Giving Up the Ghost

by Magenta Wilde

  “He was closest to his sister,” I murmured.

  “He doesn’t want to let things go. I think he wants to,” Marie corrected. “I think he just feels he shouldn’t.”

  “Like he’s punishing himself for surviving?”

  “I think that could be it. What bothers me is he seems to be putting his life on hold over this. Sure, he has a job and friends, but …” she struggled to find the right words. “It’s like after the power goes out, and it returns, but only halfway, and everything is sort of dimmed. That’s what his life looks like to me.”

  “A brownout life.”

  “Is there anything that could be done?”

  “There’s almost always something that can be done. How long ago did Ivy die?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  Oh, boy. Now I really wasn’t sure what I was up against. “That’s an awful long time to grieve. No immediate solution comes to me.”

  “Do you do spells or anything? I’m not sure if I believe in that sort of thing, but at this point, what can it hurt,” she said.

  “Not formally,” I admitted. “I’m more instinctive.”

  “What do your instincts tell you to do?” She leaned forward, her eyes hungry for answers.

  I thought for a moment. “Honestly, they tell me there has to be more to this than meets the eye. More than even you are aware of. They also tell me to keep my eyes and ears open. Usually if I throw it out there that I’m in need of something, answers will come my way.”

  Marie nodded. She suddenly gave me a strange look.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “You’re fiddling with your ear. Just like my daughter used to do.”

  I knew I’d felt the urge to follow through with the tic, but didn’t realize I was doing it. I promptly stopped and gave Marie a polite smile. She gazed around the room and back at me.

  “I know I told you I didn’t believe in witchcraft and ghosts and things like that, but there is something … other … about you. I’m confused by it, but I like it. I also like you.”

  “I like you, too,” I confessed.

  I stood up and shook her hand. As I led her out of my shop, I gave her one of my business cards and wrote down her number. That way I could reach her should any potential resolution or questions occur to me.

  I waved goodbye and watched her walk down the street. The question now was, how did I get someone to forgive himself and rejoin the living? And if there was more to it than that, how would I uncover those truths?

  Fortunately, I knew someone who had shuffled off this mortal coil and who had opted to linger around. Hopefully he’d have answers.

  2

  As soon as Marie left my shop, I was itching to talk to my father.

  He had been dead for fifteen years – which sometimes complicated things. I can see and speak to him – along with some other ghosts – so it’s not impossible by any means, but he’s still not exactly a cell phone call away. I attempted to focus on some powerful memories of him, since that often was enough summons.

  Late the next morning I was back in my store, still hoping to speak with him. Foot traffic soon grew brisk, and my thoughts scattered. I’d simply have to try again later, or resort to a bit of magic.

  During a lull an elderly lady sauntered in.

  She was a tiny thing with a dandelion’s fluff of permed white hair crowning her head. She wore thick glasses, which made her curious eyes all the larger. She clutched her purse tight to her body as she examined my store’s wares with an air of what I read as disapproval.

  She told me her name was Irene, and she was with a tour group who’d come up from the Detroit area to while away a few days at the casino and other local attractions. Mostly the casino, I was certain. She’d detached herself from her tour cohorts, who were buying fudge at Farley’s shop next door. She peppered me with questions.

  “Are you a witch?” she asked as her eyes darted around my shop.

  “Kind of,” I told her. “But probably not the kind you’re thinking of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m something of a hedge witch,” I began.

  “A hedge witch?” An eyebrow spiked up.

  “I do many things according to instinct, and I mostly work with plants and herbs because I feel closest to the earth. I use primarily tried-and-true cures, like peppermint tea for stomach upset or chamomile to soothe frayed nerves. Things like that. I also am a bit more sensitive to my surroundings, so I tend to follow my gut.” I patted my stomach for humorous emphasis.

  “And what does your gut tell you about me?”

  “It tells me you’re a feisty lady who is very curious and a tiny bit superstitious. You always have a rebellious streak.

  “I can see you feeding squirrels in your yard, or making a huge pot of chili with your fellow church members to feed the homeless,” I added. I really could see that. Irene was mad for feeding squirrels.

  Irene paused and gave me a curious look. “How do you know that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t really. I just can see you doing those kinds of things. You give off a strong squirrel vibe, too, for lack of a better way to put it. Your favorite is Mr. Tibbins, right?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “How do you know that?”

  “It just came to me.” That’s honestly how it did happen sometimes. “You’re probably on some kind of committee, too. You help sew costumes for holiday pageants, or maybe you knit baby blankets to sell at a silent auction. You strike me as someone who likes to work with her hands. With fabric and yarn in particular.”

  “It’s exactly what I do,” she said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “I love to knit and crochet. And I buy bags of peanuts and feed the squirrels in my yard all year long. My neighbor hates me,” she added, with relish. “I also volunteer with my church, and we serve dinner to the homeless before they bunk down for the night. We’ll be providing food and shelter to them the week before Thanksgiving. How did you know?” she asked, squinting at me. I think she half hoped to see horns sprouting from my head.

