Chapter 4
November
Five Months Until The Wedding
I spend the next seventy-two hours fixating on the curse. Three whole days for my mind to turn it over in my brain, to play with every potential loophole, to come up short each time. After two nights of poor sleep, I do the only thing I know will distract me: throw myself into my day job.
Sunlight streams through my apartment window and onto the kitchen table just big enough for two.
For me and my cat, Kotka, that is. I place another file on top of the ever-growing stack of grant applications.
They take up every available inch of the small wooden table.
I open the next file in line and take a bite of my cereal, the bowl propped precariously on my knee while I sit cross-legged.
It’s a picture-perfect Saturday. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than this turn-of-the-century East Village apartment with its creaky floorboards and windows that stick, poring over applications from some of the most impressive organizations in the city.
I scoop Kotka up by her belly and place her on my lap so I can read the page she was sitting on.
The Marchane Society. I devour their application in one sitting, taking notes on their stats and previous funders.
These organizations put foundations to shame with the work they do.
A loud vibrating noise wakes me from my trance. My phone. It must be buried somewhere under all these papers. I shuffle around a few of the manila folders. Kotka hops from my lap as I stand to reach the opposite side of the table. No luck.
I pause and listen for the telling vibration. The sound is coming from beneath the table. I crouch and search the floor, hands roving until I find Kotka’s bed, which is practically shaking. She lies there, batting at the phone with a dainty pink paw.
“Give me that, social butterfly.”
I snatch the phone, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. “Hey, Carter.”
“Liiiib.” His voice is smooth as silk. Confident. Not a hint of what happened the other day. “What are you up to this fine Saturday morning?”
There’s a faint beat of music with heavy bass in the background, along with indistinguishable chatter. He must be out. Brunch, I’m guessing.
“I’m working.”
“You’ve really gotta cut that out.”
“We’ve been over this. Some of us care about making a difference in the world.”
“Ouch! Someone’s feisty today.” He laughs. “Been watching the movie adaptation of that one book again?”
“Ugh. Don’t even get me started.” I grip the phone tighter. “They cast the main character way too young. And for the love of god, someone should be fired for letting the lead actor keep his mustache.”
“Alright, easy, tiger.” The ambient noise grows louder through the phone, but right now it’s just the two of us in this bubble. “Let’s save the takedown of Hollywood for after eleven in the morning.”
“Fine, fine. By the way, have you heard of this organization called the Marchane Society?”
“Nope.”
“I’m going to send you their info. They’re doing great things to improve literacy in elementary schools.
They have impressive stats on acceptance rates and scholarship awards for the children involved.
I’m planning to recommend them to our board, but worth it for you or one of your foundation folks to take a look. ”
“Yeah, send me their stuff. Speaking of, do you have a tutoring session with Yesenia this week?”
“No, she’s getting some much-needed vacation time over school break.” I suck on my teeth. “Before the craziness of college applications begins.”
“She’ll be great. Hey, two please!” There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line.
It’s easy for Carter to say, but college applications carry a lot more weight and uncertainty for those of us who aren’t legacy applicants and are the first in our families to go to college.
He interrupts my thought. “I wanted to ask you something, though.”
I refocus my attention. “Okay, shoot.”
“You’ll be with Mom at the luncheon tomorrow, right? I was wondering if you might be able to get any intel on what she wants for Christmas.”
“And you called me in the middle of brunch to ask me this?”
“Hey! I wanted to call while the thought was fresh. Also, I wanted to check in on you…after.”
After the run. After the almost accident. After we were reminded of Carter’s fate.
He clears his throat. “So, you good?”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “Yeah, Carter. Are you?”
It’s the most we’ll ever acknowledge it. He’ll ignore it ever happened, along with our subsequent conversation about the curse, and I’ll avoid any disturbance of the peace. Maybe we’re not as open with each other as I’d like to think.
“I am. Hey, let’s go for a run Thursday. Meet at our spot. And send me the info for the Marchane Society.” Just when I thought he wasn’t listening. That’s Carter for you. “Oh, and remember! Christmas present. Just slip it into the conversation somehow.”
“I will.”
“Thanks. You’re the best, Lib.”
I hang up without responding and stare at the black screen of the phone in my hand. My reflection stares back at me with a goofy, pathetic smile.
