* * *
Portland Ghost Stories
* * *
It had been a long time since I'd last seen my sister.
The days blended together in a smear of monotony, logging Monday to Friday and fishing on weekends, but I knew the date because it was the one-year anniversary of the day I'd disconnected Deb from life support and dropped her off the side of my boat. That was the same day Dexter Morgan died, although my death certificate would not be issued until two days later when the ownership of Slice of Life had been confirmed.
My body had not been found, of course. It was the one thing I'd taken with me. Hannah took the rest.
"God, Dex, did you grow a beard?" A disbelieving chuckle. "It looks fucking awful on you. Are you afraid someone will recognize you? Who the fuck do you know is going to turn up in Portland, Oregon?" Deb's willowy frame is leaning against the bathroom door. I can see her in the mirror as I towel off my face.
"I can't be bothered to shave."
"Well thank FUCK you can still bother to shower and brush your teeth. Although who's around to complain about the way you smell, other than me?" She shoots me a crooked smile, hands shoved in her jean pockets. "Of course, I don't exist, so I guess I can't smell you either." A generous shrug of her loping shoulders and she disappears as suddenly as she appeared.
The first time this had happened I thought I was still dreaming. She hadn't spoken, had appeared sitting at the table by the foot of my bed one morning, a figure with long brown hair. My sister Debra Morgan. She was reading the paper. She didn't look at me. It was 365 days after I had wrapped her in a burial shroud of hospital sheets and seen that same pale face sink beneath the waves.
She visited again a week later. And a week after that. Soon she was popping by to visit every other day or so. I knew what she was; my weird version of Jiminy Cricket, my replacement for Harry and, briefly, my brother Brian. Back when I still had a dark passenger riding me. It would make sense that she could only come to me now that she was dead, like Harry and Brian were dead. But a year later?
"Maybe I had to wait, maybe you weren't able to hear what I had to say, before," she answered; unnerving yet entirely comfortable, the way she could read my mind. "Or maybe you've got a brain tumor. How the fuck should I know. Maybe you're going insane." This time she's riding my truck with me. Sitting on the passenger side, she even has her seatbelt on. Right elbow up on the windowsill, her long fingers trailing along the hair at her temple. We rattle down long roads lined thick with trees.
"Or maybe," she stops admiring the view to look at me, "Maybe I'm a real fucking ghost. You probably deserve to be haunted more than anyone. How are you NOT being haunted, with the number of people you killed? Maybe it took me a year just to find you, here, Mr. Matt Thompson."
"That's a creepy thought, Deb." The road pitchforks and I continue right. "I think I prefer you as a figment of my imagination, even if it means I have a brain tumor."
"Yeah, well," Debra scoffs, "You've always been fucking morbid so maybe you would. And then you could ignore your medical condition like you ignore everything else important, and nature will finally kill you the way that storm didn't."
"You would know."
"Fucking right I know. I know everything. You tried to kill yourself that night, Dex, but you're still here. And so am I." She puts her perfect, cold hand over mine, rested on the gear shift. "Ever wonder why that is?"
I just look at her. How is it I can look so clearly into those eyes? She's more real than my fake life here. She feels more solid than my own two hands.
"If I WAS a ghost, I can tell you why." With this proclamation she throws herself back in the seat, sticks her feet up on the dash. "Unfinished business."
Silent, I dart my eyes to see if she's still there. She's gazing quietly out the window again. "Unfinished business?" I prompt.
"You, you fucking idiot, are MY unfinished business. You are the reason I need to be here. The reason I can't be with Lundy, and dad. I'm here and I'll keep being here as long as you need me."
"I…" I stop the truck on the side of the wide dirt road, put on my four-ways. "I don't need you, Deb. I'm where I deserve to be. If you're really here because of me, I want you to go."
"Doesn't that sound fucking familiar!" Debra glares at me. "What the fuck was the last thing I said to you, Dex?" I stare at her blankly. When I think back on our last moments together, it's always time standing still, Saxon outside of Deb's hospital door, then finding her room empty, then turning off the machine and taking off her breathing apparatus. That final boat ride into the storm together. "Would you – would you fucking stop?!" She slams her hand down on the dash.