  “Well, the knitting part is easy. I can see a pair of knitting needles sticking out of your purse, so there’s no magic to that assumption.”

  “Watch out, young lady,” she wagged a gnarled finger in my direction. “You’re giving away some of your secrets there.”

  “Not really. I just don’t want you to think I’m that amazing,” I joked. “As for the other things, you just look like a kind person at heart and I imagine you’re involved in church doings. But you also look like you like a bit of mischief. I happen to like that combination in a person.”

  The expression on her face was unreadable. Then her shoulders relaxed and her face lit up with a huge grin. “I think I like you,” she said, cackling.

  “For that, I like you, too,” I said. I reached under my counter and pulled out a container of cookies I’d baked earlier in the week. “Would you like one? They’re almond crescents. I baked them myself.”

  Irene carefully chose one and took a dainty bite from the corner, then finished with relish. “Why are you selling candles and things? You should have a bakery!”

  “When it becomes work it’s never as much fun,” I told her.

  “I understand. But I’d rather buy this than that danged fudge next door. I could glue my dentures in with that stuff.” She sniffed the air. “Doesn’t the smell of all that gooey junk being made drive you crazy? It must be like living in a cloud of sugar.”

  “It’s not always that strong,” I told her. “It’s definitely not like working on Mackinac Island. I did that for a couple summers while I was in college.”

  “And there you have to contend with the stink of all the horse droppings,” she scowled.

  I smiled. “Don’t I know it.”

  I offered her another cookie, which she accepted without hesitation, and she continued to pepper me with questions about me and my store.

  “Wait? Your name is Poppy Blue? Aren’t p
oppies red?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I suspected this question was coming. I’ve heard it ever since I was young enough to remember.

  “Then, why…?” She looked perplexed as she lingered over some floral scented candles.

  “My mother’s favorite color is red, so she named me Poppy, despite my dad’s last name being Blue,” I countered. “Plus, my mom does have a, let’s say, contrary sense of humor.”

  “That explains why this place is called Blue’s Boutique.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Blue’s such a strange last name,” she said. “I’ve heard of Greens, Whites, Blacks, Browns and Grays, but never Blue.” I could see her going through the colors of the rainbow, seeing which colors also served as common last names.

  “Well, it’s not Blue originally,” I said. “It’s a chopped Polish last name. The family legend goes that my great-grandmother had blue eyes, and my great-grandfather decided to register a shortened – and more poetic – name, in tribute to her.”

  He also did it because hardly anyone in his adopted country could spell the original name, but I left that detail out. In storytelling, romance should sometimes trump reality.

  “I’m Polish!” Irene chirped. “Do you know Hamtramck?”

  I nodded. “My great-grandfather had lived there.”

  “What street did he live on?”

  “I don’t remember. I have the information somewhere, I’m sure, but not on recall.”

  She frowned.

  “But I’d love to hear more,” I told her. “My father isn’t alive any longer, and neither is my grandfather, so I can’t get any of those stories from them. Plus I have family in Ferndale, so I do go and visit them.”

  She brightened and chattered on for a few moments, warming to the topic. “Next time you go down, make sure you try some good Polish food. There’s the Polish Village, the Polonia … There’s a cute little restaurant in Ferndale that has the best pierogis.”

  Over the years I’d noticed a lot of older people simply wanted to remember and be heard, so I let her go on. Unfortunately listening to her go on was making me hungry. My stomach growled loudly in protest. She paused, looking at me with surprise, and cackled another throaty laugh.

  “I guess I should stop talking about food,” Irene said. “I think I’m making you hungry,” she paused to pat her stomach, “and myself as well.”

  I smiled and suddenly I caught a glimpse of my father’s ghost materializing. He was hovering near my espresso machine.

  “Well,” Irene continued, looking around. “I guess I’ll take a couple candles.” She brought me a lilac and a lily of the valley. I wrapped them up and placed them in a bag for her, adding a few samples. She beamed at the little something extra. She was clearly open to more chit-chat, but I was eager to speak with Dad since I hadn’t seen him around in a few weeks, and I wanted to consult with him about Marie’s problem.

  “I hope you like the flower scents,” I told her. “I use real essential oils, so they smell just like the real thing.”

  “That’s why I chose them.”

  She thanked me for the freebies and made her way to the exit before giving one more glance around my shop. “You offer very good customer service, my dear, and you have a lovely store. Despite the witchcraft.” Her voice lowered as she crossed the threshold. “She seems too nice to end up in hell,” she murmured mostly to herself when she thought I was out of earshot.

  I sighed. Of course.

  Many older ladies who shopped in my store tended to be a touch superstitious of the magical content. The teens and college students who shopped here didn’t seem to mind. They mostly liked the candles and incense. The rest of my customer base usually consisted of tourists who didn’t want your standard T-shirt with a city name on them.

