Phantom

March 19, 1944

Five men have perished in this house.

Some days, I wonder if I’ll meet my own tragic end here, too.

I’m sure my husband will be the culprit. With the stress he’s causing me, my heart is destined to give out.

We have no money.

And no other friends or family we can lean on.

We have nothing, and we are alone in our nothingness.

Teardrops stain the piece of paper on my lap from the debt collectors that proves just how little we have left.

It’s dated from two days ago, and he never thought to tell me. I found it peeking out from a stack of opened mail on the counter, along with bank statements declaring his accounts in the negative. There was nothing unordinary about the papers, yet a little voice in my head told me to look.

And my God, part of me wishes I hadn’t.

We’re in danger of losing our home. There isn’t enough money to pay our mortgage, let alone any of the utilities.

He spent almost everything. Everything.

How will we support Seraphina? Feed her, clothe her, ensure she sleeps in a warm bed? She works in a deli after school a few days a week to learn some responsibility and fund her war-tax stamps—and truthfully, to sustain her ice-cream addiction, too. But I could never ask her to pay the bills. She’s only thirteen years old, for God’s sake!

It’s not uncommon for parents to rely on their children these days—times are hard, and war is rampant—but until now, we’ve been able to shelter Sera from a lot of those hardships.

And why should she have to pay for his mistakes?

We’ve always had the security from the wealth passed down in John’s family, along with his successful bookkeeping firm, and it’s kept us more than comfortable. I never expected that he’d do something like this to us.

He spoon-fed me lavish fantasies when he courted me, and like a fool, I ate them up. He swore he’d build me a house with my odd sense of style, and he followed through with that promise because it made me happy, even at the cost of those poor men who died building it, causing society to turn their noses up at us. But he also swore that we’d surpass his grandfather’s wealth and we’d live a life of luxury beyond our dreams. He swore that one day he’d buy us a big boat and we could sail across the ocean.

So many promises, and instead . . . he went and spent it all.

My throat tightens as I recall the man who lingered outside my window yesterday. I had convinced myself he was just another lost soul, but now that I know the trouble John has gotten us into, I’m second-guessing myself.

If a man is coming onto our property, it can only mean John’s done something terrible.

As frightening as it is, I wonder if he has somehow gotten mixed up with the wrong people. And now, Sera’s and my life could be in danger.

Oh, John, what have you done?

“Mama? I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

Sera’s quiet voice draws me away from my sorrows. Hurriedly, I swipe away stray tears from my cheeks and turn to face her with a bright grin. I’ve been sitting in my rocking chair at the window, trading off between staring at the piece of paper in shock and staring out the window mournfully.

“Sure, baby. You want me to whip you up some lunch?”

She smiles, and a brightness radiates from beneath her freckled cheeks.

She’s a beauty among the ashes that seem to collect in this damned home.

“Yeah. It tastes better when you make it.”

I snort. She swears that her sandwiches never taste as good as mine, even if we use the same exact ingredients. Regardless, I’ve always loved doting on her. One day, she’ll stop asking for my help, and I’m reluctant for when that day arrives.

Sera takes off toward the kitchen while I detour to the small washroom in the hallway. I reapply powder to my stained cheeks and refresh my ruby-red lipstick until not a single trace of my turmoil is to be seen.

Perfect.

My daughter will never know just how close her world is to crumbling down around her.

When I make my way back through the living room, I relish the beautiful checkered tiling that expands all the way into the kitchen. There, Sera sits at the island, her feet swinging as she focuses on her homework.

The sight immediately dulls the persistent ache in my chest.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel that childlike innocence once more. Anything but Sera.

“What are you hungry for, sweet pea?” I ask as I trek into the kitchen, my house shoes clacking against the floor.

She shrugs. “I dunno.”

“How about elephant tails?” I suggest.

She pauses her homework to look up at me with a wrinkled nose. “Ew, no!”

“Panda tongue? Giraffe hooves?”

“Mom,” she whines, drawing out the syllable. A silly grin paints her face, however, and I consider my mission successful.

“Okay, fine,” I relent dramatically. “How about a turkey sandwich?”

“Yes, please,” she says, her cheeky grin widening.

“Or . . .” I pause. “Turkey feet?”

She sighs theatrically, as thirteen-year-old girls do, and I turn to the fridge to grab the ingredients, though my smile quickly fades beneath the artificial light. How much longer will she be able to eat so freely rather than wonder when her next meal will be?

Pushing it from my mind, I paste a grin back on my face and begin prepping her sandwich. It’s a requirement that I cut off the crust from each slice of bread before the turkey, cheese, and mustard go on.

“Daddy said we’re getting a new car and he’ll let me drive it,” Sera announces casually.

I pause, the knife in my hand poised just above the bread.

“What?” I ask breathlessly, my heart having vacated my chest.

“Yeah,” she chirps. “He said we’re going to be super rich, and he’ll buy me the Cord 812.”

I blink, forcing myself to focus on slicing the bread rather than my trembling fingers. Sera knows nothing about cars, but my husband sure does, and I’ve heard him talk about that specific car frequently. It’s one of his many dream automobiles, and now he’s gone and made sure that it will stay a dream.

Bastard.

“Did he, now?” I question, forcing a serenity that I don’t feel into my tone.

“Yup!”

I finish with both slices before I can find the breath to ask, “And when did he say this was happening?”

She shrugs for a second time. “Didn’t say.”

It feels as if a rock has formed in my throat, and anger slowly pollutes my bloodstream.

How dare he make such grandiose promises when we’re on the brink of homelessness? And to Sera, of all people! I could forgive him for getting my hopes up but certainly not my little girl’s.

