Dwayne pauses and, because he’s standing, I must tilt my head back to gaze into those cerulean eyes.
“She’s right here,” he says, tapping his hand over his heart.
I can’t help myself. I laugh. It’s what everyone’s told me since Lillye died several years ago, leaving me heartbroken, scarred, and a shell of a human being. I know grief is a process, an emotion everyone deals with differently in their own time, and the pain of loss never fully disappears. I’m now a SCANC and watery ghosts appear to me everywhere I travel — and I travel quite a bit through the Deep South in my job as travel writer. I didn’t ask for this specific talent, and truth be told I could live without it, no problem at all. But the question remains, why was I bestowed a “gift” to see ghosts and not be able to reach my precious daughter?
Dwayne doesn’t appear taken back by my reaction. Instead, his eyes reflect an understanding. He leans closer. “You can reach your ‘precious daughter.’ You just have to learn how.”
Goosebumps race up my arms and my breath stills in my chest. I feel like a thousand lightning bugs are fighting underneath my skin. Dwayne senses my panic and lightly touches my upper arm and it’s like an electric bolt descends from the roof, striking me at the top of my head and shocking my senses all the way to my toes. I gasp and the breath returns in a rush. My head feels light and I’m almost certain I’m seeing stars at the corner of my vision.
“Praise Jesus,” says the lady to my right.
I turn in her direction because I’m desperate to know what’s really going on here and I spot the teenager leaning against the wall, shaking his head. Thankfully Dwayne moves toward the center of the aisle and his gaze scans the crowds. As I’m searching for a discreet way to flee, Dwayne begins explaining how SCANCs can develop their specific gifts to see all who have departed.
I’m halfway off the seat when this comment stops me cold. I’ve heard rumors about SCANCs who have “evolved,” although Carmine routinely labels them crazy and the process nonsense. When I viewed ghosts last summer at a lake in central Louisiana, ghosts who did not die by water, I was convinced my talent had developed and Lillye was in reach. I was mistaken — the incident had been the result of something supernatural, but that’s another story — and even though I should have since made peace with the fact that I’ll never see Lillye again, I can’t give up the ghost, pun intended.
I need to reach my daughter, who left me so young. If I could just speak to her one last time.
“It’s possible,” Dwayne shouts out and turns my way, those blue eyes settling a gaze on me that reaches deep into my soul. “We can reach those who have left us but who are not in our,” and he uses his fingers to denote parenthesis, “‘specific communication.’”
Once again, I feel the man has listened in on my thoughts and the goosebumps go crazy.
“Isn’t he amazing?” the woman to my right asks.
I honestly don’t know what to think about this man, but I settle into my seat and listen while Dwayne explains his theories, mainly that the more we use our talents to allow ghosts stuck on this earthly plane to “Climb the ladder,” or reach heaven or wherever it is the departed go into the white light of love, the more we will evolve. In other words, the more people I help ascend, the stronger the chance I will see Lillye on the Other Side.
Time flies by while Dwayne talks and most of us are enraptured by what he’s saying. A man opens the back door and the light of the main room floods in, jolting us all.
“Time,” the guy at the door announces.
Dwayne thanks everyone for coming, the room bursts into applause, and several people move to the dais. Within seconds, Dwayne is surrounded by people asking questions, shoving books into his hands for autographs — apparently, the guy wrote one — and a couple of women fawning. Dwayne ignores the attention and instead searches the crowd until he spots me. He offers a smile that sends sparkles down to my toes and I can’t help but smile back. He mimics using a phone and typing on a keyboard as that grumpy teenager arrives at my side and hands me his card.
I accept the card and am about to ask Grumpy Teen questions when Carmine arrives and grabs my upper arm. Hard.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Nice to see you, too, Carmine.” I pull my arm free. “And that hurt, by the way.”
Carmine looks over at Dwayne and frowns. Dwayne sends back a stern gaze, then returns all smiles to his beloved fans.
This is weird.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Just then TB arrives, drink in hand. “Where have you been? You said you were going to the keynote address.”
“You need to tell us where you are,” Carmine says, but his gaze never leaves the dais.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, accepting Dwayne’s card from the teenager who’s backing away from this mess. “It’s not like I’m lost in the mall, moms.”
I slip the card into my pocket and head for the door, my body guards following behind. I can hear TB asking Carmine what’s going on, what’s wrong with her being here, that kind of thing, but Carmine says nothing. When we hit the lobby and the costumed SCANCs imbibing heaven knows what, I suddenly am ready to go. I’ve had enough of this SCANCness and I learned what I came here to find out.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Great,” Carmine answers and we all head for the Convention Center lobby.
“But you’re not off the hook,” I tell Carmine. “I want an explanation for that rude display.”
I instinctively move to walk the long hallway back to the parking lot but TB stops me. “I’ll go get the car. You all stay here.”
“I can walk…,” I return, but TB’s already off in a trot.
Something’s wrong here. I can feel it as sure as a ghost arriving. I give Carmine a look and he motions for us to sit down on the bench beside the door.
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long hallway back to the car so spill.”
