Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  Portia sits and contemplates this news. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I want to laugh because my sister and I have never been close. Anything I wanted to disclose I told my twin, Sebastian. Not my fault, either. I have tried over the years to breach the gap between me and Portia but it’s like talking to a drill sergeant. She only wants to find fault, explain how to fix whatever problem is troubling me, or flat out doesn’t care.

  “Portia,” I say in the nicest way possible, “you don’t know anything about me.”

  Her eyes well but she shakes it off. “I could say the same for you.”

  “Kind of hard to be nice to a biting bulldog.”

  Portia looks stunned, hurt, and I regret my outburst. I reach for her hand and for a moment think she might let me. But the door opens and Wanda strolls in.

  “Ready to talk, girls?”

  I look at my sister who’s still reeling from our conversation. “What do I say?”

  “You need your lawyer to tell you?” Wanda asks me.

  There are times when the world piles up on your shoulders and one tiny thing sets you off and you explode, your head turning around like the possessed girl in The Exorcist. This is one of them.

  “You want to know what happened?” I tell Wanda, my hands on the back of my chair, leaning into her face. “I’ll tell you what happened. All I wanted was ice cream last night and I got a crazy idiot with a gun. Then this bitchy cop comes along and, instead of thanking us for knocking the guy out and possibly saving lives, grills us as if we’re suspects. Then today, I see this lonely girl in the woods yelling at me….”

  “Wait, what?” Wanda asks.

  “…and it turns out she was buried out there. And somehow, the father who disappeared from our lives years ago while we suffered through a hurricane and rebuilding an entire city, is involved in all this. And you…,” I point my finger right in Wanda’s face, “…think I had something to do with it.”

  Amazingly enough, Wanda doesn’t lock me up. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Great idea. How about doing that without immediately thinking I’m guilty.”

  I can’t believe I’m shouting at a cop, especially considering the weird circumstances, but Wanda’s hot air has deflated. She sits and leans back in her chair, still studying me, but her gaze turns from suspicious to dissecting.

  “What did you mean, you saw this lonely girl.”

  Crap, did I say that? I look at Portia for help, but she shrugs.

  I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m a medium.”

  I expect Wanda to laugh, to shake her head, to throw me in a dark cell somewhere. Instead, she leans forward. “Okay.”

  I study her face but I’m not reading her. “Okay what?”

  “What did you see?”

  This really throws me for I’ve never had this reaction before. Wanda senses my discomfort and shrugs. “I’m Hispanic. I’m Catholic. I’m open to anything. Plus, my mom reads tea leaves. Pretty accurate too.”

  I relax for the first time since spotting Dark Eyes and the release of tension from my muscles makes me feel incredibly tired. Besides, what harm could telling the truth possibly do now?

  I sit back down and begin. “She came to me last night. I saw her by the pool at the place where we’re staying.”

  “The Rodriguez house.”

  I nod. “She spoke Spanish and I couldn’t understand what she was saying but I did ask her name. I remember that much from high school.”

  “What did she say?” Wanda and Portia ask at the same time.

  “Elena Gomez.”

  Wanda pales, leans back, and runs both hands through hair that’s dark black like the dead woman but highlighted with steaks of gray, no doubt the result of her profession.

  “What is it?” Portia asks. “Do you know her?”

  We seem to be three women discussing a topic, instead of the earlier interrogation, but Wanda’s not on our side yet. She rises and heads out the door, leaving Portia and I to wonder what happens next.

  “Do you think she believed me?” I ask.

  Portia bites her lower lip, the way she used to do in middle school, the two worst years of her life. “I have no idea.”

  “Do you think Dad had something to do with this woman?”

  Portia smirks. “At this point, anything’s possible.”

  While we wait, a silence falls between us and Portia studies me hard.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Are you channeling Dad too?”

  It’s spoken so softly I almost don’t hear her. There’s a pain staring back at me from my sister’s eyes and it’s like something I’ve never seen before.

