Jeepers Reapers: There Goes My Midlife Crisis

by Marianne Morea

  Jeepers Reapers

  Marianne Morea

  Coventry Press Ltd.

  Somers, New York

  http://www.coventrypressltd.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 Marianne Morea

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions of thereof in any form whatsoever without written permission.

  ISBN

  First Edition: Coventry Press Ltd. 2021

  Cover Artist: Glowing Moon Designs

  Printed in the USA

  For Diane

  Chapter One

  NOT THE START TO FORTY I EXPECTED.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Leave me Alone!” I yelled from my startled heap on the tub floor, the crumpled shower curtain still in my hand. It went down hard alongside me. Rod and all. “Jeez! Ever hear of privacy?”

  Dripping wet, I had opened the damn curtain like Janet Leigh in Psycho, only my Norman Bates was a creepy silhouette staring at me from the vanity mirror.

  That’s my life as it stands. Louisa Jericho. Shadow-magnet. Of course, I didn’t actually talk to them, but it was better to make jokes than admit I’d lost my sanity.

  I had no idea what these spooky shadows were, or why they peered at me from all kinds of reflective surfaces. Maybe they were figments of my imagination. People-shaped figments. In silhouette.

  They showed up in my hall mirror two weeks ago, and soon spread to every mirror in the house. Now I saw them everywhere. On store front displays. On tinted bus windows and cars as they drove past. Even in puddles.

  It didn’t matter how faint the reflective surface. They were there. Following me, well…like my shadow.

  Again. Gotta laugh.

  I think I probably dropped my basket for real the moment they ceased scaring the crap out of me and just became annoying. Either way, it looked like I was stuck with them. Why? I had no idea.

  Wincing, I crawled out of the tub, leaving the broken shower curtain where it lay. “Yup, that’s going to be a beaut,” I muttered, rubbing my shoulder.

  I didn’t dare examine the early bruise in the mirror. Mirrors were their happy place. The reflective surface the shadows seemed to prefer.

  I hurried from the bathroom and dressed quickly, weighing a possible onceover in the oval Cheval hidden under a bedsheet. Best not. The shadows were getting larger lately, and the standalone mirror was a little too close for comfort.

  As long as the shadows were trapped, I could deal with their existence until I figured things out. Deal with finger-styling my corkscrew curls because flat-ironing blind was not an option. Deal with not wearing makeup, since I needed a mirror for that, too.

  Not that I minded going au-naturel. For someone less than twenty-four hours from the big Four-O, I was pretty happy with the way I looked, despite women’s magazines, and their size-guilt and self-loathing that came standard with every issue.

  Still, I wasn’t about to give this bizarre burp any help. Creepy yet captive photobombing was one thing, but if shadows started floating around in real time? Nope. That would mean time for an exorcism. Or a cat scan. Or a call to Thea.

  A part-timer at the library, Thea read tarot cards and carried crystals everywhere she went. She was the only person I knew to ask about this kind of thing, but unless my creep-o-meter went to def-con ten, that wasn’t going to happen.

  I didn’t believe in anything the five senses couldn’t rationalize. I wanted to believe these shadows had a logical explanation. Like a brain tumor.

  I finished dressing, keeping my attention focused on getting out of the house. “Tits up, eyes straight ahead. Don’t encourage them.” Muttering to myself made me sound even nuttier than I felt.

  I grabbed a pair of ankle-tie espadrilles from my closet, catching a peripheral glimpse of moving shadow as I turned for the door.

  Was peri-menopausal madness a thing? Could the prospect of turning forty cause delusions? I could google it, but I didn’t want to know.

  Exhaling, I paused in the hall before heading down the stairs. I was already late, so I twisted my auburn curls into a messy bun, hoping I didn’t look like a rooster with a perm. At least my hair’s length gave me a fighting chance at a style, otherwise I’d look like a prize poodle. Or Louis XIV. Take your pick.

