Giving Up the Ghost

by Magenta Wilde

  “Not even that,” I said, glancing at the remaining contents. After hearing Roger’s story, it didn’t look too appealing. “I don’t really feel like waking up with a headache in the morning, so I’m good with this if you are.”

  “Great,” Roger said, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

  “Now hold on a second,” Trish said, slurring lightly and getting closer to Roger while wagging a finger in his face. “Before we go, I want to tell you that you had better not be getting any ideas about my good friend here. If you think she’s going to invite you into her home for some kind of one-night stand, you’re mistaken.”

  Roger held his hands up. “No. I wasn’t thinking anything like that, I swear.”

  “You’re a man, so you were thinking that,” Trish continued, now tapping her index finger on the bridge of his nose. I rolled my eyes, partly in irritation, but also from embarrassment. “You are allowed to think these things, because, look at her, with that Little Mermaid red hair,” she said, turning to fluff my hair and squeeze my cheeks, making my lips purse and distort. “But don’t you act on them, at least not until the fifth date or something – that’s a Poppy rule, by the way – or I’ll …” she sputtered out, losing her train of thought.

  “I assure you, Trish, I only have honorable attentions.”

  “You’d better,” she murmured. “On the way home, can we stop at the drive-thru? I’m hungry and I want junk food that I won’t have to share with anyone.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, my eyes landing on Boner, who now sat on the other side of the bar from us. He gave me a lecherous smile and a wink. “But before we go, let me wash my hands first.”

  14

  A half hour later I’d bought Trish a burger and fries and was driving her home.

  On the way to her house, I asked her how I’d never managed to hear much of the story of Penny and Roger before this week. It was too scandalous, especially in our smallish town, for it to have passed me by. I felt sort of deprived or cheated by my ignorance.

  She shrugged. “We were in our last year of college,” Trish said, as she struggled to stay awake. “I also was taking a lot of classes and starting to get serious with Martin. You were dating Scott. My family was kind of outraged at the time, but we also saw how much drinking and drugging Penny was doing in those days. We were really mad at Roger – and her – for a couple weeks, but then she stopped partying so much, so we kind of thought it was a good thing.”

  I suddenly remembered that at the time Trish often referred to Penny as “Pucker,” since the girl drank so many shots of those fruity liqueurs.

  “At that time, there were days mom and dad thought they’d be putting Penny into a pine box six feet under,” Trish continued, “so they eventually saw it as a blessing in disguise. I just thought he was a dick for scaring the hell out of her.”

  “Tom likes and trusts him,” I said.

  “I can see you like him, too. I guess as long as he sticks to his Coca-Colas, he’s all right.” She was tired and slurring her words more and more. “Plus, bonus to you, if anything happens, my sister says he has a big …” She trailed off.

  “A big what?” I asked. I set my hand on her arm, and gave it a gentle nudge.

  She was out. I considered shaking her awake, but then decided to let whatever she said remain a mystery.

  Once we made it to Trish’s home, Roger was kind – and strong – enough to pick her up and hoist her over his shoulder to bring her inside. He gently placed her on her couch, took her shoes off and draped a blanket over her sleeping frame.

  In the meantime I brought a bottle of water and a bottle of aspirin and put it on the coffee table in front of her.

  I also left a note telling her the fast food awaited her in the fridge. A microwaved burger and fries might not be the most appealing thing, but it may have been a welcome meal the following morning.

  Soon I was in Roger’s truck and we were heading back to the downtown area.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “On Cedar. Near the canal.”

  “I know where that is. It’s not too far from my house.”

  I mulled it over for a moment, wondering if I had ever strolled past his place. When the weather was nice, I walked a lot around town. I asked him where he lived. On Hawthorne, he replied, a couple blocks off the downtown zone.

  “Do you live in one of those turn-of-the-century houses, one of those with a large porch?” I asked.

  He said he did.

  “I’m surprised,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “I guess I just see you more out in nature, surrounded by the woods. Maybe in a rustic cabin, and a stream bubbling along nearby.”

  Roger was quiet for a moment, clearly mulling what I was saying.

  “I’ve got lots of trees in my yard, for whatever that’s worth. My mom and dad do have a cabin and some property about an hour away, out near Lake Superior. They also have some acreage along Lake Michigan, and I have a trailer set up there. I usually spend some time there in the summer.”

  “Do you prefer that?”

  “Sometimes. I like it here in town, too, though. After a long day in the shop sometimes I just like to go home and relax, and this is close by.”

  I murmured something in agreement and we drove in silence. I had questions. A few were about his sister. I didn’t sense her presence this evening, however. Perhaps he was distracted enough to let her go for a while. The quiet wasn’t unpleasant either. With the grief having evaporated off of him for the time being, his presence felt warmer and it was soothing just sitting next to him in the dark as we drove back into town.

  After pulling into my gravely driveway I pondered inviting him in for coffee or tea. I quickly reviewed the state of my home, and decided the place was tidy enough. It was cluttered, but mostly clean, so I decided I wouldn’t feel humiliated if he took me up on my offer.

