Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  Meg watched as the woman’s face tightened, her eyes crinkling and narrowing behind the red rims as she focused on a particular face.

  “What is it?” Meg asked.

  The woman’s eyes were trained like a laser on one tiny bit of the picture. She set the copy down and hurried to her desk, returning with a magnifying glass.

  “Lord a’ mercy!” she cried, as soon as she placed the glass over the youngest in the picture, a girl in white and no more that twelve years old. A gasp as heavy as if it were her last escaped. “It’s Bernie Clinton, I do declare!”

  “Who?”

  “Bernadine Clinton, my babysitter! My, what a flood of memories this brings with it!”

  “Oh.” Meg could not share her enthusiasm. This hardly seemed to advance her research.

  “Why, I’d almost forgotten she was a Presbie. That’s what I called them then. Bernie lost her faith altogether as an adult.”

  “I see.”

  The woman leaned over, looking Meg squarely in the face. “Why, maybe she could be of some help to you.”

  “Surely, she’s not still— ” Damn!

  “Alive? Last I heard she was! Although she’s in a home in North Hammond. Can’t vouch for what kind of shape she’s in. I won’t step inside one of those places if I can help it.”

  Meg’s heart was racing. This was the big break of the day. To be able to talk to someone from that era, someone who knew Alicia Reichart . . . Then came second thoughts. She stared at the picture, not fully convinced. “If she was eleven or twelve when this was taken, that would make her— ”

  “As close to the centenary mark, my dear, as a flea on a dog—you’re right!”

  “Can you tell me where this home is, Miss Millicent?”

  As Meg pulled into the drive, she kept her eyes averted from the coach house in front of her.

  She was ebullient. She entered the main house through the side door, carrying the sheaf of library papers under her arm and the little scrap of paper with the Hammond Retirement Home address on it clutched in her hand as if it were currency. It was a very successful day. Her sleuthing was paying off.

  The phone was ringing.

  Probably Kurt or the damn real estate woman, greedy for another quick sale. No doubt her mouth salivated at the prospect of making money coming and going. As she had pulled into the driveway, she could not help but notice the For Sale sign that had been newly posted in her front lawn. But she refused to let that deflate her euphoria.

  Meg picked up the phone on the fourth ring. Her initial greeting was tentative until she realized it was neither Kurt nor Mrs. Shaw.

  Her voice brightened now. “Hello. Who is it? Oh, Wenonah! Yes, what is it? You sound a bit odd.”

  FIFTEEN

  Meg sat in her blue Saturn outside the Hammond Nursing Home, a labyrinthine structure on one level, sixties in design.

  Yes, the woman had said on the phone, Bernadine Clinton was a resident. Visiting hours were from two to four in the afternoon and from six to eight in the evening. Could exceptions be made? Yes, sometimes morning visitors were allowed if arrangements were made in advance. Ten o’clock would be fine.

  And now she sat. She had not slept well. Wenonah’s call had unnerved her.

  She pushed herself out of the car now, resolved not to think about it. She would stay focused on this visit. After all, the woman she was about to meet had been one of the first to be entertained in the Reichart house—over 90 years ago. This woman as a girl had met Alicia Reichart, the first resident of the house.

  The thought sent a shiver through Meg. She tried to collect herself.

  Bernadine Clinton was a link to the past. Might she provide answers to the events at the house—and even answers to Meg’s dreams?

  The strong deodorizing vapors hit her at the door. Oh, Meg knew what Millicent Reidy had meant about nursing homes. She hated them, too. As a social worker, she had seen some terrible, God-forsaken places, but even the good ones—the best ones—were depressing. She always mentally rated them like hotels: from five stars to none. She had yet to find a five-star.

  They were places where people came to wait for the end of their earthly lives, many mindlessly, many drugged into a stupor. Maybe they were the lucky ones.

  But what was on the other side? Not knowing was surely what kept many people holding on to life. Such was Hamlet’s dilemma. Her mind pared a few lines from a soliloquy she had once memorized in high school. But that the dread of something after death—The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn no traveler returns—puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of?

  Meg felt lucky. Both her parents were still alive and active in their seventies. No major illnesses—yet. She knew, however, as an only child she might one day be faced with the nursing home conundrum. She prayed not. Not even a five-star for them if she could help it.

  Her hand instinctively went to her belly as she moved down the hall to the front desk. Her own child—would he one day have to make a decision concerning her fate? She chided herself for the ridiculous thought.

  Yet, how quickly the years did go! She observed the seniors moving along, or being transported in wheelchairs, their faces reflective of various degrees of alertness. A few were even quite animated. It was not that many years ago that they stood on the thresholds of their dreams. How had life played out for them? Had any of them achieved their dreams? Perhaps.

  And yet—whether they had failed or succeeded, they were here.

  Yes, Meg was told by a stout woman at the desk, she could see Bernie Clinton now; she had already had her full bath. Room 120.

  “How is she?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, she’s a character. Lucid and lively—although she might be a bit blue today. Lost her roommate yesterday.”

