“Yes, I’m Roger. He was shopping for fudge?”
“No, not there. He was over at Thingamajigs.” I pointed toward Mom and Tom’s store. “I think he was selling something. A necklace, I think.”
He paused and gave me a look when I mentioned the jewelry. “Did you see what it was?”
I shook my head.
Some psychic burden hung heavy on him. The scent of roses grew more intense, and I sensed a presence around him. Young. Female. Slightly impatient. The powdery scent grew stronger and I recognized it: Love’s Baby Soft perfume. Also, for some reason I could see leaves of ivy flickering around him as well, almost like some visual aftershock, after seeing a bright light.
“He’s not there anymore,” I added. “He left a little while ago.” The presence shimmered slightly and grew more apparent. The scent of the girlish perfume also grew stronger.
He turned and looked in the direction of the shop, and then back at me. He looked me over with those icy blue eyes.
“Your hair,” he started.
“Yes?”
“It’s so red.”
“That’s what the color on the box says,” I smiled, twisting a loose tendril with my fingertip.
“I’ve seen you around town before, that color stands out. It defies nature. It’s like…” he paused, clearly struggling for the right words. “It’s kind of like that actress on Mad Men, but it’s even brighter, and more red.” His glance darted down to my chest for a moment. Clearly he was wondering if my breasts matched those of the actress from that show about the ad agency set in the 1960s. Then he caught himself and he looked up at me, making direct eye contact. I felt a shiver. I wanted those eyes to look at me again like that, despite the sadness. I wondered what he’d look like laughing or joking around, with that burden lifted off his shoulders.
His gaze returned to my face. “Your hair somehow makes your eyes look more gray, too,” he added. “It’s like when the leaves turn red and blaze against a stormy fall sky.”
Wow. Was this guy moonlighting as an aspiring poet from the college? “Is that a good thing?” I asked, smiling at him.
“Yes, it is.”
The female energy grew stronger, becoming clearer somehow, and the scents of roses and lilies dissipated further. It was definitely young and feminine. I thought back to Vanessa’s story of Roger and Wyatt and the car crash that took their sister’s life, and wondered if she was what – or who – I was sensing.
Suddenly the side door opened and Vanessa sashayed inside.
“Hi,” she smiled and nodded at Roger, then at me. “Your mom is back at the shop and wants to know if you have any aspirin. She has a bad headache, and she’s out of pills.”
Roger’s eyes widened for a moment as he took in her appearance and he gave Vanessa a polite smile, but turned back in my direction. His reaction to her certainly wasn’t the same as Wyatt’s.
“I almost always have some in the drawer by the cash register,” I said, reaching in and getting the bottle for her. She strolled over and claimed it before turning on her heel and returning from whence she came, waving a quick goodbye and saying she’d return it later.
I was stunned. Roger gave her a look, but his jaw did not drop open in wonder. I hardly dared think it, but I swear he was more interested in me than Vanessa. Seriously, that never happens. I felt a perverse thrill at the thought.
Roger glanced around my shop some more, seeming content to just be, and then turned to me. “What kind of a store is this? It’s kind of unusual for the tourist strip.”
I knew what me meant. That didn’t mean I’d let him off easily. “How so?” I replied, with faux innocence.
“Well, the candles and stuff, and the herbs you don’t see in tourist shops normally. Not these kinds of candles. Maybe a bear candle or a freighter model. Everyone seems to sell fudge or saltwater taffy, or T-shirts and sweatshirts, and then just stuff to put on a shelf that says something on them about the Soo or being up north. This all has a handmade feel about it. In a good way, I mean.”
“That’s okay. I agree there’s good handmade and bad handmade. I strive to only sell the former. That’s why I have the candles, lotions, soaps, teas, jewelry and original art from northern Michigan artists. I’m open all year long, too, so I like to have some items that would make nice gifts or be of use all year long, even if it’s just tea or a candle. You’re not going to find this stuff in any old catalog or website. Well, except for what I sell on Etsy.” I paused. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go into some sort of spiel for you.”
He smiled in response. “It’s nice. You seem to care about your store. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Roger walked over to a display and traced his fingers around several items. I couldn’t see him being a customer unless he were to buy some candles or soaps for his mother, yet he seemed compelled to linger for a while. As his eyes and fingers examined my shop items I continued to watch him and the shimmering form that was near him. It seemed to be detaching itself from his aura slightly. As it did, his aura grew more blue and took on some other colors, growing warmer. It was almost as if some of the sadness was evaporating like morning dew.
“If there’s anything that interests you, or if you have questions, let me know. A lot of people like the teas.”
He nodded. “I see you sell some of Emily’s teas here.” He was referring to Emily’s Eatery. “I think I’ve seen your teas in her shop, too.”
“Yes. We’re friends. We kind of cross-promote and support one another in that way.” He picked up a candle. “Those candles are good for healing and letting go.”
“How so?” He looked up at me, his eyes full of questions. “How would that work? How could that work? Do you come up with these combinations, or are they from a book?”
“Mostly I go by instinct, but there’s a bit of book learning here and there, too.”
