“You sure you’re okay to eat all that?” Stephanie asks when our meal arrives.
Now that the clock hands are moving on the right side of noon, I’m going to be fine.
After lunch, we have an afternoon filled with activities —museums, shopping, and a trip to a cherry company. Door County is known for its tart Montmorency cherries and boy are these delicious and yes, I eat my fill. I bypassed snowshoeing due to my condition and good thing, considering the lack of winter garments I possess. But even without attending the sports track of the trip, I’m pooped by the time we return to the hotel. I’m heading toward my room and a nap but Winnie will hear none of it. She grabs my fur collar and pulls me toward the lobby, pushing me into one of their oversized chairs by the fireplace.
“’Fess up.”
I shrug. “I’m pregnant.”
That stink eye returns.
I exhale loudly and she plops into the chair beside me, throwing down her bags of souvenirs she purchased from the cherry store.
“TB and I are back together.”
Again, that look. “Uh, know that, girlfriend.”
“And the last time we….” I raise my eyebrows and smile.
“Uh huh.”
“…we weren’t so careful. And here I am, a twosome.”
She pats down her jeans as if they need patting down. “Why the big secret?”
So many reasons. My chest tightens thinking of the child I may be bringing into this world.
“TB was studying at LSU and it was taking forever, especially since working fulltime with his uncle in New Orleans. Baton Rouge is a good hour away.”
“That’s why you moved to Tennessee.”
I nod. “Smoky Mountain University offered him a chance to finish his degree in two semesters. It meant TB going fulltime so we sold our house in New Orleans and bought a small houseboat in a town near the school.”
Winnie knows all this, because I explained as much last month when I called and gave her my new address. She crosses her arms about her chest, waiting for more.
I lean forward, recalling the conversation I had with TB at Thanksgiving after we had been careless with our lovemaking. He had insisted that if I got pregnant he would give up his dream of being a research librarian and continue his construction job, a position he no longer enjoyed. Ever since Hurricane Katrina, when my newspaper job floated away and I became a travel writer, TB has assisted me in various ways, and learned how much he loved research. Like Joe Pennington, TB has become my partner in other ways.
Funny, how life screws with your head. In 1997, TB and I married after I became pregnant at LSU, his parents gifted us a house back in New Orleans, and I gave up a plum Washington internship to work the cops beat with The New Orleans Post. In all honesty, marrying TB and giving up my dream was devastating, but Lillye entering the world made it all right. The three of us were so happy for those fleeting five years. When leukemia took her away, TB and I entered Zombieland and I knew it was time to move on when Katrina stole the rest of our lives. I moved to Lafayette, two hours outside of New Orleans, and followed my dream job as travel writer while TB restored our water-damaged house. And somehow, we both grew and realized we belonged together anyway.
But having another child scares the crap out of me.
“I’ve been waiting for the health insurance to kick in,” I explain to Winnie. “But, really, I don’t know how I’m going to tell TB. And I don’t know how to feel about this.”
The tears pour down my face without warning and Winnie pulls me into her arms. She knows about Lillye and the tumultuous years following the Storm from Hell in 2005 when I learned I was a SCANC and then later, a witch.
Talk about a crazy three years!
And then there’s Dwayne.
“I’ve been having nightmares about Natchez,” I whisper.
Winnie shivers as if a skunk crawls on her grave, as my grandmother loved to say. “Understandable. You nearly got killed.”
The fire crackles and pops and my heart jumps. I’m seriously worried about my blood pressure because my chest tightens again. As if she feels my anxiety, Winnie takes my hand and squeezes. “That man’s lingering in some dank hole somewhere.”
If only.
“Something’s not right, Winnie. It’s like Dwayne’s in my head lately. Every night.”
She leans in close and squeezes my hand. “That’s also understandable. You, of all people should know how trauma messes with your head.”
True dat. I had water dreams for months after Katrina.
Now, I lean in, whisper loud enough to be heard over the popping of the fireplace. “You don’t think he’s messing with my mind, do you? Like sneaking in there in the night?”