  Meg didn’t question it. In hospitals you often lose your roommates when they go home. Not here.

  Bath, Meg thought, as she moved along an obstacle course bustling with morning activity and crammed with wheel chairs—many occupied—walkers, and carts. The woman had said bath as if it had been a daily ritual. Meg knew if a ninety-some woman got a full bath once a week, it was a luxury.

  The place was as noisy as a psych ward. The nurses and aides, eager to get their morning duties done, barked out directions. Many of the residents were hard of hearing or senile and therefore they were loud, confused, demanding, whining. A virtual din. No wonder morning visitors were not encouraged.

  Meg heard now a woman’s blood-chilling scream. She looked up to see a woman in a wheelchair whiz across the intersection of halls ahead, mouth open, volume maximum.

  She was out of sight and quiet for a few seconds, then as Meg neared the intersection, the woman rolled across again, screaming an encore.

  Meg paused for a moment. No one paid the slightest attention to her, it seemed. Meg continued on, and when she came to the intersecting hall, the woman was gone.

  To recuperate, Meg guessed, and to get ready for an afternoon performance. The thought was Meg’s flair for black comedy coming to light if just for the moment, then guiltily put away. She continued down the hall.

  Room 120. The door was open. The bed parallel to the hall was empty and stripped. If there was a waiting list, Meg thought, no doubt someone was even now being apprised of the vacancy.

  The other bed was along the outer wall facing the street; a window near the foot of the bed allowed for some natural light.

  The woman in the bed lay quietly, her eyes at half-mast.

  Meg cautiously entered, stopping a few feet away. “Excuse me. Are you Bernadine Clinton?”

  The woman’s head turned now, the crinkled eyelids lifting to reveal startlingly blue eyes. “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat and drawing herself up a bit. “I still am. M
uch to everyone’s surprise.” A smile played on thin lips beneath a birdlike nose. “Not going anywhere just yet.”

  Meg smiled. Feeling a little more at ease, she moved closer.

  The woman was studying her. “They told me I was to have a visitor—put me in my best housecoat, but I— ”

  “You haven’t a clue as to who I am.”

  “No, should I?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a great relief. I don’t want to get like some of the others you’ll find around her—crazy as loons.”

  “Really?”

  “Trust me. And they’re not just the residents, either!”

  Meg laughed at the woman’s joke. “I’m Meg Rockwell.” She stepped forward and took the woman’s slim, bony hand.

  Meg wasn’t good at guessing ages, especially when the subject was over seventy-five, but this woman’s face did not look like it had weathered a hundred years. Her skin was quite good, practically free of wrinkles, and there was a vital sparkle of life in those blue eyes that made her—well, beautiful.

  “I’m Bernadine Clinton, but I guess you know that.”

  “I do. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course not, dear. I don’t have any pressing appointments this morning. Just shove that contraption out of the way and draw up a chair.”

  Meg pushed the wheelchair to the foot of the bed and pulled a cushioned chair to the side of the bed.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. Clinton.” Meg knew how important manners were to women of a certain age. She went on to explain her connection with Miss Reidy and touched briefly on the research she was doing on the Springfield Street house.

  Bernadine Clinton seemed pleased. “Just got a card from Millie a few days ago. Is her hair still as red as a fire engine?”

  Meg couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, it is.”

  “Bless her heart, wonder it hasn’t fallen out. She’s a good one for sending cards. Doesn’t come visit, though—oh, I won’t fault her for that. You know she’s not that many years behind me.” She laughed. “She’s probably afraid that if she did come we’d find a place for her.” Her eyes shifted to the empty bed.

  “You lost your roommate, Mrs. Clinton.”

  “Call me Bernadine, my dear. Yes, Elsie was one of the few sane ones, too. And young! Seventy-six. Stroke victim. Struggled here for two years, but just didn’t have the will, you know.”

  “I see.”

  “Imagine, seventy-six. Come and gone. And here am I nearly a hundred. Can’t trust the legs anymore, though. All swelled up.” She shrugged. “I just wait.”

  Meg could see through to a vulnerable soul and instinctively reached for the old woman’s hand, held it.

  The woman’s blue eyes flashed at Meg. “Oh, go on,” she said drawing in a deep breath and withdrawing her hand. “Good to see a young person for a change, at least one that’s not here to see about one bodily function or another—or are you?”

  “No.” Meg smiled. She had taken an immediate liking to this woman. “Do you have any children, Bernadine?”

  “No, and that’s a regret my husband and I had—but too late. And sometimes they kid me around here, you know, about the President, but I’m no relation to Bill, either, if that’s crossed your mind.”

  Meg laughed. “No, it didn’t.”

  “Not that he was such a bad fella.” Bernadine Clinton fired off a variety of political opinions as Meg sat in amazement. This was a woman who read and kept current. She finished by commenting on a senator who had recently run for re-election in his late nineties. “Too old,” she declared. “Too damn old!”

  “Bernadine, I want to ask you something.”

