The Mach Band Region

By Maria Rachel Hooley

When I left McKarey's Bluff ten years ago, I never planned to return. Ariel Morgan had refused to marry me. Now Ariel is dead, supposedly by her own hand, and her younger sister, Rachel, is spiraling toward that same fate. Rachel used to be in love with me, but she was a kid then. Now I'm returning to save a woman. I Just wish I knew what I was saving her from.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Rachel Hooley
• Release date: Oct 24, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452360164

Maria Rachel Hooley

Maria Rachel Hooley is the author of over forty novels, including When Angels Cry and October Breezes. Her first chapbook of poetry was published by Rose Rock Press in 1999. She is an English teacher who lives in Oklahoma with her three children and husband. She loves reading, and if she could live in a novel, it would be Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn.

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Chapter 1

When people ask, Do you believe in ghosts? I want to say it doesn’t matter; it’s the dead who count. Nothing happens unless the dead believe in the living. But right now, there’s a whole lot of believing on my part as I stand near McKarey’s Bluff amid a strong, hot breeze that buffets blackjack and mesquite leaves while forcing the Queen Anne’s lace to dance.

Beyond the flowers and trees, I watch a lone figure standing at the cliff’s edge, her bare feet pale against dark stones and earth. The wind whips her long, curly hair. Her shoulders seem pale, as though the sunlight has forsaken her skin, and the light brown of her dress only heralds the difference. Staring, I recognize that instead of a ghost haunting this landscape, it haunts her.

Rachel, I call, aware she has inched forward, her body now parallel with the cliff wall.

No answer.

I rush toward her, my arms outstretched. Her body tilts. My arms encircle her at the last moment, dragging her back. Rachel! I demand.

No answer.

I lift her limp body into my arms, aware frail flesh and bone are all that tether her to this world. Holding her tells me just how little is left beneath that cotton dress and how much has already fallen--pieces I can’t save.

It’s been a month since Ariel’s death, her body broken upon the rocks below, and Rachel is mute with grief; still, she cannot resist the daily pilgrimage to this stretch of wildflowers and danger. The walks along the steep edge have lengthened into hours as she scours the earth for something—anything—her sister left behind. It is the image of Rachel at the cliff which brought me home when Ariel’s funeral could not. Sheriff Owens called, said he knew I’d always had a soft spot for the Morgan girls. Maybe he couldn’t have changed Ariel’s death, but he’d be damned if he’d watch the younger one go down, too.

So that’s what’s returned me to a backward Texas town not even marked by a dot on most maps. That’s what’s made me hold Rachel in my arms, her body weighted with the past I thought I’d shed when I left McKarey’s Bluff in the rear-view mirror ten years ago, still reeling from Ariel’s rejection of a ring that had cost four months of a hell on a construction site. And when I got word of Ariel’s death, an apparent suicide, I thought back to the ring I’d thrown over the bluff and wondered what had happened.

A safe distance from the cliff, I set Rachel amid the wildflowers and grass. She stirs slightly, and I stare at her profile, aware her oval face and slender nose resemble Ariel’s like my left hand matches my right. Rachel was the younger sister I never had, but God help me, all I can see at this moment is Ariel. That’s all I want to see. The same blue-black curls and full lips. I lean closer, intoxicated. Then her eyes flutter open.

Ariel is gone.

Matt? she whispers, blinking. What happened?

I sit back, trying to ignore the hammering of my heart. You fainted.

Oh. She slowly sits up and touches her temple, her mouth twisting into a pained grimace. I want…to go…home. The sun streams through her hair.

Nodding, I stand, wondering if she is strong enough to walk. Can you manage? I offer a hand to help her. She nods and takes it.

I’m fine. I just haven’t eaten much today.

I shake my head. And that’s different from every other day how?

She crosses her arms over her abdomen, a futile attempt to hide her thinness. I just don’t have much of an appetite these days.

One last look at the cliff, and without pause, I am drawn back in time as the lore about McKarey’s Bluff surfaces in my thoughts. An old building used to stand about twenty feet from the parked car we head toward; I can still see the outline of its foundation and cornerstone, but that’s it. The rest is buried in a watery grave over the cliff.

