December 18, 2024

BENCHES
By Caroline Taylor

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.


The nightmares didn’t come as often lately, so maybe I was healing. At least I was no longer strapped to the bed—“for your own safety, dear”—and I could now roam the grounds without being shadowed by a watchful attendant. It wasn’t because they feared I would escape. I could leave anytime I wished. But, for a while at the beginning, they thought I was suicidal.

Okay. That part was true. When you are as traumatized as I was, when the terror and guilt never seem to abate, you often find yourself thinking you’d be better off dead. The thing stopping me was Lily. She would not understand. She might never forgive either.

On my daily walks, I noticed the benches scattered over the institute’s spacious lawn. They were wrought iron with enough room to seat two. They were strategically placed in shady areas so you’d have a lovely view of the lake or the stream or the rose garden and especially the blue mountains in the distance.

Nobody sat on them.

I tried it once because I needed to remove a stone from my shoe. I looked up as a woman rounded the bend in the path and approached me.

She stopped, hand to her mouth. “You don’t want to sit there, dear. Agnes wouldn’t like it.”

“Who’s Agnes?”

She pointed at the metal plaque embedded in the cement at my feet.

IN MEMORIAM
Agnes Rutherford Beale
“farewell to every fear”


Still seated, I looked up at the woman. She was older than me, a bit of gray in her hair, crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Most of the “guests”—we didn’t use the term inmate or patient here—were over forty. I was thirty-two, which was why everyone called me “dear” or “dearie.” “Agnes is dead, I take it?”

“From way before I came here,” the woman replied. “They don’t like it when you sit on their bench.”

Ah well. What could you expect? Many of the guests at The Refuge had mental issues. Without regular medication, some of them tended to be a bit ... fanciful.

“I gather you believe in ghosts.” I tried to soften my comment with a smile.

The woman sniffed. “Sit there long enough, and you’ll see.” She shook her head like I was some kind of idiot and angrily strode off.

I didn’t linger, not because I believed her but because I wanted to finish my circuit of the grounds in time for lunch.

On subsequent walks, I would stop at each bench on my route and read the plaques. They were quite similar: IN MEMORIAM, followed by a woman’s name (this was not a co-ed facility), and a homily of some sort. I had nothing better to do, so I decided I would become a ghost hunter. I would sit at each of the benches and wait patiently for a visitor from the afterlife. I would do this for at least a week, and if nothing happened, it would put the lie to the poor woman’s delusion.

I did not have long to wait. I’d brought a book with me, and was deep into a captivating story of love lost and found amid the chaos of the French Revolution when I sensed—smelled, really—a presence beside me. Lavender. I looked up but saw nothing, so I went back to the story where Celestine’s lover had just been arrested and was headed for the guillotine.

“It’s a waste of time.” The voice belonged to a woman who sounded like my high school algebra teacher.

With a start, I looked around, but of course the teacher wasn’t there. “I have nothing better to do,” I said, as if there was somebody actually seated beside me.

“You know it’s not true.”

I felt the hairs on my arms stand up, and I closed the book. “I don’t think any of this is your business.”

“Of course not.” She snorted. Actually snorted. “It doesn’t make me a liar, though.”

I crossed my arms. “What would be a better use of my time then?”

“You figure it out.”

There was an absence now, as though a real person had stood up and walked away. The only human beings I could see were two women, talking and gesturing as they passed through the rose garden.

Later, I realized that any decent ghost hunter had to produce evidence. I couldn’t see the woman who’d just spoken to me—according to the plaque, she must have been Priscilla Rose Gerhardt, “carpe diem”—but I could use my phone to record her voice. If she showed up again. But I also wondered if this was some sort of prank. Perhaps somebody had implanted a recording device in the benches, and it was activated by someone sitting down.

No. It had been a conversation, a back and forth involving the issue of me wasting time. Not to mention the scent of lavender. How could a prankster manage that? Nevertheless, a careful ghost hunter would check, which I did. Of course, if any of the attendants were to spot me on my knees with a flashlight beneath the bench, feeling around for anything that shouldn’t be there, a lot of questions would be asked, tests run, recommendations made, and I’d likely be back to confinement or, worse, under medication.

                                                                              ***

There is a flash of silver in the sky, and then I spot the plane approaching. Frank is bringing Lily back from visiting her grandparents. He circles the landing strip, dipping his wings, signaling that he sees me waving. But I have no way to tell him it’s not a welcome wave this time. I’m trying to signal him to go around. He’s too low. The plane suddenly tips forward, smashing, nose first, into the ground. I try to reach them, but my feet won’t move. Frank is yelling, “Now look what you’ve done.”

My daughter! She’s crying. I can hear her. Again, I try to move, only to tumble out of bed, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

That fucking nightmare. So, so close to what had actually happened. Except Frank did manage to level out the aircraft, and it looked like they were going to make it when one wing hit the ground, and the plane spun around, nearly flipping over, and skidded off the runway into a ditch. I saw it all.

