Chance of a Ghost

by E. J. Copperman

  There had been something familiar about the way Mom spoke to the person in her bedroom. It had conjured up an emotional memory. There was only one person my mother had ever spoken to with such a scolding tone, because she was secure in the knowledge he’d still love her no matter what she said.

  The ghost Mom had been shooing out of her house because I was there had been my father.

  Two

  “Your father?” Paul asked. “What makes you think it was your father?”

  Hovering over the pool table in my game room, Paul stroked his goatee, which I’d learned was a sign that he found what I’d said worth considering. It also made him look like a very transparent comparative lit professor from a small New England college instead of the ghost of a rather muscular Canadian PI, which is what he was.

  I’d told him about my conversation with Mom after checking in with the only two guests I was hosting this week, Nan and Morgan Henderson. The Hendersons, in their late fifties, were not part of a Senior Plus Tour, so they weren’t expecting any ghostly happenings, which meant that Paul and Maxie had a winter week off.

  “Anything you guys need?” I asked Nan, who had just come back from a walk on the beach, saying the cold weather was perfect for such things (Nan had grown up in Vermont and liked the cold; I’d grown up in New Jersey and wished I’d grown up in Bermuda, so my sensibility was a little different).

  “Not so far,” she answered. “We’re looking forward to the snow, but I’m wondering what we’ll do about meals if we’re snowed in.” I don’t supply meals at the guesthouse—we’re not a bed and breakfast, nor a bed and any other meal. I do get my guests discounts at local restaurants in exchange for some accommodations (kickbacks) from the restaurateurs. Hey, it’s a business.

  “Usually, things don’t stay unplowed for more than a few hours,” I assured her. “But if we’re really stuck for a long time, I’ll provide meals. Don’t you worry, we won’t let you go hungry.” Knowing how well I cook, I was slightly terrified at the prospect, but it seemed really unlikely, so I moved on. “How was the walk on the beach?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful!” Nan gushed. “So bracing to be out there while the wind starts to kick up!”

  “Bracing,” Morgan echoed. He didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic.

  “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I said.

  “A good time.” Morgan seemed incapable of forming his own words; he’d just hit highlights from whatever had just been said to him and put a sour spin on them.

  “You two should plan on getting some dinner in town tonight, and I’ll make sure to have a few breakfast things around in the morning just in case,” I said, directing my message to Nan for fear that Morgan would repeat “breakfast things” with a disappointed tone.

  The Hendersons went to their room to change for dinner. Melissa wasn’t back from her best friend Wendy’s house yet, so I went to the game room. At one time I could look for the resident ghosts in the attic, where they had often liked to retreat from the usual chaos that occurred on the lower floors, but I’d converted the attic space into a bedroom for Melissa the previous summer, and now I was more likely to find Paul in the game room or the kitchen, the two areas least often frequented by guests (which led me to think the “game room” might be better suited to another purpose, but I hadn’t yet figured out what that might be).

  Sure enough, I’d found him in there—Maxie was still in the attic, since she considered herself and Melissa to be “roommates”—and had filled him in on the whole askew scenario at my mother’s house.

  “Your father,” Paul mused. “How do you know? Did you recognize his voice?”

  I grimaced to indicate I was unsure. “Not exactly,” I told Paul. “He wasn’t speaking loudly enough for me to really hear his voice clearly. It was more of a murmur through a closed door. I don’t see and hear other ghosts as well as I do you and Maxie.”

  Paul nodded slowly, digesting the information. “You have seen your father at least once since you found us, though,” he reminded me.

  It was true—or at least, I thought it was true. In a moment of extreme duress, not long after I’d met Paul and Maxie, I thought I’d seen—or, more precisely, sensed—my father coming to my rescue. But I hadn’t seen his face at all and heard his voice only briefly. And it was the only time.

  “I don’t know. If he could, why wouldn’t he get in touch with me? Maybe I just wanted to believe it was him,” I said. “I was new to ghosts then.”

  Paul grinned a sly grin. “Not like the pro you are now,” he said. He likes to gently tease me about my limited ghost-seeing abilities.

  “You were a private investigator,” I told him, on the off chance that he’d forgotten. “How would you proceed under these circumstances? Suppose I was hiring you.”

  “To find out what?” Paul asked. “Just go to your mother and ask if she was talking to your father.”

  I shook my head. “Not the way she was acting. This was something she honestly didn’t want me to know about. She wasn’t happy that I was there, and you know my mother—she’s always happy that I’m there.”

  Paul tilted his head to the side, which presented an odd image, since he’d been idly listing a little bit that way to begin with. “Yeah,” he said. “That is odd behavior for her.”

  Maxie stuck her head through the ceiling and looked down at us. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Planning more renovations? I have ideas.” Maxie had been a budding decorator in life and never fails to have splashy ideas for projects I either can’t afford or simply don’t want to do.

  “Calm down,” I told her. “The only thing I’m planning on doing is reorganizing the library and maybe trying to widen the doorframe to make it seem roomier. If you have any ideas for that, feel free.”

