I had been watching for months, and I nothing I saw convinced me that I was wrong when I told Violet that her and her husband - even the voice in my head sneered out the term - didn't love each other.
Well, more accurately, she didn't love him. Not like he loved her. Not like she had loved me. Every day he'd come home and always follow the same routine, always, no matter how exhausted he looked; finding her as soon as he was through the door. There was the expected hug and chaste kiss as he sat down with her and told her about his day. Every single insignificant detail poured out of his mouth. He wanted her opinion on everything, valued it above everyone else's it seemed.
She listened to him patiently, intently as he talked, offering up little comments here and there, but it was an unequal exchange. She told him next to nothing about her life, what was going on in her head, anything. It made me hopeful because it seemed ridiculous that he thought he had any grasp of her, and I thought that maybe his lack of prying past the superficial crumbs she gave him meant he really didn't love her either.
That bubble burst as soon as she came home one day looking upset and after some needling she admitted to missing her mom and brothers, who she hadn't seen since their wedding. I wasn't at all surprised when he came home a few days later with an envelope bearing a round trip ticket to Florida, first class. I fleetingly thought of cutting the brake lines in his car as I watched her kiss him 'thank you', taking care of her in a way I never could.
When she left he dutifully carried her bags downstairs, drove her to the airport even though he couldn't go with her because he couldn't get the time off work. With her gone on a long weekend I was lost, again. I didn't sink into the fabric of the house this time though. Instead I holed up in her old room, taking the opportunity to dig into her life.
Not that I hadn't before, but it was only cursory, too aware that someone living could walk in at any moment to thoroughly riffle through her stuff. I thought she might have known, the way she'd look at some object with annoyance like it wasn't perfectly how she left it, even though I was always careful that way. She never said anything about it to anyone, even Moira.
I started with her desk; nothing exceptional there just pens, printer paper and stacks of neatly labeled files. I pulled a few out, setting them down in the spot her laptop usually occupied. Each contained a neatly typed top sheet, the name of what I soon figured out were movies bolded at the top, then the year it was released, the director, etc. listed below with a summary at the bottom. Some files contained only that, others had pages of her notes neatly organized.
They didn't concern me much since they weren't personal. I put them back and pushed myself up to rummage in the closet. She had hung up clothes, cold weather stuff meant to combat the chill of snow that she'd never need in L.A. I searched the pockets, coming up with a half empty pack of cigarettes, chapstick, and movie ticket stubs.
I pulled down the boxes on the shelf above the clothes, two were heavy with old textbooks, highlighted, and full of notes scribbled in the margins in her handwriting. One of them contained what looked like every paper she'd written in college; her diploma, framed, was under them. I didn't bother reading them, they wouldn't give me any insight into what was going on with her.
I thought I'd hit the jackpot when I pulled the last two boxes down though. One contained various knickknacks, souvenirs from trips she'd taken, the other packed with plastic folders full of pictures, neatly labeled. There were several with the names of cities, both here and abraod, on the front with dates under them, clearly from trips she'd taken; only the ones dated in the last two years contained images of Callum or the both of them.
There was another folder labeled "Mom, Dylan, and Jeffrey" that had pictures of Vivien with two boys who were Ben in miniature; showing them ranging in age from lumps in blankets to their first school pictures. There were others labeled 'friends', 'Cal's Family', but none of Ben, which amused me probably more than it should.
Everything that I found though had shown me one thing: there was a gaping black hole in her life. She had nothing that showed her life before the last four years. Nothing; no journals, notes, pictures, anything. It was like she sprung into being as a college Freshman and had started living her life from that point forward. I wondered if she'd simply thrown anything that reminded her of it in the trash, or done something with more symbolism, like burning it. I wondered too how much that guy really knew about her.
She came home, safe and sound, and I went back to watching, cataloging every little thing she did; things no one else would have noticed, and he definitely didn't. She never seemed comfortable in his arms, never wanted to stay there any longer than civility allowed. She'd twist out of his grasp when they watched T.V.; playfully bat away his hands as she washed dishes, always finding some task to use as an excuse even though Moira was around. He took it as kindness that she was trying to help out the aged maid, but I knew better.