  “Are you sure it’s not too late?” he asked.

  “I’ll be up a while,” I assured him. My old high school and college habit of staying up late at night had never entirely vanished, and last call was still a couple hours away.

  He followed me inside and stood in the doorway as I flipped on a lamp and threw my purse onto a side table.

  “Make yourself comfortable. Do you prefer coffee or tea? Pop? Water?”

  “Tea would be fine.”

  A moment later he was sitting at the kitchen table, legs crossed with his ankle set over his knee. He was nibbling on some cookies I’d set out. As he gazed around my small dining room, his expression brought to mind a lost child. He caught me scrutinizing him from my spot by the stove, and his lips turned up in a quick but nervous smile. I had a fleeting impression that he was wondering if I’d invited him in for tea, or if I’d invited him in for something more. If I were I pressed to answer that question at that moment, I’m not sure which answer I would have offered.

  One of my two cats, Fido, picked that moment to leap onto the table. He technically wasn’t permitted on the table, but that rule tended to be ignored more often than enforced.

  I had a vase on the table full of poppies, and Fido first gave the flowers a sniff before cautiously approaching Roger, who extended his hand to the cat. Fido gave his fingers a scrutinizing sniff, head-butted his hand, and then bunny-hopped off the table. Roger’s smile returned, this time looking less nervous.

  “Is he Maine Coon?”

  “Mostly, I think. He’s a bit of a mutt,” I said as the kettle began to whine. I poured two mugs of tea and brought one to him.

  He reached out, extending a finger to the poppies I had on the table. “Aren’t those poppies, like your name?”

  I nodded.

  “Are they your favorite?”

  “One of them. I just buy them now and then. I like the color and all.”

  “They are striking,” he said, his fingers still tracing the petals of one of the blooms. I felt a slight touch travel over my hip, as if his hand was moving
up my side. That was interesting.

  I pulled one flower out of the vase and broke off part of the stem, holding it to my lips for a second as I whispered something into the bloom before sticking it in his pocket.

  “A little boutonniere for you,” I said, as I returned the broken-off stem to the vase.

  He looked down at the flower. I was sure he’d remove it, but he let it stay.

  “Sugar’s on the table,” I said. “If it isn’t tainted by Fido’s visit. I have to confess, he hops more onto the table than he should, and I don’t police him too well.”

  “The tea’s fine as is, thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “And the cat doesn’t bother me. We had animals growing up, so I know how it goes. You call him Fido?”

  I nodded. “He’s kind of doglike in some ways, so I call him that.”

  “Is he your only pet?”

  I shook my head. “No. I have another cat who’s a bit more shy.” I looked around the room until I found a pair of green eyes glowing from under the coffee table. I inclined my head in the feline’s direction. “There’s also Puck, who’s watching you from afar.”

  Roger craned his head a bit to get a better look. “Puck? I’m assuming he’s not named that because you’re a hockey fan.”

  “That would be correct. I do enjoy going to a game from time to time, but I named him after the Shakespeare play, or character, I mean.”

  “Isn’t Puck the fairy or something-or-other from A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  I nodded. “It’s my favorite of his plays. Not that I’ve read a lot of Shakespeare, but that one always grabbed me. ‘What fools these mortals be’ and all that.”

  Roger scratched his now-stubbly chin as he looked at me. After a moment he spoke: “I can see that, with the fairies and all. It fits with your shop.” He glanced around the kitchen, and added, “It fits with your home, too. I’d almost expect something supernatural to be darting around.”

  I smiled. Little did he know.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  “Sure,” I smiled. “You already did.”

  He chuckled. “Okay. Two questions. Do the people who come into your shop really believe in ghosts, witches, fairies and things like that?”

  “A few do. I’ve run into people who believe fairies will steal mundane items from them, like their slippers or a comb, and hide them. Or someone comes in, convinced that a curse has been placed on them. Occasionally someone believes that they’ve seen a loved one who died.”

  “Do you think they really believe that?”

  “Some do, I think. Most probably just want to believe in something magical, for a bit. Maybe it’s just easier to blame, or credit, some sort of outside force.”

  “What about you? Do you believe in ghosts, witches and fairies?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. I knew ghosts existed, for obvious reasons. I knew witches. I observed, albeit extremely casually – the cycles of the moon and the changing of seasons – myself. I and the practitioners I knew weren’t doing any major magic, however. We just followed our instincts and believed in respecting and honoring the cycles of nature. As for fairies, I had my doubts. But if ghosts were real, I suppose fairies were possible, too. Why would one thing be more likely than any other? But I didn’t want to go into all that with Roger at that moment.

  “I …” I paused. “I guess I believe there are things out there that are hard to explain. I also feel we are far from knowing everything of our world, so who knows what else is out there? I believe in science and common sense and in what you can see and hear, but I also think there is a bit of something that’s not so easy to explain.”

  “Have you ever seen anything that you couldn’t explain?”