  Wanda returns carrying a laptop and a manila folder but she still appears shocked by the news, that old stalwart cop persona long gone. She places both on the table in front of us and sits down, then brings up a video. It appears to be outside security camera footage and there’s a young girl standing by the side of the road. It’s Elena.

  “We arrested your father back in August of 2005 when he bought some drugs off a plain clothes cop,” Wanda explains, which makes Portia gasp. “He was here for some kind of science convention and he seemed like a guy who didn’t do this very often.”

  I look at Portia and she grimaces.

  “We let him go and that was that.” She hits the forward button of the video. “But then this happened. Right here in the park.”

  We watch the video as Elena paces the side of the road nervously, wearing the same lime green shirt and jeans she wore at the pool and in the woods. A man appears and they speak for a few minutes. Just as the man turns to leave, Wanda hits the pause button. It’s Dad.

  “Holy cow,” Portia says, although it’s not cow.

  I lean back in my chair, astonished.

  “We brought him in again,” Wanda says. “But he wouldn’t talk. Where before he was all sweet and innocent and helpful, after this meeting he was guarded and closed up like a clam.”

  I shake my head, still not believing what I saw. “My dad was Dean of Students at Loyola University in New Orleans. He helped people, invited students home for supper. He loved nature and birds. He captured spiders in the house and let them go outside.”

  Wanda rubs her eyes. “I got that feeling. Which is why we let him go.”

  “Do you know where he went?” Portia asks. “Because he disappeared in 2005 and we never heard from him again until early this year.”

  Wanda moves the folder over and opens it. There’s a thick stack of papers inside and I spot the names of Manuel Ruiz and Peter Thomaston. The last name rings a bell but I can’t put the pieces together.

  “We followed him for a while and, besides drinking too much at a couple of bars, we didn’t see anything unusual. The heavy drinking did make us suspicious that he knew something and wasn’t talking. Or that he was involved in Gomez’s disappearance somehow.”

  When Wanda says disappearance, there’s a catch in her throat. I study her face and wonder if she’s fighting back emotions.

  “He was a drunk,” Portia says, bringing her back, and there’s no love lost in that statement.

  “I gathered that,” Wanda says. “The way he drank was indicative of a long-time alcoholic.”

  Portia and I must have given Wanda a questioning look, for Wanda shrugs. “I’m recovering.”

  “What happened after that?” I ask.

  Wanda sighs and I assume the case was never closed. “She disappeared. Then, we got a missing person call from Mexico. Elena Gomez was supposed to have been home by a certain date and she never arrived. We suspected a couple of drug dealers on this side; Elena had tips and was investigating.

  “We never found Elena,” Wanda continues and I hear that catch again. “But we have suspects.”

  We discuss the case more and Portia and I give Wanda a timeline of when and where we heard from our father since his disappearance. Portia even pulls out her list of phone calls Dad made and the credit card
statements and Wanda gets one of her cops to make copies. We end by explaining how Dad was found on our grandmother’s property and how Aunt Mimi identified him at the morgue.

  “I’ll call over there and get information,” Wanda says. “Maybe I can connect some dots.”

  We shake hands, but Wanda reminds us to stay in town, at least for another day. She’s still not convinced we’re innocent but I don’t think we’re suspects either. Not like an attorney for Jackson, Weiss and Landry will be on the run.

  Before I head out the door, Wanda turns to me. “You said Elena said something to you. What was it?”

  “It was in Spanish,” I reply. “I don’t know.”

  “Can you remember it?”

  I’ll never forget it. She said it over and over again.

  “Tu padre estuvo aquí.”

  Wanda reacts and Portia asks, “What is it?”

  “She said, ‘Your father was here.’”

  Wanda reluctantly agrees to let us out for sustenance; we’re all starving as the sun begins its trek toward the horizon. We snag some amazing Tex-Mex from a food truck not far from the park, Portia complaining the whole time that we’re in for a night of diarrhea and Mimi extolling the virtues of hot peppers as both a detoxifying agent and an aphrodisiac. They begin a long discussion and I look at TB with enlarged eyes to mimic my descent into insanity. He laughs.

