by E. C. Bell
She explained a bit more about the Three Stages of Acceptance. I thought there were supposed to be more than that, but she said it’s all she’d ever seen with the dead, anyhow. Maybe we don’t have the time to go through all the rest of the stages, or maybe we got them all balled up into three main ones. I don’t know. I knew that for some reason, this shit was beginning to make sense to me. And since I hit the second stage, I didn’t feel as afraid, and I didn’t feel thin or stretched as often, either. And I hadn’t gone to hell again. So Stage Two, the Awareness Stage, suited me fine. I wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to “gain an awareness of,” though. Except figuring out who the hell killed me and why. I wouldn’t have minded gaining some awareness around that.
Even thinking about that made me feel a little thin.
Shit.
Marie:
Score One for the Good Guys
Even with the hangover, I felt great. I’d helped Farley make it to Stage Two—I knew I had. He’d popped up a couple of luminosity degrees when I mentioned the knight thing. He thanked me, told me he had a plan for getting more information about whether Andrea was lying about her boss, and then left me alone for the rest of the day.
Mr. Latterson had a pile of paperwork a mile high for me to type, and I finished it, though I made a lot more mistakes than usual with the margaritas still floating around in my system. At the end of the day, I went home and fell across my bed, and slept. In spite of the hangover, I felt great.
I woke up two hours later, still a bit hung over, and starving. I searched through my fridge, though I knew there was nothing whatever to eat. The single orange, collapsing in on itself in its mould-covered skin scowled at me from the middle shelf, so I turned to the phone instead.
The first person I thought about calling was James. Almost of their own doing, my fingers danced through the ancient phone book that had been in the apartment when I moved in. Soon I was staring at the name “James Lavall,” with a number beside it.
“Probably not him,” I muttered. I closed the book, keeping my finger at the page holding his name. Then I flipped it open again, and stared at it for a moment more, before mentally giving myself a good shake, and slamming the book shut.
“I do not need to get involved with another man. Not now.” So, I phoned Jasmine instead.
“Jazz,” I said, when she picked up the phone. “It’s me. I need some company. You still up for some TV watching?”
She was free, her kids were in bed, and she was happy to hear from me. Ecstatic, in fact. She thought I was going to dump her as a friend after getting pink-slipped.
“Not a chance, Jasmine,” I replied, laughing a little more heartily than I felt. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
After we said our good-byes, I grabbed my coat, and headed out of my quiet, dark apartment. I even sang a little as I waited for the bus.
Jasmine grabbed me in a hug before I made it into the door of her overstuffed bungalow. She smelled of baby powder and incense, and I leaned into her, because it felt like being hugged by a mom—even if it wasn’t my own.
“So how you been keeping?” she asked me when she finally let me go. She peered at me hard, then a smile brightened her face. “My God,” she said, shaking her head. “You started dating that James guy. Didn’t you?”
“No.” I said, throwing my jacket on the pile of coats by the overstuffed closet. “He and I are friends. Nothing more.”
“I don’t think so. Not by the look on your face.” She pulled me into her kitchen, which was filled with a table overflowing with book bags and homework, and surrounded by mismatched chairs. She pointed to one, and turned to the stove, putting the heat on under the kettle. “Tea?”
“Sure.” I plopped myself down, and thumbed through her daughter Ella’s math homework, closing the book when I couldn’t figure out what Ella had been working on. She was in Grade Six, and I felt like an idiot. “How are things?”
“They’re good. Good.” Jasmine kept her back to me as she fiddled with the teapot and tea, so I knew she was lying. She always looked at me when she talked, unless she was telling a lie.
“So, what happened?”
“Oh, it’s that damned Gerald!” she cried, then glanced over at the hallway, as if to see if her swearword had careened down it and into the innocent ears of her children sleeping in the bedrooms hidden from view. “He’s making life difficult, since you left.”
“I didn’t leave,” I replied, shaking my head. “I was fired. By voicemail.”
“That man,” she sighed, shaking her head.
“So what’s he doing?”
“Oh, the usual. Can’t find good help, so he’s given me three more hours a day to cover until he does. So now I need a babysitter for those hours.” She slammed the top on the teapot, hard, then quickly checked for cracks. “I can’t find one close to here. There’s my next door neighbour—but he’s old. My little sweeties would tear him apart. And my dear daughter Ella—” She sighed melodramatically as she set the teapot and two cups on the table in front of me. “Ella doesn’t seem to have the ovaries for babysitting. I don’t know what to do.”
I made some sympathetic noises and poured myself a cup of tea. There was nothing I could do to help her, because there was no way I was offering to babysit her crew. I’d done it once, and still had the scars to prove it. Apparently I didn’t have the ovaries for babysitting, either.
“Oh, I’ll come up with something,” she said, settling into a chair across from me with a small sigh. “Now, tell me about this man you’ve fallen for.”
“I haven’t fallen for anyone, Jasmine.” I stared down into my tea cup. “I haven’t.”
“You’re lying. I can feel it.” She grinned. “If I feed you something, will you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “And I’m not hungry.” My stomach growled, and I glanced back down into my cup. Jasmine laughed out loud.
