Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  He shakes his head, his breath labored, so I continue. “But the odds are in our favor and if people didn’t take that chance, there’d be no hope for humanity.”

  TB’s coming back, relaxing a little. “But don’t you think we’re betraying her,” he whispers.

  That dream comes back in a rush. I saw Lillye’s image as I was falling asleep and I remember asking her about the baby. She had smiled, hadn’t she? Waved at me with love and acceptance.

  Maybe it was all a dream and I’m just imagining what I want Lillye to feel. But Mimi said messages from the other side come back when we relax and let it happen.

  “She would be thrilled,” I whisper back. Then with more confidence, I add, “She would want her parents to move on, to be happy.”

  More tears fall, this time from both of us. We hug tightly and remain that way for what seems like an eternity. TB feels so right, so warm, my oasis in this crazy world and I’m never letting him go.

  Well, unless Portia arrives. She bangs on the window. “What are y’all doing? We’re getting ready to eat.”

  TB and I release each other, wipe our cheeks and laugh. I’m about to retort to my sister but she knows what’s going on, smiles, and walks away.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me?” TB asks.

  There’s no way I’m letting my husband give up his dream this time. If he thinks I’m pregnant, all plans for a library science degree are off and no doubt I will end up back in that moldy house, even if Cookie has renovated the interior.

  “I gave Reece notice. I want us to sell the house and move to Tennessee.”

  TB brightens instantly. “Are you sure? What about your job?”

  “I can do that anywhere.”

  He frowns. “But what if you’re….”

  “I’m starving. Let’s go inside.”

  The rain has let off but we run up the walkway anyway. We slip into the Valentine household that’s still abuzz with noise and activity. Guilt descends upon me for not telling TB the truth, but I haven’t taken a pregnancy test so I may be totally wrong. At least that’s how I’m spinning this tale. If I am with child, I’ll let him know once we’re settled in Tennessee.

  We all take our seats around Mom’s massive table and start diving into the turkey with oyster dressing, candied yams, green bean casserole with slivered almonds and fried onion rings on top and my mom’s special cornbread she makes in a skillet. We laugh recalling the time my mom asked my dad to put the cornbread in the oven and he started cooking it on top of the stove.

  “How was I to know?” he says. “It was in a skillet.”

  Sebastian sits to my right and acts as if he’s not been traveling the world, ignoring my calls. I glare at him until he finally looks my way.

  “What Vi?” he says with exasperation.

  “Finally gracing us with your presence.”

  I may have said that too loudly for others at the table glance our way.

  He offers up that sly smile he’s good at bestowing upon the world. He’s really the cutest guy and so much fun, the one I leaned on for most of my life, but I have barely seen or heard from my twin since Katrina, which broke my heart.

  “I miss you, brat,” I whisper, trying to keep the tears at bay, hoping Walter isn’t looking.

  Underneath the table, Sebastian takes my hand and squeezes. “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Then why?”

  He smiles grimly. “I couldn’t take staying here after the storm, couldn’t tolerate seeing the destruction. Besides, for the first time people wanted me. What was I going to do, say no to all those fancy resorts I worked at?”

  I release my hand from his and mimic a phone at my ear.

  “Okay,” he says with a dimpled grin. “I get it.”

  Portia sits on the other side of Sebastian and takes the opportunity to punch him in the arm. Sebastian grimaces and shakes his head. “Fine, y’all talked me into coming home.”

  The table erupts with questions and affirmations, my mom rising and heading to Sebastian’s side to give him a big hug. He mentions nabbing an assistant chef position at Commander’s Palace — entry level, he insists so we don’t think too much of this — and another surge of conversation happens.

  “Now, we’ll all be together again,” my mom says, sending a shy glance at my father, who smiles broadly.

  “What’s going on?” Portia asks, looking from one to the other.

  My mother, one of the world’s most foremost Shakespeare professors, blushes. I’m as shocked by that image as the words that come out of her mouth. “Your Dad has agreed to live here until he gets back on his feet.”

  When my father returns a lovesick smile, I’m about to fall out of my chair.