I raise my hand to shield my eyes so I can look toward the sun, envisioning the two-story structure, a whorehouse. In 1890, fifteen young prostitutes and their madame vanished without a trace. In the years since, many people have thought they’ve seen ghosts. We’ve even had some Hollywood ghost hunters out here from time to time, but if there’s a camera involved, those spectres become awfully shy, so there’s no proof of anything.

Matt? Rachel says, staring at me, waiting as I open the passenger door for her.

Yeah? I touch her shoulder, gently nudging her to the seat.

Do you see her, too?

Alarmed I might have missed something, I scan the landscape. The wind barely blows, and stillness sits like birds amid the tree branches. Save for the two of us in my Cherokee, the land appears undisturbed. See who?

The woman by the cliff.

I frown, squinting, but I see no one. There’s nobody there, Rachel.

Confused, she looks back at the cliff. Oh, I guess you’re right. Pale, she leans back against the seat and closes her eyes. Her long hair spills down the front of her dress in loose, corkscrew curls. As if she wants to speak, her full lips part, but silence and breath are all that come out.

I try to reconcile the woman I left behind with the one sitting here. Before her sister’s death, the sun colored her skin a vibrant tan, and the warmth of her laughter glowed in her cheeks. But this Rachel is pale and weak.

I start the car and begin backing away. Why did you leave McKarey’s Bluff in the first place? she asks, her eyes closed.

I grab the visor to block the vicious sun. You know why, Rachel.

Because of Ariel. She turns toward the windshield. Not like you have anything to worry about anymore.

My body stiffens, and I struggle to breathe beneath the weight of her accusation. I loved her, Rachel. You know that.

She nods like she’s agreeing, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on. You loved her so much you didn’t come back for her funeral?

As if my foot is responding, I punch the gas, throwing our heads back then let off, trying to figure out why every little thing she says is aimed at me like a bullet. Her sister is dead, and you don’t seem to give a shit, a little voice in my head replies.

It’s been ten years since I left, Rachel. Ariel and I weren’t even close anymore, and I knew I couldn’t handle seeing her body lying like a cheap sculpture in that casket. I swallow hard, feeling the edge of a knife I hadn’t meant to unsheathe.

You never said goodbye. Her whisper breaks with pain. She toys with an object in her hand, and I wait for her palm to open enough so I can get a better glimpse. A gold ring with a round solitaire diamond—Ariel’s ring. I slam on the brakes. A truck honks from behind and speeds around. Where did you get that?

Her fingers clamp around it, and she jerks it out of my reach. Ariel gave it to me.

She couldn’t have, I argue. Where did you get it? Another car honks and whizzes past.

She closes her eyes. Ariel gave it to me. I don’t care if you don’t believe me.

For a moment, I want to shake her and force the truth, but I realize it doesn’t matter how the ring ended up in her hand. It was meaningless in mine once Ariel had turned me down. Besides, I can tell Rachel is too tired today to play Twenty Questions. Okay, maybe I did just get into town last night, and this is the first I’ve really seen of Rachel, but I know tired when it looks back at me with glazed eyes and speaks in a voice deep with pain. My guess is she’s not doing much eating or sleeping.

I push the gas and start driving again, unsure what to say. I could tell her where the ring ended up the last time, but chances are she’s freaked out enough without me adding to it. So instead of silence, I say, Let’s hit the Taco Tico on the way to your place.

I’m not hungry, she says in a faraway voice dusted with fatigue.

Tough. You passed out, probably from not enough food. Now you have to suffer from taco indigestion.

I half expect her to keep arguing. The old Rachel would have. Instead, the whole drive back into town she remains as still as a stone and just as quiet. Even when I coast to the drive-thru window, she doesn’t move. As I order, I glance at her chest, and judging by its steady rise and fall, she’s said bye-bye this world and gone on to the one where whatever dreams she still has live on.