  Once we take our seats at the picnic table and enjoy soft smoked brisket tacos — wow! — we explain everything that went down with Wanda in the park office.

  “She’s letting us come back in?” Mimi asks.

  I nod, wiping the mango slaw off the side of my mouth.

  Mimi looks around the table for answers but there are none; Portia shrugs. Per Wanda’s suggestion, although heavily supervised, we’re returning to Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley tonight for what, we really don’t know.

  We climb back into the SUV and head into the sunset. I laugh at the thought, considering we’re in a real-life western and for a woman raised in the swamps of Louisiana this is all foreign to me. I expect a tumble weed to roll across the road and a band of Native Americans — the kind in non-PC movies, of course — to come swooping in.

  We pause at our Airbnb because Portia wants to change clothes and Mimi needs a bathroom break.

  “Try wearing something normal,” I shout at my sister as she disappears into her bedroom.

  Stinky wakes up from his nap and starts sending me sleepy eyes as he caresses my ankle. I reach down and give him some serious loving. Usually he rolls on his back, closes his eyes, and does this thing with his paw where it opens and closes, opens and closes. Today, he looks up me, eyes narrowed, and appears peeved.

  “He needs to come with us,” TB whispers.

  It’s the most absurd idea and yet, I nod. There are times when the universe tells you to do something and it’s smart to listen. Usually, I ignore the message and get into serious trouble. Like right now. My brain exclaims how ridiculous this idea is but my gut insists otherwise, so tonight, I’m going with the belly.

  “Y’all are certifiably insane,” Portia says as she enters the SUV and catches Stinky sitting on the back seat between me and TB like a dog.

  Mimi smiles from the passenger seat, as if the universe explained the whole thing with her and she’s down with it. I really need to learn this “Craft.” There seems to be peace in letting go and letting the flow of nature take its course.

  “That cat’s going to run off and we’ll never see him again,” Portia says as we head back to the park. That warm witchy glow evaporates and the old fear returns.

  “Maybe we should leave him in the car,” I offer. “We might lose him to the five hundred-plus species of birds eating their fill in this lovely refuge.”

  “He comes in handy,” TB argues, and it’s the first time I hear it. A definitive, father-like tone stating that this is the last of the discussion. I gaze at my husband and he’s sitting ram-rod straight, gazing forward with confidence, and for the life of me all I can think of is what I want to do to this man once we get back to that bedroom.

  “That’s the last of that cat you’re going to see, handy or not.” Of course, Portia gets in the last word.

  It’s close to twilight when we arrive. We leave the SUV in the parking lot and walk to the park entrance, hugging the side of the road so Stinky follows us beneath bushes. As we approach the employee entrance, Wanda has a golf cart ready for us, complete with police driver. She announces this like it’s some generous gesture but we know it’s to keep an eye on our whereabouts. Mimi and Portia slide into the back, and TB and I offer to walk since the golf cart only accommodates three passengers comfortably. Plus, there’s Stinky to consider.

  “We’ll be right behind,” I tell Wanda, who sends us both a suspicious look, TB especially. She still can’t comprehend that bright light at the convenience store — she’s asked about it twice since our meeting. It blurred the security camera footage so it’s unclear how the perp got hit with the mint chocolate chip.

  “Must have been a glitch with the camera,” I said.

  “Worked just fine until that moment.”

  Wanda stands in the middle of the street with hands on her hips, no doubt debating about whether to jump in the driver’s side and keep an eye on the hippy and her lawyer or walk behind with the two crazy people. She taps the top of the golf cart, and the driver takes off.

  “We lost the toss,” I whisper to my husband.

  TB gives me a clueless stare. “Huh?”

  Actually, I’m kinda glad Wanda’s joining us. It’s nice having a cop on my side for once. If that’s what’s going on here.

