Violet Ghosts

by Leah Thomas

  I didn’t really know flower names, but I knew they were beautiful. I recognized orchids and lilies, and some other flowers I was certain shouldn’t be blooming in November, but then again, what did I know about pansies?

  “Is this an actual greenhouse?”

  “We don’t call it the greenhouse, because the women’s shelter is called the Green House.”

  “So what do you call it? The Satan House, an anagram of Santa?”

  “We call it Stella’s Garden, after my mother,” he said.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Most florists don’t grow flowers; they get their stock delivered. We don’t use most of these flowers, but my mother used to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. “This way.”

  There really was no telling when Seiji was being serious or not. He dropped deep thoughts into every conversation as if he were adding minor chords to pop songs. But then, he didn’t seem offended, no matter how I reacted. Maybe that was why honesty was starting to feel less like an awful mistake.

  We didn’t speak as we crossed Stella’s Garden. I watched the condensation trickle down the roof, the red sunset prismatic through the glass.

  We passed through plastic flaps and another door and entered the actual store.

  The scent of flowers was met with the smell of warm coffee, and I was surprised to spot, amid displays of poinsettias and Christmas wreaths and roses, a few small tables occupied by patrons wearing headphones or reading books, sipping coffee in floral-patterned cups. The entire room, from the rustic wooden floors to fairy lights along the walls to the overflowing bookshelves topped by decorative arrangements seemed incongruous and strangely metropolitan. I’d had no idea such a pleasant place existed within a hundred miles of Rochdale. If Patricia weren’t so afraid to leave the motel, I’d bring her here.

  “It’s a coffee shop, too?”

  “Flowers don’t sell around here, except when there are funerals or high school dances,” he said.

  I followed Seiji to the counter, where a bony white woman wearing a checkered apron was wiping down an espresso machine.

  “Aunt Lavonne.”

  The woman let out a small squeak and put her hand on her chest. As she turned around, her eyes were spooked and strangely familiar. She reminded me of my mother, although I couldn’t say how. My mother was not thin, and she had never looked as coiffed as this lady, whose hair was neatly drawn into a ponytail, lipstick perfectly placed.

  “Seiji! I’ve told you not to sneak up on me.”

  “I’m not sneaking. I’m quiet.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her eyes fell on me. “Do you need a coffee, dear?”

  “This is my friend,” Seiji declared. “We are going to hang out.”

  “Oh, really?” Aunt Lavonne’s eyes widened, but she cleared her throat and tried to hide her surprise. “Of course! I’ll make some lattes for you in a minute. There aren’t a lot of orders today. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Dani,” I said. “Hi. I like your business.”

  “Well, thank you, but it’s not really mine. I mean, I do what I can, but this was my little sister’s business first.”

  “But she’s not here anymore,” Seiji said. “It’s yours now, Aunt Lavonne.”

  She seemed as discomforted by Seiji’s blunt manner as most people were, and my chest ached for him, misunderstood in his own home. Aunt Lavonne plastered on a smile. “You two get settled, then.”

  “We’ll be in the back room,” Seiji told her. “At the ikebana table.”

  “Okay.” She frowned, but didn’t ask why her nephew wanted to hang out in a dark storage room with a stranger. I got the impression she didn’t question him at all, almost as though she were afraid to—another familiar tragedy. “What should I bring you, sweetie?”

  “Um, I don’t need anything.”

  “We’ll take two caramel cappuccinos,” Seiji said. “Thanks.”

  As we walked through the garden oasis and reentered the back room, he said, “If you don’t accept a drink, she’ll be offended.”

  “She seems a little on edge.”

  “She is,” he agreed, but offered no further explanation.

  Seiji flicked on a dim fluorescent bulb and we sat on stools behind the silver table.

  “What did you call this thing?”

  “The ikebana table. My mother used to practice Japanese flower arranging.”

  “But . . . she wasn’t Japanese?”

  “No, my dad was Japanese. Mom and Aunt Lavonne are from Ohio. She just liked the style. She thought most arrangements were too cluttered. She said that busy arrangements were a smelly headache for the eyes. Ikebana is a lot more minimalist.”

  I smirked. “Like you.”

  Seiji’s face turned rosy right away.

  Aunt Lavonne appeared, carrying two cups. “Let me know if it’s too sweet for you. Seiji has a mean sweet tooth.”

  “Thanks.” She waited in the doorway until I took a sip. “It’s delicious,” I added, and then her posture relaxed and she left us alone.

  Again, something about her reminded me of Mom. Maybe it was the buzzing anxiety in her aura, or her uncertainty, or—­

  “Hey, your aunt. Did she ever spend time at the Green—”

  “Did you sense my mother’s spirit in her garden?”

  “What?” That was the first time Seiji had ever interrupted me. He must have been dying to ask, and I almost spilled my drink. “Your mother’s spirit? Your mother—she’s the ghost that’s haunting you?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t I say?”

  “No. No, you didn’t.” I set down the mug.

  As if it made no difference whose ghost it was. “So? Did you sense her?”