  “Or I can convince your mother to take me back,” he says.

  We all stop talking, Portia’s mouth hanging open.

  Dad throws up his hands sending Mom a nervous smile and her professional countenance resumes. “No pressure.”

  “No,” Mom answers. “No pressure at all.” But a shy smile sneaks back through.

  “We have something to announce as well,” Portia says, taking hold of Walter’s hand.

  I’m thinking another baby but Portia would have told me that back in Butler.

  “I’ve decided to quit my job at the law firm,” she begins. “I’ve been talking to a non-profit organization in town that represents women who have been sexually assaulted or are fleeing bad situations and they need a lawyer.”

  “What?” Sebastian says. “That’s awesome.”

  “You’re giving up the big bucks?” Dad asks.

  “What’s money?” Walter says, deadpan.

  I know a non-profit will mean downsizing for the Turk family, something Walter and my sister value as much as their social standing in town. But he takes my sister’s hand and they share a loving smile and I know everything is going to work out fine.

  “I’m going to see more of you and the kids so that makes me very happy,” my mom adds.

  It’s then I realize that my news goes against the current. TB and I are leaving this warm enclave of family.

  “I have news too,” I say quietly. “Although I’m not sure y’all will approve.”

  Everyone stops talking and looks my way and I find a lump lodged in my throat. For the past two weeks, ever since TB mentioned moving to Tennessee on the plane to Texas, I convinced myself this was what I wanted to do, that leaving family wouldn’t be difficult, that heading two states over would be a grand adventure. Looking out to the faces I love with all my heart and soul, the people who carried me through the toughest times of my life despite their constant craziness, I’m not so sure.

  “I got accepted into a college in Tennessee,” TB says. “If I attend full-time for two semesters I can get my degree sooner. Vi and I want to move there.”

  I can’t help myself. Now that moving and leaving home is a real possibility, I start to cry. Mom comes to my side and it’s my turn for a hug. Sebastian leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. TB whispers something soothing in my ear but it’s Portia that breaks the clog in my throat.

  “The baby of the family is always the baby,” she says playfully, balling her hand and rubbing it in her eye like an infant.

  “As opposed to being a stuck-up bitch like the oldest.”

  I still have tears on my cheeks but now we’re laughing, Portia’s mouth hanging open at my comeback but I can tell she’s impressed.

  “So, next Thanksgiving in Tennessee?” my Dad asks.

  “Mais, yeah,” TB says in a Cajun accent.

  And for the rest of the meal, we all talk about the future and what that entails for us all.

  Well, ole perfect Cookie outdid herself for we sold our place ten grand above asking price after a bidding war. We’re on our way to sign papers but stopped by for a final run-through. TB and I walk through the house we called home for many years, checking cabinets and drawers for things we might have missed.

  “Doesn’t look
the same, does it?” TB asks.

  New paint job, new kitchen cabinets, fancy window dressing — even new landscaping. “No, it really doesn’t.”

  “Check upstairs?”

  I nod and we silently walk up the steps to the second-floor bedrooms, looking through the master and two baths, finding all our belongings gone except for a box of old shoes. The place is spotless. We pause at Lillye’s room, peer inside, but there’s nothing to remind us of the time she spent there. Gone is the circus wallpaper she adored, the stained carpet marred by sickness and changing diapers — even the marks on the door frame where we tallied her growth is now painted over with an ugly non-discript color Cookie insisted would make the house sell. TB and I stand there for several minutes, taking it all in, amazed at how life moves on and change is the only constant in this world. We quietly walk down the stairs and exit the house for the last time, carrying the final box with us.

  The shoes remind me of Clayton’s call that morning.

  “Guess who I heard from today?” I ask TB, which helps break the solemn mood.

  I explain how Dad cut through the plastic heart at the back of his Valentine Nikes and placed a thumb drive full of cartel information inside. Ruiz wore them to Jack’s in the hopes of getting into witness protection and sharing its knowledge but Jack buried him, shoes and all. Amazingly enough, thanks to the thick plastic of the Nike’s, the thumb drive still worked and the FBI is now in possession of vital cartel intelligence.

