Ballantyne House

by

Mariella Squire

Peter Macon stood on the flagstone path in front of the two-story porch and looked up at the hospice, a colonnaded Victorian extravagance called Ballantyne House. He shivered. He’d heard the hospice was haunted, but that’s what was said about most old houses in New England. It didn’t matter much, anyway. Maybe a ghost or two would be company for what remained of his life. He allowed himself to be helped into the wheelchair that a brisk, professionally friendly aide had brought out.

“We’ve put you in the blue room. It’s upstairs—of course there’s an elevator—I’m sure you’ll like it.” She spoke in a light, sweet voice. Her words rolled over him like mist.

Inside, the old mansion had been meticulously restored. Woodwork gleamed, and a blue patterned oriental-style carpet padded the wheels of the wheelchair as the aide pushed him down the front hall to a discreet elevator tucked where, perhaps, a butler’s pantry had once been. Upstairs was similar, the hall painted a soft ivory, although the carpet was a discreet plain tweed green. At the end of the hall was an open door to his new room.

“We’ll just get you settled, and then Samantha will be up to finish your paperwork. She’s the day nurse.” The aide said, as she helped him into the easy chair and set about putting his few belongings in various places. Peter looked around the room and watched, almost detached, as the girl worked. He had brought so few things from his life to keep him company.

**

He could not sleep. The day had been long, and he thought he was exhausted, but sleep was eluding him. He looked at the little cup on his nightstand, with its little pill that promised a drugged slumber. A small flare of resistance—too many drugs already, keeping pain at bay, keeping what was left of his health still functioning—maybe he could do without that last drug. There would not be that many more star filled nights, or watching the late summer flowers sleep in the moonlight. He lay back in the lounger and stared out at the garden.

Only gradually did he become aware of the girl. She was sitting at the writing desk, a book in her hands. She wore a long, pale blue dress, and her dark hair was coiled into an old-fashioned knot at her neck.

“Who are you?” Peter asked, only vaguely curious. Some part of him wondered if he were dreaming.

“I’m Jessie,” the dark haired girl said, putting down her book and smiling at him.

“Are you on the night shift?”

“I came because you were alone,” she answered. “I thought you could use some company.”

Peter felt surprised, and oddly grateful. It had been so long since anyone had volunteered to stay with him during sleepless nights and long days. At first his friends had been sympathetic, but slowly, gradually, he had felt himself drifting away from them. And now this night nurse made him feel perhaps he had not been set adrift.

“Thank you,” Peter said, his voice gruff from the unexpected emotion. “Uh--what is it you are reading?”

“Shakespeare’s sonnets. Shall I read one to you?”

“Sure, why not?” Peter lay back and let the low voice carry him into sleep.

**

“ Oh, Mr. Macon, did you sleep all right? That lounger can’t be all that comfortable,” a firm, cheerful voice woke him. The day nurse, Samantha, stood next to him, her hands holding a small tray with the ubiquitous plastic cups of various pills. She set them on the night stand.

“No, I slept fine. I didn’t even need the sleeping pills.” He glanced at them, feeling vaguely defensive. “The night nurse Jessie came by and read to me.” He was vaguely surprised at Samantha’s sudden stillness.

“Jessie?” Samantha asked.

“Jessie is one of our volunteers, Mr. Macon,” another voice chimed in. “She works nights, so you wouldn’t know her yet, Sam.” Peter looked up, intrigued by the soft Irish burr in the voice. The woman who stood in the doorway was older by several years than Samantha.

“Mr Macon, I am the director here. My name is Fiona Mcarthy. I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday when you came to us, but I hope that everything is going well?” When he nodded, the director continued. “Good, then. I’ll leave you to get ready for breakfast. Would you like to come down to the dining room and meet the other residents?”

***

One day followed another. If he felt strong enough Peter wheeled himself into the garden, with its flat stone paths and flowers in raised beds so even wheelchair visitors could touch and smell them. At night he would sit and look out on the garden. Sometimes he was alone, but, increasingly, he looked forward to Jessie’s visits.

“You must have the other residents to check up on at night,” he said once.

She smiled. “Of course. But they’re not night owls like you.”

“I was a writer.” Peter said. “Sometimes I would stay up all night, writing.”

“You are still a writer, Peter. Sickness doesn’t make that go away.”

Peter looked at Jessie in the moonlight and knew he was falling in love. Don’t be foolish, his mind said to him. What future is in that? But he didn’t care. Somehow it felt true, and right. He let the moonlight take away his doubts.

***

The first snows dusted down from the November sky. Too weak to even wheel himself around the old mansion, Peter lay in his Victorian bed and looked out at the snow-filled garden. There were discreet monitors that had been brought in, and an IV pole. He knew he would not live past the turn of the year.

He heard Director Mcarthy talking to Samantha in the hall.

“Just what kind of reality do you want him to be facing, Sam? If he wants to believe in this Jessie, why not let him?”

He couldn’t hear Samantha’s reply, but he heard the director’s.

“No, seeing things isn’t always psychosis. I’m from the West of Ireland. My mother saw things all the time. Let him be, Sam. It’s harmless.”

Their footsteps moved off down the hall, and he lay there, thinking.

***

“The day nurse thinks you are a hallucination, and the director thinks you are a ghost,” Peter said. Outside his window an early winter wind banged against the windowpane.

Jessie smiled. “Maybe I am both. Does it matter so much to you?”

“No. The only thing that matters is I love you.”

Jessie rose then, her long blue dress swirling about her knees. She held out her hand. “Come with me, Peter, let’s walk in the garden.”

“I don’t think I can,” he said. “I get tired just sitting up now. Besides, it’s winter.”

“Don’t fret about that. Come on, try.”

Peter stood up, feeling better than he had in months. He took Jessie’s outstretched hand. Hesitantly at first, he walked over to the window. There was no pain, nothing to remind him of the deathly illness eating away his life.

“Let’s go downstairs, and out for a walk.” She led the way, smiling. They went hand in hand through the sleeping house and out into the winter garden. It was warmer than he was expecting, and the moonlight shone like silver. The wind was still. Wonderingly, he looked at the girl at his side.

“You never told me your last name,” he said.

“Didn’t I? It’s Ballantyne. I’m Jessamine Ballantyne. This is my home.”

“Then you are a ghost. That can’t be true. How can I love you if you are just a ghost? Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Peter, you’re babbling. And don’t you worry. You’re with me now, and we love each other. Nothing else matters, not in this world or the next.”

She reached up, and slowly, he bent to embrace her. She was right, he thought at the end. The only thing that matters now is this moment, and this love, forever.

***

The live-in director, Fiona Mcarthy, looked out of her office window at the shimmering shape in the dark garden. She had seen it, on and off, these past twenty years. Only this time there were two of them. She sighed. Then she turned as her cell phone beeped.

“Peter’s passed away,” the night nurse reported.

Fiona Mcarthy, from the west of Ireland, nodded to herself. Then, to the night nurse, she said, “finish up his chart. I’ll be right there.”