  TB looks over at the brush and spots Stinky. The cat slips away and my heart lurches.

  “He’ll be fine,” TB says.

  We walk in silence at first, then Wanda starts asking the twenty questions. Where are we from? What do we do? What was John like as a father? What’s my mother think of all this?

  I answer while TB remains silent. I suspect he’s worried she’ll start in on the white light again. When we start discussing family, she turns his way.

  “You’re Cajun?”

  TB nods.

  “You put a lot of spice in your food?”

  If Wanda hadn’t been so close to my face, I’d roll my eyes. People are always assuming we throw peppers in everything we cook. Truth is, we cook with flavor, mainly onions, garlic, bell peppers. And yes, that includes cayenne and other seasonings but within reason. What we don’t do is cook bland and then douse the dish with red hot crap they sell as Cajun around the country.

  “We like our food well-seasoned,” TB answers.

  Wanda smiles and I nearly faint at the sight. It’s the first time she’s shown some teeth. “Me too. My family’s from Mexico and we love spices.”

  The two begin a long discourse on cooking — a talent that skipped me for sure — and TB explains how Acadians arriving from Nova Scotia after being exiled from the British adapted to Louisiana cooking, mainly by taking cues from the Spanish who governed the colony at the time.

  “People think that all those spices came from France, but it was the Spanish that introduced cayenne and other spices to Louisiana,” he explains, and I must say, I’m totally impressed. “But our cuisine is more than that. There are influences from African slaves, Native Americans, tomatoes from the Sicilians. We’re a real melting pot.”

  “I’ll never eat Cajun food the same way,” Wanda says.

  TB grins like a schoolboy. “You should never eat Cajun food outside Louisiana. In fact, chér, you should never eat it outside my momma’s house, although she lives in Florida now.

  “And,” he adds, “if you come over tomorrow I’ll make you my special gumbo which won a silver at the Louisiana Gumbo Cookoff.”

  Wow, he’s laying it on thick, his dormant Cajun accent emerging. Wanda’s eating it up — pun intended.

  I slip behind, feeling left out, and check the bushes. Stinky’s nowhere to be foun
d and my heart plummets. I want to say something but what? I can’t let Wanda know we brought a cat into a park that’s part of a world birding association. Besides, she and TB are having the time of their lives, discussing the similarities between cultures, and touching each other like friends.

  I follow like a grumpy five-year-old as we enter the crime scene and head to the area outlined in yellow tape. Portia and Mimi are already there, talking to a member of the McAllen police force. We’re not allowed inside the crime scene, naturally, but we’re able to look around the area. The fact that Wanda allowed this makes me think she really does believe in my psychic abilities. That or she’s angling for my husband.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I think, trying to convince myself. A month ago, I never would have believed that TB would look elsewhere, but I haven’t been the best ex-wife or sorta ex-getting-together-again-spouse.

  I watch the two of them discuss whether jambalaya is a variation on Spanish paella when Mimi places a hand on my shoulder from behind, making me jump.

  “The moon’s getting close to full and the sky’s clear tonight.”

  I look toward the horizon and just above the tree line there’s a moon rising with a crescent around one edge that’s still dark.

  “Is that important?” I ask her. “Phases of the moon?”

  Mimi stretches her arms upward and then outward to her sides. “Everything in nature is important, Sweetheart. It’s our lifeblood.”

  I look around and see nothing but a hoard of police officers, yellow tape, black and blue cars.

  Mimi sighs, leans down and grabs a handful of soil, then places it into my palm. “We’re distracted by the modern world but it’s all there, under our feet, ready to be tapped into.”

  I look at the clod of dirt in my hand. “Tapped into what?”

  I’m losing her, I can see it in her eyes. She’s wondering how the same DNA in both of us failed to materialize in me. A pain settles deep inside my heart because it’s the same expression Dad used to give when I didn’t follow his passion of the outdoors.