  From the house I ran, dodging morning traffic and whatever shadows I caught in the periphery. Sweat trickled in places sweat shouldn’t be, making everything sticky.

  In my head, I pictured Alistair peering over halfmoon glasses to the clock above the stacks. For a head librarian, he was both passive aggressive and annoying. A fact I attributed to him hitting on me at last year’s holiday party. Of course, my snort of laughter followed by, “Oh, God, you were serious?” didn’t help.

  Late for work or not, I still needed to stop at the park before sprinting six blocks to the library. It was Monday, and I hadn’t missed a Monday in nearly three years.

  Car exhaust wrinkled my nose, and a sneeze jerked me to a stop as I stepped onto the curb. Face squinched, I saw it. Or thought I saw it.

  A shadow. Only there was no reflective surface to anchor it. It hung by the fenced hedgerow as if suspended, hovering above the sidewalk.

  Normal shadows didn’t hover. They spilled across the ground in varying lengths depending on light source and positioning, but this seemed to defy physics.

  My mouth went dry with warring emotions. Was this for real? Did this shadow follow me from the house or was it waiting here all along? Or was this a trick of light and smog?

  Two weeks of weird had skewed my perspective and I wasn’t having it. “Who are you? What are you?”

  Did I expect an answer? Not really. I was yelling like a crazy person in the middle of a downtown sidewalk, but I was pissed off. If I was crazy, then fine.

  Enough was enough. An exhale graveled in my throat, and I stalked toward the shadow. Of course, the feathery haze disappeared the moment I reached for its edges, and I muttered the mother of all expletives.

  “Figures.” I guess empirical proof wasn’t part of this bizarre game.

  If I wasn’t already nuts, this crap would drive me over the edge in a limousine. I couldn’t think about it now. I had people to see and food to deliver, not to mention keeping my job.

  Every Monday, Emily usually waited for me just inside the park entrance, her simple belongings stowed to one side of her shopping cart, making room for the weekly goodies I brought for her and the others that called the Jefferson Square Park home. Emmie called it our weekly Meals on Cartwheels.

  The fenced, treelined block was technically public property, but enough people called the park home, it felt almost wrong to walk through its gates uninvited.

  Not for me, though. Not anymore. In three years’ time, I’d gone from suspicious do-gooder to trusted friend, with park residents looking forward to my visits and home-cooked meals. Alistair’s long-nosed glare popped into my mind for a second, and I snorted. With everything I had going on, he could suck a duck.

  I ignored my still uneasy stomach, and hurried through the ivy-covered entrance. “I know…I know. I’m sorry I’m late—”

  The inside path was empty. No Emmie. No toothless smile of greeting. No one. Except George and his latest pile of empty cans.

  “The old girl ghosted us both this morning, Lou. She’s still in her tent.” He gestured to the blue-camo pop-up I gave Emily
last spring.

  Concern edged my chest as I followed the old picker’s eyes. “It’s not like her to miss our Mondays. Did something happen?”

  He shook his head, tying off a plastic garbage bag full of empties. “She was in fine fiddle last night. Talked until the wee hours.” A grin took his mouth, and I caught a glimpse of his hard lost youth. “That old girl can still weave her spell on a man.”

  “I bet.”

  “She talked about you, too, Lou.”

  I rolled my eyes, but knew my smirk carried warmth and humor. “I can only imagine.”

  “So, how long has it been since you last dated?” He raised an eyebrow. “And that Alistair schmuck doesn’t count. Neither does your deadbeat ex-husband.”

  “George!”

  “Emmie’s worried about you, Lou. You’re too fine a girl to be wasting yourself stacking dusty books. If I was thirty years younger, I’d make a play for you myself. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I was hot stuff decades ago.” The man’s naked shrug was a wink and a nudge on the outside, but carried internal boulders. “Oceans of time and circumstance.”

  Pain and regret marbled the nostalgia on George’s face, and the combination hurt my heart. Emmie and George were two of the best people I knew. They didn’t deserve the hand they were dealt for bad choices.