  Once the house papers are signed and we hand the new owners the keys and they, in return, gift us with money we head to TB’s truck piled high with our belongings. Stinky greets us at the window, jumping to the middle of the seat when we climb inside. He’s as excited as we are to be heading to a new home, but for some reason my heart feels heavy. I look over at TB and I can tell he’s feeling the same.

  TB’s truck has been around for a decade but it’s solid and runs well so he refused to trade up. Besides, it’s enabling us to haul our stuff without the use of a U-Haul; since Katrina stole everything we owned, one load does the trick. I decided to leave my donated furniture in Reece’s Potting Shed and sell Old Betty. I’ll buy a new car once we settle in Tennessee.

  In more ways than one, we’re totally starting over.

  There’s a tiny space between the cab and the truck bed and that’s where we’ve put Stinky’s food, road snacks, two pillows, and a blanket. TB offered to drive so I make myself comfortable and pull out two granola bars and a thermos of coffee.

  But there’s one last thing I want to check. I pull out the photo album of Lillye’s time on earth, place it in my lap and caress the top that reads “Lillye Beatrice Boudreaux” in big blue letters.

  “She would like Tennessee, I’ll bet,” TB whispers. I look over and TB’s staring at the album. “Don’t you think?”

  He’s still waiting for a sign that we’re doing the right thing. His uncle and parents tried to talk him out of leaving his plum job and going back to school so he’s harboring guilt and uncertainty. I suspect he also worries about leaving Lillye’s memories behind.

  I send him a smile. “She would love Tennessee.”

  We leave New Orleans crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, its surface so calm and peaceful stretching out for miles that it’s difficult to imagine this body of water pouring violently into the city. As I remember hearing the boom of the levees break that fateful morning in 2005, when Hurricane Katrina moved lake waters rushing into our house, I close my eyes and will it away. Time to release those horrors, let them go, begin our new adventure.

  We travel through Mississippi, then Alabama before hitting Lookout Mountain and the lights of Chattanooga. Smoky Mountains University lies to the east in a small rural town called Lightning Bug. And yes, that’s the name. When TB first explained this to me, I began to suspect the legitimacy of the school.

  “It’s cool,” TB said. “My LSU professor went there and said it’s small but excellent.”

  Lightning Bug, Tennessee. Who’d have thought?

  By the time we’re close to our new home, darkness has descended and the rural roads are difficult to navigate. I’m dead tired due to the person inside me stealing my energy and TB’s back aches from the hours of driving so we decide to look for a hotel. The first place we see is a cute little motel with a diner and post office next door. In the darkness down the street, I spot a sweet little downtown.

  “How about this place?” TB asks.

  “Yes, please.”

  When we pull up, a woman with a head full of white hair tied back in a long ponytail is changing the sign by the highway, adding a “No” to the vacancy announcement. TB rolls down his window but it’s clear we’re out of luck for she’s shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, y’all. But I just sold the last room.”

  We idle there for a moment, both of us so tired we can’t think of what to say or do next.

  “Is there anything nearby?” TB finally asks the nice lady. “We’re beat.”

  She walks over to the truck and notices our pile of belongings in the truck bed. “Checking in to school?”

  “Yes,” TB answers. “Are we close?”

  “About ten miles or so but most of the hotels around the campus are full this weekend because there’s a big track meet going on. Your best bet is to head back to the interstate and find a hotel there.”

  “How far is that?” I ask.

  She scrunches up her face. “Thirty minutes or so. Maybe forty-five. But they might be full as well.”

  TB and I both sigh but Stinky perks up, does this cute little purr number at the lady while stretching coquettishly.

  “What an adorable cat,” the lady exclaims.

  Stinky lets out a sweet little meow and the lady oohs and ahhs.

  “You know what?” she says, leaning an elbow on TB’s window. “There’s a lake behind my place and my neighbor has a houseboat. She’s trying to sell it but she might let you use it for the night. Want me to call her?”

  “Yes, please,” TB and I both answer in unison.