I pay and grab the bag before pulling out of the parking lot. As I drive down Main Street, the only road fronted by buildings sans crosses and bell towers, I notice how worn the buildings have become. Even new paint slathered on the structures can’t hide the old lumber that’s stood upright too many years. I can’t help but think of porcelain dental veneers. They’re the same old eyesores, just disguised to be more politically correct. Buried under the paint is still the same small town settled by my great-grandfather. It seems quaint enough at first. Passersby first notice the children riding bikes up and down the streets and playing hide and seek. They assume it’s just like every other town. But if you look hard enough, you realize a subtle discrimination of white fences, white children, white houses, and white letters on signs. You can paint things however you want. The sun will still age them. The rain will still wear at them. The wind will peel them until the underbelly shows, and eventually white isn’t as pretty as it once was.

I drive to Rachel’s, a two-story wood-frame house with lots of interesting alcoves and nooks. Ariel had actually picked it out, and the two girls lived together. Just like there had only been one Ariel, this grey house also stands unique in its moldering neo-gothic shell, with its alcove windows and wooden shingles.

The place gives me the willies.

Rach, we’re here. I slip the keys into my pocket and nudge her. She sits up, her eyes glassy. Why don’t we eat inside?

Okay. She pulls the key from her purse and stumbles toward the house. She opens the screen door and slips the key into the lock, fighting with it for a moment before the knob turns.

Did you have a nice nap?

She shrugs. I seem to fall asleep at the drop of a hat these days.

I follow her into the foyer and close the door behind me before carrying the food into the kitchen where Rachel is already pulling out plates and glasses. Setting the bag on the counter, I tug open the fridge, looking for juice or soda. Although I know she hasn’t been eating much, I didn’t expect to find so many bare white shelves. Except for a jar of pickles and another of mayonnaise, there is nothing in here —and the rotting tomatoes don’t count.

I can see why you haven’t been eating these days. You have so many choices.

Rachel grins sheepishly and sets the plates on the table. Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to do something about it, but I never get around to it.

And now I guess we will. After dinner I’ll take you to the grocery store. I grab the glasses and fill them with water. I can’t believe I drove all the way back from Virginia just to make sure you’re eating right.

That’s not why, she counters, grabbing the bag of tacos.

Part of it was. I set the glasses on the table and slide into the chair across from hers.

And the other part? She puts two tacos on my plate.

I don’t want to tell her Owens is afraid she’ll leap off the Bluff like Ariel did. So I don’t. Just stuff.

She unwraps a taco. Bull. I’ve seen the way everybody looks at me, like I’m gonna break or something. Somebody tracked you down and told you I was going around the bend.

I, too, unwrap a taco. You’re not going around the bend, I manage, feigning a greater interest in the taco than I have.

Damned straight I’m not, she snaps. It’s not my fault I’ve seen the ghosts at the Bluff.

No, I think, it probably isn’t. Grief does a lot of strange things to people, and considering how close Rachel and Ariel were, it doesn’t surprise me she believes she seeing ghosts. I take a bite, unsure how to respond even as she openly stares at me, her slender fingers trembling as she eats.

Aren’t you going to say something? she demands.

There’re no such thing as ghosts, Rach, I finally respond, my voice gravelly from all the things I don’t say. I believe in ghosts that haunt the human heart, but that’s about it.

Rachel gazes down at her plate. I knew you’d say that. Her mouth is set in a tight frown, the kind of line that doesn’t bend for laughter.

How so? I ask between bites.

It’s the same thing everyone else says, Matt. That only leaves the ‘crazy’ option.

I finish the taco and wad the wrap into a ball. You’ve been through hell. Are you expecting there won’t be moments your life is nuts and feels like the walls are closing in, especially after having lost your sister? You’re under an incredible amount of stress. I unwrap the second taco, carefully avoiding the heavy spots of grease dotting the paper.

She shakes her head in disbelief. You’re acting like it’s completely normal to see ghosts.

You wouldn’t be the first to see the ghost of a recently deceased relative. I reach for my glass and take a sip. History is full of accounts like yours.

It’s not just Ariel’s ghost…it’s also the ghosts of the women from the brothel. She licks her lips nervously and takes a tentative bite.

It doesn’t matter, Rach. These words are empty, I know. But what else can I say? She’s broken inside, and healing takes time and distance. I think given enough time, whatever you’re seeing will go away.

She shakes her head. You don’t understand, Matt. These ghosts don’t really want me; they’re asking for you.

