Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “Wow.” Like I said, I should stick to writing, I have such a way with words.

  “My mother wanted to meet you,” Wanda explains. “You’re the first SCANC she’s met. We didn’t know such a thing existed until we saw this Facebook page for a convention in New Orleans.”

  “We were there,” TB says, and leaves it at that. I glance at my husband and know he’s thinking about Dwayne Garrett, the descendant we met there, a man whose angelic properties lean toward Lucifer. Dwayne was the man who came two moments from slitting my throat in Natchez until Stinky and TB arrived to save my sorry butt.

  I decide to head back to safe territory with Juanita. We share SCANC information and what trauma led to our specific talents — for Juanita, it was a fire during her college days — and I notice Portia absorbing this information. I should have told her before now, I’m thinking, should have explained who I am. She sits at the head of the table dressed in a nice blouse and sweater over her usual navy blue slacks. Does the woman even own jeans?

  Breakfast finished, TB rises and offers coffee refills. Juanita holds a palm up while she studies her cup.

  “Did your father have something to do with primroses?” she asks.

  We all look at one another, but flowers? Dad?

  “He was into birding, not gardening,” I say.

  Wanda, on the other hand, frowns like she’s on to something. “Anyone have a laptop?”

  TB grabs his Mac from the counter and hands it to her and she fires it up. While Wanda searches the internet, TB pours everyone another round of coffee and Mimi asks Juanita questions about tea reading. Or coffee, as is the case.

  Finally, Wanda finds what she’s looking for. “Primrose Place. Just outside of Corpus Christi. It’s a rehab hospital.”

  This spurs Portia into action. She grabs her briefcase and pulls out the folder she’s brought on Dad. “There was a reference to Corpus right after our father came here. A large amount was drawn on his credit card by a company called Westfield Healthcare.”

  Wanda nods. “That’s the parent company. When did this happen?”

  “The first payment was in September 2005. There was another two weeks later and a final payment near the end of November.”

  My heart sinks. Two months after Katrina. While we gutted our houses, Dad was in rehab?

  “Did our father leave here before that poor girl died?” Portia’s hoping to clear Dad and get us out of here.

  Wanda looks at her mother, who shakes her head. She pauses, then pulls out her own folder, placing a timeline in front of us.

  “Your father showed up three years ago in McAllen on August 25, 2005, attending the biology convention through Saturday, August 27.” She pulls out a hotel receipt. “He was at the Hilton by the Convention Center. We arrested him when he bought drugs off a plains clothes cop. He kept going on and on about his family in New Orleans and how he needed to go home to help with hurricane preparations. We agreed to let him go the next morning, and he swore he was heading back to Louisiana.”

  Mimi shakes her head. “He never made it.”

  “Something happened,” Wanda says. “He never left. When we found the video footage of him with Elena — taken the afternoon of August 26 — we brought him back in. That time, he was a different man. Skittish, uncooperative. A few days later, he disappeared.”

  “He went to rehab,” I say.

  “And Elena went missing.”

  There’s that catch again in Wanda’s voice and her mother takes her hand and squeezes. A silence falls upon us as we contemplate Dad’s week in McAllen but none of it makes sense to me. Finally, Wanda touches my forearm and nods towards the back patio. I look back at Portia who’s concerned that I’m about to talk to a cop by myself but I send her a half smile. After the comfortable breakfast we had, and Wanda bringing along her psychic mother, it can’t be that bad. Can it?

  I follow Wanda on to the patio, the poolside space where I first saw Elena. It’s late morning and the sun’s blinding so even if my ghostly friend showed up, I probably wouldn’t see her.

  “My dad didn’t do anything to that woman.” The words come pouring out before I know what I’m doing. I touch the quartz in my pocket and the fear and trepidation disappears, making the words emerge like a stream without conscious thought. “She liked my dad, I just know it. There was kindness in her voice when she mentioned him, and I know that because she said his name. And the knife, I don’t think it had anything to do with either one of them. He got into something here, he couldn’t have done….”

