A Ghost of a Chance

by Cherie Claire

  “Vi?”

  Now I am crying. Can’t explain why. “Aunt Mimi, I’m driving outside of Branson and I would really love to see you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Interstate 65, just past Highway 76, heading north.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Get off at the Branson Hills Parkway and go left. Once you cross back over the interstate you’ll see the Branson Tourism Center on the left. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay,” I squeak out and she hangs up.

  It’s about ten more minutes up the road and I do as I’m told. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Aunt Mimi but family right now — concerned family I might add — is filling my heart with hope.

  I pull into the parking lot of the tourism center and spot her right away — easy, considering she’s the only one in the lot on this weather day from hell. She flicks her lights and I pull up next to her, turn off the ignition, pop the trunk and give brat a hard shake.

  “What?” she barks, giving me the satisfaction that I was right, that there might be an ugly interior to all that beauty.

  “It’s all yours.” I place the keys in her hands and jump out of the car, grab my suitcase and hurry to Aunt Mimi. Once I’m inside Aunt Mimi gives me the hug of a lifetime. Just before everything blurs with a flood of my tears, I see Miss Georgia’s angry face in the windshield and I close my eyes to shut her out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m submerged in a retro blue tub of steaming water with a variety of herbs floating on top, waiting for Aunt Mimi to return with a cup of herbal tea. I smell eucalyptus and lavender and other heavenly scents, and the soft glow of candles illuminates the pink walls straight out of nineteen sixty-nine. I’m finally able to relax and sink deeper in the water while wondering when my rural Alabama aunt got so New Age.

  I can’t believe I cried continuously from the tourism center’s parking lot all the way to Aunt Mimi’s assisted living complex. I was bawling when we came in the door, frightening the nice security guard out front.

  “It’s okay Frank,” Aunt Mimi told him, holding me in her arms and leading me to her apartment. “She’s my niece and she’s going through some really hard times.”

  It was like that when Lillye died, people excusing me when I headed off to Neverland and retreated into my dark abyss. Even when TB implored me to talk and share our grief together, I ventured inward and heard others telling him to give me time. Somewhere along the way, however, those excuses stopped and everyone expected me to be normal again, TB asking for more. All of which was an impossibility.

  The truth is, I’ll never be normal and it will never stop hurting. As Aunt Mimi places the cup of tea in my hands, I know she understands this.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Aunt Mimi makes herself comfortable on the toilet, cradling her own cup of tea, elbows on her knees. “Sorry for what?”

  “I heard you were at the funeral; Mom told me afterwards. I wanted to write you and thank you for coming but then months went by and I was embarrassed it had taken me so long so I never wrote.”

  Aunt Mimi leans forward and those dark brown eyes stare deeply into mine. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Sweet Pea. You buried your child.” At this, her eyes fill up with tears and she looks away. “I can’t imagine.”

  There’s that uncomfortable silence that follows people offering sympathy; I never know what to say so I usually blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You lost Uncle Jake.”

  Aunt Mimi shakes her head. “Not the same thing. He lived a good life. Besides, your mom has kept me up to date on what you’re doing.”

  I start playing with the herbs floating around my knees. I should have been at his funeral. I feel ashamed on many levels. “Did she tell you I was in Eureka Springs and that it never occurred to me to call you?”

  Aunt Mimi takes a sip of her tea, then places the cup on a doily on her knee. “Don’t worry about it, Vi. I know you’ve thought of me all these years.” And she means it, I know.

  I look up. “I have.” I mean that too, from the bottom of my heart.

  She smiles and nods. “I know.”

  And that’s that. Everything’s cool between us and it suddenly feels like old times. I lean back and let out a giant sigh that causes bathtub waves and the herbs float around the tub like flotsam after a flood. “I was in Eureka Springs on a press trip trying to start my travel writing career. But I blew it bigtime.”

  There’s a hand on my forearm, a simple comfort from one person to another I’m beginning to understand guides one back into the light. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  So I spill my guts to Aunt Mimi, starting with the storm and the loss of Lillye’s photos to the moment I recovered them and decided to leave TB. From acquiring the potting shed in Lafayette and reconnecting with Henry to turning into a SCANC and stabbing Richard’s scone and waking up Sleeping Beauty. After my lengthy news update, ending with my last conversation with Lori and how I failed her, Aunt Mimi leans back against the toilet and studies me.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  She smiles sadly and shakes her head. “You never met my mother, did you?”

  “Grandma Willow? She died when I was young. I remember her a little, had a thick Southern accent.”

  “Well, we are from Alabama, Pudding, no matter what your highfalutin mother says.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Aunt Mimi decides to get closer, slips on to the tile floor next to the tub so we’re eye to eye. “She had a gift.”

  A snort emerges and shoots out my nose. I’ve heard this my whole life, how smart my family is: Portia and her legal expertise — she once represented a yoga instructor who sued his establishment over intellectual rights of the Sun Salutation and took home two million — and Sebastian who created a masterpiece from SPAM, three eggs, toast and an onion, which won him a place on “America’s Best Redneck Chefs” (which royally pissed my mother off, although she still brags that he’s a TV celebrity). There’s my mom, of course, who would argue with Shakespeare over what his plays really mean.