“I have some leftover chicken and mashed potatoes.”
I’d tasted her chicken before. It was to die for, and I was willing to take a little ribbing about the nonexistent man in my life if it meant I got to eat some of it.
“I’d love some,” I said. “But you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, walking to her cupboard and pulling out a plate. “I think this is going to be terrifically interesting.”
The chicken was amazing, and I ended up telling Jasmine all about James, all the while trying to give the impression I wasn’t interested in him in the least. She wasn’t buying it.
“I think you got it bad.” She offered me more chicken, then put everything away when I shook my head and moaned. “So, when are you going out with him?”
“I’m not doing that, you know I’m not,” I said, taking a sip of my lukewarm tea. “It’s not in the cards for me.”
“Are you still worried about that idiot Arnie finding you and giving you grief?” she asked, and poured me more tea. “Or are you going to use your mother as your excuse?”
I stared at her for a moment, resisting the urge to stare down into my cup again. Who to blame. My sick mother or my crazy ex-boyfriend. I decided on Arnie, who hadn’t bothered me since I’d moved into Sally’s apartment. My mother would probably be thrilled herself if I finally found “a good man.” Actually, it was better to blame either than for the real reason. I wasn’t about to lose Jasmine as a friend because I have a problem with ghosts.
“It’s Arnie,” I finally said. “I can’t be sure he won’t show up again. Start harassing me again. You know what he said to me, the last time.”
“Yeah, I do. ‘If I can’t have you, no-one can.’ He doesn’t have much imagination, does he?”
I shrugged. When I was trying to get away from him, it seemed he’d had many ways to make my life a living hell. However, it had been a while since he’d bothered me. Since I got the restraining order. I hadn’t really believed that a piece of paper would stop someone lik
e Arnie, but it appeared to. More or less.
There was what happened just after I’d moved to Edmonton. That had been ugly and scary and all the rest. The police had actually helped that time, and I believed that he’d been scared off by the threats of jail time if he did anything like that again. He hadn’t bothered me, anyhow. It appeared he was out of my life.
However . . .
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about him anymore,” I said. “With my luck, he’ll feel the vibe, and find me again.”
“He’s taken enough of your life,” Jasmine said. “Don’t let him take anymore. He’s gone. He won’t find you again. So I say you say, ‘Adiós Asshole’, and move on. You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”
“You said that before.” I looked into my cup, so she couldn’t see how close to tears I was.
“Because it’s the truth,” she said, reaching over and patting my hand. “Don’t let it get you down. When I dumped the bane of my existence—and you know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Albert.”
“That’s right. Albert. The father of my babies, and the biggest loser you would ever want to meet. When I dumped him I figured I’d never be involved with anyone again.”
I waited for her to continue, but she simply sat, staring into the living room.
“But you’re still by yourself,” I finally said. “This feels like a pot and kettle situation, Jasmine.”
“I’m alone because that’s the way I want it,” she replied, a smile playing around her mouth. “I’m happy. If I wanted a man, I’d have one. There’s a difference.”
“I guess.”
“Yes, absolutely. Don’t let that peckerwood hold you hostage any longer. Get out there. Have some fun.” She grinned at me. “You’re a normal girl with normal urges. Enjoy! That James sounds like a real catch. Get out of the friend zone, before you lose him.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s a start.” She glanced at the clock shaped like a chicken, hanging above her stove, and gasped. “My show starts in ten minutes, and we need popcorn. I can’t afford to miss a second, I can’t believe where they left me last week. On a cliff! An absolute cliff! If I miss the beginning, I simply may die!”
As we watched another episode of the night time soap opera Jasmine was addicted to, and ate popcorn and far too much chocolate, it was easy to let all thoughts of James and Jerk Arnie fall away. I lost myself in the fake lives of the fake people on the screen, giggling like a kid every time Jasmine felt the need to punctuate a scene with a small scream and much discussion. I had a good time, and when I packed up to leave after the show was over, I let her know.
She smiled, wrapping my sweater around me and pulling into her arms again. “Come back next week. We gotta find out how this ends!”
I promised I’d try, and left. I could feel her watching me through a small chink in the armour that is her front window drapes as I walked to the bus stop, and it comforted me. A three quarter ton truck drove by, all decked out, and for a second I was afraid, as though thinking about Jerk Arnie had brought him back into my life, but when I heard rap music beating through the truck and into the street, I knew it wasn’t him, and relaxed.
I thought I saw the truck again, following my bus, but put it out of my mind. So what if some idiot was following the bus? It didn’t concern me. I didn’t know who he was, and didn’t care, now that I was sure it wasn’t Arnie.
When I got home, I crawled into bed and dreamily thought of the next day’s work. Farley had some big scheme cooked up, and had assured me it would get me all the information we needed about Andrea’s boss. As I drifted off to sleep, I hoped this would be the thing that gave him the push he needed, so he could move on. It was time for me to get on with my life.
Farley:
My Plan
All I can say in my defence is—it should have worked.
