The Truth About Mallory Bain (30 page)

Mom checked on me every night. The sliver of light from the hallway startled me whenever she cracked open the door. I was certain she set her alarm to awaken at intervals.

She fixed tea and broth because solid food sickened me. I spent my waking hours sitting on the living room sofa. I clutched Lance's DVD against my heart while I stared out the front window.

Seeing the motorcycle pass each day, hearing its roar late at night became mundane. Its noise annoyed me, distracted my thoughts about Lance. I melded his passing with Ben's. A single heartbreak instead of two made coping easier. By Wednesday morning, I hated the bike. A motorcycle had taken Ben away and its sound no longer offered comfort.

I would soon despise whatever took Lance. Perhaps in deciding to switch dinner plates, he believed he would endure a few hours of vomiting and abdominal pain—a six-hour trip to the emergency room to prove Dana's culpability yet allow him to live.

Mid-afternoon on Wednesday, the doorbell chimed. Mom had gone to pick up Caleb and Gavin from school. I pulled myself up from the sofa to answer the door. A man and a woman stood on the porch and held up police badges for me to see.

“We're here to speak with Mallory Bain,” the woman said.

I opened the storm door and invited them inside. “That's me. How can I help you?”

“We're making inquiries into the death of Lance Garner,” the man said. “We need to ask a few questions.”

I recounted our last evening together and provided the few details I actually knew about him. They cared less that he preferred classical music and light jazz.

“He seemed sick during our drive home,” I told them regarding Saturday night.

“Describe ‘sick' for us,” said the woman.

“Stomach upset. Heartburn. And he was exhausted from a busy week at work. He just wanted to go home and sleep. We made tentative plans for Sunday, but that never happened.”

I gave them the Fowlers' address and phone numbers, uncertain where questioning them would lead. I held back a direct accusation, mostly because I was scared—not afraid of the accusation, but terrified of retaliation.

“His complaints were similar to the ones I had after ingesting poison mushrooms.”

“How did that happen?” asked the man.

“Still not sure. I ate takeout before having dinner at the Fowlers. No one else at their dinner party became sick. Only me. I had undigested portions of both meals in my stomach.”

They also asked for the name and location of the restaurant where I'd purchased the takeout. They left me with a peace of mind that somehow they'd find the answers everyone wanted.

Mrs. Garner phoned Thursday morning to let me know the wake was starting at four. She apologized for the last-minute notice, but there had been many phone calls back and forth, and out-of-town guests arriving for the funeral.

A gracious and soft-spoken lady who maintained composure during our difficult conversation, Mrs. Garner, the anguished mother who had given Lance life, comforted me, the new girlfriend. Before our visit ended, she thanked me repeatedly for caring for her son and making his last days on earth the happiest he'd been in a long time.

Sam bowed out, saying he'd feel more in the way instead of offering any comfort, but Ronnie stayed with me at the wake as promised. I watched her pass from one floral bouquet to the next, pausing to read each condolence card. She lingered close to the autumn spray Mom had sent, and wiped her eyes when she read the card.

“Neither Dana nor Erik's name is in the guest book yet. Noticeably absent,” she whispered when she sat down beside me. “They sent the tacky plant on the end.”

“With the yellowed leaves.”

“You noticed.”

I watched the other mourners and saw no Fowlers among them. Family and family friends stood out. Lance's parents and brothers shook hands with everyone, taking a moment to speak a few courteous words. The bride-who-never-was introduced herself to us and extended her sincerest condolences. Knowing I was the bereaved girlfriend, people consoled me as a member of his immediate family, otherwise, they gathered in small groups and spoke softly in their quiet areas of the chapel and the lobby.

Most of the time, I averted my eyes from the casket. I desperately tried reining in the pain searing my heart. I finally gave in and sobbed without regard to appearance.

Ronnie engulfed her arm around me and cried, too. “I will go with you whenever you're ready to see him.”

I swallowed hard and let the tears fall. “I can't.”

“You don't have to.”

