First, I had to help throw a 60th birthday party for my father. Family events lost their appeal after my divorce because there were always too many questions, shaking of heads and clucking of tongues. Things had changed – I had changed – and I actually looked forward to the company. The mild judgment wouldn’t bother me anymore because I didn’t know when my time was going to be up. Having a brush with death made me appreciate life and my family; even my weird cousin Jesus who liked to stare at my breasts.
My mom convinced me to stay over at their house the night before and the night of the party. So after my shift ended, I drove straight over to my parents’. It was a Friday and they were both at work, which gave me the house to myself for a nap. I knew my sleep cycle was going to be out of whack since I’d have to be conscious all the next day and night.
I entered the quiet house from the attached garage and stepped into the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator and whisper of air conditioning were the only sounds that greeted me. My stomach growled when I caught a whiff of bacon lingering in the air. A pink sticky note on the microwave caught my eye and I crossed the kitchen, the rubber soles of my boots squeaking against the tile floor.
Elena, there’s a plate for you inside – 2 minutes on high. See you later.
Love, Mom.
This gesture brought me back to my childhood when my parents both had to be at work early. Out of guilt for not being there in the morning to see us off to school, she made an elaborate breakfast for me and my brother when a bowl of cereal would have been fine. We’d wake to find pancakes, huevos rancheros or fresh baked empanadas waiting for us, usually marked with a note. Our lunches were made and sitting on the counters in lunch boxes which evolved into paper bags when we got older, with yet another note inside. What I thought were actions of a smothering, slightly crazy person, I realized (when I was older, living on my own and making my own lunches) were acts of love.
I heated up the breakfast plate and sat down at the counter. Even nuked, my mom’s eggs were still the best and I inhaled every bite. After mindlessly flipping through television channels for an hour, I went up to my old bedroom, set the alarm on my phone for 1:00 in the afternoon and fell asleep.
The creak of my bedroom door opening woke me up. I rolled over to see who had come in. My room was almost dark. Weak sunlight filtered through the blinds covering my windows. More light spilled in from the doorway where my mom stood.
“What time is it?” I asked. My voice was groggy with sleep. I vaguely remembered the alarm on my phone going off, but I must have hit snooze or slept right through it.
“6:30. Dinner is ready. Are you hungry?”
Despite doing nothing but sleep all day, my stomach growled. “Yes, I’m starving and sorry…I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”
“What are you apologizing for? You need the rest. You work too hard.”
I smiled and stretched. The homemade breakfast, sleeping in my old bedroom and my mom waking me up for dinner left me more relaxed than I had been in months. I was home.
“Come, dinner’s getting cold,” she said and hurried back down the hallway, leaving my door wide open. I had to laugh at this tactic, one she employed many times when I was a teenager. If I wanted to retreat back into a dark room and be left undisturbed, I’d have to get out of bed and shut the door myself. Fortunately I had outgrown adolescence and wouldn’t be stomping to the door to slam it shut. I’d had my sleep and the scent of grilled meat was drifting down the hall, slowly filling up my room, making my mouth water.
Yawning, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail as I walked into the brightly lit dining room.
“There’s my girl!” My dad beamed at me from the head of the table.
“Hi Dad,” I said and bent over to kiss his forehead. His hair had thinned out on top, revealing a significant amount of forehead, and I wondered when that had happened. Surely that’s something I should have noticed? I thought to myself and sat down next to him.
“Where’s Cruz?” I expected my brother to be home.
“He’ll be here tomorrow…said he had some party to go to tonight,” my dad answered.
Cruz was in his last year at ASU and he always had something going on.
“Tomorrow is the only party that matters,” I said and winked at him. He smiled and patted my knee under the table. “Mom, what can I help with? I’ll probably be up all night now, so put me to work.”
My mom pounced on the opportunity and pulled out a three ring binder which contained a detailed itinerary for the next 24 hours, the guest list and full menu. The good news was that nobody was going to starve. The bad news was that I needed to help cook. For me, taking down a man twice my size was easier than sautéing onions.
I was assured that most of the prep was done and all I had to do was follow the directions. This made my dad laugh. He had tasted enough experimental breakfasts on Father’s Day to know I was a lost cause. My mother, on the other hand, had not given up hope and was determined to make me a domestic goddess.
Mom chattered on through dinner about the neighbors and who was getting married, not so subtly glancing at me every time she mentioned the word wedding.
“Carmen, enough, leave her alone.”
“Thanks Dad,” I said and picked up the planning binder, hoping to get my mom back on topic. I glanced over the guest list to make sure there weren’t any surprises; I wouldn’t put it past my mother to invite an eligible man or two. Nothing unusual jumped out at me. I breathed a sigh of relief and snapped the binder shut.
“I’m glad you’re here, we haven’t seen you in a while,” my dad said.
“I know - sorry. I’ve been busy,” I responded then ate a forkful of steak.
“Work?”
Still chewing, I nodded. “Too busy,” I said after swallowing.
