Chapter 3 - The Cold Living Room
Darkness swallowed the estate, broken only by the cold, silvery beams of moonlight slicing through the tall bay windows. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed twelve times, a hollow, mournful toll that seemed to seal my fate.
On the floor, my physical body was growing visibly colder. The skin of my face had lost its natural ivory tone, settling into an ashen, waxy pallor. The small pool of blood near my temple had stopped spreading, its edges turning dark and stiff against the grain of the floorboards.
Maisie had not moved from my side.
She had dragged her favorite pastel-pink fleece blanket from the living room sofa, puffing and grunting as she hauled the heavy fabric across the floor. With agonizing care, she spread it over my legs and torso, smoothing the edges with her tiny, clumsy hands.
“There, Mommy,” she whispered in the dark, her voice trembling in the silence. “Now you won't be cold.”
I knelt beside her, weeping tears that left no wetness on my cheeks. “Oh, my sweet girl. My brave, beautiful baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry Mommy can’t get up.”
I tried to wrap my arms around her, pressing my face into her hair. For a fleeting instant, she paused, looking up into the empty air, her eyes blinking rapidly. She reached up a small hand, touching the air right where my cheek hovered.
“Mommy?” she asked softly. “It smells like your lavender.”
A surge of energy pulsed through my spiritual form. It was true—she couldn't see me, but the bond between a mother and her child was thicker than the veil of death. She could feel the subtle shift in temperature, the lingering fragrance of the lavender oil I wore on my wrists.
“Yes, Maisie, it’s Mommy,” I spoke, pouring every ounce of will into the words. “You have to be brave, sweetheart. You have to find help.”
Maisie climbed onto the dining room chair—the very chair Brooke had yanked away. She reached onto the table, her fingers stretching until she knocked over Cole’s half-empty scotch glass, the dark liquid soaking into the white linen tablecloth. Beside the plate lay the house cordless phone, left behind by the caterers.
She grabbed the receiver, sliding down from the chair with a heavy thump, landing on her knees.
She crawled back to my body and held the phone against my ear.
“Mommy, talk to Daddy,” she urged. “Push the buttons, Mommy. Tell Daddy you’re sleeping.”
My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. She didn't understand the concept of death. To her innocent mind, I was just terribly, stubbornly asleep, exhausted from the party, resting under the blanket she had provided.
She took the phone back and pressed her thumb against the illuminated green button.
The phone automatically speed-dialed the primary number programmed into the base station: Cole’s private cell phone.
I floated beside her, watching the screen glow in the dark room.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
On the fourth ring, the line clicked open. The background noise was filled with the rhythmic thumping of bass from a high-end lounge in Manhattan, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and Brooke’s shrill laughter.
“What is it now, Mara?” Cole’s voice barked through the speaker, thick with irritation and alcohol. “I told you, I am not coming back tonight. If you’re calling to apologize for ruining my dinner, save it for tomorrow.”
Maisie gripped the phone with two hands, pressing the plastic hard against her mouth.
“Daddy?” she squeaked.
Silence descended on Cole’s end of the line, the music momentarily muffled as if he had covered the receiver.
“Maisie?” Cole’s tone shifted from anger to sharp annoyance. “Why are you awake? Where is your mother? Give the phone to Mara.”
“Mommy won't talk, Daddy,” Maisie whimpered, fresh tears spilling over her eyelashes. “Mommy is very, very cold. Her hair has red paint on it. I put the blanket on her, but her hands won't hold mine.”
“Red paint?” Cole scoffed, his voice laced with pure cynicism. In the background, I heard Brooke ask who was on the phone, and Cole muttered, “It’s the kid. Mara put her up to this.”
He spoke back into the phone, his voice dripping with condescension. “Maisie, put your mother on the line right now. Tell her this is the lowest, most pathetic stunt she has ever pulled. Using a three-year-old child to fake an injury because she’s jealous of Brooke? Tell her if she doesn't stop this nonsense immediately, I’m cutting her allowance in half.”
“Daddy, please—” Maisie sobbed. “Mommy’s eyes are open, but she doesn't see me!”
“Go to bed, Maisie. Go to your room right now. I’ll deal with both of you in the morning.”
The line went dead. The harsh, mechanical drone of the disconnect tone buzzed through the dark dining room.
Maisie lowered the phone. She looked at the blank screen, then looked back at my still, frozen face. A profound, terrifying realization finally settled into her tiny mind: Daddy was not coming to save us.
She curled up on the hard floor, tucking her small knees against my limp arm, pulling the edge of the pink blanket over her own shoulders.
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“I’ll stay with you, Mommy,” she whispered into the dark, her small body shivering against the cold air. “I won't leave you alone.”
And as I watched my daughter fall asleep against my corpse, a terrifying, crystalline rage began to ignite within my spirit. If the living world would not bring justice for my child, then the dead would have to find a way to intervene.