I sort through possible explanations, the most likely being exhaustion and dreams. Besides, I still sense Rachel’s longing for me. Time and despair might’ve tempered it, but nothing has erased it. You’ve not been sleeping at night. It wouldn’t surprise me if you started seeing the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man, either.

Leaning back, Rachel glares at me, her bottom lip quivering slightly. You think this is funny?

Not really wanting to meet her gaze, I peer instead at her plate, aware she’s taken only a few bites. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have made a joke, but when you tell me ghosts are asking for me by name, what else can I do?

Take me seriously. She rises from the table. You can show yourself out.

Unsure what just happened, I stare at her retreating form. Hey, I’m sorry I made you mad.

She keeps walking until she vanishes around the corner, and that’s when I realize how big a mistake I must have made. This familiar scene pretty much sums up why I’m still professing bachelor status. I hadn’t known how to respond to Ariel’s rejection of my proposal, either, so I just left to avoid the awkward silences between us. Now I’ve offended Rachel. I’m no good at finer conversational points when it matters. I mean, I want to call Rachel back to dinner because she needs to eat, but I haven’t a clue how to handle her ghosts. Or my own. I could tell her sometimes it’s just too hard to know people die and we invent ghosts so maybe they never really leave, but I think Rachel would just tell me to keep my crap to myself.

Speaking of leaving, I finish my last taco in two bites and clean up the dinner table before I lock the front door and get into the Cherokee. I start for the hotel but find myself driving back to the Bluff. Maybe it’s foolishness, or perhaps just dumb curiosity, but one thing’s for certain: it’s not about ghosts. I don’t believe in them.

I step away from the vehicle. Even the wind isn’t breathing. Although lots of trees stand nearby, no birds nestle in the branches, giving new meaning to the word still. Surveying the landscape, I walk to the cliff’s edge and peer down at the rocks below, trying not to imagine Ariel’s body there. Too late. It is bent amid the jagged outcrop. Her long, dark hair flows out around her head, still bobbing in the water. Although one leg is twisted unnaturally, there is no blood. For all intents and purposes, she appears to be sleeping, yet this is in my head. I must have to imagine the scene without blood or pain because only then can I breathe without the catch in my throat, and only then can I believe I can help Rachel without drowning in my own grief.

I blink, and Ariel’s body is gone. The water laps lazily at the rocks—but it is silent, as though God has muted this land. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my mind goes back to the last time I came to the Bluff before today. Ten years ago, Ariel and I had driven out here to share a picnic. We’d brought a camera and had snapped some shots over by the old foundation blocks before spreading a blanket and the contents of the basket on the ground—a feast of ham sandwiches, potato salad, and Jell-O.

It was a summer day—August fifteenth, to be exact—and although we hadn’t had much rain, the grass still seemed green and soft. Then again, maybe that was just the effect Ariel had had on me. I could find blue skies and sunshine amid the worst thunderstorm so long as I knew I’d see Ariel soon. Between the two of us, we didn’t have a lot of money, especially with me saving up for her wedding ring and paying it off. That’s where a bit of romance and picnic lunches came in.

It looks great, Ariel, I said, kneeling beside her. I can’t wait to eat!

She laughed, her dark curls wildly framing her face. Yeah, it’s a real gourmet meal. At least the Bluff is pretty this time of year.

Not as pretty as you. I caught her hand. Look, Ariel, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s kind of important. With my free hand, I grabbed the ring box and slid it into her hand.

What’s this? she asked, opening her palm, each finger drawing back like a flower petal. At the center, she discovered the navy ring box, and her gaze lifted from the box to my face and then headed back to the box. With trembling hands, she flipped open the lid, and once she caught sight of it, one hand flew to her mouth. Oh, Matt. You shouldn’t have.

I squeezed her hand. I love you, Ariel. I always have. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. I watched her face, expecting joy, but her expression remained unchanged, and she refused to meet my gaze. I tried to meet her halfway, leaning over her, but I couldn’t swim in the ocean of her eyes. Well, is that a yes?

I love you, too, Matt.

I stiffened immediately, sensing all my dreams falling at the wayside. But?

I can’t marry you. She closed the box and set it in my open palm. I’m sorry. I really am.

Why? At least tell me that. My voice took on an edge I couldn’t soften as I clenched the box and shoved it into my jeans pocket.