“Still got it bad for him, don’t you?”
I nearly jump out of my skin and whirl around.
It’s him.
Trip Coldwell. The man—or ghost—from the Coldwell library is standing in my living room.
His cashmere’s been replaced with a simple white button-down and navy slacks.
The shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the two top buttons are undone, revealing the tan column of his neck.
His brown shoes shine like new, not a scuff in sight.
“Uh—” I grasp for appropriate words but my mind is a blank.
It’s happening. Again. Hallucinating a ghost once is concerning.
Twice—I need to get my brain checked. But then, there were those articles and news stories on Trip.
I didn’t make him up. This man might actually be standing here.
Among the hundreds of questions swirling in my brain, I finally land on one. “How did you get in here?”
He grins. “Lack of corporeal form. Or have you forgotten?”
My muscles tense. “You mean—”
“You didn’t imagine it.” Trip swipes his hand through the television as though it were air. He holds it up and inspects his fingers one by one. “This is very real, sweetheart.”
My stomach bottoms out and I can’t feel my extremities, but I’ll never show it. “Don’t sweetheart me.”
“Alright. What would you prefer I call you? Elzbieta?”
My jaw slackens. “How—”
“You’re a very difficult woman to locate, you know.
Doesn’t help that I’m severely limited when it comes to interacting with the physical world.
I had to stand over the shoulder of the poor teenager responsible for typing up and mailing out the St. Miriam’s alumni magazine.
Made me feel like a creep. With a nickname like Libby, I figured it was short for Elizabeth.
Do you know how many Elizabeths graduated the same year as Carter? Oof.”
I reach behind me, feeling for the closest item that can be used as a weapon. Unfortunately, the best I can do is the orange juice carton. “I don’t know if this is some kind of trick or what, but you need to leave.”
“Come to find your name isn’t even Elizabeth, it’s Elzbieta. Elzbieta Lakoski.” He tips his head to the side. “Have you ever gone by Elz?”
“I went to law school,” I say nonsensically, clutching the orange juice container. “I know…lawyers.”
He strokes his chin. “Yeah. I think I’ll call you Elz.”
“This won’t work, whatever you’re trying to do. The reason you’re stalking me.”
A grin spreads across his face. “I prefer to call it ‘haunting.’ ”
“What do you want?” I bare my teeth and raise the orange juice carton above my shoulder like a club.
Trip crosses his legs, completely at ease.
“A few things, actually. I couldn’t help but be curious about the only person who’s been able to see me, the only one I’ve been able to have a conversation with in months.
I needed to confirm it wasn’t a fluke.” He nods to the orange juice container in my hand. “Happy to report it’s not.”
“You tracked all of the Elizabeths from St. Miriam’s to have a conversation?”
He examines his fingernails. “You’d be surprised how starved I am for interaction. But also, I wanted to check if you’re still planning your light sabotage of Carter’s wedding.” His voice is calm, but when his eyes meet mine, a muscle twitches in his neck.
I narrow mine in response, studying him. This man tracked me across New York. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, he must be angling for something. I just need to figure out what it is and get him out of my apartment.
“Why do you care? Also, it’s hardly like I have a master plan.”
More like a half-baked idea, at best. A rant fueled by heartache and gin, compounded by the fact that I cannot live in New York without Carter.
Or at least, the New York he has access to.
Prior to age thirteen I was completely unaware of the separate world taking place behind velvet stanchions.
A world requiring a ticket, a level of acceptance, and acknowledgment that you are “worthy” of being there.
Without Carter, that world will disappear for me.
“Why am I the only one who can see you, anyway? Does it have to do with the letter opener?” It looked like one of Babcia’s crystals. Something that might be used to call on spirits—if that’s how those things even work.
His eyebrows shoot skyward. “The le—you mean the one you unceremoniously threw at my head?”
“I was aiming for the couch.”
Trip makes a sound in the back of his throat, studying me.
He runs a finger along the TV console, and he looks so solid, so real.
There’s none of the ethereal glow or translucency I’ve come to expect from spirits in the movies.
The planes of his forehead and cheeks catch the light from the nearby window; the hollow of his throat is in shadow.
By appearance alone, this is a real man.