I rattled off the candle’s magical ingredients. “It has sweet pea, to help say goodbye to whatever’s troubling someone. Forget-me-not is in there, too, so the goodbye will not be permanent. Forgetting entirely isn’t always good. I added aster, for peace, and pansy – which used to be known as heartsease – to help ease a broken or aching heart.”
His eyebrows raised. I could see he was skeptical, which was understandable.
“I put a bit of thyme in there, too, because it’s a natural healing herb. And I like the smell of it.”
The corners of his lips turned up slightly, then leveled.
“That sounds like a stretch. You’re not saying this candle will fix whatever troubles a person, are you?”
“I don’t think a candle, no matter how fantastic its ingredients, could ever do that.”
“But you said they will make you heal and let go.”
“I said they’re good for it. Like a band-aid is good for mending. It helps. It won’t do that job, though. You take the candle, light it, focus on what troubles you, take in as much as you can stand, and then release it. Feel it – I mean, really feel it. And then let it go. You have to want that result, too. Otherwise it really is just a candle.”
“You couldn’t just light a candle and make whatever issue is bothering someone go away?”
I shrugged. “Maybe there’s a way. But if there is, I haven’t come across it. If I did, those candles wouldn’t be ten dollars. I’d have to charge more if they had that extra juice.”
He chuckled. “Have you ever used it or something like it on yourself?”
“Not that, exactly. When my dad died, I focused, and really let myself grieve, and then I moved on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he’s still gone. He’ll never return.”
Oh, how little he knows.
“I’ve crossed that bridge. I miss him, but I’ve processed it and moved on. My life is changed without him in it, but I recognize that my world can’t be what it was when he was alive. I also can’t live like he never existed. So I keep him alive in my memories, and live my life moving forward as b
est as I can.
“Plus,” I added, “I know he’s still around.”
“As in his ghost?” Roger asked, incredulous.
I shrugged. “You can’t create or destroy energy, the first law of thermodynamics. I believe the same applies to the soul.”
“You just said you knew your father is still around. Are you saying you can see other people who’ve died?”
I was considering how to answer. Did I want to deflect, or did I want to go further? “Is there someone you’d like to see?”
He turned away from me when I posed the question. He didn’t say a word, and yet I knew his answer.
Meanwhile, the flickering presence near Roger grew more solid and seemed to fixate more on me.
Suddenly I felt a violent, electric jolt in my head and saw green ivy climbing up a wall, growing so profusely that it choked out all else in sight.
“What the hell was that?!” I exclaimed aloud and more to myself, slapping my hand to my head to dislodge the sharp, stabbing sensation.
“Are you okay,” Roger asked, reaching out to me. His touch was gentle but firm, his expression one of concern.
“I’m sorry. I just had a sudden sharp pain in my head.” I looked him over. “Does ivy mean anything to you?”
“What did you say?” Roger asked, his hackles raised.
“I just saw ivy for some reason. You know, the plant?”
The look on Roger’s face was pure mortification.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No,” he said, gathering himself and exiting my store in a hurry. “I need to go. It was nice to meet you.”
When I closed my shop that evening, I sat down at the table where I normally did readings.
I lit a candle and sprinkled salt around the table, to keep bad spirits at bay. Then I crushed some marigold petals and mugwort leaves in my fingers while I concentrated and let my mind reach out into the void. I was curious about that presence I’d sensed around Roger. It had grown so strong that I wanted to know more. As I had more time to mull over what I had smelled and felt that afternoon, I was convinced it was the ghost of his sister.
I felt something stirring around me, an electricity in the air. A youthful presence, full of energy, emotion and more than a touch of impatience.
I looked up. Seated across from me was a teenage girl with dark blonde wavy hair that went just past her shoulders. She had a slight frame and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were a light, watery green, the color of a lake on a stormy day. She wore a dark blue Roots sweatshirt with a yellow paint stain on the shoulder. The scent of mourning had evaporated and now I just smelled Love’s Baby Soft paired with sugared cinnamon.
“Hello. I’m Poppy. Are you the presence I sensed around Roger earlier today? Are you his sister?”
“Yes. I’m Ivy,” the girl said, extending her hand in my direction.
“Good to meet you.” I reached out to her out of formality but I knew it would be useless. Her fingers breezed through mine, and I felt that tell-tale ghostly prickle like my hand had gotten very cold and fallen asleep at the same time.
“Was that ivy – the plant, I mean – that I caught a flash of earlier, is that some kind of calling card of yours?”
“Yup. Like graffiti tags,” she said.
“That’s a good way to put it.”
She nodded.
“It’s a nice touch. I like it.”
She smiled at the compliment. The scent of perfume and cinnamon grew stronger.
“When you were alive did you by chance wear Love’s Baby Soft?”
She nodded vigorously. “My brothers always said I put too much of it on, but I love the smell of it.”
“What about cinnamon? I’m picking up on that, too.”
“I love Cinnabon. Yup. Anything cinnamon, really. I’d love to eat a big, gooey treat right now.” She closed her eyes and seemed to savor a memory.
“So … Ivy.” Something occurred to me. “Is your mother’s name Marie?”
