by Conn, Claudy
I grumble about it for a bit on the phone with Bailey before winding up at a movie with Rox. By the time I get to my apartment I’ve pretty much forgotten about the entire incident; that is, until I step into my bedroom. The daisy hair clips that GranGran gave me for my sixteenth birthday trail across the floor, forming a path from her picture to the closet where I keep the Ouija board. She has only done this one time before—over a decade ago when she taught me how to contact her.
***
March 13, 2001
“I hate school! I absolutely can’t stand it!”
Actually, school is not the problem; it’s my simple-minded classmates who waste all of their brain activity by trying to look like the latest pop star. Individuality is something they can’t imagine, let alone spell.
Why do people feel the need to bully others for being different? GranGran always said that some people are afraid to be themselves, so they make fun of those who have less fear. If this is the case, my high school is brimming with scaredy cats.
The screen door smacks behind me. It’s not loud enough for how angry I feel, so I slam the front door with all my might. I want the walls to be as rattled as I am. People are such jerks!
My backpack gets plopped onto my desk, and I fall back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. Nothing in this world makes sense. Like, why is it we decorate walls but not ceilings? Is it because we like the idea of open air above us? That we equate white hovering over our heads with Heaven? Isn’t Heaven supposed to be beautiful? I’d rather see some beauty than a white wall that is so over glorified that it gets its own name.
I roll to look at my wall that is purple—a power color. That’s what I need right now, to keep feeling strength. The pink wall on the other side of me is too soothing.
But the colors seem faded compared to GranGran’s photo that sits on my nightstand. What I wouldn’t give for her to be here now.
I pull the picture toward me, and something falls to the floor. Over the edge of the bed I catch sight of one of the daisy hair clips she gave me for my sixteenth birthday. What is that doing out? I haven’t worn one of those since her funeral two months ago.
I go to swipe it up when another one, sitting a few feet away, catches my eye. Then I see another one, and then another. Those are kept tucked away in a drawer. Was someone snooping in my room?
A rush of panic hits. No one should touch those clips but me. If I am missing a single one, I’ll be sick for the rest of my life.
A fifth clips sticks out from under my closet door, which someone left open. This makes no sense. Bailey always asks before borrowing things, and everyone knows anything from GranGran means the world to me and thus must be treated with care.
I get down on my hands and knees in search of the last clip. I look behind boxes, inside my shoes, and then under them. Nothing. My heart starts pounding over the thought of losing my sixth, beloved clip.
I toss my hands up. “What the hell is going on?”
A gleam of light, coming from above, catches my eye and makes my breath halt. I have to be dreaming. Why is a clip attached to the Ouija board GranGran gave me?
I try to shake off the notion of something mysterious happening. Bailey must be messing with me.
But why would she leave my clips—
In a trail …
I’ve been following a trail of daisies—a trail connecting the final gifts GranGran gave me.
A new kind of excitement races through me. I know GranGran believed in this stuff, and I guess I always have too, but that doesn’t change the fact that it seems unreal. I’ve been visited!
Or am I being visited?
My eyes scan the room for an image, another sign, anything that would show that I am not alone, yet all is quiet.
These clips are a signal. While the reason for giving me the Ouija board became apparent when she died, I’ve barely allowed the thought of using it to enter my mind. What if it didn’t work? It would be heartbreaking to know that GranGran had such faith we could talk again, only to have it shatter.
Or would that really be the case? A Ouija board is just a toy, right? If I can’t reach her, it could be because she is busy doing something else.
I start to go for the board, but fear gets the best of me. I so want all of the mystical things she believed in to be true. I want to know that there is more than the here and now. Most of all, I want to believe GranGran is still out there.
My actions happen without another thought—the curtains are yanked closed, a candle is lit, and I sit on the floor with GranGran’s picture next to me. I’m a ball of fire, determined to make this work. Without a doubt, this is what she intended when she said to follow the daisies.
I expect the new board to crackle when opened, but the sound that fills my ears seems to come from the wave of energy that pours out of it and washes over me. There is a reason why this was given to me without the plastic wrap still on it, and it isn’t only because GranGran stuck a second gift inside the box. She had special friends, and I am betting that one of them did something to this board. That thought deepens my faith.
But my flame starts to quell as I pick up the other gift that sits in the box—the one that she told me to open when the time is right. Now I am certain she was referring to the time after her death. If I don’t do this right, her last wish will falter. I start to place the gift back into the box. I couldn’t bear the heartache of letting her down.
No, self-doubt means failure. I owe her more than that.
My fingers tear into the blue, metallic paper. I gasp at the sight of vibrant colors that quickly become obscured by tears. GranGran loved to paint. In her golden years her hand became unsteady, so picking up a brush was a rarity. I smear away the tears so that I can behold what is probably GranGran’s last piece of art. She painted petals around the window of an antique, wood planchette, turning it into the center of a flower. The pain of missing her sinks into my gut, but my love for her makes my heart bloom. “Follow the daisies,” I utter in awe.