  I can do all sorts of spells, but I don’t sell anything imbued with more than mild magic – happy thoughts, nice dreams, a bit of self-control, focus or self-realization. I won’t sell love spells or anything that is intended to cause harm or force emotion. I will sell charms, however, that will help someone get noticed by or make them less nervous when talking to their crush. Spells like that I have no issue with. I won’t teach or do enchantments for anyone wanting something bad, unrealistic or unhealthy to happen. People tend not to need encouragement on that front, especially if their mind is already in a bad place.

  Plus, I’d experimented with that a bit in the past – call it mild teenage rebellion or youthful stupidity – and discovered it never results in anything good. I considered that lesson learned. It’s like overextending one’s credit, but instead of cash other resources like mind, body and soul can end up drained.

  Magic, depending on your talents and skills as well as intentions, can be potent stuff, and in the wrong hands it can be a real mess.

  Once Irene was out the door, and a passing glance around assured me the shop was empty, I turned toward my father.

  “Hi Dad. What’s up? I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  He was wearing something he would have worn in his days as an accountant – a rumpled dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A navy-blue tie with a pattern of small golden leaves hung loosened at the neck. His horn-rimmed glasses – they’d be big in style with hipsters these days – were perched low on his nose even though he no longer needed them.

  “I sensed you wanted to speak to me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you.”

  I made my way over to the espresso machine – a latte sounded good right now – and I started brewing some coffee. I was still feeling hungry from Irene’s talk of Polish food, and a latte would at least sustain me until supper time.

  “What’s wrong with a plain cup of coffee,” he grumbled. “Today I see kids wandering around all over with big cardboard cups of lattes and cappuccinos. Why is soy milk such a big deal? Soy beans? That’s for farm animals. And the skirts some of these young girls wear. I saw one with blue hair and her butt cheeks were hanging out of the bottom of her shorts. She’s showing her goods to the world, and if she sat down on the ground she could catch cold. That’s not healthy.” He shook his ghostly head.

  I smiled. Dad could really get off on these rants, but since I only saw him every now and then, I secretly enjoyed them.

  “You’re full of opinions today, Dad. I can’t help but wonder how animated you would be if you could still drink coffee.”

  “I do miss a good cup of the stuff now and then. Not your mother’s, however. She made it godawful strong. Pain in a cup, pure and simple,” he muttered as he shook his head and stuck his tongue out in disgust.

  I couldn’t argue with that. My mother made notoriously potent coffee that made me think of river silt rather than roasted beans.

  I loved my lattes – I’d always choose them over plain coffee – but a lot of his gripes made a good bit of sense to me, especially more so these days. I think it had something to do with turning thirty. I couldn’t imagine what I’d be griping about when I turned forty, or fifty, for that matter. With that thought, I mentally added moisturizers to my to-make list for the winter. If the clock was ticking, I may as well try and delay the onset of crow’s feet in my future, even if I couldn’t completely stop the onslaught of time.

  “It’s just something that’s popular today, Dad. I don’t understand it all either, but as for the blue hair, I kind of like that.”

  “I suppose you would, considering the variety of reds, pinks and blondes you’ve been sporting over the years,” he said, squinting at me. “Is your hair getting brighter, or am I imagining it?”

  “No, your sight is fine. I just had the color refreshed.”

  “Your sink must look like a bloodbath when you’re finished rinsing that out.”

  “That’s why I go to the salon,” I told him. “I also tip them well for their effort, because after they wash out the color, the salon sink looks like Carrie’s tub after her pig’s blood prom bath.

  “Plus,” I added. “The
color annoys Mom.”

  He chuckled. “She’d want you to be blonde, like she is.”

  “But of course. ‘Men prefer blonde hair the most,’” I said, parroting one of her favorite life rules.

  “Fiona remains as Fiona as ever, I see.”

  The espresso had finished brewing, so I started frothing some milk.

  “Oddly, we could never get you to drink milk when you were a kid,” he said, fixating on the latte I was preparing. “Now, you’re making up for lost time.”

  “You should have spiked it with coffee. You and mom drank enough of it. You could have shared,” I teased as I focused on my task. I poured the foamy milk into a mug and added the espresso. I took a sip and sighed. “I needed that.”

  “How is your mother?” he asked warily.

  “She’s a busy body. You know, the usual.”

  He shook his ghostly head. “She’s still dating Tom, though, right? Are they living together, now? He always seemed ornery enough to keep her occupied.”

  “Yes, fortunately mom and Tom are on again.”

  Mom was still of this mortal coil, but she was as persistent as any horror-movie specter. If she learned of me chatting with Dad – she normally couldn’t see ghosts, but could sometimes sense their presence – she would take offense. She always had after they divorced and before he passed. I saw her regularly, since the antiques and collectibles shop she operated with her boyfriend, Tom Wheeler, was the next building over, but even though I spoke with her nearly every day, any contact with my father, however infrequent, tended to be too much for her competitive nature.

  Fortunately, we had a slight buffer – a physical one, at least – because of an empty gravel parking lot that lay between the two buildings.

  “Is she still using that weird name for the store? Thingamabobs?” he asked.

  “Thingamajigs,” I corrected. “Yes, she seems set on that name. It’s outlasted the others.”