"Goddamn, you're stubborn! Don't you know that all of those memories you have… I was already gone. I'd left! Like you were supposed to, when I still had any say in the matter." Debra grunts, crosses her arms against her chest. "You visited me, Dex, and I told you, I'm responsible for my life, do you hear me? I don't want you to feel guilty about this. You were meant to be happy, so fucking go and be happy."
"I can't." My hands are trembling slightly. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
"Sweet Jesus fuck! You can go start a new life in Oregon as a lumberjack but you can't-?" She's waving her hands dramatically, she probably wants to punch me. I've never had a figment of my imagination punch me before; if she's really a ghost, maybe she could.
"I'm sorry, Deb." I close my eyes. Open them.
"I don't want an apology! You selfish ass!" Her eyes are red and her mouth's a hard line. I only get a glimpse of the hurt and anger, then she's gone.
I'm left alone in my truck on the side of the road. I look around me before turning off my four-ways and turning back onto the road. Another day at work.
* * *
Argentina Lullabies
* * *
Hana Moser was Claire Thompson was Maggie Castner was Hannah McKay. And Hana Moser was a married woman, a mother, whose husband worked out of town, who owned a fairly successful flower business.
She had dreamed of a farm in Argentina. But that was an old dream. And she couldn't picture Dexter working a farm.
At first she stayed in Buenos Aires because it was where Dexter would be looking for her. Then she stayed because she couldn't imagine taking Harrison out of the city, to a farm, for her to work alone. As a single ("married") mother she felt safer in the populated city centre. She knew Dexter would, too. How often did she still make plans, thinking of him?
Dexter, you can't be dead.
She knelt in her greenhouse terrace, tending the soil of a phalaenopsis, the "blood spatter" orchid. She'd gifted one to him, placed it in his bedroom, where he would see it in the morning and when he went to bed. She brushed its petals with the back of her hand.
You are with me always.
Every morning she checked her mail. She kept a reasonably-priced PI on retainer in the hopes that they could unearth what had really happened to Dexter. She had, at first, paid the best investigator she could find far too much money, only to have a lengthy report mailed to her stating that Dexter Morgan was dead and the trail stopped cold. Because dead people leave no trails.
That had been a hard week. She had believed it for that long. She had cried every night, she had made excuses to put Harrison to bed early. She had been so tired.
Something shifted when she felt she could keep Dexter alive by will alone. And her will was strong. She had already gone through two husbands and she wanted to keep her "third"; legally, in Argentina, she and Dexter were married in a short civil ceremony. He was alive. Shortly after arriving, she had become paranoid that Elway would seek revenge on "Claire Thompson", the woman he found on the bus. She also became paranoid about being a single mother, opening her own business. Having a real husband is what she wanted, but her invisible husband was useful, too.
Even in his absence, Dexter protected her. From unwanted advances, from unwanted questions. No, she doesn't need to date, or find a father for her family, she has one, thank you.
She reviewed the stacks of "inconclusive" paperwork from the first PI, all of it a good read until the end. Dexter had been born Dexter Moser. If he couldn't be Dexter Morgan, could he be who he was born to be? A normal boy who grew into a normal man, whose mother wasn't killed in front of him and his brother. His destiny had changed with his name; he had entered the shipping container as Moser and exited as Morgan.
When she rebuilt their identities it was as Decker, Hana and Harisson Moser. She wanted to make this life as much theirs as possible, without making them easy to find in a database search. Also, Hana was Japanese for flower, and she thought that amazing.
She saw Harrison's small bike sail past the exterior of the greenhouse, the central point of their rooftop garden. Hannah had taken what had in fact turned out to be nearly a million dollars in cash and rolled it into real estate/business. She and Harrison inhabited the top floor of a low-rise building and had exclusive access to the rooftop. She had commissioned the construction of a green house, a patio, and a play area for Harrison. There weren't many backyards for children to play in Buenos Aires, but she had succeeded in making one in the sky.
Her orchids she sold directly to flower shops in town, as well as selling them personally at her own flower stand at the weekend open-air market, Feria de Recoleta.
It had taken time to get settled, to make decisions, to move in and get the business off the ground. This had been her "normal" for almost a year now. Things had been harder after the baby was born, but she had found a great nanny and was back on her feet, now. Harrison loved being an older brother, loved his baby sister.