Lance lay several feet away, appearing asleep in the confined, bronze box surrounded by cream-colored satin. I thought of the handsome prince bestowing the kiss of life on his princess and wished I could as easily bring him back again. How ideal to live in a fairytale, where in the blink of an eye, a wave of a wand, a kiss on the lips, no more death—only life and enduring love.

Ronnie tilted her head toward me. “The funeral is at eleven tomorrow.”

“In Maplewood.”

“This is Maplewood.”

“I know. Tomorrow Mom can drive.”

“I'm sorry I can't get away. Still too new of a job.”

“No worries.” I straightened up and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I'm glad you're here now. I couldn't see that casket and face all these people by myself.”

Ronnie glanced around us, and then leaned sideways to whisper, “I wonder if Dana and Erik know what Lance suspected.”

“I doubt it.”

“And yet they haven't called.”

I shook my head.

Mr. and Mrs. Garner approached us with consoling expressions. After a brief conversation, Lance's father took my hand and helped me stand. His parents walked with me to the casket to spend a moment with their son. Two brothers joined us and stood behind their father. Both resembled Lance. My body trembled and their mother laid her arm gently against my back.

“We are grateful for you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.”

I rested my hands on the edge of his casket and stared down at his white shirt, his green necktie, and the suit he'd worn for our first date. My gaze moved upward to his face. His brightness gone. I laid my hand atop his folded hands—cold, dead. While staring down at his lifeless form, the word “murdered” resounded in my mind clearly, as if spoken aloud. Anger flooded my heart.

And that anger renewed my strength to cope and find answers. We spent a while longer meeting more family. I went through the appropriate motions of decorum when at times my weakened body wanted nothing more than to collapse and sob its heart out.

We visited with two inconsolable aunts, who mentioned the front fender of Lance's car was badly damaged. I refrained from commenting that he probably crashed into something while driving home that night. We left them after they dropped the word “poison” as the preliminary cause of death. Ronnie and I moved back to the farthest edge of the chapel and sat.

“We can leave if you need to get home,” I said.

“I'll stay until you're ready.”

I walked over and stood alone by the casket.

“You never deserved to die.” I wept. “Maybe I will never feel normal again,” I whispered. “If I fall in love a third time, he'll die, too.”

As we took our coats and started to leave, Erik burst into the lobby. His expression was strained when he saw us and he uttered nothing more than a simple hello. We likewise said nothing more than hello, but watched as he hovered over the guestbook.

Dana pulled open the door a moment later and made a grand entrance dressed in complete mourning garb, black from head to toe. She looked absurd, like a bereaved and neurotic widow from a nineteen-thirties melodrama.

My stomach knotted and I squeezed my hands into fists at the sight of her.

Ronnie gave the small of my back a slight nudge, letting me know she noticed my unease.

“Mal . . . lor . . . y,” Dana sobbed.

I stepped back—she stopped.

She gave Ronnie a hate-filled stare but spoke directly to me. “How kind of you to pay your respects. We are at a loss, completely devastated. The idea of going on without Lance's friendship is tearing Erik apart.”

I gaped into her fresh face, searching. Eyes clear, not red and puffy like mine. Hair not mussed from ignoring her appearance due to unimaginable grief.

Ronnie touched my elbow before she took my coat from my arm and opened it across my shoulders. “Time to go. Goodnight, Dana.” She guided me toward the door.

“I should talk with them,” I whispered to Ronnie when we stepped onto the sidewalk. “I can't be rude.”

“Keep walking.”

“Ronnie, wait. Maybe they're not involved. Maybe he ingested the poison someplace else.”

“Have you finally lost your mind? She said, ‘How kind of you to pay your respects.' Mallory, you and Lance were beginning to love each other. You deserve to be here.”

I cupped my hands to my ears.

She grabbed each side of my shoulders. “Listen to me. She treated you rotten in there. And normal people cry wet tears when friends die. Her eyes were dry. She oozed insincerity. Trust me on this. Dana Fowler killed Lance Garner.”

R
onnie was not one to jump to conclusions, and I had experienced enough grief in my life to consider her theory was true, even though the why of it all escaped my understanding. Lance was blameless. He committed no wrong against either Fowler. They surrendered their friendship with me with his death. The autopsy would prove their guilt, assuming Ronnie and Lance's aunts were correct.