Winnie stares at me for a few moments, no doubt wondering if I’m serious. Winnie was with me last fall on a press trip up the Natchez Trace in Mississippi so she’s in on the angel thing, but I doubt she knows Dwayne’s predilection. He carries angelic markers, too, only his ancestor was Lucifer.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about that woo woo stuff you and Carmine mess with….”
Mess with? More like born with, saddled with, cursed with?
“…but it’s more than likely your mind trying to make sense of things, or fears bubbling through. I never stop dreaming of that time I slept late and raced to my biology class across campus and missed the whole final.”
I cringe at the thought. I’ve had those dreams too. And there’s the one where I stand naked on stage forgetting my lines to Steel Magnolias. Man, I hate that one.
I lean back in my chair and relax. Perhaps Winnie’s right.
She leans back too. “It’s the pregnancy. With my last child, I dreamed I was birthing a goat.”
It’s just what I need to relieve the tension and get my mind away from that horrid man. I snort with laughter and Winnie joins me. It doesn’t take long for us to be roaring.
“And we’re not even drinking,” Winnie says, wiping her eyes.
We talk more, basically Winnie assuring me all will be well, that I’ll give birth to a healthy child, TB will be thrilled, and we’ll finally move on with our lives. I hope for the first two and doubt the last, but I smile and offer hugs which makes her feel like she’s done her job.
The sun’s disappearing and our last night will be outside — help me Jesus — so I head up to the room to change into something warmer, namely piling on lightweight long-sleeved shirts on top of each other, covered by that unsubstantial jacket.
We head to a fish boil dinner at the White Gull Inn, where a “boilmaster” grows an enormous fire, then places a massive pot of whitefish inside the fire’s center. When he dramatically flings kerosene on the pile of wood a giant flame burns off the fish oil that has risen to the pot’s top and cooks the fish nicely. The tradition hails back years, its origins in a community feeding plenty, but tonight it’s drama at its best. When the fish is fully cooked, we all enjoy the lightly salted fish with extras, such as potatoes and onions, then Door County cherry pie for dessert. And now that the sun’s fully set, I’m enjoying every last bite, laughing with Stephanie and Joe.
“How’s that cute husband of yours?” Stephanie asks.
“In New Orleans,” I say between bites of cherry pie. “Helping with the family business.”
“Good man,” Joe mumbles with his own mouth full of buttery crust.
The bonfire’s toasting my back but I feel a warmth spread through my cheeks and tingle the roots of my hair. I can’t wait to see my adorable husband, have those angelic arms about me. Can’t wait to finally see a doctor and tell TB the good news.
The euphoria fades fast. As happy as another child will make us, the future’s uncertain and scary as hell. I’m sure it’s that way for all parents, but once you lose a child….
“You okay?” Joe asks me.
I nod and smile and try to focus on the wonderful evening. The fire’s sending sparks into the universe and the crisp night air appears to make
the stars that much brighter. It’s been a fabulous trip with good friends, so I close my eyes and remind myself that most children born into the world are healthy and remain so, that what happened with Lillye won’t happen again. But my chest feels heavy, like an invisible hand squeezing it tight.
I take a deep breath to steady myself, then rise with my empty plate.
“Can I take those?” I ask my friends, gather up their plates, and head to the restaurant cart full of dirty dishes that’s waiting beyond the warmth and light of the fire.
It’s there where Gorton awaits.
“Well, dang,” I say to my now familiar ghost. “I thought I saw the last of you.”
I’m kidding — sort of. I do want to help apparitions cross over but I’m tired, had a long day involving barfing and there’s an early plane to catch in the morning. He appears frustrated, doing that foot stomping thing again. I place the dishes in the cart and wipe my hands on my jacket.
“Look, I don’t know what it’s like to be a ghost but the ones that talk say you have to relax, have to focus on communicating.”