  Wanda holds up a palm and I stop my rambling. “I’m going with y’all to Corpus. Let’s find out what happened there.”

  “If he checked into rehab, he would have been there awhile.”

  She nods. “But he might have had an apartment.”

  “What?” This doesn’t make sense. “Why would he have an apartment if he wanted to enter rehab.”

  Wanda smiles but it’s more like those snarky ones you see cops deliver on TV. “Why indeed?”

  That confidence I felt earlier holding on to my stones disappears. “Is my dad a suspect? Am I?”

  Wanda pulls on her sunglasses, something else you see on those cop shows. She looks off into the pasture alongside the house and those crazy trees are bending in the wind, back and forth, back and forth.

  “If what you say is true about your abilities…,” Wanda says slowly. Even though her mother shares my talent I feel that Wanda remains skeptical. “Then the woman we found at the park isn’t Elena.”

  My breath catches. For some reason, deep down I know she’s right. Where did that knowledge suddenly come from?

  “The body we found,” I begin, “she died by that knife, didn’t she?”

  “Early to tell but her rib bones show signs of trauma associated with a stabbing.”

  Elena must have known about the murder, but where is Elena?

  After we make arrangements and pack up, we all pile into the SUV and head to the coast. Wanda took her mother home and arrived back at the Rodriguez hacienda to provide an escort, waiting in her cop car on the highway. Mimi assures Portia that Wanda’s presence is a good thing.

  “Then why do I feel like she’s leading us to jail?” Portia retorts.

  The ride’s two and a half hours through the interior of Texas, flat lands full of cows, cactus, and those weird trees.

  “What are those things?” Mimi asks.

  We’re so used to hardwoods like live oak trees solidly grounded with branches stretched out like arms, sometimes draped with Spanish moss reaching all the way to the ground. I used to climb those massive limbs in Audubon Park back home. Louisiana contains tall pines as well, trees that reach toward the sky, and bald cypress that resemble Christmas trees with knees protruding from wetlands. Looking out at this arid landscape and thinking of home makes me incredibly thirsty. Wish we would have stopped at that crime scene convenience store for a water.

  “Mesquite,” TB says, bringing me back.

  “What?” Mimi asks.

  “Those trees.”

  “Like you would know,” Portia says.

  TB frowns and goes back to reading his American history text book; he has a final the week after we return. I gaze at my husband, soft blond hair falling about his face, those baby brown eyes reading something about Jamestown, and I wonder how many times I’ve said something equally hurtful.

  “He would know,” I say. “TB knows lots about Texas.”

  Portia snorts but TB looks over at me and offers a guarded smile.

  “I’ll bet he read everything about the state before we went on this trip,” I continue. “He usually does that.”

  Mimi and Portia in the front seat say nothing and TB goes back to reading. But he leans my way and whispers, “Not really.”

  I can’t help it, I start giggling. First, TB smiles, then we both break into laughter.

  “What’s gotten into you two?” Mimi asks, smiling back at us.

  We gain control, I st
are out at the mesquite trees and the small towns passing by, and TB goes back to reading. We finally get to the coast around two and we all sigh when we spot the blue waters sparkling in the afternoon sun. People from Louisiana can’t be away from water long.

  “That’s actually the bay,” TB says and this time no one disputes him. Might be because he has a map of Texas in his hands. Where did he find time to get that? “We have to take a bridge over to Padre Island.”

  We follow Wanda across the bridge, but what’s on the other side is not what I expected. Padre Island’s equally flat with little trees and development in spurts, at least on our side of the island. It’s not far off the beach destination I envisioned, with hotels, palm trees and the like, but more natural.

  After a few miles up the beach we reach an oasis, a lovely building surrounded by lush vegetation so it’s hidden from view until you practically drive up to the front door. On the outside, it looks like a condo complex with a gurgling fountain, those palm trees I was dreaming about before, and lots of flowers. Only upon closer scrutiny can one see the security measures in place.

  We’re about to get out of the SUV when Wanda raises a hand like a stop sign, motions to Portia, and the two enter the building.

