Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “You plant when the moon is waxing,” Mimi continues. “You weed when it’s waning. My mother swore by that theory. And likewise, you ask the universe to bring you a new job or prosperity when it’s waxing and ask for things that need to go during a waning moon. Call it science or my own crazy thinking but it’s worked for me as well.”

  I had a friend in New Orleans who made gris gris bags, little bags of intentions containing herbs, roots and stones. Like me, she hated her job at the New Orleans Post so she made this little green bag and placed it next to her computer. Every day she would touch this sack smelling of basil and other earthy things and say, “Good things are coming.” Sure enough, within a week she had another job.

  “It’s like a prayer in a bag,” she told me. “Even though gris gris is a voodoo word, I look at this as me setting forth a goal and the wonderful elements of nature helping me to focus and reach it.”

  Maybe that’s what Mimi’s doing. I look over and she’s nodding her head.

  “Can you read minds?” I impulsively ask.

  “What?” She looks surprised. “Of course not.”

  I’m still doubtful but I ask about bringing the moon down.

  “Drawing down the moon,” she corrects. “And it’s best done naked and with a coven.”

  Did she just say coven and did I snort again?

  “Are you taking this seriously?”

  I clear my throat and nod. Mimi slips behind me and takes my hands.

  “The moon holds the Goddess energy and at the full moon her power is the strongest.” She raises my arms toward the moon as if I’m at a Mardi Gras parade and the Krewe du Luna is throwing me beads. Then, with her hands covering mine, she shapes my palms like a cup and places them where the moon rests in our makeshift chalice.

  “We ask for the Goddess to send down her energy and pour her wonders of light into our own,” Mimi calls out, closing her eyes. “Oh Goddess, fill us with your power.”

  Mimi then starts reciting Wiccan talk and I don’t know if it’s the hokey chant or the fact that I’m asking Earth’s only natural satellite for guidance, but I don’t feel it. All I fathom is a moon burning bright with the light of the sun behind our wonderful planet. My logical brain can’t get past the science.

  I close my eyes, hoping that might help, but again, nothing. But I remain quiet while Mimi does her thing, her words like a lullaby in my ears.

  And then, suddenly, images appear. They come at me fast and furious but I try to grasp what I’m seeing. The word Stewart. Spanish blue tile. A pirate with a rifle resting lazily over his shoulder. An old wooden chest.

  I feel myself shaking because the last image is Dwayne Garrett, standing over me menacingly before he tried to slit my throat in Natchez.

  I gasp and open my eyes but there’s nothing but soft moonlight bathing us both with our hands shaped around the moon like a chalice. Now that I think about it, I can’t help but wonder if the chalice symbol mimics a woman’s womb. For the first time in years, I think about having another child.

  Mimi stops chanting, drops our arms, and gazes into my eyes. She senses that something’s amiss but I don’t feel like explaining that I failed to commune with the moon, or mention the other weird — and frightening — images.

  “I’m sorry, Mimi. It’s been a tough night so maybe all that negative energy is working against me.”

  That or I don’t believe I can draw down the moon.

  I expect her to be disappointed or upset that I’m not trying hard enough, but she smiles, pulls a curl behind my ear. “It’s all about love, Vi. Letting go of all that negative energy and fear and want and letting the love come in. Nature is nothing but God’s love so when we’re attune to it, everything falls into place.”

  I want to ask how nature failed me on so many instances but I hold my tongue. I nod and give her a big hug, then head off to bed.

  Speaking of love, I’m hoping TB might be up and we can wallow in some moon glow. When I open the door, however, he’s asleep on his side of the bed, Stinky curled up in the bend of his knees. I sigh and, although disappointed again, realize I’m deadly tired so I pull on my pajamas and join them.

  As I rest my head on the pillow I notice a soft stream of light cascading across the room from the window over my head. It’s a strong beam of moonlight.