  “You’re still hot stuff, Georgie, and Emily talks to me about you, too.”

  His quirky smile evaporated years from his face, and George smoothed his hair and scruffy beard. “Well, you’re okay in my book, Lou. A blessing, actually.”

  Keeping one eye on Emily’s tent, I quickly dug in my shopping bag for the small bakery item tucked in with the rolls. “Happy birthday, my friend.” I held out the waxed-paper to him. “Cranberry orange with walnuts. Your favorite.”

  “You remembered.” The old man met my eyes with a teary sniff, accepting the treat.

  George had only reminded me a hundred times about his birthday, but the look on his face made my day, nonetheless. “Georgie, I know it’s your birthday, but could you keep an eye on the food containers until I get back? I want to check on Emily.”

  “Sure, Lou, but seeing it’s my birthday, I get first dibs on whatever you made, plus another muffin.” He didn’t wait for me to reply. Not that I’d argue.

  George and Emily were the only ones that got a pass for calling me Lou. It was a nickname I’d had forever, and hated for even longer. Still, when little else did, the silly endearment filled me with warmth and a sense of belonging I hadn’t known in a long time.

  Like Emmie, George was seventy-two years old, or so he claimed. To look at him, though, you’d think him decades older.

  “Hey.” He cocked his head. “Don’t you have a birthday coming as well? Em said we’d be celebrating your big Four-O soon.”

  With everything else, I didn’t want to think about it, let alone celebrate. It seemed only yesterday I dodged handsy frat boys, and now I was dodging handsy seniors in the stacks hopped up on Viagra.

  “Yup. It’s tomorrow, in fact.”

  “Well, you know what Emmie says. Forty is the new thirty.” His wheezy chuckle made me smile. “Wonder what that means for us seventy-somethings?”

  I had to laugh at that.

  Emmie was right. And why not? Midlife wasn’t a skid mark into old age. It was prime time. Why else would science pinpoint it as a woman’s sexual peak?

  Not that I’d know. It had been so long since I had sex, if a guy went down on me, he’d probably hear an echo.

  “You okay, Lou? You’ve got a million-mile stare.” George looked at me with crumbs from his muffin caught in his beard. “Forty’s a big birthday. A milestone.”

  His lips curled up under his scraggy mustache, and his smile showed blocky teeth. “Your birthday deserves to be remembered. Even in a small way. I’ll hunt around for a candle. Worst case, we light a match and stick it in one of these muffins.”

  I nodded, but was only half paying attention. There was still no sign of Em, and my unease ratcheted another notch. If the old woman was up late gabbing like George said, then maybe Emmie was just a lazy-sleep-in this morning.

  “What’s the matter, Lou? Someone step on your grave?”

  The old-time phrase didn’t help my unease, and I shot him a look.

  “Go.” George wheezed another laugh, peeling the rest of the paper wrapper from his muffin. “I’ve got the Monday deliveries covered today. Come back with the old girl, and we’ll talk about your birthday bash.”

  I lifted the shopping bags from the ground onto George’s bench. He waved me off again, but I was already double-timing it toward the large oak where Emily staked her spot.

  The tent’s zipper was still down. Not a good sign. Plus, Emily’s shopping cart was still in its place, secured for the night against passing sticky fingers.

  “Emily?” I called out. “Em, it’s Lou. I know you and George had a late night jaw, but it’s Monday and we’ve got rounds to make. If we don’t get to it, George will help himself to all the muffins.”

  Crickets.

  Steeling myself, I pulled the zipper up on the tent’s front flap. Emily was still in her sleeping bag, her wrinkles and toothless mouth making her look even more like a cute Gremlin. Her oversized fisherman’s sweater covered her chin, and just a hint of a steel-gray braid peeked out from one side. Her eyes were closed, and the set of her mouth was peaceful.

  I didn’t need to feel for a pulse. Emmie was gone. Tears pricked my eyes, and I hugged my middle. “Damn it, Em. If only you’d come to live with me when I asked.”