Gorton takes this in, appears as if he’s breathing deeply — can ghosts do that? — and then swallows, if that’s possible as well. His shoulders drop and he closes his eyes and it’s then I notice a lone earring of three silver fish dangling from his right ear, glistening in the firelight. I stand there, staring off into the darkness to my friends at my back, waiting. Freezing too. Away from the fire it’s frickin’ cold.
Finally, when teeth start chattering and I’m about to high-tail it back to the warmth of the fire, Gorton opens his eyes. And speaks.
“He’s looking for you.”
A rash of shivers run through me so violently I clamp my teeth together to keep from biting my tongue. I lift my collar tightly about my neck and wrap my arms about my body, then ask the one question of which answer I dread the most.
“Who?”
Gorton’s fading fast. Whatever strength he managed to muster has gotten the best of him.
“Who?” I ask again.
Just before he slips away and the blackness descends he mutters, “Talk to MB.”
We head back to the hotel since most of us must catch early flights after an hour or so drive into Green Bay. I attempt two calls to TB but they both go to voice mail. It’s Monday night of the Martin Luther King Jr. weekend so he’s likely on the interstate, driving from New Orleans back to our new home in Tennessee. He’s easily distracted so he turns off his phone while he drives — not to mention plays seventies music too loud and sings so having the phone on would be senseless. I need to hear his voice tonight but I assure myself Gorton’s dire message doesn’t involve Dwayne. But it likely does. Who else would be looking for me?
I had become entranced with Dwayne on our trip to Natchez because he insisted I could develop my SCANCy abilities, evolve my talents to enable me to see my baby girl who did not die by water and therefore out of my reach. His solution, however, involved stealing the souls of the ghosts I helped move on. I didn’t know this at first, and in my desperation to see Lillye, I almost followed him. Dwayne forced me to call forth a ghost whose mystery I had solved so he could steal her soul as she ascended into what we call the “God Light.” I refused and he decided to kill me and take my soul instead. TB arrived in the nick of time, my cat Stinky gave Dwayne the scar of a lifetime, but Dwayne Garrett escaped police and is out there somewhere.
And apparently looking for me.
Sleep comes fitfully and I keep dreaming of Natchez. I wake before the sunrise, of course not feeling well, dress and head out the door. There’s several of us in the van for this trip to the airport but our wonderful PR people have loaded us down with coffee and kolaches, a pastry with fruit in the center. I skip the latter, naturally, and we’re silent for the ride, some writers grabbing the chance for a snooze. Once at the airport, we say our goodbyes and head to separate airlines. It’s the Tuesday after a long weekend so it’s surprisingly busy. I’m thankful because the crowds take my mind off my stomach and Dwayne.
I manage to sleep on the way to Atlanta — I live in the South so almost all my flights go through the Georgia capital — and then emerge like a zombie into the world’s busiest airport. I’m hungry now, so I stop and pick up a biscuit at Sweet Georgia’s Juke Joint, my favorite airport restaurant. I shove half in my mouth and keep the rest for later, then head toward my gate through the crowds.
And that’s when I see him.
Dwayne’s one hundred yards away, a bag over one shoulder and a Braves baseball cap on his head. He’s staring at me through the throngs of humanity but it feels like the world has disappeared and he’s the only face I see, that horrid scar down the side of his face and that cold steel gaze feeling as if he’s reaching inside my heart.
I shake so hard my purse slips off my shoulder and something warm slides down my leg. I swear my heart has stopped beating and I gasp for breath. This is the end and I’m melting on the spot, I think to myself, like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz. Tears pour down my face and my knees buckle and I know I’m heading down.
And then, suddenly, two strong hands slip beneath my arms and hold me upright.
“I’ve got you,” the angelic voice behind me says.
Chapter 2
A tall blonde woman in a military uniform arrives at my side, pulling one of my arms around her shoulder and grabbing my purse and suitcase with the other. She effortlessly leads me toward the women’s bathroom and I stumble along without question. I gaze in the direction where I saw Dwayne but he’s disappeared. Did I imagine the whole thing?