Her little girl, head covered in brown curls, sat next to her on the greenhouse floor. Her little patchwork blanket was covered in toys; she couldn't crawl yet but was a sturdy sitter.
"Harrison!" Hannah called her son into the greenhouse. Her heart stopped a little every time he came into view. He was his father's child but, somehow, he still looked like Hannah. Harrison had one photo of his mother, Rita, that Dexter had taken the care to pack for him. Although not as striking as Hannah, she was fine-boned and pretty, slim with long blond hair. Hannah's heart went out to the woman who had gifted her a son, who had loved the same man, who had been destroyed by loving him. Rita had lost herself, Hannah had lost Dexter. Sometimes, as she lay alone at night, she wondered which was worse.
Hannah knew her life was not easy, that she had lived through and endured horrors. But at the same time she knew that she had chosen that life, and in doing so, had also been incredibly blessed.
Sometimes nature subtracts, sometimes it adds.
* * *
Oregon: A Guide to Leaving
* * *
After Debra disappeared from my truck that chilly October morning, life went back to normal. Which I guess means I went back to hating myself and having very little distraction to do otherwise. I felt like Sisyphus rolling the boulder uphill, but instead of boulders I had logs.
It wasn't hell but it felt a lot like purgatory which is where I deserved to be. A limbo, no-man's land, not alive or dead.
Everything that I once drew pleasure from was now the most painful memory I could imagine. The man who stalked other killers by the light of the moon was some shadowed, mythical creature. I wasn't sorry I had been him, had killed so many. What I mourned was the loss of joy, the way I longed for it. There was no joy here, now.
I missed Hannah and Harrison without end. But my best way to love them was to be absent. Sometimes, when the pull to be with them was strongest, I looked up the price of a ticket over the border, into Canada. If the urge to run overwhelmed me, I would run north, further, faster.
Mostly I feel nothing at all because it's better than the alternative.
"I need you to listen to me, Dexter." I pulled back the shower curtain. I did my best self-pitying in the shower. My dearly departed Debra was sitting on the closed toilet seat, drinking a beer. I hadn't seen her in a month. Where did she get a beer? Did I have beer? I hallucinated Brian eating a hamburger, surely I can hallucinate a single cold beer.
"This is the strangest place you've shown up yet," I say, letting the curtain drop back. "I haven't even washed, you're going to have to wait."
"You're as stupid as you are good looking," Deb laughed; her 30-day absence had drastically improved her mood. "You think I choose when I show up? I am summoned."
"By me?"
"Well, hell, sure," Debra shrugged. "Or, I don't know, fucking Santa. All I can figure is I'm here when you need to talk. The only upside of this treatment is that I also never need to wait when I arrive. So, what do you need me for? Are you thinking about Hannah and Harrison again?"
Always. "That and I'm running low on shampoo."
Debra gave a hollow laugh. Then a swig of beer. "So maybe you should fucking go and be with them? You know they're waiting for you. In Buenos Aires. Like she promised."
"You don't even like Hannah…" I sigh, the temperature of the water has suddenly changed. It does that, a lot. Along with weak water pressure I have to constantly jiggle the faucet handles so I didn't freeze or burn.
"I did like her, actually. At the end. She… she had balls. She was honest, she went for what she wanted, and she wanted you. She loved you. She loves you. When she talked about you, about her future with you, I hated her for so easily walking into that place in your heart. I'd wanted it for myself."
"Deb…"
"Wanted is past-tense, fuck! Wanted until I walked in on you, standing over Travis Marshall! You… you creeped me out a little, you know? Okay, a lot, you creeped me out a fucking LOT. I love you but that whole dark side of you… dark like Hannah. You were my brother and I wanted better than that for you, I wanted Rita for you. Then I wanted you." She stops, time to drink more beer. "But Hannah, she needs you, Dex. And you need her. And Harrison… he needs his dad."
I'm glad I'm in the shower. I don't need to look Deb in the eye, and the water is hot again. Work was hard today and this feels good, but I feel something tearing, thawing inside. The divide between what shouldn't have happened but did, what is and what could be.
"I'm going to leave you, Dex."
"Is it because I'm still in the shower?" I'm in the middle of shaving off the beard Debra has told me on several occasions is hideous. You look like a homeless yeti. Only it's been so long that it feels like I'm trimming a shrub with a butter knife. I'm going to need so many pieces of toilet paper Deb's going to tell me I look like I've been face-fucked by the Snuggle bear.
