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His wife.
Patricia.
She wore a pretty blue dress and white sandals on her feet. Her favorite dress and shoes. He’d picked them out especially for her to be buried in. And then added a cream cardigan because he didn’t want her to be cold.
She must be freezing out there, he thought, and then bit back a hoarse laugh.
Freezing. She’s dead, you old fool.
But she looked so real.
Her hair hung over her shoulders in silver waves. Like it used to, until it became too much for Beau to wash and brush. She got upset, like a child, when the shampoo got in her eyes, and cold when it lay damp on her back, and she cried when he tried to get the knots out. They had both cried when he cut it. Afterward, she would reach up to her head, and stare at him in fright. “Where’s my hair, Beau? What happened to my hair?”
Beau watched as she walked toward the cabin. Upright and graceful like he remembered her, not hunched and uncertain like she had become. Her sandals left faint footprints in the snow. Real. Too real.
He wanted to back away, but the sight of her held him transfixed. Even though he knew it must be a lie, it was such a beautiful lie. Some are. And sometimes the truth is ugly. Like how, toward the end, on the bad days, when he was exhausted and bruised from her attacking him, he had felt pleasure at her distress.
“Beau?” She smiled through the window. “It’s me.”
He shook his head. “It can’t be.”
“Let me in, Beau. Please. I’m cold.”
“No.”
“Beau. I’m your wife.”
“You’re not real.”
“Of course I am.”
“No. You’re dead.”
“How can you say that? I’m here. See.” She raised one pale hand and placed it against the window. “Let me in. We can be together again.”
He shook his head, tears burning behind his eyes. “I can’t. It’s not right.”
“Don’t you love me?”
Grief clogged his throat. “Of course I love you. I love you more than anything. I miss you every day.”
Her smile drew into a sneer. “Did you love me when you visited that whore in Anchorage? Did you love me when you slapped me after too many beers? Did you love me when you left me lying in my own shit to go to the Roadhouse because it was all too much for your sad, pathetic ass to deal with? Did you love me then, Beau Grainger?”
He recoiled from the window, a cry choking him.
The sneer became a snarl. His wife’s face twisted and re-formed. She began to shrink inside her clothes, and now he was looking at a child. A young girl of no more than nine or ten. Blonde hair, amber eyes, sharp gold teeth. Her. He clutched at his chest.
The girl dragged her nails down the window, leaving thin white scars in the glass.
“How do you like me now?”
“Get away from here.”
“What? You don’t like the truth?”
Beau turned and yanked open a kitchen drawer, fumbling inside. He found the old cross and held it aloft.
She laughed. “You really think that works? You really think that after all these years I’m not immune to your superstitious bullshit?”