  Mimi senses where my mind’s going for she pokes me in the side. “Gifted as in psychic.”

  This gets me to focus. “Grandma Willow was a psychic?”

  Aunt Mimi grins broadly. “Not just any psychic, but the best in Alabama. People came from everywhere. She made a small fortune doing it, although that’s mainly because Dad insisted they pay. She would have done it for nothing if she had had her druthers.”

  I sit up and the water starts rocking again. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  We’re so close to each other I notice the thin strands of gray in Aunt Mimi’s hair, shining like silver in the soft bathroom light. I’ve missed her. Why haven’t I contacted her before now?

  “Darlin’,” Mimi says, taking my hand in hers. “You come from a long line of gifted people.”

  It doesn’t take me long being around people with Southern accents before I step into line. “Well, shut my mouth.”

  We laugh, until I remember the stone and the cave and those crazy people praying over me. Mimi senses that too and sobers. “I’m sorry about what happened that summer. Your Uncle Jake was so understanding about my particular talents but we wanted to work the family farm he inherited, start an organic food company, and it was out in the middle of nowhere and that church was the only community we had.”

  “Wait, did you say particular talents?”

  “It was a lovely church, actually. The preacher was pretty open-minded and his sermons uplifting, even if he did get a bit preachy at times. When you heard those voices in the cave, you see I had heard them too. But I sensed something more sinister deep in the back of that cave and I was afraid a dark spirit might have attached itself to you, being an adolescent; spirits tend to like teenagers going through emotional change. I asked the church members to pray for you just in case. I had no idea they were going to equate ghosts with the devil.” />
  “Mimi,” I interrupt. “Your talents?”

  She cocks her head to one side. “Well, I’m pretty good myself.”

  “You’re a psychic too?”

  “Actually, I’m a medium. There’s a difference. Psychics can tell things about people, read their past, tell the future. Mediums talk to the dead.”

  “And you do this for people, help them connect with their loved ones?”

  At this Mimi smiles proudly. “How do you think I could afford to buy this place? Well, that and selling the farm.” She leans in close as if the walls have ears. “I actually make a nice living here. Branson may look religious on the outside but there is an endless line beating to my door for readings, I can assure you.”

  “I’m so confused. When Mom said assisted living….”

  “That I live here? Jesus, Vi, I’m only fifty-seven. I’m younger than your mom!”

  Honestly, I never could gauge age and I don’t know what to say. I feel the soap slipping around my ankles and I play with it with my big toe while I think of some way to change the subject. “Is this ‘talent’ hereditary?”

  Mimi laughs. “If it is, it skipped your mother.”

  “And me?”

  Mimi pulls her hands through those silver strands and looks down at her knees. “Now I’m the one to apologize. I made a mistake asking those people to pray for you. I made a bigger mistake not clearing the air afterwards. I should have driven to New Orleans and taken you out for ice cream or something and explained.”

  “I saw you all at holidays.”

  “But I never told you the truth. And now you’re a SCANC.”

  I still can’t get use to this SCANC business and the way she utters the word you’d think it was a bad thing, as in the word’s real definition. I would laugh if it wasn’t so depressing — and I wasn’t talking to the wrong people.

  “Can I speak to Lillye?” I ask so quietly I’m not sure Aunt Mimi hears me.

  She keeps looking at her lap, straightening the wrinkles from her pants. “Probably not, Hon.”

  Of all the horrible, crazy things that happened that day, this piece of news hits the hardest. I want to slip beneath these waters and call it a life. “Why not?”

  She looks at me then, her eyes filled with empathy. “Maybe you would have if you hadn’t repressed this gift. But now you only see those who have died by water.”

  The bathroom becomes a blur of Baby Boomer blue and pink. I can’t speak for the blockage in my throat. I feel Mimi’s hand again on my arm. “Maybe in time,” she says. “Maybe you can develop your broader talents once again.”

  I can’t control my emotions at this point so Mimi whispers something about checking on the vegetable soup on the stove and leaves me to finish my bath. By the time the tears abate enough for me to wash my hair, the water’s freezing cold.

  I finish my hair, dry off and get dressed in a daze, then meet Mimi in the kitchen. It smells heavenly but I’m not hungry and she appears disappointed when I tell her.

  “I called the airport and have you on an early flight so it’s probably best that you get some sleep.”

  I do as I’m told, Mimi tucking me into bed and kissing me sweetly on my forehead. Again, such a simple gesture, but it provides comfort of which I haven’t felt in a very long time. I want to thank her but that apple lodged in my throat won’t budge. Mimi understands, pats me on the shoulder, turns off the light and closes the door. Thinking of Grandma Willow and how she made us all kneel at our bedside and say prayers before we went to bed, I thank God or whoever is out there for my Aunt Mimi, my angel in a thunderstorm.

  The smell of bacon wakens me but it’s still dark outside. I glance at the clock and it’s four a.m. I remember Mimi saying something about an early flight so I pull on clothes that aren’t too bad smelling — I’ve run out of clean ones — and head to the pork source. Mimi acknowledges me with a nod of the head as she’s busy cooking up eggs, then we eat in silence, neither of us much of a morning person. Then quietly we pack up the car in darkness and head up Interstate 65.