"Because I'm almost done…"
"I'm leaving you because you don't need me anymore."
I pull back the curtain just enough to look at her and she's still there. She's placed her empty beer beside the sink. For this moment I haven't lost my sister again. I feel it, like an iceberg shearing off a glacier.
"You can't leave me." Not again. Who will I be without you here to remember me?
"We both know," Debra breathed deeply, "that I can only leave because you've sent me away."
"I've already said goodbye to everything and everyone too many times to count." The water pours down over me, baptizing me in regret. "I'm so tired of endings."
"So maybe it's time for a new beginning," Debra says, and her smile is angelic, and her voice is light, ephemeral and beautiful. All of that swearing, hard-edges, angles that were Debra; she is also grace, morality and forgiveness. "After all, how many times can we say good-bye forever?"
Overlaying all of this I see Hannah. I see her in her t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied up, her hands in gardening gloves. I see her in the Miami sunshine smiling up at me, asking if we'd be going for a record, on how many times we could say good-bye forever.
Of course I know that this Debra knows this. This Debra is also me; this Debra wants for me what I want for me, she shines a light into my dark corners. I finish shaving and reach for the ratty housecoat I found hanging behind the bathroom door when I moved in. It's a grey-green-blue and smells like someone else's aftershave.
"You need to remember what's real, what's important, Dex. I'm dead, you're not. You're here, I'm not," She's moved to make room for me, I see her standing by the bathroom door framed in light. She looks at me, her eyes widen. "That… that is a fucking relief. I thought you might reunite with Hannah with that shit on your face!" A pause. "Well, you met doing blood spatter analysis, maybe she'll think it's romantic that you've recreated a crime scene on your face." She passes me a roll of toilet paper.
"Thanks," I mutter, as I look into the mirror and start cleaning up after myself.
"You've made mistakes, Dexter, but the greatest mistake you've made is the one you're living now."
I sigh at these words. Probably because they're true. I don't know anymore.
"Do you remember what the last words I said to you were? You must, because I know them. But you've buried them, because you want to ignore them. Dex, you're punishing everyone you've ever loved, dead and alive, living the way you do now." She's behind me in the mirror, I see her reflection glowing over my left shoulder. "You need to honor me. You need to honor my dying words to you."
I feel her hands on my shoulders through the thin, cheap robe. They are warm, somehow. "Your life is waiting for you," she whispers it in my ear, "you should leave. The next word I want to hear you say is goodbye."
I close my eyes. "Goodbye, Deb."
I open them.
* * *
Barrio Norte Nights
* * *
When Harrison has been put to bed, and her daughter has drifted off in her arms, Hannah has the night to herself. The crib has been set up in the master bedroom, where she lays her youngest child down to sleep – for now. At 8 months old she still wakes frequently, and Hannah spoils her, holds her, rocks her under the full moon in a beautiful rocking chair set by the window. Hum-sings songs about catching her when the bow breaks.
She hadn't imagined it was possible. When she had miscarried her first and only child, it had been after years of effort (unbeknownst to her husband; it was Hannah who took care of the contraception.) At the time, coming shortly after his death, she viewed it as nature's way of telling her she was not meant to be a mother.
She found herself terrifyingly, horribly thrilled that she could be carrying Dexter's child. Surely she could not be allowed this joy. After just that one night together. It dawned on her that maybe she had never been the problem, that her ex-husband may have been very nearly infertile. Or maybe they had both been the problem. Miles had had a vasectomy long before marrying her; she knew this child could not be his.
Hannah had placed her hands over her still-flat stomach. 5-weeks pregnant was barely pregnant. Miscarriages occurred one out of four times. I love you, don't go. She mouthed the words to her baby, the size of a grain of rice.
She told the neighbours who asked, as her form rounded out, It's a girl, she's due August 5th, her father is so excited. Harrison would rest his head on her belly as he and Hannah reclined on the sofa. She kicked me! He exclaimed. Hannah smiled. She loves you already, you know. You're going to be a great big brother.