Frank died. Lily lived. I wanted to believe that I’d rescued my precious daughter, but it wasn’t true. For days, weeks, months afterwards, I’d tell myself there was nothing I could have done. Just as in my nightmare, I’d been frozen, unable to move, and the fire and rescue guys were the ones who pulled her out right before the plane caught fire.

Lucky, lucky Lily. She suffered only some bruises and a cracked rib. For reasons I could not fathom, I blamed myself. I should have been on the plane with them. Okay, survivor’s guilt. They tell me it’s quite common. But still. I had stayed behind to catch up on chores, saying the dogs needed a walk and the laundry wouldn’t do itself. I wasn’t fond of the in-laws, and Frank knew it. Still, I should have been with them.

I should have waved him off. Okay, I’d tried. But I’d always made a point of being at the airport when he was due in from one of his flights, and I’d always waved a welcome. Had he circled around, would it have made a difference? I don’t know. I, too, did not see the telephone wire that his landing gear clipped. I just thought he was coming in too low, and I’m no pilot.

I should have rescued Lily. Yes, I was in shock, but still. I was closer to her than the fire and rescue folks. I might have been able to pull them both out in time. In my dreams, anyway. Frank was taller and heavier, and I would have had to have the strength of an Amazon to free him.

I should have kissed my husband goodbye before they took off. But I’d always been superstitious about it, thinking if I kissed him, it really would be for the last time. Now, all I can think of are the times I could have been more loving and showed it, times that I will never share with Frank again.

Survivor’s guilt. PTSD. Nervous breakdown. Call it what you like. I was at The Refuge for a reason: I. Could. Not. Deal.

                                                                              ***
My fall from bed went unnoticed. Perhaps the staff thought they needn’t be so watchful since I was supposedly on the mend. I still wasn’t ready to leave. The big, bad world out there was too frightening. Except for Lily. If I stayed too long, she would forget that I was her mother. Maybe it’s what I deserved. After all, what kind of mother would just stand there while her child was in grave danger?

Yeah, yeah. I know. A mother in shock. But it’s just an excuse. There had to be something lacking in me, a lioness quality that I’d heard so much about when it comes mothers whose children are in any way threatened. I obviously didn’t have it and had a really bad feeling that it was something you couldn’t just acquire.

Back outside, I was happy to see the sun shining. Last night’s storm had left the grass sparkling with dew. My meanderings led me down a path that most of the guests avoided because it was downhill, meaning an uphill climb to return. There weren’t so many benches there because the views were obscured by a grove of oak trees, interspersed with smaller bushes. I chose it because I needed to resume the ghost hunt. It was the only way to keep from recalling last night’s nightmare.

I also wanted to see if the earlier incident with Priscilla Gerhardt’s ghost had just been my imagination going into overdrive, probably helped by whatever medications they salted the food with, or something really spooky.

By the time I saw the bench, I was thinking I should turn around and head back. I didn’t know that the grounds were this vast, and I feared I might never reach a wall or fence marking the boundary before sunset. The bench sported a scattering of leaves and twigs deposited by the storm, and I had to wipe the seat and back before I could sit down. I opened the book to where Jacques and his cellmate Gilbert are tunneling their way out of the prison. They have to reach the Seine before dawn, and yet the going is extremely arduous.

A small breeze fluttered the leaves above me, scattering raindrops onto the book’s pages. I wiped them carefully with my sleeve and then noticed the plaque beneath my feet.

IN MEMORIAM
Judy Spencer
“here she lies where she longed to be”

Whoa. A suicide?

“No.”

I looked up but couldn’t see a living soul. Then I smelled something oddly familiar. A perfume—no, lotion—from childhood. Cherry almond. Jergens. My mother always used it.“Why did you long to be here?”

“Because.”

I shrugged. Okay. Don’t talk to me. I was about to open the book, when the voice said, “Why are you here?”

I was tempted to say “because,” only it would get me nowhere. I pulled my phone out and tapped Voice Memos. “It’s a lovely day, and I like to enjoy the outside.”

“Bullshit.”

Interesting. I couldn’t imagine an adult woman using such language. But it also gave me pause. Why didn’t she believe me? “Are you Judy Spencer?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Does it bother you having me sit here?”

“What bugs me is you not answering my question.”

“Why I’m here? I told you. Believe it or not, as you wish.”

“Why are you here at The Refuge? Not this bench.”

“I’m conducting a study.”

“Yeah, right. Ghost hunting isn’t a study; it’s an escape, just like the book you’re reading.”

How did she know about my project? Could she read my mind? If so, why ask questions?“You should know that I am recording this conversation.”

She giggled. Like a teenager.

“How old are you?”

“You first. Why are you here?”

I didn’t want to tell a perfect stranger—especially one who might not be alive—that I couldn’t deal with much of anything lately. But, on the other hand, why not? Judy Spencer would be the last person to suggest further treatment or medication because she wasn’t a person any longer. I could spill my guts. “I am here because I can’t seem to get over a traumatic event that killed my husband and nearly my child. Right in front of me.”

