from my grandmother when I was a child. I went house to house with her until I was ten, when my mother put a stop to it. Still, I remembered. It’s not something you forget.
I’d made tea to ease the conversation, which can be difficult at the beginning, but she didn’t touch hers. I understood why. Her hands were shaking. She was rattled, I could see that. But then, I’d seen it before. People driven to the brink by something they couldn’t quite see or believe, and yet it was ruining their lives. She said she had tried everything to rid herself of the ghost. Sage, salt, holy water, closed windows, white candles. What could I do for her that she hadn’t already done herself? My method was Russian, I explained, and involved catching the unwelcome spirit in a jar. I couldn’t tell her more, it was a family secret, but I led her to my pantry to show her what I kept on the shelves. I had thirty jars filled with light; some were blue, others green, one looked like a splotch of ink.
“What do you do with them?” she asked. She had a little girl’s voice, which was disconcerting, considering what she’d done.
“That’s my business,” I said. Surely her friends had told her I was prickly and had a mind of my own.
She wrote me a check for a thousand dollars. I knew she had married into money, which is the reason I raised my usual price. Truthfully, I tend not to charge at all, especially in desperate situations. After she handed over the check, I felt a draft of cold air. Then I saw something on the floor that interested me. There, beside my client’s purse, was a photograph of the apple tree where the woman in question had hanged herself. My client seemed quite oblivious. That’s when I knew. I was hearing both sides of the story.
• • •
I went out on Sunday, the day her husband played golf. She didn’t want him to know, which I understood. She was the sort of woman who always acted as if everything was in place, even when it wasn’t. I could tell that from her shoes. Highly polished. New heels. As if she hadn’t a care in the world.
I parked on the street, carrying my grandmother’s bag. The jars I’d brought clanked against each other, sounding like bells. I stopped to observe the tree where it had happened. It was in bloom, white as a cloud. I had read that the previous tenant had dragged the ladder from the garage in order to climb up. When I walked up the driveway white flowers floated down. My client was waiting for me on the porch, wearing a sweater even though the day was fine. Ghosts do that, they drop the temperature, and when I walked inside I felt the chill in the air.
All the furniture was different now, my client told me. They’d donated everything that had been here before. They’d even changed the yard, pulling up the old brick patio and replacing it with stone. I said I had to walk through the house on my own to see what the rooms revealed. She nodded and said of course, but she looked nervous. She blurted out that she hadn’t wanted to live here, but her husband had said it wouldn’t be cost effective to move. No one wanted to buy a house where someone had hung herself. Now they were stuck. When I set my bag down, I noticed that the knives were set out in a row on the countertop.
“She did that this morning,” my client said. “She does it every day.”
I started with the living room. It had been painted red, which some people believe is a cure for a haunting, though I’ve never found it to be true. I noticed a book open on the coffee table. A book of poems written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, who had lived less than a mile away.
Give all to love; obey your heart.
My client had been the previous occupant’s friend. After her husband walked out, my client had spent night after night comforting her dear friend, before the truth came out. It was a love letter that gave it away. Kept in his drawer. Some people don’t understand the power of the written word. It surfaces when you least expect it to. As I crossed the room I saw marks on the curtains, like the claw marks of a cat, though none was in residence. I could see the tree from this window, right in the middle of the lawn.
I took the stairs. I’d been told that the runner had been replaced, but there were the previous tenant’s wet footsteps, as if she had just come in from walking in the wet grass. The tub in the upstairs bathroom was full. My client had told me she had to drain it every morning. I went to the bedroom and stood on the threshold. It was very cold here. There was ice on the ceiling and on the walls. My grandmother once told me we are not the only ones who have regrets, whose hands shake, who weep over our mistakes. Ghosts have regrets too. They wish they’d stayed home on the morning of their death, that they hadn’t married the wrong man, that they’d left the ladder in the garage and packed a suitcase instead. They wished they’d said good-bye to love and hello to the bright, brilliant world.
It was quiet inside the bedroom. All of the dresser drawers had been pulled open. I’d been told they refused to stay closed. I had my bag with me, which I set down, then I lay upon the bed. This is the reason I can’t have clients follow me around. To get to the heart of the matter, I have to do things that can seem strange, even inappropriate. I got under the blanket. I could tell that the right side had been her side. My client said her perfume was on the pillow no matter how often the linens were changed. Through the window I could see a wedge of blue sky and the top boughs of the apple tree. That was when I started to cry. I felt overwhelmed by emotion, even though I’m usually very clearheaded. I’d seen it happen to my grandmother a few times. She’d have to sit down, and I’d bring her a drink of cold water. It would take her a while to collect herself, but she finally would.
I went downstairs and informed my client I’d have to tear up her check. I couldn’t help her.
“Then we’re selling the house,” she said. “I don’t care if we take a loss.”
She didn’t bother to see me out and there was no need to say good-bye. We hardly knew each other, after all. I went down the driveway and gazed up at the falling white petals. It was a pretty property, and sooner or later someone would buy it; they’d likely get a good price, not that it would do my ex-client any good. People who think ghosts can’t travel are mistaken. They stay close to whatever or whomever matters most, a place or a person. They can walk for miles, fit in the trunk of your car, fold themselves into a suitcase. I kept that information to myself, however. She’d find out soon enough.