—in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
—Pablo Neruda
I’ve seen aspects of her in different women over the years—a passing face, a fleeting look, a smile that gleams and is gone.
She’s elusive as the faint scent of perfume in an empty room—or a tiny star twinkling, on the horizon at dawn.
She’s every woman and no woman—and she haunts me like a song.
Edith's eyes filled with tears. “That’s really lovely, David—so wistful and sad.”
She looked at me with such compassion it made me regret showing her my journal at all.
What is it about half-empty bars at night that makes men want to confess to women?
“So now you know the secret of my life—why I’ve never married, or even come close. Still holding out hope of finding a ghost.”
She ignores my cynical remark and daubs at her eyes with a Kleenex. “I knew you were a kind and sensitive man. You’re just the type I could trust to find Laura—if anyone can find her at all.”
“Then you don’t believe the reports she’s dead?”
“No! Laura and I are closer than twin sisters—I know it sounds mystical, but I sense she’s out there and wants me to know she’s all right.”
I sip at my rye and stare out at the rainy streets.
“Look Edith, I sympathize with you, but nothing really adds up. If you two are as close as you say, then why hasn’t she contacted you to reassure you—and for that matter, why did she run away in the first place?”
“But that’s just the point—she had to do it this way. Walter Phillips has been oppressive and controlling—he’s convinced himself he’s moulded her into a celebrity, and now wants to possess her completely.”
I try to wrap my mind around what she’s telling me.
“I still don’t get their relationship—I know Phillips is a controller and her mentor, but he doesn’t own her—she’s free to tell him to go to hell anytime she wants.”
“And I’ve told her that many times, but he seems to exercise some power over her—that man is a demon and has dominated her life.”
A silence falls between us and I struggle with what to say next. I don’t want to crush her hopes, but have to say something.
“Here’s the problem, Edith—they’ve got security footage from that small airport in Kentucky. A woman wearing Laura’s clothes, using her I.D. boarded a plane."
She shook her head in denial.
I go on, "admittedly the camera footage is murky, and the authorities still haven’t been able to locate the plane wreck, but when they do, the odds are they’ll recover Laura’s body.”
She fluffs off my objections by handing me a thick dossier.
“Open this and you’ll find everything you’ll need to know about Laura—her correspondence, her diary, her appointment book—I’ll even grant you access to her condo so you can see if there’s anything the police may have missed.”
I scan through the contents—the amount of information is impressive.
“There’s a check enclosed in the sum of twenty thousand dollars,” she continues, “that’s how certain I am you’ll locate her.”
“Look, I’m a newspaper reporter—not the FBI—hell, I’m not even a private investigator…”
She puts her hand over mine, “I know all that—but I also know you’re a top investigative reporter and I’ve known you long enough to conclude you’ve got a knack for getting to the bottom of things. Please do this for me.”
The desperate look in her eyes convinces me to take the case.
If nothing else, I’ll write a series of articles I can sell to the highest bidder—but deep inside, I’m hoping the story has a better ending.
“Oh, by the way, do you have a picture of Laura?” I ask.
She pulls a file folder out of the dossier and hands me an 8 x10 glossy photo of the girl of my dreams. I begin to go cold and start to tremble.
“This—this is Laura?” I stammer.
She looks at me puzzled. “Yes, it’s a recent publicity photo. Why—what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have seen a ghost. This is the face I’ve been seeing all these years—in dreams, in crowds, or through the window of a passing train. It’s incredible. I’m not sure what’s happening to me.”
She stares at me a few moments and then whispers, “Maybe it’s fate—maybe you and Laura were destined to be.”
The rest of the night is a blur.
I wake up at noon the next day, collapsed on my couch, smelling of rye and still wearing my overcoat.
I spend the rest of the afternoon going through Laura’s journals and by the time I’m finished, I’m infatuated with this mysterious stranger.
That night as I lie in bed, doubts begin to niggle at me—a voice inside my head tells me I’m wasting my time—poor Laura is dead, and my romantic dreams of having finally fallen in love are a sham.
I hate to admit it, but it’s probably true—in all likelihood, I’ve fallen in love with a corpse.