“Yep, that happens and before you know it you’re turning sixty.” He smiled and I noticed his mustache was more gray than black. When did that happen? I asked myself again, internally promising to pay more attention to my parents.
After dinner I helped clean up. My dad relocated to the living room and I heard the television in the background. He was watching some sort of detective show re-run. I grew up around his love of cop shows and being exposed to them at a young age definitely influenced my career choice. After cleaning the kitchen, I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and went to sit with him.
He was half dozing on the sofa with his legs stretched out in front of him, the remote control precariously balanced on one thigh. I sat down Indian-style on the other end of the sofa and he woke up with a startled snore. His thick black eyebrows lifted in surprise then he yawned.
“I didn’t realize I nodded off.”
“Yep, you were snoring too.”
“Was I? Oh.”
I laughed at his dreamy cluelessness, but also at the familiarity of it. Guaranteed after a long week and a good meal, dad would be here and we had almost the identical conversation countless times growing up. When Cruz and I were younger we’d make a game of seeing how many things we could place on dad while he slept. Usually our giggles and snorting woke him up before we even set anything on him. Just the attempt was sheer entertainment.
I hung out in the living room watching TV with my parents. It was nice having the company and I was disappointed when they went to bed. The night stretched out ahead of me and I knew with my nocturnal schedule, sleep was several hours away. Instead of flicking through the channels with the sound practically muted as to not disturb my parents, I tiptoed to my room and pulled my laptop, plus the file containing all of my research out of the duffel bag.
Propped up in bed, I sorted through a stack of papers to find the notes on Frank. He wanted to know what happened to his wife, Faye, and their child.
I searched for a Faye Murphy in Phoenix and received a couple of results, but none of them were a match. Frank said he thought she might have remarried since he made her a young widow. I deleted the Murphy and typed in her maiden name. Aft
er filtering through the search results, I found a match: Faye Hutchings nee Sproul, with the right date of birth followed by a date of death. She died in 1998 from cancer and was survived by a son, Francis Murphy Jr. of Las Vegas, Nevada and a daughter, Monica Hutchings-Durgin of Atlanta, Georgia, plus Monica’s husband and her two children.
“No shit,” I said out loud and sat back against the headboard. “Frank had a son.”
Since I didn’t have access to my parent’s printer, I bookmarked the page and wrote a comment in my notes before beginning a search for Frank’s son. It didn’t take long to find him.
Frank Jr. was a chip off the old block. Apparently Junior didn’t learn from his father’s death because he had a tendency to drink and drive, a habit well known by Las Vegas Police Department. In fact he was recently busted for a fifth time. This made the second page of the local news section. He was intoxicated, driving on a suspended license and was only wearing his underwear. “Oh boy,” I chuckled and bookmarked the page, remembering the time I had to arrest a man who was running down a residential street in his birthday suit.
I clicked on another result and learned he was like his father in another way too. Junior was a car salesman at Desert Auto in Henderson, Nevada or at least he had been a year earlier when he won salesman of the month. I wasn’t sure how dated the information was, but at least it was a lead. I wrote down the contact information for the dealership even though I wasn’t sure if I’d actually use it.
The beer had left a stale, bitter residue in my mouth so I took a break to brush my teeth, get some water and change into pajamas. Settled back in bed, I continued researching Frank Junior, but the information became scarce and he didn’t seem to have any social media accounts.
I tried searching for more details on Faye and even if I hadn’t fallen asleep, I wouldn’t have found anything.
The next morning I woke to the sounds of papers shuffling. I jerked my head and flinched at the pain from a kink in my neck and blinked against the sun pouring in through the windows. My laptop was still open on my lap and I grabbed it before it slid onto the floor. That’s when I noticed my mom. She sat at the foot of the bed with the file.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Mom, don’t look at that.”
“What is all this?”
“Just something I’m working on.”
“I knew it! You’re working on your weekend off. Elena, how are you going to get settled down again when you’re such a workaholic?” She slammed the file down with a slap on the comforter.
I did everything I could to not roll my eyes and leaned forward to pick up the folder. After making sure all the papers were intact, I set it back down on the bed next to me.
“This isn’t work, per se, but a side project…some cold cases.”
“Hmmm...” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her khaki shorts. “Most women have book clubs or go exercise as a hobby,” she added before leaving my room.
Smiling, I shook my head knowing her persistence would never fade. I slid out of bed and packed up my laptop and file before walking down the hall to the bathroom.
After showering, I followed the smell of coffee into the kitchen. My mom was dicing tomatoes and she pointed with the knife at an empty mug on the counter, which I grabbed and immediately filled.
“There are blueberry muffins in that basket if you’re hungry,” she said. My stomach growled and I walked over to the breakfast bar to grab one then took a seat on one of the stools. The muffins were still warm and I breathed in the scent of cinnamon from the crumb topping.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Golfing. I told him to scoot. He was hovering and snacking. If he kept it up, we’d have no food for tonight!”