  “What? Of course! I have been going on. Ask away! That’s why you’re here.”

  “I am hoping you can tell me a little about the Reichart family. As I said, I’ve purchased the Reichart house.”

  “Oh, the Reichart house! It was the talk of the town, I can tell you. A stunning home. First one on Springfield Street. It’s still lovely, I imagine.”

  “It is, though it’s seen some changes, some remodeling, over the years.”

  “It’s had its share of tenants, too. No one ever seemed to stay long after—after the Reicharts. But to me it’s still the Reichart home.”

  “You knew Alicia Reichart?”

  “Goodness, yes.”

  From her purse, Meg withdrew the picture she had copied. “Here’s the photo, Bernadine. You see, there you are in the pinafore, front and center.”

  Bernadine put on her glasses that had been lying on the bed near a Bible. Meg made a mental note to tell Miss Millicent that Bernadine evidently had found her faith again. Not an uncommon thing, Meg had learned, as people came closer and closer to the other side.

  “Sakes alive, you’re right! Why I can remember the day this was taken. Just like it was yesterday. I was praying the posing ordeal would be over with quickly. There was to be ice cream afterwards, you see.”

  Meg chuckled. “It looks like everyone was in the same frame of mind.”

  Bernadine laughed at the humorless faces. “True enough, but you see, picture taking was a serious thing. One dasn’t smile.”

  “Can you tell me which one is Alicia Reichart?”

  “Let me see. Yes, of course. Here she is, big as life.”

  Meg looked to where Bernadine’s crooked finger pointed.

  Alicia Reichart was the woman in the front on the left, the one with the mole on her cheek, the one who was attempting to hide smugness or a smile, or both.

  The woman validated Meg’s intuitive guess. She felt victorious. She was making progress.

  “Did you know her well, Bernadine?”

  “Well enough. She was a strong woman.”

  “I rather guessed so.”

  “I was always a bit afraid of her.”

  “How did you happen to know her? Through church?”

  “Well, of course, there was the church connection. But I tended the twins on occasion to free up their nanny for an afternoon. But that was after the accident, you know.”

  “Accident?” Meg pulled her chair closer to the bed.

  “Yes, they lost little Claude. Tragic, just tragic.”

  “Was he older or younger than the twins?”

  “Oh, older. Claude was a year ahead of me in school. A real talented musician at nine. You probably read about him in your research.”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been working forward, year by year.” Meg’s mouth had gone dry. “Bernadine, what did Claude play?”

  “Piano. Like he was born to it. Lordy! Like he was Chopin reincarnated. He was a prodigy, he was.” Bernadine paused, as if to catch her breath. “Oh my, they had grand plans for him!”

  “His parents?”

  “Yes, but especially the missus—Alicia.”

  “He was that good?”

  “It was eerie, he was so good. He was to go abroad to study and compose.”

  “At that age?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Meg sat stunned. A child had died, one who had so much promise, so much talent. A child who played the piano.

  Is Claude my ghost?

  Later, Meg would wonder whether thinking about her dreams induced one now or whether it came of its own accord, but she fell into a trance-like state that must have lasted two or three moments.

  She could hear the piano music. She could see a little boy in white skillfully playing at an upright Steinway.

  Beautiful, beautiful music. Mahler, she thought.

  The piano sat under a trio of stained glass windows, windows familiar to Meg. The piano was in the former music room, the room that was now Kurt and Meg’s bedroom. It was warm in the room, very warm. The chambe
r, relatively small, was crowded with chairs and well-dressed women. Meg, it seemed, was sitting there, too. People looked to her occasionally, nodding and smiling. The women fanned themselves, but no one seemed to mind the heat so engrossed were they in the music.

  Meg found the experience oppressive. She was perspiring, growing faint. Others were lifting cool drinks with mint leaves to their mouths, but she had none.

  Suddenly, something blessedly pulled her from the trance now.

  A hand tightly gripped hers.

  Meg’s eyes focused on Bernadine and her heart tightened. Dear God, the woman’s had a stroke!

  Bernadine had pulled her head up from the pillow, closer to Meg and held on to her hand as if to a lifeline. She was pale and frightened. Her hand was cold, clammy.

  “What is it?” Meg asked. Her free hand instinctively reached for the nurse’s call button.

  “I saw . . . sitting there . . . at the end of the bed. It was . . . it was— ” Bernadine’s eyes moved from the end of the bed to Meg, wordlessly imploring— ”

  “What was it, Bernadine?” Somehow, Meg thought she knew what the woman had seen. “Was it a boy—all in white?—Was it Claude Reichart?”

  The blue eyes that had so sparkled were dim now. “No,” she gasped. “Not Claude.” Her grip on Meg’s hand grew tighter. Her mouth opened again, but the words found no way out.

  Meg was in a panic. Where was the nurse? She thought she should run out into the hall to find one, but didn’t want to have to pull free of the terrified woman.

  Bernadine groaned. Meg was certain she was having a heart attack.

  “Rest a moment, Bernadine. We’re getting you help. Do you hear?”