Marie:
Farley’s Plan
The next day, Farley’s plan didn’t seem so good. In fact, it sounded stupid.
He wanted me to break into Mr. Henderson’s office while Andrea was off buying herself a latte or whatever. She left every day at 10:30, and when Henderson wasn’t in town, she was always gone at least an hour.
Or so Farley claimed.
He’d done as I had requested, and had listened to the voice of every occupant through the furnace pipes. He’d found no match, and had decided that since Ian Henderson was gone, it must be him.
“It’s that process of elimination thing,” he said. “Remember? All you have to do is break in, find proof that he’s involved, and then go to the police.”
That had been the day before, when too many margaritas were still floating through my system, and everything sounded like a fantastic idea.
“I’ve got a master key,” he’d continued. “You can use it to get into the office.”
Even though I was feeling serious reservations the next morning, it seemed that everything was lining up to make the big plan work. Mr. Latterson left the office very early, and said he’d be gone most of the day. The key was right where Farley said it would be, and I didn’t run into James as I was sneaking around in the furnace room collecting it. And then, Andrea left at exactly 10:30, the time she always left. So, I went along with it.
The reason? I needed to prove to Farley that Ian Henderson wasn’t involved in his death. I was positive Andrea was lying, but Farley had fixated on saving her. More of the knight in shining armour crap, I was positive, but nothing I said swerved him from his decision.
“We have to help her. I have to,” he kept saying.
So, I broke into Henderson’s office. You know what I found? I found out what Henderson was doing in Las Vegas. He’d gone to a convention for “Entrepreneurial Spirited Men.” It looked like he’d originally booked a flight for Andrea too, and that one had been canceled. I made sure I photocopied that bit of information.
Other than the canceled flight, I couldn’t find anything incriminating Henderson of any wrongdoing. His finances seemed in order, and there was nothing anywhere that indicated that he’d even known Farley was alive. When he was alive, I mean. And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—that showed he was involved in Farley’s death in any way at all.
Andrea? Not so much.
Once I’d convinced myself that Henderson hadn’t done anything to Farley, I went through Andrea’s desk. Specifically, through her day timer. To be honest, even finding a day timer for her surprised me, because she seemed like a “keep my life on my phone” kind of person. But she’d carefully hidden it in the bottom drawer of her desk. Under her feminine protection, which told me she wanted to make absolutely certain that Henderson never touched it. I leafed through the leather bound journal, and saw that she wrote down every bit of her financial life in the thing. Henderson was paying her well, and she apparently paid off her credit card every month. When I saw that, I felt a twinge of envy.
Then I turned the page, and saw she’d deposited $30,000. No clue where the money had come from. Just the great big number, with five exclamation points behind it.
“Hmm,” I muttered. “That’s a lot of money, Andrea.” I flipped the pages, looking for more. I was rewarded fifteen pages later, with another $30,000 entry. No exclamation points this time, and still no name.
I quickly flipped through the rest of the pages, but there was nothing more.
“Now, what were you doing for that money, Andrea?” I asked.
Didn’t have time to figure it out, though, because Farley picked that moment to burst into the office, screaming like a banshee. Whatever that is.
“She’s back!” he screamed, ecto goo flying absolutely everywhere. “Get out!”
“Where is she?” I asked, ramming the day timer back in its hiding place and slamming the desk drawer shut.
“Here!” he screamed, at exactly the moment the doorknob started to jiggle. Someone was fitting a key into the lock.
“Son of a bitch,�
� I breathed.
“The fire escape.” Farley pointed at the back room, and I flew—literally flew—into the cluttered little room, pushed open the window, and managed to get out before Andrea entered the office.
All I can say is, thank goodness for fire escapes.
I skittered down the rickety metal stairs to the back alley, then through the back alley to the front door of the Palais, only stopping long enough to wipe the fear sweat from my face and try to get my breathing to something like normal before I went back to Mr. Latterson’s office. I honestly thought I was going to make it.
I ran up the stairs to the second floor, and unlocked the door to Latterson’s office. I was almost home free. Even though the information I’d gathered wasn’t going to make Farley happy, you could say it looked like the break-in was successful. Until I opened that door. Then I saw just how truly in the crapper I was.
You see, Mr. Latterson hadn’t stayed away most of the day, the way he usually did. He hadn’t even stayed away an hour. He was busy tearing apart my desk when I burst in.
“Jenner, where the hell were you?” he yelled. I stared at him. I had no idea how long he’d been back. By the look of my desk, a long time.
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Latterson, but—” I started. This is when Farley burst in, apologizing all over the place and throwing me right off my game.
“I’m sorry, Marie,” he said. “I let you down.”
I glared at him, to shut him up. A stupid, stupid thing to do. I should have ignored him and kept my eyes on Mr. Latterson, but I hadn’t. That set Mr. Latterson off like illegal fireworks.
“What the hell is going on with you, Jenner? Don’t you give a shit about this job at all?”
The moment I started to apologize, Farley decided to get involved. He jumped in front of me, anger rolling off him in waves.