  I hear Portia and Wanda in the kitchen talking over a cacophony of kitchen noise. I reach over to pat my husband’s body but the bed’s empty. Even Stinky is nowhere to be found. I jump in the shower and throw on some clothes, run my fingers threw my crazy curly hair and head out, expecting the worst.

  Sure enough, Portia’s standing by the kitchen table with hands on her hips, her gaze like laser beams cutting through me.

  “I guess you’ve heard what happened last night,” I say as I pour myself a cup of coffee and send my husband a smile of gratitude for the caffeine.

  “You had to do something stupid and go out there,” Portia begins. “You had to be the center of attention and screw things up.”

  This diatribe is getting on my last nerve. I’m about to say as much when Mimi starts interjecting peace talks and Wanda comes to my rescue, insisting that although we were trespassing, we came to her aid and found important evidence on a decades-long drug case. But nothing’s keeping Portia from sending me icicles from her eyes.

  “Did you find out who that was?” I ask Wanda, to move the subject away from me.

  “You were right. It wasn’t Elena.”

  TB turns around, spatula in hand, sporting an apron. I snort again at the sight and the look my sweet husband sends me makes my heart drop into my knees. I want to add that he’s adorable in that apron but I suddenly feel like my big sister, mean-spirited and biting. It reminds me all too well the years I may have been unkind to this man, always wishing he was smarter, more interesting.

  Wanda’s explaining to TB that the body found was Manuel Ruiz, the sidekick to the one of the biggest cartel bosses on both sides of the border. But I’m remembering the years living with TB and how, at the time, all he cared about was football, hanging with his boring friends drinking beer and talking about everything under the sun but what mattered to me. We married for Lillye so I could justify why we didn’t make the perfect couple, but now, I can’t imagine living a life without him.

  Portia’s still sending me a stink eye, but I’m thinking it’s weird how perception comes at odd times. I often wonder if TB and I had talked all those years ago — really talked — and I was more patient and understanding and he reading books, if….

  I shake my head recalling my conversation with Dad the night before. Enough of the what ifs and regrets. I grab Portia’s sleeve and drag her through the sliding glass doors on to the patio. She actually walks out, but you get the vernacular.

  “Vi,” she says retrieving her arm, “what the hell are you doing?”

  I close the door and move us away since everyone’s staring at us through the glass. “We have to talk.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  She’s about to walk back inside but I grab her arm again. “I’m not spending another moment of my life having you hate me….”

  She whips her head around. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You sure have a funny way of showing that.”

  “You sure have a funny way of getting us into trouble.”

  I rub my eyes because she’s right. Still, this goes back years. “You’ve been mean to me my whole life.”

  She throws her hands up. “Oh, so it’s pity time again for Vi, is it?”

  I shake my head because I can’t believe she can be so cruel. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “You know, I can’t fight this anymore. Anytime you want to change places, let me know.”

  I move to head inside, have my hand on the sliding glass doors, when I hear her utter in a little more than a whisper, “You wouldn’t say that if you had my childhood.”

  I’m still bristling about her last comment, that losing a ch
ild brought me more pity that she apparently thinks she deserves, but something in that last sentence makes me pause. There’s a catch in her throat, pain through her words. I look back and my steel-spine, badass lawyer sister has tears in her eyes.

  I let out the anger I’ve been repressing in a long exhale and grab her sleeve again, pull her toward two lawn chairs. Portia, of course, complains the whole way but I’m not letting this moment turn into thirty more resentful, argumentative years.

  Once we’re seated, I look her in the eye. “What happened, Portia? Does this have to do with Dad?”

  That haughtiness returns and she straightens, wipes her nose with the back of her fingers. “It’s nothing. Go back to your breakfast.”

  “I’m not leaving here until you tell me.”

  “It’s nothing,” she says with more force and venom, which takes me back.

  “What’s nothing?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell,” she says in a sarcastic tone. When she looks at me, there’s hatred in that gaze. “You and Sebastian don’t have to know a thing.”