  “Um, no. I mean, it’s not a sense, exactly. If she’s here, I’ll see her, like I see you. After dark, if she wants to be seen.”

  Seiji’s shoulders slumped. “Do the dead have a lot to say?”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  Seiji considered this. “I wonder what Mom’ll say.”

  “Seiji. What makes you so sure your mother’s ghost is here?”

  “Well, plant pots in her garden fall over. Especially when we set them on the table closest to the back door.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to sound discouraging. “Is there anything else?”

  “I sometimes feel a very cold wind in there, too.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t bring myself to point out that the skylights were probably letting drafts inside.

  “Also sometimes the flowers on this table arrange themselves,” he added.

  I spit out my cappuccino. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll come downstairs and there will be an entire ikebana arrangement sitting on the table, perfectly balanced and styled like Mom used to style them.”

  I stared at him. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

  Seiji shrugged.

  “Okay, okay.” There was one more question I had to ask, though I didn’t want to. “Seiji, how did your mother die?”

  Seiji didn’t blink. “She had Lou Gehrig’s disease. It affects the nervous system. She died a few years after she was diagnosed. Her muscles got really weak, and eventually she couldn’t get up, and then she kept choking and . . . later she died.”

  “Oh.” This didn’t line up with what I knew about ghosts—she’d had a sad death, but not a violent one. “Did she die here, in her garden?”

  “No, she died at the hospital. I was ten.”

  This really didn’t fit. If there was a ghost in the flower shop, it might not be his mother, but I didn’t say so.

  “Do you want me to invite her to live at my place, with the other ghosts?”

  Seiji looked at his hands. “I don’t know if she’s happy here.”

  “But maybe she likes haunting this place,” I said. “Maybe she likes arranging the flowers, watching you grow up, and seeing her sister.”

  Seiji shook his head. “She and Dad started this busin
ess together, but he abandoned it when she died. He said all he needed was Mom and the shop and a fresh start in America; he wouldn’t talk about family in Japan, but I think they may have disowned him. But a few days after she died, he left for good, and he didn’t say goodbye. I’ve lived with Aunt Lavonne ever since. Being here after all that probably makes Mom very sad.”

  “Seiji, maybe she likes being around you,” I reiterated gently.

  “She probably doesn’t. She didn’t like gay people. And I look a lot like Dad.”

  I couldn’t tell him how sad that sounded.

  “How about I ask her what she wants, then?”

  Seiji nodded. “Okay.”

  “And if she moves into the shelter, you should come visit.”

  Sarah wouldn’t like that, but I didn’t really care. I was tired of putting Sarah first when she kept putting me behind.

  Seiji looked at his phone. “It’s probably dark now. Should we go in?”

  POP SECRET

  When Seiji and I stepped into the room, the red sky had gone black. Moonlight provided enough illumination to see by, and left many of the misty leaves glossy and white. The air remained warm and damp, but as Seiji had mentioned, there was a breeze poking through the humidity, like a needle of ice.

  Seiji gestured at the small table on his right.

  “This is where things always fall over. I’ll show you.” He pulled an empty ceramic pot onto the table and took a step back.

  We waited a few minutes, and nothing happened.

  “Won’t your aunt come back here and wonder what we’re doing?”

  “The shop gets busier in the evenings, when people get off work. She’ll be busy up front for a few hours.”

  I hoped it wouldn’t take that long. But if it did, I wouldn’t complain. Seiji had trusted me with this vital task. I had never thought anyone would believe me, let alone trust me.

  Our legs got tired, so Seiji retrieved the stools from the back room and we perched on those in the doorway. By the time I heard the plastic door flaps on the opposite side of the room move, I was yawning.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, assuming his aunt was making an appearance after all.

  “What is it? Do you see her?” Seiji asked.

  Which meant he couldn’t see the newcomer.

  I noticed the wrongness of the approaching silhouette. It was taller than Aunt Lavonne, and broader in the shoulders. Could this really be Seiji’s mother?

  When the figure stepped forward, I recognized the buzzing pallor of its skin at once. But it couldn’t be Seiji’s mother, because it appeared to be a man.

  He wasn’t alive, but he wasn’t a murderous monster, either. He had more in common with Sarah and Patricia and Addy.

  “Is she here?” Seiji whispered. I put a finger on his lips, wondering how the hell to break the news.

  But as Seiji fell silent, the man stepped into the light.

  I shut my mouth to kill a gasp.

  The ghost met my eyes and dipped his chin, but he didn’t stop walking toward us. In his arms he held a length of rope. His face was haggard and sad as he threw it upward, catching it on the rafters and pulling it back down into place. He tied the rope into a noose and climbed onto the table, sock feet passing through the planters.

  “What is it?” I’d never heard Seiji sound so emotional. “Is it really her?”

  I watched the ghost reenact his death. As he fell from the rafters, a flailing foot struck the plant pot and knocked it from the table.

  “See that?” Seiji cried as the pot shattered. “See!”

  I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell Seiji that he was right after all, not about his mother’s ghost, but about something else he’d said: Seiji did look a lot like his father.

  “No.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t see anything.”