The funeral was over. I pushed open the side door to the kitchen and stepped inside after Mom dropped me off. The house felt cold, as dark as my mood, and drearier than the day. I paused, listening to the solitary sound of the beehive clock ticking in the living room.

I half expected Judith's ghosts to greet me—my mysterious whispering man, Aunty Liz, or even Lance. Growing accustomed to death made me more like Judith as each day passed. Being her gifted niece no longer insulted me.

Mom took Caleb to Rick's for the evening. Sam and Ronnie were due here around seven thirty to take me anyplace not morbid. The day had been unseasonably cold and rainy again, chilly and gloomy for a graveside service. I was emotionally drained, achy, and cold. I wanted nothing more than to cry myself to sleep the way I'd done all week long. I had to talk myself into going back out again.

I glanced at the microwave clock. Four forty. I took out my phone and dropped my purse and coat on a chair beside the table. I kicked off my heels and pushed them under a chair. While rubbing my sore foot, I hopped to the fridge for a bottled water before
pausing to pick through the mail laying on the island. Neither September nor October's child support checks were among the envelopes.

Sipping my water, I stared out the kitchen window into the backyard a long time, my eyes focused on the white bench. Aunt Judith had lived alone for decades, except for her animals and ghosts. I had Caleb and Mom for now. Plenty of time for me to be me before becoming odd like Judith.

Caleb's unopened container of cookies sat on the counter by the stove. I stared at it until a gruesome thought hit me. If Dana did kill Lance, she was capable of killing my child. I snatched up that plastic box, tossed it into the trash, and slammed the lid with a vengeance. Dana was poison.

I headed into the living room and unfolded the throw to drape over my shoulders. I plopped down in the rocking chair to wait until I felt motivated to change my clothes.

I sipped my water. Rocked back and forth. I wondered about Dana's suggestion that we hurry off to Colorado instead of cradling Caleb in the embrace of loving family. Her attitude toward family was poles apart from mine, merely a biological incident, not people she cherished.

I laid my head back against the chair and gazed out the front window at nothing really. I would stay close to my people for a long time to come. A spark of kindness lit up my heart. I decided to make amends with Judith soon. It was time for me to understand my gift since I was well on my way to collecting my own group of ghosts, with whom I might commune for years to come.

Before Lance died, neither day nor night barred the spirit's whispering, giving advice, or wreaking havoc. Location was never an issue, Memphis or Minneapolis, or the interstate in between. Timing was key. The spirit had waited until Chad and I divorced. Ronnie and Ashton, too. I'd become accustomed to the visits until he went silent the day Lance died.

I betrayed no one. Justice meant nothing without facts.

If our ghost was Ben, out of respect, he respected marital boundaries, even my ill-fated marriage to Chad. Ben was never disruptive. There was no person connected to him that I could betray. Not Caleb. Bloody hands and noisy outbursts—not Ben at all. He would comfort us. No, the spirit was an emotional soul with his strange displays of drama, unlike pragmatic and easygoing Ben Holland.

I played the devil's advocate, contradicted the obvious. Our hauntings must be instances of telekinesis.

“Like Daddy said, ‘A bunch of hooey,'” I spoke aloud.

I padded over to my laptop laying on the coffee table and flipped open the lid.

“Dozens of Jack Grants,” I mused to myself. “Chicago.” I clicked until I found a photo. “Alive last year, maybe not dead yet.” I tried his last number three times. It rang twice and stopped each time.

Finding current information on him or his possible death yielded nothing. I switched gears. One website on telekinesis struck me as interesting. It defined and detailed the illusion of telekinesis—forms of trickery used to suggest people believe what their senses observed, such as an object moving or a phantom materializing in the shadows.

“Or even an impression of levitation,” I added aloud.

Flashing lights and rising TV and radio volumes cancelled illusion. Trickery was out of the question. Smoke alarms are hardwired in the ceiling. My online search yielded no convincing scientific data to satisfy my desire to believe telekinesis was the cause. A ghost had caused the disruption that Thursday afternoon of baking day.