Dan The Fabulous - A Ghost Story

     HAPPY HALLOWEEN DEAR READERS!  

Herein lies a story of wanting. Unable to escape the sadness of a recent tragedy, a woman struggles to keep her sanity when ghosts from the past refuse to leave.

              "DAN THE FABULOUS"

                               

                     by Maureen Power

            I asked him to never leave me. He has kept his promise. He sits on a rocking horse that catches the light streaming in diagonally through lace curtains. The wooden pony is in my bedroom now, gently rocking as if being nudged by an invisible hand. That and his little sterling silver spoon are the only things we keep that belonged to him. The rest of his material life lies in the attic of the Summer House under a soft blanket woven of dust and sad memories.

            Philip keeps urging me to go back and make a fresh start but I find comfort in my roomy mahogany bed, the cool percale sheets rustling as I move, and his cherubic smile greeting me each morning from his perch on ‘Dan the Fabulous’, the absurdly expensive antique rocking horse we purchased on a whim, two weeks before his fourth birthday.

            We laughed so, when he declared his steed’s name, little hands on hips that carried toy six shooters, a straw cowboy hat angled in his white blond curls.

            I long to touch those soft curls in which the light falls through like liquid through a sieve, to trace the tiny pink birthmark on his left cheek that is in the shape of a heart, but I must be satisfied with the experience of sight alone. It is enough.

           

            These days of remembrance pass gently from late winter into Spring, and soon I offer one foot to be followed by another, small steps, as his were, to the green carpet of our back garden, Philip beside me. I lift my face to the sun, then turn my head back to the house and see him through the window on Dan. His little hand goes up, and he waves.

            Philip shows me a robin’s nest in the mulberry tree, the purple crocuses emerging from winter’s mulch, an early forsythia. I know he does this to remind me of the continuing stream of life but melancholy dulls my senses. I manage a smile for him, he has been so very patient, then ask to be returned to my room and he indulges me.

    

            As the days pass, my expeditions outside become more frequent and I linger in the sun, its rays becoming stronger with the coming summer season. My body is gaining back its strength from the vicious intruder that weakened its defenses last year and Phillip insists that a trip to the lake to open the Summerhouse is just what I need.  I am hesitant but finally agree as long as we can bring Dan and his rider, unseen to all but me. Philip thinks he understands my attachment and we place Dan in the back of the Packard Convertible and start the twenty mile drive to Lotus Lake.

            At first, I am bothered by the wind tugging at my bonnet, then teasing tendrils out, but when I look back to make sure that Dan is secure, I see my darling Freddie’s curls bouncing in the breeze, his face alight with laughter. I feel more confident that I can survive the return to the place where we last parted.

            We pull into the driveway, the white pebbles crunching under the tires and I look up to the window of his bedroom. Phillip helps me out, scoops me up in his arms and dashes up the stairs with a surprising whoop of joy at the return to his beloved Summer House. He has traveled with time, not against it as I have.

            I insist that he bring Dan in before we do anything else, and he complies, carrying the horse up to the second floor. We then remove the linens covering all the furniture and open the French doors to the back porch, which overlooks the lake. The water’s surface sparkles with a million diamonds of sunlight scattered over its calm surface.

            I feel my heart open a bit, and as if Phillip senses this slight shift in my emotions, he tilts my face upward to his, and kisses me softly, then again with more urgency. He lays me on the divan. It has been so long since we have shared such a moment of physical intimacy and I thrill to it.

            We wake and the sun is lower in the sky, turning the waves to liquid tangerine. I care not to linger and start for the kitchen to see if Agnes has set everything in order for our arrival.  Phillip’s hand playfully tugs at my skirt and it warms me to see him so happy.

            We manage a small supper of cold ham on brown bread slathered with Agnes’ famous mustard, and wash it down with sweet cider. Agnes has also been so kind as to leave a honey cake, dripping with apricot preserves in the icebox. A welcome back present, I would guess. She knows it is my very favorite and she has always been the kindest and most attentive of housekeepers.

            Sleepy from the meal and the excitement of our return, we make our way up the stairs to our bedroom at the back of the house. As we pass by his room, I stand aghast and see Dan stock still, a faded image of my boy astride him, sadness in the arms that reach out to me. I swoon and Phillip catches me as I cry out. Dan must be in our room, not his.

            The once happy nursery only holds bitter memories for me, memories of late last summer in the year of 1918.  It was then that we thought the world was safe from the Spanish Flu, but a second, more virulent strain emerged and it visited our household with death on its heels. Every third family suffered some loss, this time taking the young and healthy.

            Why I survived and my darling Freddie did not…I leave that to God, but I no longer look to that God for solace. I draw strength from Philip and his gentle assurances that this summer will be something better.

            After Phillip has retrieved the rocking horse from its gloomy place and carries it to our bedroom, I lock the nursery door. I will not enter that room again.

            We spend the next month in a gauzy happiness, each morning greeted by my Freddie on his horse and Agnes helping me dress after Phillip has risen. There are picnics by the shore and walks through the apple orchards, which have become quite a lucrative business for Phillip. The weather has been a perfect mix of sun and rain, producing a fine crop on the thirty acres we own. The cider and apple wine will be pressed and casked in the fall in a flurry of activity that will be so different from the previous year when we were preoccupied with a loss so heavy that it paralyzed us.

   

           One morning I wake and feel a flutter inside me, and looking towards the window, my Freddie is beaming with joy as he mimics a gallop on old Dan. I realize that my time of the month has come and gone and, could it be? I am not ready for this. I cannot stand the thought that another child may be asserting itself into Freddie’s place. Agnes hears me wail and runs in to ask what is the matter. She assures me that this is a wondrous thing, a gift from God, knowing how long it took us to conceive our only child. It is a gift from a God I no longer trust.

            I convince myself that this will only result in tragedy – a miscarriage or some deformity. God took my only child from me in what must have been punishment for something known only to him. Was I too selfish? Did I neglect my husband for the love of my child? Did I love Freddie too much?

            Surely I will be punished again. 

    

            We stay on at the Summer House until late August and then return to the Manor house for the rest of my confinement. I spend the following months trying to avoid my vague feelings of apprehension for the sake of Philip who is over the moon with joy. I am suspicious of every twinge, and when reminded of how well I have been and how radiant I look, I cringe inside, thinking this is the calm before the storm.

            As my time to be delivered nears and the white cover of winter melts away to reveal the tender blades of grass beneath, I notice Freddie’s image beginning to fade, and panic sets in. Has this mysterious thing inside of me pushed him away? Does he feel unwanted as if I am replacing him?  I can’t bear it and tears flow out of me unstoppable. My water breaking mimics this gush of tears, and I call to Agnes. She in turn rushes to Phillip, as he is leaving for Boston for the day.

            The doctor arrives and assures me that everything is progressing smoothly, thinking that the tears I cry are from physical pain. My pain is much deeper.

            I labor for five hours, a short time to bring a life into this world, and am presented with a baby boy, healthy and vocal. I turn my head away and refuse him. The doctor calls in Phillip to reassure me, and the doctor hands the child to him. Phillip sings softly and rocks his newborn son in his arms, then pauses, a puzzled look on his smiling face. He brings the boy to my bedside and pleads with me to take my hands from my face. He has something remarkable to show me. He gently pulls my arm to my side and places the infant there.

            Then a familiar coo startles me, a scent that has lingered in my memory for so long. I turn to the child’s face and see the smallest strawberry colored heart upon his cheek. His blue eyes meet mine and I can see eternity in them.

            He has kept his promise and will ride Dan the Fabulous once more.