My mom hummed while she made her salsa, my eyes tearing up when she moved on to the onions, but hers didn’t. In all the times I’ve seen her cut an onion, she never cried. Years ago I was convinced she possessed superhuman strength. She just laughed and shook her head when I ran from the room like a skunk had sprayed.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
“Cut these for the veggie tray,” she handed me a bag containing cucumbers and green peppers, plus a cutting board and knife. “Make sure you rinse them off and remove the seeds from the peppers.”
“I know Mom…not fourteen anymore,” I muttered and wandered over to the sink.
It was going to be a long morning.
***
The day flew by and I was exhausted from being my mom’s assistant. All that changed the moment Cruz showed up. He wandered in, a duffel bag full of dirty laundry draped over one shoulder, and two cans of Red Bull in his free hand.
“Dad told me what you were up to all day,” he said and tossed me a can of Red Bull. “I came with reinforcements.” He set his bag down on the leather sofa, which I had just finished wiping down with a damp cloth. Mom heard it drop with her supersonic hearing and came rushing out of the kitchen.
“No, no, no! Put that in your room. The guests will be here any minute!” she chastised him before accepting his hug and a kiss on her cheek.
I followed Cruz down the hall and into his room which was across from mine. His still carried the faint odor of cheap cologne and sweat from his high school days.
“How ya doin’, sis?” he asked and sat on the edge of his bed.
“All right. I’m back on active duty.”
“Yeah, Dad told me. Any more weirdness?”
Cruz thought it was cool that I became an Internet sensation. He used it to establish a brief celebrity status on campus and capitalize with girls.
“No. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.”
“Fun for you!” I said and laughed. “I’ll leave you alone to get dressed before mom comes in and picks out your outfit.”
“Good idea.” Cruz tossed his empty can on the floor. I automatically bent over and picked it up.
“Don’t they teach you how to clean up after yourself at college?” I teased and threw it in the trash can with an exaggerated effort before shutting his door behind me.
I went across the hall into my room to change my shirt and freshen up. After checking my reflection in the mirror I decided to wear my hair down. I took out the band and shook the waves loose. It made such a difference that I had to stop and stare at my reflection. Wearing my hair down took ten years off my face; it seemed softer, less austere. Between the energy drink and approval of my appearance, I was ready to face the rest of the family, all four generations of it.
People had already started to arrive and I helped my mom greet at the door. We guided everyone to the back yard. The muted bluish light from the pool blended with the soft lighting of paper lanterns hanging from the edge of the sun porch roof. Tables for food were set up on the flagstone patio and formed an “L” shape along the house. My dad was playing bartender and passing out red solo cups full of beer to the crowd gathered around the keg. Another crowd had formed around Aunt Theresa’s tamales. I hurried over to grab one before they all disappeared.
“Elena!” my mother’s sisters, yelled in unison when they saw me approach. I gave them each a hug and Theresa handed me a plate. “You need to eat, fill out those curves a bit.”
And so it began. I smiled and nodded my way through the physical critique, drank my way through the questions about my relationship status and crossed my arms over my breasts when Cousin Jesus stared a little too long.
A few hours later, the crowd had thinned and only a dozen or so close family members lingered on the patio. A couple younger cousins splashed around in the pool and I took a seat near the edge to stick my feet in the water. Cruz sat down next to me.
He handed me a shot of tequila. “Bottoms up, sis!” he said and touched his glass to mine.
We had matching grimaces when we were done and quickly took a sip of beer. My head was already spinning and knew it would be a while before it was safe to stand up.
“Are you trying to
kill me? Between the Red Bull and the tequila, I’m surprised I haven’t had a seizure.” This came out like “seeshur”, causing Cruz to tilt his head back and laugh. I joined him and we laughed like lunatics for a good five minutes. When my sides started to ache and the hiccups kicked in, I had to bring my breathing under control. That’s when I noticed our cousins had stopped splashing to stare at the spectacle poolside.
“This is why you shouldn’t drink, kids.” I said, trying to sound like the law enforcement officer and voice of reason. This set Cruz off and I started laughing with him all over again.
The older adults moved inside, bringing trays of food into the kitchen, leaving us by ourselves. Cruz got up to refill our cups. He handed me a beer and sat back down.
“Um, so I wanted to talk to you,” Cruz said.
“About what?” I turned to face him.
“About when you were rescued from the wildfire.”
His tone was serious and he stared at me with bloodshot eyes. I took a long swallow of beer before responding.
“What do you want to know?”
“This guy at school, he’s a friend of a friend…anyway; he came up to me at a party last week. Mind you we were all pretty fucked up, but he said he knows who saved you. He claims that his brother died in a car accident on that same stretch of I-17 and was a ghost for a while.”
‘What do you mean by ghost for a while?”
“I don’t know. I kind of laughed at him. It’s pretty out there, don’t you think?”
“No. Can you get me in touch with this guy?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to him.”
“That’s funny.” He shook his head before tilting it back to drink the rest of his beer.
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. What’s funny is that he wants to talk you too.”
End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) Page 25