My sniffle is hard and deep. I always knew she loved me, but it has never hit my soul as much as it has at this moment. The day I got this, Bailey got a savings bond because at some point she will need to be saved. GranGran gave me a board and a planchette painted with a flowering daisy so I could grow. Even though she is gone, she is still helping me bloom. “Thank you, GranGran, because even if this doesn’t work, I am thrilled that you loved me enough to do this.”
With a deep breath, I grab my focus and try to tune out the world. “Okay. Are you there?”
I wait, but all I hear are dogs barking in the distance. I also don’t sense anything new.
I deepen my focus and try again. Although all I continue to hear are the dogs, the energy coming off the board grows. Is it working? Please God, let it be working.
I feel like the board is glowing, yet there are no visual signs to confirm that. However, the greater my determination, the more the electricity vibrates. My eyes snap to GranGran’s photo as if she has called my name. My vision begins to blur as energy swirls around me. The dogs outside go so crazy that it is hard not to let them steal my focus. “Are you there, GranGran?” I whisper, fearing a normal tone will cause me to lose whatever ground I think I have gained. This has to be working. All of this must be amounting to—
The planchette jerks, gliding its way to “Yes”. The hair on my arms raises. It’s working!
I try to be patient and wait for more. I have so many questions about what I am going through, and so many questions about what has happened to her, yet right now I can’t think of a single one. I just want to feel her near me again.
The intensity of the barking grows. Why won’t those dogs shut up? They keep getting louder and—
Suddenly my hands skate across the board. “F-O-C-U-S,” I am told.
My heart recalls everything about her—her perfume, her laugh, all the happiness she brought into the world. The planchette rattles as if it is trying to jump off of the board. A breeze br
ushes my hair back like I have wings, yet the flame on the candle refuses to go out. Despite the natural urge that nearly pushes me out of the house while running in fear of the unknown, I hold my ground.
Suddenly, energy rips through the room, shaking the walls. Then the rattling halts, the breeze stops, and my hair drapes back down. All sounds fade into silence, until the voice of a young woman fills the air. “Do not take your hands off of that planchette.”
Azure mist creeps across the board, and then whips up like a blaze. A shadowy image forms, reminding me of a genie coming out of a bottle. My heart races with glee at the woman with long auburn hair, green eyes, and a stunning figure that is shown off by a form-fitting mini-dress. In so many ways, she is a beauty to behold. If she had not warned me to keep my hands where they were, I would jump up to hug her. “GranGran!”
“Did you miss me?”
I laugh in relief. “You know I did!”
“Well, now you have me back. I love what you did to your hair!”
Santa Claus Is Back In Town
The Present
The annoyance of my date with Chris earlier tonight has almost been erased by concern. Why is GranGran trying to contact me? It has only been a few days since our last chat, and I am always the one to contact her. Finding those clips has me worried.
Is there any reason to be worried for a ghost? It’s not like she can take ill, can she?
Azure haze rises off of the planchette and spirals its way across the room. My words sprint out before her image fully forms. “GranGran, is everything okay?”
She places out her hand to quell my worries. Her smile is warm, much like I would expect of someone who is empathetic. For the first time I see her for what she may really be, an angel or a messenger of God. “Give him a chance,” she says.
My brows twist. Is she kidding? For the first time in over a decade she is the one who contacts me, and it is over that loser? “Are you serious?” My hands smack onto the floor. “You’ve been watching. Is nothing sacred?”
“A person in my state doesn’t so much watch as she senses. It’s a loophole that keeps me from invading your privacy. Right now, I sense that this young man has you perplexed, not to mention a tad miffed.”
How weird is it that I find talking to a spirit to be totally normal, yet I think this situation with Chris is freaky? “What is the deal with him?”
“Not all free spirits were influenced by those as accepting as I am.”
I put down the planchette and throw my hands back like I am not just tossing in the towel but throwing it away. I’m long past the need to hold onto anything to keep my focus. I just treat GranGran as if she were as alive as ever. Her body is dead, not the important part. “Okay, not that I am complaining about you looking out for me, but why are you always willing to see things from so many angles? I thought mature people were supposed to be old fashioned and narrow-minded?”
GranGran balks and waves her hand at me. The gesture seems so old-lady like that it doesn’t fit her young body in the least. Finally, she catches on to what I am really saying and drops her hands onto her hips in a huff. Yep, we are two peas in the same cartoon pod. “Are you calling me old?”
I make a show of tapping my finger to my chin. “Hmm … Remind me what year you were born.” She gives me an oh, please look, and I laugh at the woman who currently appears to be my age. “I would never dare. Dead or alive, you are still the most liberal and lively person I know. Seriously, teenagers could learn from you.”
GranGran plops herself down on the floor and sits criss-cross. She then bounces a bit while looking satisfied to be agile again. Even though she lost her arthritis-filled body long ago, she has never failed to appreciate regaining her mobility. “All past lives aside—”
I cut her off. “Wait, that reincarnation mumbo jumbo is real?”