After a few moments of silence, he exhales, loudly. “Dwayne Garrett’s not to be trusted.”
I wait for more information but none comes. “That’s it?”
“I have my reasons.”
I shake my head. “That’s not good enough, Carmine.”
He takes my hand and squeezes. Carmine’s been my good friend, travel writing colleague, and SCANC mentor since this business of me seeing ghosts began. I love him dearly, treasure our friendship, and absorb his advice faithfully. So, if there’s a reason he thinks I should avoid the charismatic, devil-eyed Dwayne Garrett, I’m apt to listen, but not without something to back it up.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he finally says, and something about this doesn’t ring true, as if it’s only half of the issue.
“I know you think I can’t evolve enough to see others who have not died by water,” I begin. “I know you think that because I’m desperate to see my child I will believe anything, and that’s probably true. But, all Dwayne was advocating was helping others to climb the ladder.”
Carmine looks at me sternly. “He didn’t ask to meet up with you or have you contact him in any way.”
I think of the card in my pocket and wonder what that contact entails. Is Carmine worried that after first separating from my husband, — believing we had nothing in common — then tentatively resuming that relationship, that I might still be on the prowl for another man? Carmine loves TB, even though intellectually the two are miles apart. He once likened TB to a puppy, insinuating that puppies are loyal and protective offering unconditional love, which is TB to a — well, a T.
“Vi, get your intellectual stimulation elsewhere,” he once told me. “Keep those who love you close at hand.”
“Why are you so protective today? Why the big brother attitude?”
Carmine looks out the window at two lawyers waltzing by wearing those ridiculous Mardi Gras beads, carrying cocktails, and laughing. Still in those horrible all-black outfits, mind you.
&nb
sp; “Why does everyone feel the need to get drunk in this town?” he asks instead.
“Because New Orleans is the ‘City That Care Forgot,’ unlike all those other uptight cities in America. You’re avoiding the question.”
Carmine keeps staring at the drunk lawyers, a scowl on his face, and I wonder if he’s reliving how he became a SCANC all those years ago. Carmine was one year shy of graduating high school, one year away from escaping the torments of boys threatened by his feminine traits, even though Carmine isn’t what I’d call openly gay. (In other words, he could pass if he wanted to and tried to do so in high school.) A group of boys from the wrestling team got drunk one night and discovered him walking home alone from the library. They beat him close to death and it took months of physical therapy for him to recover back to normal. He said it was a blessing, really, for he was home-schooled until graduation. Like me and my specific talent, Carmine sees apparitions who bat for the other team.
I must admit, I’m envious because gay ghosts remaining on this plane are few and far between so his life doesn’t require the effort to constantly shut off ghouls begging for attention or the mysteries I feel compelled to solve when they present themselves. Carmine also encounters artists and writers, many of whom are famous and whom I’d love to meet.
I’m still curious about Dwayne and I’m about to ask for more information when TB drives up in my Toyota. We climb in, Carmine in back and me in front. I’m ready to begin my hundred questions when TB suggests picking up poboys at Parkway Tavern and heading back to the house, and Carmine eagerly accepts. A silence descends, as if both men are done with this conversation, so I keep quiet and stare out the window at the tourists enjoying the Warehouse District full of art galleries and overpriced restaurants.
We grab the poboys and drive up to the house TB and I shared for several years, five of those with Lillye. I hate coming here. One, for the memories of both watching our child sick with leukemia and two, for that horrid morning in 2005 when flood waters poured through and we axed our way to the attic.
Carmine and TB waltz through the door but I pause at the threshold and the memories slam into me so hard it knocks my breath away. TB notices, bless his heart, and he guides me to the renovated kitchen and dining area, both totally different from when we lived here.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
It’s gorgeous, really: new tile, backsplash, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances. I sound like those shows on HGTV, but I still remember those tiny feet running through the old kitchen while I cooked Lillye’s favorite, seafood gumbo. I wonder where my gumbo pot is now. No doubt the flood waters ruined everything within the cabinets that are now long gone.
We sit and eat the poboys in silence. I still want to interrogate my two buds about their reactions at the conference, but the memories of Lillye have silenced my tongue. I stare at my delicious shrimp poboy — dressed, as we say in New Orleans, which means lettuce, tomatoes and, for me, extra pickles — but my appetite has disappeared as well.
Just then I feel a silky movement at my legs. I look down to find Stinky, the orange stray cat I feed in Lafayette who’s become my pet. He’s at TB’s this week while I attend a press trip with Carmine in Mississippi.
“Hey, Pal.” I reach down and scratch behind his ears, then between the shoulder blade, and finally the butt. His eyes glaze over in appreciation.
“He’ll be fine while you’re gone,” TB says. “He loves it here.”
Traitor, I think as I give him a look. The cat gives me one back.
Did I mention he might be psychic?
They say owning a pet lowers your blood pressure and makes you a happier person. Just giving Stinky a massage has changed my outlook. I turn back to my favorite men and enjoy the poboy.