She wasn't sure at what point she decided to name the baby Debra. After the ultrasound, when they confirmed the sex, the name floated into her mind and nested. There was some sort of irony in that, but some sort of justice too. Once upon a time, Debra had tried to keep Dexter and Hannah apart, and Hannah had tried to kill her. Now Debra was the embodiment of Dexter and Hannah together, and Hannah had given her life.
After several minutes spent in the dark room, basking in the blissful innocence of a child's slumber, Hannah slowly, carefully closes the bedroom door behind her. Down the hallway, on the kitchen counter, there's an open bottle of red wine; she's gotten into the habit of a glass each evening, with a book, on the small patio located off the living room. She watches the city streets five stories below, she likes the bustling hum of pedestrians and cars. It is not a lonely city, it masks her lonely life.
The patio chair across from her is empty. On this particular evening, it makes her want to cry. She wipes the back of her thumb under both her eyes, keeping the tears out of her wine glass.
This is what life has in store for me. I can't be selfish. I have two beautiful children, a wonderful home and growing business. This is enough. She takes a deep breath.
When the doorbell rings, Hannah decides not to get it. She's not in the mood, she looks exactly how she feels.
But, then again, didn't the elderly woman on the first floor offer to bring her dessert after dinner? Lucia was a bit of a grandmother to her babies. Her neighbours, in general, had been altogether wonderful to her and her children, friendly but not prying about their pasts or her mysterious husband. Hannah could certainly stand a bit of light conversation and cake.
Lucia had said her grand-daughter would be getting married, that it would be a small ceremony and so she had been asked to make rogel: dulce de leche wedged between layers of paper-thin pastry, topped with meringue. She wanted to do a trial run since it had been years since she'd last made it. She would be making it today, would Hannah be interested?
That sounds delicious, is what Hannah said.
She is knocking for a second time when Hannah finally arrives at the door. She hopes her eyes are dry, she hopes she doesn't look too beaten down after a lengthy bedtime of Harrison asking to have his favourite book read to him for the fifth time, while the baby fussed, teething, bouncing on her knee.
"Buenas noches," Hannah's smile is mind over matter as she swings open the door. Her grin hangs, suspended in the air, even after all the oxygen has rushed from the room.
"Hannah…hi," says Dexter, his eyes locking onto hers. This most welcome, unexpected guest. Pressed shirt, pants, looking fresh from the hairdresser because he is. Dexter, you look so handsome. Has it really been 18 months? A lifetime…
Hannah takes a step closer, her eyes wide, appraising. Her hands are shaking.
She draws back her arm and slaps him. He looks shocked, then hurt, for only a second.
"I know I deserve that, I know I-"
She steps back into her apartment and slams the door. Leans her back up against it, trying to stem the tide.
"Hannah?" She can hear his tinny, hollow voice coming from the other side of the door. Let him stay out there, away from her. Where he'd kept himself for so long. Depriving her, his own children.
She's fuming, she's MURDEROUS, she's… confused. He's alive. He's here. He has his reasons, he MUST have his reasons.
He's knocking again. She was terrified to open the door. She COULDN'T open the door, she couldn't open it fast enough. He's come all this way, from wherever he went after the hurricane. Go to him.
"Dexter!" her voice caught, broke, as she pulls open the door. Everything was happening so slow/fast, felt so wrenching/wonderful. "Dexter, you're here."
She puts her arms out to him and his arms enfold her. Hold her. He smells different, he feels the same, his already-stubbled face rubbing against the hollow of her neck. Time stops, folds back on itself, bringing her to that place where she had told him that if you never want to see me again tomorrow night, that would be alright, too.
"I'm sorry," he spoke into her hair, "I'm sorry I forgot my key."
"What?"
"I don't know where I dropped it, but your first floor neighbour was kind enough to let me in." He gestures to the small woman who had, at some unknown interval, appeared at his side. Lucia grins affectionately, a twinkle in her eye. "She said she recognized me from the pictures as… your husband."
"Well, yes, of course!" Hannah nods, quickly. Maybe too quickly. She gulps back her emotions.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet Mr. Moser," Lucia says in her amiable way. "Always away on business, it must be hard for you both. It makes my old heart happy to see a married couple obviously still so in love." Dexter slides to his hand to Hannah's waist, gives his best stage smile.
"This business trip was longer than usual. There were… a lot of delays," He looks into Hannah's eyes, lingering.