  She looked disappointed but held up a finger. “Well, I’ve always thought you should—”

  I cut her off. “Shouldn’t you think about it first?”

  “Why?”

  I ignored her and turned my attention back to Paul. “What do you think I should do under the circumstances?” I asked him.

  “I still say asking is the best way to find something out,” he responded. “She’s your mother. She’ll talk to you.”

  “What’s going on with your mother?” Maxie asked with concern. Maxie likes everyone in my family except me.

  “We’ll recap later,” Paul answered her before I could make a cutting remark, which had been my plan. “Just relax, Alison. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  I let out a long breath. “You’re probably right. But I’m not going to let it alone.”

  He gave an enigmatic smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said.

  “Mom?” I heard Melissa call from the front room. A ten-year-old will never—never—come looking for you. They always yell. Yes, even in a house with paying guests and two freeloading ghosts present at all times.

  “Game room,” I called back, trying to be a little less jarring with my tones. Melissa appeared a moment later with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “Hi,” she said to the gathering, then looked at me. “Did you know Grandma is here? Her car just pulled up.”

  My breath caught a little bit, and not just from a childhood reflex because I hadn’t made my bed that morning. “I just left her,” I said to no one in particular. “Is something wrong?” I headed for the front room.

  But my mother appeared in the doorway before I could get halfway there. She acknowledged the ghosts and hugged Melissa, but the expression on her face was strange, much like it had been at her house when she’d realized today was Tuesday—concerned and a little frightened.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her. Maxie leaned in a little. She really does love Mom.

  Mom’s eyebrows knitted. “Of course I’m okay.”

  I’m sure my eyebrows were now the spitting image of hers. (We do look sort of alike—she’s, you know, my mother.) “I was just at your house. What’s wrong?”

>   “I’ve been keeping something from you,” she said.

  Two

  “Your father?” Paul asked. “What makes you think it was your father?”

  Hovering over the pool table in my game room, Paul stroked his goatee, which I’d learned was a sign that he found what I’d said worth considering. It also made him look like a very transparent comparative lit professor from a small New England college instead of the ghost of a rather muscular Canadian PI, which is what he was.

  I’d told him about my conversation with Mom after checking in with the only two guests I was hosting this week, Nan and Morgan Henderson. The Hendersons, in their late fifties, were not part of a Senior Plus Tour, so they weren’t expecting any ghostly happenings, which meant that Paul and Maxie had a winter week off.

  “Anything you guys need?” I asked Nan, who had just come back from a walk on the beach, saying the cold weather was perfect for such things (Nan had grown up in Vermont and liked the cold; I’d grown up in New Jersey and wished I’d grown up in Bermuda, so my sensibility was a little different).

  “Not so far,” she answered. “We’re looking forward to the snow, but I’m wondering what we’ll do about meals if we’re snowed in.” I don’t supply meals at the guesthouse—we’re not a bed and breakfast, nor a bed and any other meal. I do get my guests discounts at local restaurants in exchange for some accommodations (kickbacks) from the restaurateurs. Hey, it’s a business.

  “Usually, things don’t stay unplowed for more than a few hours,” I assured her. “But if we’re really stuck for a long time, I’ll provide meals. Don’t you worry, we won’t let you go hungry.” Knowing how well I cook, I was slightly terrified at the prospect, but it seemed really unlikely, so I moved on. “How was the walk on the beach?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful!” Nan gushed. “So bracing to be out there while the wind starts to kick up!”

  “Bracing,” Morgan echoed. He didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic.

  “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I said.

  “A good time.” Morgan seemed incapable of forming his own words; he’d just hit highlights from whatever had just been said to him and put a sour spin on them.

  “You two should plan on getting some dinner in town tonight, and I’ll make sure to have a few breakfast things around in the morning just in case,” I said, directing my message to Nan for fear that Morgan would repeat “breakfast things” with a disappointed tone.

  The Hendersons went to their room to change for dinner. Melissa wasn’t back from her best friend Wendy’s house yet, so I went to the game room. At one time I could look for the resident ghosts in the attic, where they had often liked to retreat from the usual chaos that occurred on the lower floors, but I’d converted the attic space into a bedroom for Melissa the previous summer, and now I was more likely to find Paul in the game room or the kitchen, the two areas least often frequented by guests (which led me to think the “game room” might be better suited to another purpose, but I hadn’t yet figured out what that might be).

  Sure enough, I’d found him in there—Maxie was still in the attic, since she considered herself and Melissa to be “roommates”—and had filled him in on the whole askew scenario at my mother’s house.

  “Your father,” Paul mused. “How do you know? Did you recognize his voice?”

  I grimaced to indicate I was unsure. “Not exactly,” I told Paul. “He wasn’t speaking loudly enough for me to really hear his voice clearly. It was more of a murmur through a closed door. I don’t see and hear other ghosts as well as I do you and Maxie.”

  Paul nodded slowly, digesting the information. “You have seen your father at least once since you found us, though,” he reminded me.