  The wind rustled in the trees just then, and the susurrated swish stirred a memory.

  How can I see the world and the people in it, cooped between four walls? Life is short, Lou, and when Time comes for me, I want stories to tell him.

  Him? So Time is a dude?

  The old woman’s milky blue eyes sparkled. He’s not called 'Father’ Time for nothing.”

  I wiped a loose tear with my knuckle, and then dug for my cellphone in my pocket. “Let’s get you settled, old girl. You wouldn’t let me do for you in life, but you bet your wrinkled ass I’m going to do for you now. 911 first, then Alistair, and to use your words, ‘He can bite me if he doesn’t like it.’”

  A sad chuckle bubbled at that. Emily always shot from the hip, especially when it came to men, and she never gave up hope I would eventually find Mr. Right.

  I’ve been a loner by choice my whole life, honey, and I know a keeper when I see one. You are a keeper. Change is good, little girl. Even if it’s not what you expect. Or whom...

  With a deep breath, I gave the 911 dispatcher as much info as I could. A strange calm descended after I hung up. At least the shadow I saw this morning made sense. It was Emmie. Maybe these past two weeks were a weird kind of herald. I didn’t believe in things beyond the ken of the five senses, but I did believe in Emily.

  A different kind of sadness topped my grief at the thought. I yelled at the shadow outside the park. If these past weeks of shadows were connected to Em, and I ignored them, scorned them, what did that say about me as a person?

  The wind rustled again as I walked to break the bad news to George and the others, and I felt Em’s presence for a moment. There was nothing wrong with me. I was a keeper, right?

  A small smile tugged at my mouth, but my moment of peace careened to a halt. I turned on my heel at the weight of an invisible stare, expecting to find someone behind me, but there was no one. Nothing but the ghost of another shadow, only this time I knew it wasn’t Em.

  Chapter Two

  THE DOCTOR IN THE EMERGENCY room confirmed Emmie’s heart failed in her sleep. The news stunned everyone to the core, especially George.

  I took charge, going with Em in the ambulance while he kept the Jefferson Park crew close, waiting for me to get back from the hospital with news.

  The day was a blur except for two things. Emily’s serene face when I opened the tent zipper, and the indifference on the inta
ke officer’s mug at the city coroner when he took what little information I had.

  The two moments were as clear as they were juxtaposed in my mind, and something I’d never forget.

  The rest was details. According to the city morgue, Emily was a dispossessed person, and as such headed for a Potter’s Field burial. No name. No dates. Nothing to mark her life.

  My jaw tightened to the point of painful when the morgue announced as much. Screw that. Not if I had anything to say about it. Still, the coroner required certain information to issue a formal death certificate, and it hit me then, I didn’t know Emmie’s last name.

  It was late afternoon by the time I headed back to the park. My eyes were gritty, and I didn’t need a mirror to know they were red and a little swollen. At this point I was both numb and determined. There were things that needed to be done, and the coroner wouldn’t wait long.

  I walked through the ivy-covered gate to find the entire crew waiting for me. They had kept watch over Emmie’s belongings. Even the true shadows, real ones, seemed longer today, as if the trees themselves mourned the old woman’s passing. All eyes met mine as I walked in, their gazes full of unasked questions.

  “Well?” George asked.

  “The autopsy isn’t complete, but from what the medical examiner could tell, Emmie’s heart suffered damage over a period of time. The muscle showed signs of smaller heart attacks over the years, until this one.”

  George opened his mouth and then closed it again. What was there to say? He simply nodded, plainly tucking away his emotion.

  “Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “We’d better sort through her things. She wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”

  I didn’t reply. I just followed him to Emily’s tent to start separating items, arranging her belongings into piles according to need.

  Kneeling in the grass, I unzipped a small, time-stained duffel found at the bottom of a crinkled garbage bag. Inside was an ancient wallet with an expired driver’s license from 1967.

  “Praestes,” I muttered, reading Emily’s surname from the tattered license.