“Well, that’s something Daddy and I will have to talk about. Maybe something a little safer once you’re older? How about a Dodge?”

Her nose wrinkles again. “That sounds boring. Like an old-people car. You should drive that jalopy.”

I scoff and hand her the plate with the sandwich atop, complete with a handful of potato chips. “I’ll have you know, I am still young and beautiful, little girl.”

She giggles around a bite of food while I struggle to keep my smile plastered on my face.

“You are, Mama.”

My heart eases a fraction, and I walk around the island to place a soft kiss on her head.

“Love you, sweet pea.”

“Love you, too.” Her words are garbled, but this time, I don’t berate her for talking with food in her mouth.

I’m not sure how much longer she’ll have that luxury.

March 19, 1944

I’m a pipe on the verge of combusting when my husband comes home, my cheeks flushed hot with anger. He’s late, which used to be an unusual habit but has become more typical of him in recent times.

Since the moment Sera went to bed, I’ve been in my rocking chair, glaring out the window and stewing in my fury, planning all the harsh words I would dare say to him.

He’s always been hot-tempered, but my wrath has proven to burn brighter a time or two.

The front door shuts behind him, and John comes sauntering toward me, several envelopes in his hand. His eyes are red, and once he’s near enough, I detect a faint whiff of booze.

My husband has always been conventionally handsome, with short, light-brown hair that is as thick as it is soft and always seems to be effortlessly windswept. Unusual light-brown eyes, a square jawline, an aristocratic nose, and an incredibly charming smile. When we were teens, he had birds lining up for him, hoping for just a minute of his attention. He’s always been tall, handsome, and wealthy.

Now, only two of those things are true.

“You have a letter from Daisy,” he announces, dropping an envelope onto the footstool in front of me, familiar handwriting scribed over it. She and I have been best friends for nearly three decades. We write to each other often since she moved to Spokane. However, Daisy is the least of my concerns right now.

“Did you happen to promise our daughter a luxury car?” I ask, my tone dangerously sweet.

He grins and tugs at his tie, exhaustion weighing down the corners of his lips. John has always been a hardworking man, yet his spending habits have proven to work harder.

“She’s nearly fourteen. Gives her somethin’ to work towards,” he says casually. As if he’s not getting our little girl’s hopes up only to let her down so cruelly.

“You want to explain how on earth we’re going to afford that?”

His brow furrows. “Genevieve, what are you on about?”

“We received a letter from the debt collector. We can’t afford the mortgage payments right now, let alone food. So why would you promise her a car?”

His face drops, guilt instantly coloring his eyes.

“Baby—”

“Don’t you dare address me that way, Johnathan. When were you going to tell me?”

“There’s no need to get bent out of shape, Gigi. I’m going to get it all back, I promise you,” he swears, coming to crouch in front of me before taking hold of my hands. He stares up at me with a softness I see only when he requires my forgiveness.

I’m seconds away from blowing a gasket.

“Where did it go? With your inheritance and business, you’ve always made more than enough to support us. And yet there’s nothing to show for this money spent.”

He never came home with lavish gifts for Sera and me. Hasn’t bought any new vehicles. No expensive jewelry or any impromptu vacations. And he so clearly hasn’t paid off the house yet. It doesn’t make any sense!

He works to swallow, radiating a nervous energy.

“I had a few too many poker nights with Frank,” he admits.

I’m shaking my head in disbelief before he can finish. “John, you didn’t,” I breathe. “You gambled away our life savings!”

“Keep your voice down,” he shushes, a tinge of anger in his tone. Truly, I believe he’s only embarrassed.

As he should be.

“How do you expect to recover?” I ask, lowering my voice for Sera’s sake.

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I could count cards or—”

I stand abruptly, tossing my journal onto the chair before I pace the checkered floor, so overwhelmed that I can no longer sit still.

I’ve married a dip.

“Do you realize how unbelievably dangerous that is? John, if you’re caught, you could end up in the hoosegow—or worse, you could . . .” I can’t even bear to finish that sentence.

He could be killed, and Sera and I would be stranded.

Worse yet, what if they came for us instead?

Maybe that man outside the window was a debt collector. But did he come from an agency, or is he a part of something more sinister?

It’s not my own life I’m concerned about, but Sera’s.

I can’t even begin to fathom how he could put her in such a position.

He steps toward me, holding his hands out in a calm down gesture.

“I swear to you, no matter how I do it, I’ll make everything back tenfold. Soon, our pockets will be so deep, we won’t know what to do with all of it. I’m so close to getting this game down.”

I’m not stupid enough to believe him.

When a gambler promises to make back everything he’s squandered through more gambling, then he’s well and truly lost.

But what am I supposed to do? I’m a housewife with no skills of my own. John has refused to allow me to work, preferring I take care of the house and our daughter. But Sera is older now, so if he keeps this up, I may have no choice.

For now, I am as bound to my husband as he is bound to a poker chip.

I give him my back, staring at the home that was supposed to embrace this family yet has only borne witness to sorrow. Tears well in my eyes, and helplessness takes root.

We are so much worse off than I imagined. If he had frivolous spending habits, we could sell those things and recoup our losses. But our money is tucked in the pockets of other men, and they won’t be so kind about returning it.

“Gigi,” he pleads, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.

“You’re destroying this family, Johnathan,” I choke out, the words as unstable as my heart rate. “And I have no choice but to let you.”

March 22, 1944

I must be living in a nightmare.

A waking nightmare that I cannot seem to escape.

John will fix this. He has to!

If he doesn’t, then what will become of Sera and me?

The family that is left between John and me is sparse, and they do not have the means to take us in.

We’ll be left in the streets!

He will fix this.

Dear God, let him fix this.