  It was true—or at least, I thought it was true. In a moment of extreme duress, not long after I’d met Paul and Maxie, I thought I’d seen—or, more precisely, sensed—my father coming to my rescue. But I hadn’t seen his face at all and heard his voice only briefly. And it was the only time.

  “I don’t know. If he could, why wouldn’t he get in touch with me? Maybe I just wanted to believe it was him,” I said. “I was new to ghosts then.”

  Paul grinned a sly grin. “Not like the pro you are now,” he said. He likes to gently tease me about my limited ghost-seeing abilities.

  “You were a private investigator,” I told him, on the off chance that he’d forgotten. “How would you proceed under these circumstances? Suppose I was hiring you.”

  “To find out what?” Paul asked. “Just go to your mother and ask if she was talking to your father.”

  I shook my head. “Not the way she was acting. This was something she honestly didn’t want me to know about. She wasn’t happy that I was there, and you know my mother—she’s always happy that I’m there.”

  Paul tilted his head to the side, which presented an odd image, since he’d been idly listing a little bit that way to begin with. “Yeah,” he said. “That is odd behavior for her.”

  Maxie stuck her head through the ceiling and looked down at us. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Planning more renovations? I have ideas.” Maxie had been a budding decorator in life and never fails to have splashy ideas for projects I either can’t afford or simply don’t want to do.

  “Calm down,” I told her. “The only thing I’m planning on doing is reorganizing the library and maybe trying to widen the doorframe to make it seem roomier. If you have any ideas for that, feel free.”

  She looked disappointed but held up a finger. “Well, I’ve always thought you should—”

  I cut her off. “Shouldn’t you think about it first?”

  “Why?”

  I ignored her and turned my attention back to Paul. “What do you think I should do under the circumstances?” I asked him.

  “I still say asking is the best way to find something out,” he responded. “She’s your mother. She’ll talk to you.”

  “What’s going on with your mother?” Maxie asked with concern. Maxie likes everyone in my family except me.

  “We’ll recap later,” Paul answered her before I could make a cutting remark, which had been my plan. “Just relax, Alison. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  I let out a long breath. “You’re probably right. But I’m not going to let it alone.”

  He gave an enigmatic smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said.

  “Mom?” I heard Melissa call from the front room. A ten-year-old will never—never—come looking for you. They always yell. Yes, even in a house with paying guests and two freeloading ghosts present at all times.

  “Game room,” I called back, trying to be a little less jarring with my tones. Melissa appeared a moment later with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “Hi,” she said to the gathering, then looked at me. “Did you know Grandma is here? Her car just pulled up.”

  My breath caught a little bit, and not just from a childhood reflex because I hadn’t made my bed that morning. “I just left her,” I said to no one in particular. “Is something wrong?” I headed for the front room.

  But my mother appeared in the doorway before I could get halfway there. She acknowledged the ghosts and hugged Melissa, but the expression on her face was strange, much like it had been at her house when she’d realized today was Tuesday—concerned and a little frightened.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her. Maxie leaned in a little. She really does love Mom.

  Mom’s eyebrows knitted. “Of course I’m okay.”

  I’m sure my eyebrows were now the spitting image of hers. (We do look sort of alike—she’s, you know, my mother.) “I was just at your house. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been keeping something from you,” she said.

  Three

  Melissa was not pleased about being asked to leave the conversation (and the room), but I had no idea which way this scene was going to play out, and I didn’t want to have to explain it to my almost-eleven-year-old just yet. But she is an intellige
nt, wise girl, mature beyond her years, so it took only about ten minutes of whining and cajoling before she agreed to go up to her room.

  I suggested the ghosts scram as well, but Mom said they should stay, as what she had to say concerned them, too. Which only puzzled me about six times more than I was already puzzled, which was plenty puzzled. Even if this was about Dad, what did that have to do with Paul and Maxie?

  “Okay, spill,” I told Mom once Melissa was safely out of the room. “What have you been hiding from me?”

  Mom, who is usually anything but a shrinking violet, sat down. “You have any beer?” she asked.

  I do keep wine and beer in a mini-fridge (locked, because I don’t have a liquor license and there is a minor living on the premises) in the game room, but that wasn’t the point. A beer? My mother? These two things had never gone together before in my memory. I walked silently to the fridge, worked the combination on the lock and took out a light beer, which I handed to Mom.

  She looked at the label. “Nothing imported?” she asked.

  I shook my head incredulously. Mom shrugged, opened the bottle of beer and took a rather long pull on it without wiping off the mouth first.

  “Okay,” I told the person on the barstool, “who are you, and where are you keeping my mother?”

  Paul and Maxie hovered near the ceiling, staring at Mom in fascination.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Alison,” my mother said. “I’m your mother.” Then she burped, but at least she looked horrified at her lapse in manners.

  I realized that whatever she had to say must be very difficult, so I softened my voice. “All right,” I said. “So what is it you need to tell me, Mom?”

  She took another swig of beer, seemingly to bolster her courage. “I’ve been holding this inside, and it’s been very painful,” she said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you.”