  HOOVER

  If Seiji was disappointed, he disguised it well. He told me we could try again in a week or so; maybe we’d get lucky. He told me to come over anytime, told me he was grateful. I said sure and that I was tired and had homework. We said goodbye to Aunt Lavonne (what did she know about Seiji’s father?) and Seiji drove me home.

  I’d seen his father falling, suffocating to death, and fading to nothing.

  I’d watched his father commit suicide. But Seiji didn’t know his father was dead, so how could I tell him that? I couldn’t look at him. All the other secrets I was keeping seemed like nothing, maggots to snakes in comparison.

  Seiji helped me carry my books to my front step and thanked me again.

  I waited for him to pull away, then made straight for the lobby, cursing my awkward crutches. I burst through the side door and threw them to the ground.

  “Sarah? Sarah!”

  “What is it?” Patricia asked, turning away from the wall she’d been reading.

  “I need to talk to Sarah. Where is she?”

  “I’m here.” Sarah appeared cross-legged on the counter, as if nothing had gone crooked between us. “What is it?”

  “Sarah,” I said, too upset to care about her folded arms. “Can you look something up for me? Please? It’s important.”

  She straightened, searching my face. She raised her hands as if to hold me, but then lowered them. “Sure, Dani.” She slipped off the counter. “Whatever you need.”

  ———

  An hour later, Sarah returned from the library. Her expression was grim.

  “Patricia? Do you mind? I need to talk to Dani alone.”

  Patricia looked to me first.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  Moments later, Sarah and I were alone.

  “I did what you asked. I looked up deaths under the name Grayson. And here’s what I found out. First, a woman named Stella Grayson died in Rochdale County about five years ago. I found her obituary, no problem. Seems like she owned the flower shop. I didn’t find any other Rochdale obits with the name Grayson, not recent ones anyhow.”

  “Really?” I allowed myself a moment of relief.

  “I found something else, though. According to police reports, a man named Yukine Nakamura-Grayson died in Rochdale county about five years ago, too, but it wasn’t reported in the papers, because the family demanded privacy. He wasn’t buried in Rochdale, but cremated a few towns over. I don’t know what happened to his ashes, but there you have it. Two dead Graysons.”

  “Shit,” I said quietly. “Shit.”

  “So who the hell are the Graysons?”

  I hesitated. “They’re a friend’s parents.”

  “A friend? What, from school?” She tasted the word again, eyes narrowing. “Grayson. Grayson. Wait. Isn’t that the name of the boy who used to harass you?”

  “I harassed myself,” I argued, and that was more than enough answer for her.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re hanging out with that asshole?”

  “He’s not an asshole.” I tried to draw myself up. “And you know what, Sarah? It’s not really your business.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t shut me out and then shut me down.”

  I thought she might scream. Her eyes were incredibly black, and the walls felt very close, almost suffocating. Her pigtails rose from her shoulders. But as pages began to rustle on the walls, she came back to herself and sank into the couch.

  “I don’t care who you hang out with.” Her gaze was heavy. “I just wish we could be close like we used to be.”

  I wanted to argue with that, to tell her that was as unfeasible as any fate other than death. If anyone knew time would not stop, it was Sarah.

  “Me too,” I said finally. “Let’s work on it.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “There was something else. At the library. Ever since we learned about . . . ​about Patricia’s family’s situation, I’ve been keeping tabs on the family’s fundraising page. I signed up for their email newsletter.”

  There was only one reason Sarah would share these facts with me.

&nbs
p; “What is it?” Patricia demanded. She appeared larger than life between us, looming and pale. “Tell me.”

  “Patricia. I asked you to leave.”

  “You don’t own me,” Patricia declared, jabbing a finger into Sarah’s chest, livid like I’d never seen her. “No more than you own Dani. And you don’t own information, either, like some hoarding dragon. So tell me.”

  “You asked us not to tell you,” Sarah said, deeply affronted.

  “Things have changed.” Patricia said. “Is she . . . ​has she . . . ​ is she gone?”

  “No . . . ​but she’s in a coma. The family has thanked everyone for their support, and they’ve announced that they’ll be taking Patricia Junior off life support this weekend, after her relatives have said goodbye.”

  The lobby went black. A rumbling began underfoot, and I heard Sarah yelp in the darkness as paper tore off the walls.

  When the storm had passed and light returned to the lobby, Patricia knelt sobbing on the floor amid a thousand torn pages, Sarah’s arms around her shoulders.

  “Shh,” Sarah said. “I’ve got you.”

  “Patricia.” I hobbled forward. “The offer still stands. Do you want to go see your granddaughter?”

  Patricia raised her head. “How will we get there?”

  “I know a decent guy with a truck.”

  DUVET

  She never appeared when Sarah was with me. She never appeared unless I was alone.

  This time, Addy floated near my ceiling, arms out and bound, suspended like a trapeze artist while I lay supine in the bed below. Her gag was fixed but her stare was more so.

  For a long instant we looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  She shook her head. Her eyes were scared.

  I wanted to be brave enough to help her. I wanted to get out of bed and stand on tiptoe and reach up to the ceiling and pull her down.