  “How come she gets to have all the fun?”

  I’m trying to be funny because inside I feel like screaming but no one laughs. My father suffered in this place for weeks and I had no idea.

  “It looks lovely,” Mimi says which helps a little.

  Just then my phone rings and it’s an Alabama number.

  “Tabitha?”

  “Hey dawlin’.”

  “Hey.”

  There’s several moments of silence which seems weird for my talkative cousin. “Is this about the coat?” I finally ask, because I think maybe she’s trying to find a way to ask for it back.

  “Oh no, I told you that’s yours. I have plenty.” Then, with an afterthought she adds, “Unless you don’t want it.”

  “Uh, I’m a bit far from Alabama to bring it back.”

  “No worries. Keep it. Plus, I’m heading to Mobile this weekend for a Carnival luncheon with the big wigs and I bought a new one for that. It’s a lovely tweed.”

  “That’s nice.” Sounds expensive as usual.

  “It’s going to be a fancy soiree at the Mardi Gras museum in Mobile. All the kings and queens will be there for the upcoming season. Isn’t that something?”

  “Cool.” I check my watch, wondering what’s keeping Portia.

  “You know, Mobile started Mardi Gras.”

  I cringe because I’ve heard this so many times from Mobilian residents. The two brothers who founded Louisiana celebrated Mardi Gras at a Louisiana bayou in 1699, but the revelry that followed in New Orleans was crude and lawless. A group of Mobile businessmen came over around the middle of the 1800s and founded the first krewe in New Orleans, a more civilized undertaking, which is what we both have today. But, now Mobile thinks they started it all. Or maybe I’m just a New Orleanian who’s too protective of her traditions. One thing’s for sure, I’m wanting this conversation to end.

  “When I get home, I’ll mail it to you.”

  “What?”

  “The coat you lent me.”

  “No, no. Honey, I don’t need it back. Wait, where are you?”

  I rub the bridge of my nose. “Texas.”

  “Texas? My, my, you travel a lot. Whatsha doing in Texas?”

  I’m in no mood to discuss Dad at the moment because Portia and Wanda have emerged from Primrose with frowns and I’m dreading what might be coming next.

  “I have to go, Tabitha.”

  “Wait, there’s something important I need to tell you.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  Tabitha’s pauses and I can hear her sigh. “Okay.”

  “I’ll call you tonight.”

  We say our goodbyes and hang up. Wanda and Portia meet us at the SUV.

  “There’s a reasonable hotel down the beach,” Wanda says. “And there’s a great Tex-Mex restaurant next door. Why don’t we get checked in and meet up later? I have some things I need to do.”

  I’m about to ask a million questions when Portia heads to the driver side. Obviously, decision is made about what we do and where we go next. Once we’re in the car, however, Portia sighs and looks my way, fatigue written all over her face. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  I nod. What on earth went down in Primrose?

  We check into the hotel which is right on the beach. It’s reasonable but basic and Portia’s not too pleased; she was hoping for an indoor pool, hot tub, and exercise room. There’s an outdoor pool a few yards shy of the beach but it’s November, the water’s likely chilly, and the pool area is strewn with leaves and other beach debris.

  “So much for that idea,” she mumbles.

  We all get separate rooms and head out in different directions, TB and I sneaking back to the van to gather up Stinky since the hotel doesn’t allow pets. We enter the establishment through the back door and use the stairs, convinced everyone else will take the elevator. When we reach our room, I let Stinky go and he immediately crawls beneath the queen bed’s coverlet. TB heads for the balcony and lights up like a kid at Christmas.

  “We’re right on the beach.”

  I nod. I wish I could be excited but I’m dreading the news about Dad. TB picks up my emotion and comes inside to sit next to me on the bed, careful not to sit on the lump that’s Stinky. One of two queen beds, I might add. While he takes my hand, I wonder if he’ll want to sleep separately. There hasn’t been lovemaking initiation the last two nights, but then, we had a lot of drama to contend with.