When we enter the women’s room, my legs turn from Jell-O into working muscles and I remove my arm from my heroine’s shoulder. She owns a lovely smile and a chest full of medals, no surprise. Despite my fear and the fact that I’m still crying, I think how lucky I am to have this woman serving our country.
“How did you know?” I ask, but she’s busy scoping out the room. When a woman exits the handicapped stall, she leads me there, rolling my suitcase inside and placing my purse on the table.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Paper towels?”
I look down and realize I’ve peed on myself. Thankfully, not too much, but there’s a nice stain on the front of my jeans.
“I’m pregnant,” I mutter.
“And you had quite a scare.”
I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes. Did I imagine Dwayne standing there? Is the pregnancy getting the best of me?
“You’re safe now,” my angel in uniform tells me.
I grab her arm lightly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to….”
She shakes her head, pats my hand, and that warm smile returns. “Don’t be silly. Do you need…?”
I rally. “I’m fine. Have a change of clothes. Lots of hand wipes. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay then.”
She exits the stall she discreetly closes the door, which I lock behind her.
I sit on the toilet and attempt a steady breath, try to recall what I saw and make sense of it. It must have been Dwayne. My cat had delivered a long nasty scratch on his face when he tried to cut my throat back in Mississippi; I haven’t seen him since but that scar was there, stretching from his right eye all the way to his chin. And those eyes. He was staring at me with a gaze full of venom and hatred, enough to frighten me to the core.
Still, I could have imagined the whole scenario. How would Dwayne know where I was? Even if he had followed us to Tennessee he had no way of knowing I would be coming home from a Wisconsin press trip, changing planes in Atlanta at that very moment.
I try to clear my mind, take another deep breath and remove my clothes, thankful my mom stuck those hand wipes — and Band-Aids and Tylenol and a wide variety of first aid items — inside my bag when I wasn’t paying attention. I clean myself up and use the plastic bag from the Wisconsin hotel to place the soiled items back into my suitcase. Now nothing I’m wearing matches, but I don’t care.
> I stand and feel dizzy but I’m okay. I don’t want Ms. Military to wait for me, so I hurriedly pull myself together. But when I open the door, she’s long gone. I didn’t even get her name.
After washing up, I exit the women’s room, peeking hesitantly down the aisles to make sure the coast is clear. Dwayne is nowhere to be found. My gate’s only a few hundred yards away so I hightail it there and plop down next to the counter where two flight attendants busily work on computers. If I could sit on their laps, I would. When they call my flight, I’m the first in line, even though my ticket says zone four. The attendants send me quizzical looks while I wait at the front of the line, but I don’t care. I have a full view of everyone getting on my plane as well as the crowds wandering up and down Terminal C.
Again, no Dwayne. And once more, I doubt my sanity.
The flight’s only an hour to Chattanooga so I have time to resume a steady heartbeat. While I settle into my seat and eat the rest of my biscuit, I wonder where Ms. Military came from and why she knew I had been scared. Had a ghost sent her? Most of the time I solve the mysteries of my ethereal friends and send them heavenward but occasionally apparitions help me in my troubles. Like Gorton and his cryptic message. And this crazy woman in the New Orleans airport who likes to sing in the terminal aisles. I wonder if I’ll see my Louisiana opera singer now that I live elsewhere.
And then there’s Lillye. Soft, sweet laughter I swear is my daughter’s sometimes filters through the ether. Occasionally, I think she’s telling me something. I can’t be sure of what I’m hearing and doubt the message, even though so many people insist she’s always with me. I need to have faith and leave it at that but I want to see her, smell her hair, hold her tight, which is how I got into this mess with Dwayne to begin with.
When I heard Dwayne speak at the SCANC convention last fall, he had tapped his hand to his heart, looked straight at me, and said, “She’s right here.” But unlike everyone else who insisted Lillye was with me in spirit, Dwayne assured me I could have more.
Give Up the Ghost Page 2