The best part, the absolute best part, was watching them sleep because she never curled around him the way she did me, and every time he did it to her she'd wait until he was asleep to move and get comfortable in such a way that he was barely touching her. I loved it, and not just because I hated seeing him touch her, but because when she thought no one was watching she hated it too.
I should be working on my research project I thought as I looked out the window. I was standing at the window of my old room watching the strong winds send leaves and debris through the air. The room was now my study; it looked almost the same, minus a bed. We had been here four months and the house had been eerily quiet; the only ghost I'd seen since that first week was Moira, and whenever I brought it up she looked angry and refused to talk about it.
I caught a movement out of my peripheral vision and turned to see Tate sitting in the chair I usually read in. He was looking down and running his palms over the fabric as if feeling it for the first time. "You going to tell me why the house has been so normal, or do I have to guess?"
"Guess."
"If it's not haunted we won't leave. You know I don't want to be here, and it's your way of keeping me trapped because I can't tell him why I want to leave without sounding insane."
"I want to understand." He said quietly. "I want to understand why you married him." He never raised his eyes.
"I don't think you will."
"Try."
I sat down across from him, putting the cigarettes and lighter on the small table between us. He reached for them with shaking hands, never meeting my eyes. "I love him, not like I loved you, but I do love him. I don't want to hurt him, I want good things for him, and he makes me happy. He makes me forget, or he did before we came here. He's a good person, and he's good to me, and it's nothing to do with money. He wants me to be happy. This house... that's what he was trying to do. I had a picture of it up on my mirror in my dorm room forever; he thought it was because I loved the house."
"Why did you have it?"
What a stupid fucking question. "It reminded me of you."
He finally raised his eyes to me. "Do you still love me?" His voice was guarded, but there was an awful note of hope deeply under that.
"There's no simple answer to that, Tate." I looked at the ring on my finger. "There never has been."
"Why not?" His voice was unexpectedly loud and it startled me.
"Because what if I do love you? What does that look like? You're dead. Are we going to be Wendy and Peter Pan until I die? Or should I just kill myself right now? I didn't want that 6 years ago, and I don't want it now. I'm not you."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You're happy here with this semblance of life. It was your end, it always was; you had been dead long before those bullets ever hit you. I'm not you. I didn't want to be stuck in limbo six years ago, and I don't want it now."
"You wanted to be stuck in a half-life with a man you don't love." His tone was sharp, biting.
"You can lie to him, even to yourself, but you can't lie to me. I know you, Vi. He may not see the things that I see, but I know you don't love him."
"Don't be so naive." I snapped. "You think what we had is the only kind of love there is? Just because it's different doesn't mean it isn't love."
"Do you think everybody gets handed that gift of what we had?" He snapped back. "You've always been loved, since the day you were born. Your parents loved you, your friends loved you, I loved you, and then you got married and He loves you."
"I don't -"
"You take it for granted that you will be loved." He finished with an irritated huff.
I leaned back in the chair and looked at him. "Love is rarely enough." I kept the anger out of my voice; it was a simple statement of fact. "I don't know what you've said to the other ghosts, but we need to move out-"
He cut me off, slightly panicked. "Why?"
"Because it feels like this house won't let go of me, and I don't want to die here, Tate!"
"I told you I wouldn't let anyone or anything hurt you, Vi." His voice was so soft and gentle it made my eyes prickle with tears at the memories it brought back.
"Is that why you follow me around? Is this protection what you're doing?"
"I just want you to be near you. Even if I have to watch you with him every night, you're here."
I couldn't take the pain in his voice and on his face anymore, so I walked around and sat on the table between us, reaching my hand out and cupping his cheek, which was wet with tears. "Please Tate, you have to stop. It only hurts you... and me."
He put his hand over mine, and I felt that still familiar aching need for him. "I'll stop when you stop loving me." He leaned in towards me, and I walked out if for no other reason than to hide my tears.
"She made the right choice." Moira walked out of the shadows of the basement. "Even if you can't see it she did. She married someone who loves her, and who can give her a beautiful life. You're not doing her any favors keeping her here."
"What if I don't care?"
"Are you going to watch her forever? Watch her have kids and raise a family? She wanted a life. She loved you, but she didn't want to die. She made the choice she could live with."
"I hope she has girls." Little girls that looked just like her.
"You're not thinking of what's best for her, only what's best for you."
"I don't care."