  I’m so confused. “What are you talking about?”

  Her eyes cloud up again. “You see? We did such a good job, y’all never suspected anything.”

  I want to grab her shoulders and shake her until she opens up, but once again, I’m afraid she might bite. “Damn it, Portia, what happened?”

  She stands abruptly and begins pacing. “He was a drunk. And a lousy father. Forgot me at school more times than I care to remember, left me hungry when mom worked late. Once Dad left me at home alone when mom was out of town, scared me so much I ran to the neighbor’s house and spent the night there.”

  “Wow, seriously?”

  “He never asked me to go on nature walks, let me tell you.”

  “I always thought you hated being outdoors.”

  “He could have asked.”

  Now, she’s almost shouting, so I reach for her hand and squeeze. Amazingly enough, she lets me. “I don’t think this is about the birding hikes Dad and I used to take.”

  She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms about her chest, looks off at the owner’s poor excuse of a vegetable garden. My ADHD brain thinks Mimi needs to have a talk with him.

  “Dad had to watch me one Sunday because mom had this thing at Tulane.”

  It emerges quiet and soft, so unlike Portia. “Here it comes,” some unseen voice tells me. “Help her.”

  “What happened?” I ask softly.

  “He brought a friend over to watch the stupid Saints game and they got drunk.”

  My breath catches because I have a feeling about what comes next. I’ve heard it all too often from my female friends. Although I can’t believe my father….

  “Did Dad do something to you?”

  Portia shakes her head and looks down at her feet. “He never did anything, that’s the problem.”

  “The friend?”

  She says nothing and a violent shiver runs through me. “Jesus, Portia.”

  She shakes her head. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Wasn’t that bad?” I’ve heard this too often as well. Women are taught to keep these things to ourselves, downplay them, push them deep inside to spare the feelings of others because sexual assault isn’t something we should discuss.

  “He slipped into my room and….” She shrugs. “It could have been worse.”

  Now I stand and begin pacing. Could have been worse? After all these years women still feel guilty for being a victim, and it angers me.

  “It wasn’t like he raped me or anything.”

  I turn and stare at this woman, the toughest female I’ve known my entire life, the Lawyer of the Year by New Orleans magazine and a champion against corrupt insurance companies after Katrina. A man uses his position of authority and strength to hurt a child and even the strongest women must endure the pain for a lifetime.

  “He sexually assaulted you! I don’t care if it could have been worse, you were assaulted. And how old were you?”

  She closes her eyes. “Eight.”

  Sebastian and I were born the following year.

  “Did Mom know?”

  The tears fall this time. “I think so. That was the first of Dad’s rehab treatments. She was pregnant, was having health issues because of carrying twins, and he disappeared the next day.”

  “Did they ever bring it up?”

  Portia laughs but it’s not a good one. “No one ever talks about these things.”

  My heart sinks, but I must ask. “And they told you not to tell me and Sebastian about Dad’s drinking?”

  “Mom always thought he would get better. You know Mom. You have a problem, you fix it. She never understood addiction, felt it was a weakness and all you had to do was toughen up.”

  Yeah, that sounds like Mom. Also explains how Portia represents clients who have been charged with DUIs and other addiction-related crimes. No doubt she was trying to make sense of it all.

  Portia’s old lawyer face returns, but the pain of a childhood transgression remains. Do they ever go away?

  “I never wanted it to rule my life. I thought I conquered it but then this whole thing with Dad, him running away, doing drugs and God knows what, and being irresponsible yet again…it all came back.”