“Yes.” She bobbed her head up and down vigorously. “Have you met her? Is she here?”
“I met her, yes. She was in my shop a few days ago. She’s not here now, though.”
“I catch a glimpse of her from time to time, but never really get a chance to study her. Is she okay?”
“I think so,” I told her. “Your mom says she loves and misses you, but she’s worried about your brother.”
“Oh, Roger. Yeah.” She puffed out some ghostly air and sent her bangs flying off her forehead. The excitement she radiated about her mother died out, annoyance taking its place.
“Are you always around him like that?”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Not always, but lots of the time. Especially when he gets all mopey like that.”
I suspected his grief had intensified, and maybe she in turn grew more present.
“Is he often sad?”
“Most of the time,” she agreed. Then, “Can you see ghosts? I mean, other ghosts besides me?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” I responded. She was so bubbly and excited I could feel it, almost like that dizzy giddiness one feels shortly after taking a strong drink on an empty stomach. “You seem especially happy right now,” I said.
She bobbed her head up and down with enthusiasm and tugged on her left ear lobe. My eyes followed her wandering fingers and she apologized. “Sorry. My mom would tell me not to do that, but I’d always start fiddling with my ear when I was excited or mad. I’m just so happy right now because you’re the first person who has ever really seen me since the accident. I’m dying – well, I guess I’m already dead, ha! – to talk to someone.”
“Why are you following Roger around?”
“Because I can’t seem to get away from him for very long! It’s like he can’t let me go.”
“Oh.” I paused. “So he took your passing hard, huh?” This was unusual. Usually a spirit stuck around because of its unresolved business or feelings. Roger’s grief was clearly keeping Ivy around. I wondered if his emotions were that potent, or if there were some magical tendencies in the Montgomery family. “Does anyone in your family practice witchcraft?”
“Like riding a broomstick and all?”
“No, not that. Are there any unusual abilities in your family?”
“Like what?”
“Can someone sense if someone is about to knock at the door a minute before it happens? Did anyone ever pick up the phone a moment before it rang? Or maybe it rains before an outdoor event that you didn’t want to go to? Things like that.”
She mulled the scenarios over. “I don’t think so. None of those things ever happened.”
“Nothing like that?”
Ivy shook her head, her expression blank.
Magic reared its head in many ways. Keys could bend to bar access. A car alarm can go off to shield an uttered secret. A gut instinct could tell someone to enter through a different door or take a different route to work so they would avoid an accident. I was sure there had to be something there, but now was not the time to dig.
“Did you come here mainly because I summoned you?”
“Partly,” she said. She was twitchy, almost ready to bounce off the walls. “Plus, I’m just thrilled to get away and talk to someone.”
“You don’t see other ghosts?” I was under the impression they could see and communicate with one another, at least some of the time.
She shook her head. “Not really. Occasionally I’ll see some kind of shadowy shapes in the area, and it kind of looks like hazy extras in an old horror movie, but I don’t see many people, except the living.”
That was curious. I wondered if she was in some kind of in-between state, where she was neither really here in the land of the living nor there in the ghostly realm.
She radiated a strong, jittery presence. I felt slightly manic, and it intensified the longer I sat across from her.
“I’m feeling kind of energized around you,” I admitted. “Lik
e I want to run around in the streets and, I don’t know, burst into song and twirl around on the mountain tops like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Do you notice if Roger seem … um, more energetic around you?”
She giggled and shook her head. “No. He just is kind of quiet and mopey, either reading a lot or going and working on something around his house.”
“And how do you feel around him? Do you feel like you feel now, or are you more subdued.”
“I don’t feel like this around him. I feel kind of caged. Not sad or anything, really, but just kind of gray. It’s more fun being around you. Though talking to you, he seemed almost happy, for a second while he was in your store earlier.”
“Interesting. Please tell me he hasn’t just been grieving you all these years. I don’t want to sound insulting or anything, but didn’t you die something like eight years or a decade ago?”
“Yup, something like that. Time is a bit hard to keep track of on this side. I can look at a calendar and not always realize how much time has passed, even when it’s right in front of me. But I was fifteen when the car crashed, Wyatt was seventeen, and Roger was twenty.”
I did the math in my head. “That’s a long time to grieve.”
“He thinks if he had done something differently, I would have lived.” She shrugged. “I still see Wyatt and my parents when I can, and they’ve pretty much moved on. Mom and Dad are sad sometimes, but Roger, he’s positively tortured.” Ivy looked around my shop some more. “Do you do spells? Readings? Seances?”
“Yes.” Where was she going with this? “You’re kind of part of a séance right now.”
“Do you think you could do some kind of … I don’t know … reverse séance?”
“Excuse me?”
“Something to get Roger to let me go. Like that candle you were mentioning. Can you get him a few of those and do some hocus-pocus and get him to move on? It’s okay that he’s sad that I died, but he’s really bumming me out. I want him to let me go so I can go …” she paused, struggling to find the right words. She started manipulating her ear again.
“Get on with your afterlife?”
Giving Up the Ghost Page 7