“Where’s the kid?”

“With my mother.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“No. Yes. For now, anyway.”

“You’re hiding.”

“Hardly. They visit me once a week. I can leave anytime I wish.”

“But you don’t.”

“I will, dammit. I just need a little more time.”

“For what? More stupid romances where the star-crossed lovers finally reunite and live happily ever after? Sheesh. What a fucking waste.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to know a bullshitter when one is sitting on my bench.”

“Okay, smarty-pants. Why am I here?”

“Because you, like a lot of the inmates here, are a fucking coward. You’re afraid you’ll neglect your kid like you think you did when the plane crashed. You’d rather hide out in The Refuge than do what it takes to learn from your so-called mistakes and try to do a better job of being Lily’s mother. That’s all anybody can do, you know? Just try. Before it’s too late.”

I was so stunned, I was speechless. How did she know about the crash? About my real feelings? About the name of my child? And what the hell did she mean by “before it’s too late”?

Judy was obviously reading my mind. “What I meant is your child is already growing up, thinking, where’s Mommy? Why doesn’t she come back and take care of me? Pretty soon, she’s going to forget you. Or she might already be thinking you don’t like her. Maybe you blame her for Daddy’s death. Or she may even decide she doesn’t like you because you abandoned—”

“Enough!” I jumped to my feet. “I have not abandoned my child.”

The breeze fluttered the tree leaves, and the scent of Jergens lotion dissipated. Apparently, having said her piece, Judy Spencer had gone back to wherever ghosts go when they’re finished scaring the bejeesus out of you.

                                                                              ***

Back in my room, I lay on the bed, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t just had a long and painful conversation with a fucking ghost. Hallucinating. Hearing voices. Actually responding. This place was making me crazy. It seemed I was not merely a person trying to get over PTSD, but a delusional madwoman who was hearing voices in my--

Oh. Right. I reached for the phone. I had proof, which would be reassuring, to say the least. I tapped voice memos. “It’s a lovely day, and I like to enjoy the outside.” Okay. Me talking. There was a slight pause, and then I heard, “Are you Judy Spencer?”

Oh, God. I really was going crazy. I kept tapping away, but the only voice I heard was my own, and boy, did I sound nuts, talking to the wind.

There was another bothersome thing: I knew Judy was right. I was a fucking coward. I was afraid to face my own daughter for fear that I might fail her again. I was indeed hiding here at The Refuge. What an apt name. Also ironic. Here I was, indulging in escapist literature, while failing to escape my own guilt and fears. I was letting Jacques and Gilbert and Celestine do the heavy lifting when they weren’t going to save me from myself. All I needed to do was try to be the best mother I could be, to offer Lily all my love, inadequate though it probably was. And do it now. Not tomorrow or next week.

As I called my mother, made arrangements to check out, and packed my suitcase, I could almost hear Judy Spencer saying, “Suck it up, girl.”

Down in the lobby, the executive director, Dr. Wilhelmina Lumberton, handed me the discharge form to sign, saying, “I wish you well, dear. We’ll always have a place for you if you decide you need to return.”

“Thank you.” I turned to go and then turned back. “One last thing: Those benches. The plaques are intriguing. Do you know the stories behind them?”

“Some. They were all guests who happened to die while they were staying here.”

“Judy Spencer. I thought she was a suicide, considering what I read on the plaque.”

“Ah. Yes. Poor thing. She was only twenty-six. She didn’t kill herself, though. She had ovarian cancer and came here because she’d reached the point where there was nothing to do but yield to the inevitable.” Dr. Lumberton sighed. “We’re not hospice, you know. But Judy was one of our employees. She liked working here. She wanted to die here. So ... Such a tragedy.”

“And so young. How did her family take it?”

Dr. Lumberton smiled. “Hard. They picked the words on the plaque.”

I felt my eyes prick with tears. “May she rest in peace.”

“I’m sure she is.”
​
I wasn’t sure at all. There would be other guests in the future, people like me who, despite being warned off, would sit on those benches. They say that ghosts are dead people who still have business here on Earth. If Judy Spencer had once worked here, she might indeed still have business to take care of. Priscilla Rose Gerhardt was a “guest,” and she also had nudged me out of my comfort zone. I didn’t know if The Refuge administrators were aware of it, but clearly the benches were here for a reason. You only had to be bold enough to sit on them.


                                                                       💀💀💀

Caroline Taylor is a novelist and short-story writer who grew up in the mountain west and traveled widely, including a brief stint in the Foreign Service. A former editor of Humanities magazine, she is the author of nine mysteries, one short-story collection, and a nonfiction book. All of them are available on her website at www.carolinestories.com. Two of her novels won the Firebird Book award, and a third was a finalist for the Freddie Award. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. Visit her at https://facebook.com./CarolineTaylorAuthor/.