Chapter 4

Chapter 4

“Good evening, Sarah.” The voice came out of no where but rang clear. The caretaker, Captain Charles Boss, the ghost of the house appeared as pixelated flecks in the late afternoon light. Dressed in his usual World War II Army fatigues. His hair haphazard and long by military standards. Mustache curled. Eyes coal and sunken. His figure leaning on the library desk before me. 

I knew if Charles was appearing that we, or someone close to us, were in need. But mom's phone call was the true painful harbinger. “Charles, what's going on?”

“One cannot say,” he replied, turning to scan the wall of shelved book bindings to his right. It was funny to watch him. These books were his. Came with the house. He knew every title, had read every printed word until they were rote, and still he perused them. “There is change on the wing.” With that we waited.

The house was quiet. Deathly quiet, curled up on the old leather love seat, my mind reeled recalling the sounds of my mother's sobbing. Whatever the news, it would not be good. Then as expected the word came on heavy feet, delivered in stark monotones. "Mrs. Marché was dead."

 

"WHAT?"

"She picked up a bacterial infection. It can happen with chemo. Hospitalized yesterday."

 

Mom didn't mention when we talked last night; her noontime.

"Her reduced immune system wasn't able to fight it. Her body shut down. She's gone."

 

And with that change arrived.

Late Night Texts

Me: Mrs. Marché died.

Jeff: What?

Crazy sad sad sad

Sorry

Me too

I forgot to ask Charles if this house felt like home. Next time.