  “Go take a hot bath or jump in the ocean,” he says. “I’ll do some research on the Internet.”

  “If they have Internet.”

  “It’s almost 2009, Vi. Everyone has Internet.”

  I do as I’m told, head to the bathroom and slip on my bathing suit. TB’s busy searching through his luggage, grumbling about forgetting something important, so I silently head outside. I bring my quartz stones and include my angelite for measure, placing both inside the pocket of my bathing suit wrap. The temperature’s warm, a far cry from that cold front in Alabama, but there’s a nip in the air. I dip my toe into the Gulf and debate whether to jump in or not; it’s not that warm. I decide to plop down in the sand and watch the waves for a while, let the afternoon sun bake my face, enjoy the wading birds skittering along the beach. I lean back and close my eyes, delight in the red splotches that appear with the warmth.

  Only she’s there.

  At first, it’s like gazing at Wanda’s laptop, watching my father meet Elena at the park, the two of them discussing…what? I notice Dad smiling, Elena touching his forearm lightly. A friendly conversation? Elena appears to get serious and after a few moments, Dad looks around as if checking for eavesdroppers. She leans in close and slips Dad something into his hand.

  I jolt upright. I don’t remember seeing that on the video. This time, Elena’s right in front of me, nodding her head. I gasp, loudly, because she’s scared the bejesus out of me.

  Elena utters a few words in Spanish that I brand to memory and then she vanishes. I think back on what I saw inside my head. Was it something important in the vision, some clue as to what happened to Dad? Yes, the ghostly woman was sitting across from me like they usually do, trying to tell me something, but I also received information while I was relaxing or napping. Was I sleeping or just hovering between reality and my subconscious?

  The image of Mimi meditating that morning comes to mind. She begged me to join her, wanting to explain the basics when I waved her off.

  “I can’t get my brain to shut off,” I had said. “ADHD and all.”

  Mimi took my hand and squeezed, which signaled to me that this was a lesson I needed to hear. “You don’t have to shut off the brain. Just ask for guidance and try to relax, try to convince your mind it doesn’t need to be working non-stop.”

 
“That’s the problem.”

  Mimi had leaned in, whispered in my ear. “You get answers.”

  Maybe I need to try this, I think. I lean back in the sand and close my eyes, tell my brain to shut up but of course thoughts come flying through. I’m thinking that I’m thinking too much and then I shake my head and start over. It’s frustrating the hell out of me trying to not think but then I’m thinking that I’m frustrated over not thinking.

  “Geez, Louise,” I say, sitting up in the sand, watching a flock of pelicans soar by without a care in the world. And that’s when I remember my rose quartz and angelite.

  I decide this experience needs water so I head to the water’s edge, letting the Gulf tickle my toes as they sink into the dark, wet sand. The sun and wind bathe my face and I pull out my stones, close my eyes, and hold them lightly in my palms. I do what Mimi instructed: tell myself to relax, ask to be surrounded by the protective white light and let my muscles release. I lean back and take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and close my eyes.

  “Dad?” I ask the darkness. “Tell me what happened.”

  Those splotches of red and orange the sun creates behind your eyelids fade away, first replaced by that white light I’m envisioning — or am I? — and then darkness descends. Sounds of waves and birds move off to some distant shore. My father appears but it’s like we’re hovering next to each other surrounded by black.

  “Vi?”

  “Where are we?”

  He smiles broadly but there’s pain in his gaze. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  I’m trying to remain neutral, worried that emotions might take me away, but I’m scared for my father. Is this purgatory? Mimi said when you die you don’t bring pain and suffering with you to the afterlife, but Dad doesn’t appear to be at peace. I fear he’s hovering somewhere else.

  “What happened to you, Dad. Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know where I am. Do you?”

  I want to say I’m in Padre Island looking for you, but not sure how to proceed. “I’m in Texas, Dad. On the Gulf of Mexico. You’ve been here.”

  He nods and smiles like it’s a good memory, then his countenance changes rapidly as if he remembers something. “I had to hide.”