Paul handed me an aspirin and a glass of water, waited until I’d swallowed both down, then tucked me into bed beside him.
I dropped into a fitful sleep.
It was still dark when somebody called my name. ‘Hannah!’
I clawed my way up through a cotton-wool world, willing myself awake.
‘Hannah!’
After struggling for what seemed like eternity, I managed to open my eyes.
A figure stood at the end of the bed. I could see her plainly in the light spilling in from the street lamp outside our window. Susan Parker, dressed the way she had been on the day I first met her on Foss Street.
My heart flopped, began to flutter. Susan was dead. I had seen her body. I was dreaming, I had to be. But if so, how could I feel Paul lying next to me, hear him softly snoring, see the breeze actually lifting the curtains?
I tried to sit up, but I was paralysed. A great weight pressed down on my chest. Air, I needed air! My heart raced and I tried to call out – Susan! – but my vocal cords seemed to be paralysed, too.
Susan beamed. ‘Basingstoke,’ she said. ‘Does that mean anything to you, Hannah?’
Suddenly, my little finger was free. I nudged Paul’s thigh with it, trying to get his attention, calling his name. ‘Puh, Puh, Puh.’
From the foot of the bed, Susan began to sing, her purple forelock quivering over her brow. ‘“Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba said the monkey to the chimp. Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba said the chimpy to the monk.”’ She paused, cocked her head in the listening posture I knew so well. ‘Your mother tells me this song makes her smile.’
It made me smile, too. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but when I was a toddler, Mother had to sit in the chair next to my bed and sing ‘Abba Dabba Honeymoon’ three times through exactly before I would agree to go to sleep.
What’s the message? My brain screamed, but nothing came out of my mouth.
‘“Then the big baboon, one night in June, he married them and very soon…”’ Susan sang in a clear, high soprano.
The message! Tell me! Please!
Susan pressed her hands together, rocked back and forth on her toes. ‘Tell your father he should marry Cornelia. It’s been a long time, your mother says, and he deserves a little happiness.’
As I watched, working my pinky as hard as I could – ‘Puh, Puh, Puh’ – Susan Parker faded away, the last lines of the song – they went upon their abba dabba honeymoon – lingering in the air while I lay there like a rock, struggling to breathe.
‘Puh, puh, puh!’ After what seemed like hours, I felt my husband stir. His hand found my shoulder and jostled me. ‘Hannah, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.’
My body relaxed at his touch. I could move my fingers, my hand, my arm. ‘Paul…’ I was hot and cold all at the same time. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
Paul caressed my cheek. ‘Jeesh, Hannah, what’s wrong? Are you having a hot flash or something?’
I lay there in confusion, trying to sort it out. What had just happened? Visitation or dream? I shivered. Either way, Susan’s advice was sound, and I planned to share it with my father.
Grateful that I could move again, I got up and closed the window, rubbing my arms briskly for warmth. I scurried across the carpet and climbed back into bed, snuggling close as Paul wrapped his arms around me.
‘I just had the weirdest dream,’ I said, matching the curve of his body with my own.
‘Mmmmm.’ He nuzzled my neck.
‘Do you think the spirits can see us when we’re naked?’ I asked.
‘I suppose so.’
‘When we’re on the toilet?’
‘Sure.’
‘How about when we’re making love?’
Paul kissed my forehead, my nose and my lips, tickling them with his tongue in the way that drives me crazy. ‘Our last night in Dartmouth, Hannah.’
When I came up for air, I said, ‘But we’ll come back, won’t we? I just love it here.’
‘Of course. And we’ll stay at Horn Hill House, too.’
‘Paul?’ I asked as he began to nibble on my earlobe. ‘Do me a favor?’
‘What’s that?’ he mumbled
‘When we come back, let’s ask Janet for a different room.’
About the Author
Marcia Talley’s first Hannah Ives novel, Sing It to Her Bones, won the Malice Domestic Grant in 1998 and was nominated for an Agatha Award as Best First Novel of 1999. Unbreathed Memories, the second in the series, appeared in 2000. Both were Featured Alternates of the Mystery Guild. She is also the editor of a collaborative serial novel, Naked Came the Phoenix, where she joins twelve bestselling women authors to pen a tongue-in-cheek mystery about murder in an exclusive health spa. Her short stories have appeared in magazines and collections.
Marcia lives in Annapolis, Maryland, with her husband Barry, a professor at the U.S. Naval Academy. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time traveling or sailing. Marcia and her husband recently returned from the Bahamas, where they lived for six months on Troubadour, their thirty-seven-foot sailboat.