  She plops down on the lawn chair, shoulders dropping. I hate to see my sister so defeated by some horrible man, even if she is talking friendly to me for the first time in ages. I take her hand. “I’m so sorry, Portia. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  She looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s a weak smile of gratitude, a sign that finally someone acknowledges her pain. I reach over and pull a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then wipe her tears away. I can’t believe I’m doing this — and she’s letting me! Before we know it, we lean forward and tightly embrace. I feel her soft sobs into my shoulder and we stay in this position for a long time, until the old lawyer returns and we begin discussing other things, like Portia wanting another child and working less hours at the firm. I’m surprised to hear she hates her job. In fact, until TB opens the door and insists we enjoy his huevos rancheros before they get cold, we talk like sisters.

  And friends.

  Portia and I enter the kitchen. No one asks what transpired and we don’t offer. Wanda announces that we’re heading to Galveston and TB tells me he’ll explain all in the car, that we need to get going. I lean toward my husband’s ear and mention how sexy he looks in that apron and a shy smile emerges. Maybe tonight?

  Portia and I wolf down our eggs since everyone’s ready to roll. I pack my bag in five minutes and after Mimi hits the bathroom not once but twice, we’re back on the road, TB driving, me in the passenger seat, and Wanda following behind in her patrol car. In the van’s back seat Mimi’s reading a book on angel communication — wonder where that idea came from — and Portia’s silent, gazing out the window at the Texas coast. I’m still reeling from her revelation and how she carried this secret alone her entire life. No wonder she’s been angry all this time.

  I don’t know how, but I’m going to make this right.

  Chapter Eleven

  We stop by Primrose Place and Portia heads inside to gather up the paperwork that’s awaiting us. Wanda saunters over to our van — I say saunter because she does that cop thing with her hands on her gun belt, looking like a female John Wayne. She even leans an arm above the van’s window and peers inside, like she’s about to give us a ticket.

  “What’s the problem oss-i-fer?” Mimi says, then chuckles at the joke. I think it’s funny but considering we’re outside a rehab place, I stifle my giggle.

  Wanda takes the bait. “License ma’am.”

  “It’s on the back of the car,” my husband interjects, a line he picked up from a Cheech and Chong movie. From the seventies, of course.

  We all laugh and it feels good to be joking around, anything but thinking about drug dealers, dead bodies, and what we might find in Galveston.

  Wanda slides in
to the back seat next to Mimi; TB’s driving today and I’m riding shotgun with an oversized orange and white cat in my lap. Wanda leans forward and TB and I turn around so we’re all in a huddle. I want to say, “Hut, hut” but the atmosphere has turned grave, no pun intended.

  “So, here’s what I’ve gathered,” Wanda begins.

  John Valentine came to McAllen for a biology conference in August 2005 and to chase birds on the side, was caught buying pot off a drug dealer near his hotel and arrested by Elena Gomez. He was let go with a warning and vowed to stay clean, according to what Elena wrote in the report. The next night Elena told Wanda she had received a tip on a drug shipment and headed to work undercover at the Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park. She was never heard from again. After viewing a tape from the park in which our father appeared, John was picked up by another officer for questioning. This time, he refused to cooperate. Then John, too, disappeared. For the past three years, all the police had to go on for both of their disappearances was that video Wanda showed us back in McAllen.

  I think back to my dream, the one resembling the video, where Elena handed my father something. I can’t help thinking there’s a clue there.

  Portia shows up with a Manilla envelope in her hands and peers into the van window much like Wanda did. “What’s going on?”

  “Just getting everyone up to date,” Wanda says. “What did you find?”

  “What we expected. Dad and Elena checked in at the same time. He paid the bill.”

  Mimi looks confused. “Was Elena an addict too?”

  Wanda shakes her head and continues the tale. “We think — we’re pretty sure — they checked in here because they saw something at the park and the cartel was on their tails.”

  “But Elena was a cop,” TB says.

  Wanda nods her head and frowns. “A member of her family in Mexico went missing about this time so we assumed the cartel was threatening Elena, that maybe they were holding her family member hostage. At least it’s one theory about why she went underground.”

  “Tell them about Jack and the palm place,” Portia inserts.