  “Hasn’t everyone? Occasionally I’ve seen something odd, like a flash of light dashing across the room, and realized it was caused by a car passing by and its headlights hitting a mirror in just the right way. At other times I’ve seen a light, or some other unexplainable phenomenon, and looked and found no headlights and no mirror, if that makes any sense.”

  Roger was quiet for a moment, his hands hugging his mug of tea. “It does. There have been times where I’ve had unexplainable things occur.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sometimes I notice the perfume my sister used to wear, and there is no perfume bottle around. There isn’t even another woman around who would be wearing it.”

  “Does it happen when you’re thinking of her?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes it’s so heavy that I swear I’m going to choke on it. Then I feel bad because I feel like I’m somehow rejecting or abandoning her memory.” He was quiet for a beat. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not at all. When my dad died I didn’t want to throw away many of his things because I felt I was somehow being severed from him or his memory. It’s not exactly the same as what you described, but I think there’s common ground there.”

  He relaxed slightly, maybe seeming relieved that someone understood him.

  “Sometimes I think I’ve grieved too much,” he said. “It’s been many years.”

  “Has anyone suggested that?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “My mother. My brother. My dad. My friends. My ex-girlfriends. Everybody ends up telling me that I have to let her go. My mom even said I should visit a therapist, but I never did.”

  I decided to pose a car metaphor: “Do you think it’s put your life in park or neutral? And if so, would you rather be in drive?”

  “I never thought of it that way, but yeah, sometimes I would like to get things into gear, so to speak. Then I feel guilty.”

  “I don’t think you’re throwing your sister’s memory away if you want to leave that chapter behind,” I mused.

  “I just don’t want to forget her,” he insisted.

  “Is that what you see it as, a forgetting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like you’re losing her twice?”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  Even though he looked pained, his eyes looked clearer. Maybe talking about this was doing him some good. I hoped so.

  “Sometimes when enough people tell you the same thing, it means they’re onto something. Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you happy? I mean truly happy.”

  I could tell the question surprised him.

  He shrugged. “Not always. Not too often.”

  I felt a deep sadness emanate from him. It made me feel lost. Hopeless. Unmoored. This was the stuff that Dementors would feast upon.

  “Is there something that happened that night that continues to eat away at you?” I hoped I hadn’t offended him with that, but I was hoping to draw him out a little more.

  I could see a wall go up behind his eyes. They clouded over and he seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

  “I,” he paused, looking away from me. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Are you sure? Opening up seemed to be doing you some good. You had a bit of a spark there for a bit.”

  He shook his head. He was closing down.

  I caught a hint of Ivy’s perfume, and a chill snaking its way into the air. I suspected his sister was near.

  I felt a surge of impatient anger and fought a sudden urge to snap at him, to tell him to get over himself.

  “Love’s Baby Soft? Was that what Ivy wore?”

  Roger’s eyes widened. “Why do you say that?” I could see his hackles were raised.

  “I’ve caught a hint of that scent, from time to time, surrounding you,” I admitted.

  He was silent for a full minute before abruptly standing up. “I think I need to go. Thanks for the tea.”

  “You don’t notice it now? The perfume?”

  He ignored me and began making his way to the door.

  “Don’t you want to know how I knew that? Or how or why I know this is happening?”

  He slowed and looked me in
the eyes.

  Should I bring Ivy up, I wondered to myself. I mean, really bring her up? Do it, a small, angry voice prodded from inside my mind. I pushed it out of my head, hating the intrusion, but I found the fury felt invigorating. Plus, he was already on his way out the door. Why not go out with a bang?

  “I’ve seen your sister’s ghost. Recently. That time you came into the shop, she was there near you.”

  He paused halfway to my front door. “What?”

  “When I first saw you I sensed some energy, a young female presence lingering around you. I picked up a feeling of grief, and a hint of Love’s Baby Soft, which I assume is what she wore when she was alive.”

  Roger stood in my living room, his fists clenched by his sides. Puck hopped up onto the coffee table and tilted his black head in Roger’s direction, his tail whipping and matching Roger’s frustration.

  Roger turned and looked at the cat before turning and moving closer to the door. “This is crazy.”

  I proceeded to describe what she looked like, including the too-large Roots sweatshirt with a paint stain that she wore when I last saw her. I moved my hand to my mouth in a too-late effort to mute myself. I hadn’t meant to blurt that much out. Ghost talk can quickly be read as crazy talk.

  His face went white. “That was my sweatshirt. I had helped her paint her room the week before, and she was cold at the party. I gave it to her to wear.”

  “I’ve seen Ivy. She asked me to help you let her go.”

  “This is absurd,” he spat. “Why would you even bring up such things? And what are you doing there?”

  I paused and realized I’d been pulling on my left ear. “Nothing,” I said.

  As his agitation ratcheted up, the scent of her perfume grew stronger, along with the smell of roses, carnations and lilies. The air shimmered next to him and I saw Ivy’s small form materialize to his right.

  “Can he see me?” she asked, waving her hand by him.

  “I doubt it,” I replied. “But try grabbing his hand.”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you talking to?” Roger asked, his eyes searching the room.