  She introduces herself as Maribelle, pulls out her cell and calls the neighbor. TB and I park the truck and emerge into the night, Stinky trailing behind.

  “You let that cat wander?” Maribelle asks, waiting for her neighbor to answer.

  “He’s fine,” TB assures her. “He’s more like a dog than a cat.”

  Stinky pauses and gives us the evil eye.

  Maribelle reaches into her tool box at the base of the sign and hands us a flashlight. “Follow the path down to the lake. The boat’s docked at the end. See if you approve.”

  It could be an outhouse and we’d approve, I think. After a month of staging the house, packing, meeting magazine deadlines and TB getting his transcripts in order, not to mention driving for hours, we’re exhausted. We head down the path and through the pines I can see water sparkling in the moonlight. After a few hundred feet we spot the houseboat and head in that direction. We haven’t walked far before TB stops suddenly and I nearly plow into his back.

  “What’s the matter?”

  It’s then I see it. The name of the houseboat. We stand there staring for what seems like an eternity while Maribelle joins us from behind.

  “My neighbor says she’d loved to rent it to y’all for the night. One hundred dollars sound okay? It’s completely furnished.”

  “We’ll take it,” TB says immediately.

  “Great.”

  Maribelle moves in front of us and motions for us to follow. We head to our new home, Stinky sauntering behind. But what Maribelle doesn’t realize is that TB and I don’t want to just spend the night here, we aim to buy this houseboat.

  As we hit the dock and step on to our new home, we pass the boat’s name. It’s a sign.

  “The Lillye Bea.”

  Author’s Notes

  Genealogy is much more than finding names and dates in your family tree. For a history nerd like me I learned so much tracking down dead relatives who
provided fodder for my novels. Thank you ancestors!

  One such place was Silas, Alabama.

  My mother’s paternal side hailed from Scotland, then Georgia, and when lands opened in Alabama due to the Native American removal (my apologies to the Creeks), the Taylor family moved in to build farms and ride the circuit as traveling preachers. They ended up in Mississippi, and finally New Orleans, but I traveled to Choctaw County, Alabama, in the hopes of finding remnants they left behind. Naturally, since we’re talking about two hundred years ago, I found none but I discovered the old Bladon Springs ruins, what was left of a popular 1800s resort offering spring water believed to heal. I decided this rural county northwest of Mobile was just the place to set Grandma Willow’s homestead.

  Floozy’s pizza parlor doesn’t exist in Silas but Bimbo’s Restaurant does and I’ve heard their pizza is outstanding, despite the funny name. The hamlet of Ishka is also a figment of my imagination. Ishka is an old Irish word for water — or whiskey. Seemed like a perfect name for my crazy psychic family.

  In my day job as travel writer I visited McAllen, Texas, and several sites along the World Birding Center, including the lovely home and gardens of Quinta Mazatlan, Edinburg Scenic Wetlands and the Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park. I spotted numerous colorful birds but no drug deals. If you’re a birder like me, McAllen needs to be on your bucket list.

  All the places our road trippers visited on Padre Island were fictional, except for Mustang Island State Park. And did you know that the Padre Island is the longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world? No wonder the birds love visiting.

  In Galveston, I chose to have road trippers stay at the beautiful, historical Hotel Galvez with its exquisite lobby, gardens, rooms overlooking the Gulf — and ghosts. I’ve stayed at the Hotel Galvez and, like Viola, had my iPad go off when I entered my fifth-floor room. The song that played on my iPad that day was a tune by Cat Stevens titled But I Might Die Tonight. I wasn’t aware of the hotel being haunted when I arrived, but the iPad fiasco had me wondering, although I contemplated that Wifi service may have triggered the song since the hotel dates to the early 20th century. Within minutes of my iPad going off, however, a ghost tour passed my room. When I listened through my door I quickly learned that my end of the fifth-floor hallway was a favorite haunt for a woman who supposedly killed herself at the hotel. Viola remains skeptical of the story’s details, as do I since I’m all about backing up ghost tales with hard facts, but I don’t doubt for a minute that the hotel is haunted.