When it became clear that her parents might hesitate to leave when visiting hours ended, Bibi pretended to be falling asleep even as the hospital bed held her in a sitting position. They were at last set in motion by the lubrication of kisses, hugs, and reassurances.
Bibi missed them the moment they left the room, but she didn’t call them back. Alone, she took the drawstring bag from the nightstand and from it retrieved a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen. She wasn’t in the mood to read the paperback that she had brought, and the TV had no appeal. Instead, in neat cursive, she recorded the events of the day, with special attention to everything that she had felt and thought with each unsettling development. What most intrigued her, for reasons she could not quite define, was that she had harkened back more than once to those years in the Corona del Mar bungalow, when as a young girl she had believed in magic.
Early on a Sunday morning in February of that rainy winter, six weeks before the dog came dripping and nameless along the sidewalk from the sea, Bibi Blair took one of the spare keys to the apartment off a Peg-Board in the pantry, quietly left the kitchen, and eased the door shut as she stepped onto the back porch of the bungalow.
Her parents were sleeping late, which they often did on this first morning of the week. Nancy had no open houses to oversee, as she did on some Sundays. And in this off-season, Pet the Cat welcomed shoppers only Monday through Saturday. They had been out well past midnight with friends, leaving Bibi in the care of Chastity Brickle, an insufferably self-absorbed fifteen-year-old babysitter who had no doubt already—and more than once—failed to live up to her first name. They would not stir for another couple of hours.
Rain had fallen before dawn. Now the low gray sky looked more like ashes than like a scrubwoman’s sodden rags. Bibi didn’t bother with an umbrella but quickly wended her way among the puddles in the brick-paved courtyard, to the garage at the back of the property.
At the top of the open stairs, standing on the balcony, she looked back and down upon the bungalow, half expecting to be caught. Her mom and dad were unaware that she spent time in the apartment, and although there was nothing shameful in what she was doing, she preferred that they never learned about those visits.
The front door opened on a small kitchen. Blue Formica counters. Blue-and-gray speckled linoleum floor. A dinette table and two chairs. Last year’s wall calendar revealed the page for November. Although the digital clock on the microwave oven glowed with the correct time, the refrigerator did not hum, having been turned off weeks ago. The air was still and cool and faintly musty.
Bibi never turned on the lights, lest they reveal her presence even in the daytime, which they would have done on this dim morning. Although lacking blinds, the two kitchen windows admitted only gray light as feeble as misted moonglow.
In the center of the table stood the round, narrow-necked white vase, from which had often flowered a few roses or carnations. The vase stood empty, its glaze softly radiant in the gloom, as though it might be a milky crystal ball placed there for a pending séance.
She stood staring at the floor beside the first chair, where the dead body had been found. All the blood had been cleaned up long ago, but Bibi thought—imagined?—that the faintest trace of it remained on the air, a cruel smell. She wrinkled her nose in repugnance.
This place had no charm anymore, and after these visits, she felt sad and unsettled. Sometimes bad dreams followed. Yet she kept returning. She didn’t fully understand what drew her there. She would never find anything to make sense of what had happened. It just was what it was, her parents said, and of course they were right.
In addition to the kitchen, the apartment included a living room and bedroom, both furnished, plus a bath and a walk-in closet. She usually toured the entire place, alert and observant, and yet as if she were half in a dream state, seeking she knew not what. On this occasion, however, as she crossed the kitchen toward the living-room door, which stood slightly ajar, she halted at the thump of footsteps elsewhere in the apartment.
Both the bedroom and the living room featured hardwood floors that were less than half covered with area carpets. The tread sounded like that of a large man, and a few floorboards creaked under weight, not with every step taken, but often enough to confirm that these were indeed footsteps in the apartment rather than a noise from outside.
In spite of the fact that she had been the one who found the body back in the day, Bibi was not at first alarmed, only intrigued. Just then she realized that she had been coming here in expectation of some encounter. What the nature of that encounter might be, she could not say even now, but she had anticipated it, and here it was.
Louder, louder grew the footsteps. Definitely in the living room now. Slowly approaching the door to the kitchen.