After lunch, we grab our bags and TB drives us to the airport for the flight to Florence, Alabama, the beginning of our trip down the Natchez Trace. The press trip is being sponsored by a Mississippi public relations firm — we’re expected to write about the Mississippi portion of the Trace — but the Florence airport is closest to the trail’s northern-most point of the Magnolia State. We’re to spend the night in Florence, check out a few musical hot spots in Muscle Shoals, then head west and join the Trace near Tupelo. After that, it’s several days exploring one of the oldest highways in America, ending at the historic city of Natchez.
I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months, especially since Carmine and my old friend Winnie Calder will be joining me. Having like-minded friends on a press trip cranks it up a notch, and Winnie’s from Mississippi so no doubt she’ll offer lots of insider information.
We pull up to the curb and TB retrieves our luggage from the trunk. He pulls me into a tight embrace as if we’re back to square one before the separation, but I’m not feeling it today. I don’t know if it’s the morning’s event at the SCANC convention, the memories haunting me at the house or that I’m not completely sure we should be together. I hug him back but he senses my hesitation and frowns.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, which sounds hollow, like a friend thanking another for a ride to the airport. To make up for the insensitivity, I rise on my toes and give him a kiss. It, too, comes off as platonic, however, and I know TB’s disappointed.
Thankfully, Carmine holds out a hand. “See you in a week.”
TB ignores the hand and gives Carmine a big hug, which surprises but delights my stalwart friend. They end up patting each other on the back like men do, then release. As Carmine and I head to the ticket counter, Carmine turns and yells to TB, “Good luck with the test.”
“What test?” I ask as we head through the doors, but Carmine says nothing.
We get separated during security — Carmine is TSA pre-checked — but I meet up with him at the gate. I want to again inquire why Carmine was so weird at the convention, what he has against Dwayne, and what test TB is taking but he remains sullen, checking his email by way of his laptop. I dig through my carryon to find my book, hoping a good romance novel will save me, but I’m ticked he’s ignoring me again.
“She’s important,” a voice rings out.
My old friend the opera singer stands in the middle of the aisle while tourists rush past. She’s soaking wet, as usual.
“Who’s important?” I ask her, which causes Carmine to look up.
“Who is what?”
Carmine knows that one of the first ghosts I spotted after Katrina was the woman hanging out in the Louis Armstrong Airport, singing You Are My Sunshine at the top of her lungs. The airport was used to house people after Katrina, plus served as a morgue for those who perished in the flood waters, so it’s no wonder there aren’t more of these watery ghosts here. Even though I’ve offered, the opera singer does not want to move on, prefers to linger on the earthly plane. Instead, she gives me advice when I travel through.
My initial thought when I met her was to convince her otherwise, one more person climbing the ladder. If that theory holds, as Dwayne attests, the action gets me closer to evolving and seeing Lillye. But, the opera singer shakes her head, as if she’s reading my thoughts.
“Be careful,” she says. “Not all is what it seems.”
She starts to fade but I want to know more. “What is?”
“Ask Carmine,” she utters before disappearing.
“He’s ignoring me,” I want to shout but she’s gone. Carmine shuts his laptop and I know he’s going to ask who I’m talking to, but I suddenly feel frustrated by the events of the day. What they don’t tell you about seeing ghosts is that truths come at you in fragments, riddles, and images that hardly make sense. It’s like a game they play. Today, all I’ve received are tidbits of information and the one person who made sense, a man offering to assist with my SCANCy abilities, is supposedly off limits.
I hear the gate agent call our zone so I bypass the steamy sex novel and rise. Carmine and I are not sitting together and his zone follows mine, but he grabs my hand.
“Wha
t’s happening?”
“You tell me,” I reply.
When Carmine remains silent, I shake my head and board the plane.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Two
It’s a quick flight to Florence, Alabama, and I’m barely to the juicy parts of my novel when the pilot announces our arrival. In all honesty, I was lucky to get past chapter three with my mind wandering so. I’m not one to focus anyway, but the events of the day have my thoughts in a buzz.
I exit the plane via a set of stairs and a cool breeze greets me. I pause and soak it in, so grateful for a taste of fall after a long hot and humid summer in South Louisiana. On the edge of the runway I spot trees turning autumnal colors and almost let out a squeal.
“You going?” the guy behind me says.
“Sorry.” I speed up but turn and smile. “Just enjoying this touch of fall.”
The man says nothing and moves past — obviously not from the swamps where fall arrives at Christmas when the bald cypress turn burnt orange — but I take my time. There’s a skip in my step contemplating wearing sweaters for the next few days. I feel a tug at my side and find Carmine pulling my carry-on from my hand.
“We need to talk,” he says.
I’m about to agree and insist on carrying my own bag since now he was two, but he struts ahead and suddenly we’re hauling down the airport toward baggage claim.
“We do need to talk,” I yell to his back. “First item on the agenda is where’s the fire.”
For the first time today, Carmine slows down, turns, and smiles. We’re back on friendly terms and my heart lightens.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m a fast walker.”
I catch up to his side. “I thought I was, too. You leave me in shame.”
“Years of running to catch planes, I guess.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 2