She rolls her eyes like I should know better. She then actually bends in and gets in my face. Her tone reeks of wisdom and serves as another reminder that she is no spring chicken. “I was a product of the Jazz Age and was ninety-two when I died, meaning I was born in nineteen oh eight. Do you know what was happening when I was twenty? Prohibition. Not long before that started we were smack in the middle of World War I. While growing up, it seemed the father or brother of nearly every one I knew had died. After the horrors of war we needed to let loose, but thanks to Prohibition we couldn’t have any fun. Then the Great Depression hit, and we couldn’t afford simple luxuries, such as sugar. It was either bow down to misery or seek a bit of freedom. Freedom meant rebellion. Rebellion, or lack there of, is what shapes a person.”
My mind locks onto visions of lonely widows and children without shoes, all seeing no escape from a life covered in dust. At least I can afford to grab my friends and head out to Mulligan’s. Even if we had to forgo the cocktails, we still have shoes, and expensive ones at that. Knowing GranGran though, I can’t help but ask, “Please tell me you made bathtub gin.”
She winks.
I smack my hand on the floor. “Wow! Really?”
“Your Great Grandfather was resourceful in many ways, which is exactly why I married him.” She snickers. “He says hi, by the way. Anyway, when I was in my twenties, I met a young woman who got sucked into what she thought was love, only to have him leave before she could tell him she was pregnant. Not only did her family reject her so badly that she had to move half-way across the country, but even strangers called her a tramp and treated her like dirt. She was a good person in a bad situation—so bad that she had to turn into the tramp everyone accused her of being just to survive. While everyone else was spitting on her, I took her in and gained a second family. That whole experience showed me that just because a person has challenges, it doesn’t mean her heart is different from that of anyone else. If we could each open our eyes and see that not understanding a person does not make him less human, this world would be a better place.”
This makes so much sense. Our experiences are not just the things we live through, but also what we see others endure. We can grow from the misfortune of those around us. “So that is why you always encouraged my free spiritedness.”
“It is also why you grew up knowing that everyone is beautiful and deserves a chance, whether you understand him or not.”
Yeah, I knew this is where we were headed. “Even someone who tries to cover the fact that he is egotistical and controlling?”
Now I get a finger pointed at me—another family trait. “Not at all. Normally I would tell you to go with your gut, and then if you tried to see him again, I would arrange for a lightning bolt to weld the lock on your apartment so you couldn’t leave. However, this time I am asking you to give him one more shot.”
If this were anyone else, I would ask if she were joking. Still, I have to question if we are talking about the same guy. “Really? The guy on a power trip? The guy with the cocky sense of humor that is more rude than amusing? I can’t possibly understand why.”
She reaches for my hands. What I wouldn’t give for her to actually be able to grab them again. Nonetheless, her love seeps into me. “Because you had me in your life and Chris didn’t. Think about what you would have been like if you were not supported. What rebellion would you have gone through to find yourself?”
“So you are telling me that—”
She raises a finger to stop me. “I am not telling you anything that you don’t already know deep down inside. And I am not trying to interfere with your love life, just to ease your mind.”
“Love life? Who said I had him pegged for a love interest?”
She tosses her head back with a laugh. “That fine piece of manhood with the streak of playful boyishness! Oh, please!”
Yeah, we both know the man is so hot my skin nearly melts off every time I think of him.
“Seriously though, that is for you to decide. I am only saying to relax a bit. Besides, I have never led you astray. Look at how I guided you to Mulligan’s. Trust me, there are many reasons why you frequent
that place.”
Is she real? Man, I hope there is a good reason that we choose to plant our butts in that crappy place week after week.
GranGran kicks her seriousness up a notch. “Honey, I know a woman must always proceed with caution. I am also very proud of you for not letting yourself get wrapped up in someone that wants you to compromise who you are. However, there is a difference between being careful and restraining your spirit. You need to trust me that this case is not what it appears.” Her image and words trail off as she bails without giving me a chance to further grill her. “Allow yourself to see where this can lead. Kiss Bailey for me when she gets into town for Thanksgiving.”
I hate how brief these visits are. Why can’t she stay a little longer and bake cookies with me or sit down for tea like we used to do? She is right though. Chris may put a dancing bed of flowers in my gut, but my attraction to him isn’t only brought on by lust. On the night we met, something about him spoke to my soul. I won’t let myself be afraid to hear what he has to say. However, he has to come to me, and I won’t tolerate the attitude I saw tonight. I may trust GranGran, but I also won’t put up with anybody’s bull.
Someday At Christmas
Mulligan’s may not be the hottest place around, but this Friday night it is practically a ghost town. Then again, I’m still so full from last night’s Thanksgiving dinner that it is a miracle the stool hasn’t collapsed under me.
“Holy Mama Cass,” Jacqueline says. “I ate so much last night that I am still full.”
Bailey nearly loses the sip she just took by laughing it out of her nose. Rox’s head snaps towards Jacqueline. Her narrow eyes say she wants to chew Jacqueline out over being mean to one of her idols, but her snicker shows that holding back a chuckle at the well-intended joke is hard. “Hey! Show some respect.”
Jacqueline raises her glass. “To Ellen Naomi Cohen. Lord, I wish I had her talent. The best ones always die young.”