  “I have questions,” I venture.

  Mimi gulps down coffee from a thermos. “Let’s hear them.”

  “Do I have to solve every mystery that presents itself?”

  “No,” she answers emphatically. “You wouldn’t have a life if you did.”

  “So how do I turn it off?”

  “There are ways of blocking the incoming messages. You have to tell them to stop or to go away.”

  That doesn’t seem possible to me and I tell her so. After a few pieces of advice, including repeating how Carmine snapped his fingers in the New Orleans airport on the way to Eureka Springs, she concludes with, “I’ll help you with it.”

  “Will I see everyone who died by drowning?” I think of New Orleans and all the people who died there, realizing it’s a good thing I don’t live there anymore.

  “Only those who are stuck on this plane for some reason.”

  “Like in the movies, people who were murdered or committed suicide.”

  She grimaces. “That’s too simplistic and Hollywood loves to play up the dramatics. It’s more complicated than that. I’ll help you with that as well.”

  “Can you talk to anyone who’s passed?” The biggest question of all and it emerges like a whisper.

  She glances over at me but I only spot the whites of her eyes in the darkness. “Not always.”

  We ride in silence for several minutes and then Aunt Mimi shifts in her seat and begins humming and shaking her head. “What is it?” I ask her.

  She lets out a huge sigh and for a weird moment I think she’s mad at me. “She was only five, Viola. Hard for a child to communicate at that age. All I’m getting are images.”

  I’m starved for anything of my child so I sit up straight and grab Mimi’s arm in excitement. “What is she doing?”

  “She’s in a store of some sort. I see rocks everywhere, maybe because you love stones so much?”

  A burst of happiness rushes through me like I haven’t felt since college. It’s difficult for me to speak, let alone breathe. “What else?”

  Mimi looks at me briefly and smiles. “She’s happy, Vi. She’s dancing and laughing. She’s at peace and wants you to know that.”

  I should be crying at this point but I’m too filled with joy. “Can you tell her I miss her?”

  Mimi’s smile broadens. “She knows that. But she keeps pointing to the stones, baby blues ones.”

  “My angelite?”

  Suddenly, Mimi covers her mouth with her hand and I see tears well up in her eyes. “On my goodness. She’s with my mom.”

  Part of me wants the focus back on my child but I’m thrilled that Aunt Mimi got something out of this “reading” as well. It’s also comforting to know my baby girl is with family. Still, I long for more.

  Finally, Aunt Mimi straightens and wipes the tears away and my heart sinks knowing that this brief foray into heaven is over. “They’re good,” Mimi says, smiling. “They’re both so good.”

  If only I could say the same for me, I think, as I stare off into the bleak, dark highway as my old friend, that familiar heartache, returns. We pull up to the airport and Mimi pulls my luggage out of the trunk and gives me a hug that knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s awesome.

  “You write to me,” she tells me sternly when she finally lets me go. “And you call me anytime you have a question or need something.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  We stand there awkwardly looking at each other, waiting for one of us to move away. “Okay then,” Mimi says, but she hugs me once more and whispers in my ear while she does it. “Just remember, Pudding, that those who have passed are there to help us, too. It’s not all you helping the departed. All you have to do is ask and they will come to your aid.”

  She pulls away and I nod, message received. I grab my silly polka dot suitcase and laptop and head toward the ticket agent, when Mimi calls out my name. “If we knew about all the p
eople who are on the other side looking out for us,” she shouts outs, “we would never be scared.”

  I wave goodbye and we both head off in different directions.

  After the flight to Memphis where I slept most of the way, I caught the ten o’clock to New Orleans and was feeling renewed and recharged by my visit to Aunt Mimi’s until the pilot called for the final descent into the Crescent City. Looking down on the massive Lake Pontchartrain whose waters knew my home intimately and the endless blue tarps covering rooftops, my heart plummets. I have no home. I have no job. My marriage is over and my career dead before it even began. This afternoon, I must endure supper with my crazy ass family and hope my mother doesn’t ride me too hard on coming back to New Orleans where too many dead by water walk the earth.

  And then there’s the opera singer. I look for her when I exit the plane but the airport’s rowdy for a Friday and the crowds no doubt keep ghosts at bay (I’m assuming). I find my car after walking up and down aisles for fifteen minutes, all the while scaring tourists and couples with children with my cussing and ranting. The Interstate’s clogged with traffic, mostly displaced New Orleanians arriving home from Baton Rouge and other cities they now live or work in and the usual hordes of tourists wanting to eat, play and let loose despite that a hurricane once plowed through. After an hour of more foul language, I drive up to my mom’s house with its spanking new roof and landscaping. You would never know that Katrina hit this house, I think, as I grab my purse and brace myself.

  “I’m home,” I announce as I walk through the front door and my mom appears at the kitchen threshold, wiping her hands on a dishrag. She’s not happy to see me, although with all those phone calls and bugging the shit out of me to move home, you’d think she would be.