"You have a lot of explaining to do, but I'm sure we'll be just fine," Hannah responds lightly, feeling dizzy.
"Well, you obviously have a lot of catching up to do," Lucia leans forward, extending up on her palms the promised dessert on a covered plate circled with painted roses. "I just hope I brought enough rogel for the two of you."
* * *
Barrio Norte Nights 2
* * *
"Was she there the whole time? Did she… see, all that?" Hannah has her back to me, she's taken the cake from me and is bringing it to the kitchen. The apartment is open concept, brightly lit. The modern kitchen is small but functional, the cabinets a bright blue.
"No, no, she…" I pause, breath. Go stand by the window and take in the view. Buenos Aires. Finally. "She let me in, then she told me she needed to get something from her apartment. I took the stairs but she took the elevator."
Hannah doesn't say anything. She's going into cupboards looking for plates, she's digging in the cutlery drawer looking for forks. Her brow is furrowed. She looks beautiful. Her blonde hair is longer than ever, ending somewhere in the middle of her back. She's wearing a simple cream-coloured shift dress and sandals.
"Here." She comes over, holding a plate out to me. "Eat." I smile slightly, take the plate. She's already looking around, distractedly. "We'll… sit outside. The children are sleeping, I don't want to wake them."
I follow her out the French doors, tension bouncing between us like bullets ricocheting. But we have our food to soften the moment, distract us with the ceremony of sitting and eating, breaking the layers of pastry with our forks.
It's obscene that we should be acting as if this is normal. But it is only that, acting. I see the strain in Hannah's posture, her rigid back and shoulders. It's also obscene that I have the chance to make this real; evenings on the patio, children asleep in their beds, stars and streetlights shining.
"Does Harrison have a friend over?" I ask, finally.
"What?" She asks, mid-bite. I can tell she doesn't know what to think of me, what to feel. She is at her stillest when her mind is turning.
"You said the children are sleeping."
"Oh," she nods. Her face reddens slightly. Takes a sip of her wine, clears her throat. "They're your children, Dexter. Harrison and Debra. She's…" she pauses, tucks the hair behind her ears, "She'll be nine months old in a week." I do the math. Almost nine months old, 40 weeks of pregnancy… A daughter. Debra.
"That night, after dinner at Vogel's…"
"I was supposed to leave the next morning, go to Nassau." She pauses and our eyes meet. She smiles as she extends her hand, her fingers resting over my wrist.
"Plans change," I say.
"Tell me about it," Hannah sighs. She frowns. "But you need to tell me why, Dexter. You owe me one hell of an explanation." I nod.
"I don't know how long it will take," I say, "to explain myself, or what happened. My mistakes caught up with me. I buried Dexter Morgan in Miami. I needed to figure out who I am." I surprise myself that I can even say that much so succinctly. I had wanted to die, I hadn't, I had disconnected myself from everyone and everything that had mattered. Adrift. For the second time since Hurricane Laura, I had somehow, miraculously found myself at shore.
We finish our desserts in silence. I guess I was hungry because it doesn't take very long. Hannah's is half-eaten, she's turning her fork on her plate. When she sees that I'm done, she stands and begins cleaning up.
"Well, Dexter," Hannah says, her voice hard and expression inscrutable behind a curtain of hair, "You let me know when you figure it all out. Who you are. Who we are to you." She clatters the plates together with the forks, the noise is discordant. "Maybe you'll have it figured all out in another two years. Maybe you'll be the man who was Harrison's father, Debra's father, who was the man I wanted to spend my life with." She looks up at me. "Or not."
That's enough, Dexter.
Enough damage.
Enough being the monster.
I take both of her hands in mine, pull her in front of me. "Hannah, I love you." She looks away, her eyes glisten. "I want to be here with you, and Harrison, and I want to meet my daughter. I want us to be a family."
"You have no idea," she closes her eyes, a tear rolls down her cheek. "How long I've waited to hear those words."
I pull her onto my lap, she rests her head on my chest. I press her hand over my heart, hold it there, let her feel it beating as I come alive again. I feel the calm wash over me, the long-sought stillness.
This is my resting place, the centre of the universe. My Argentina.
"You're it for me, Dexter," she whispers into my ear. "Welcome home."
*FIN*