The Girl and the Ghost

by Ebony McKenna

  ‘Things will only get worse if we don’t nip this in the bud now. On top of that, your brother will be furious for stealing his oxygen, ha ha.’

  They pulled into a narrow driveway. ‘Whose house is this?’ But it was no regular house. The discreet signage and access ramps to the back door and ‘reception’ sign had all the hallmarks of a private clinic. A very private clinic, where the doctors had an alphabet of qualifications after their names. Dread poured concrete into her tummy. ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Because I love you very much and I’m worried about you,’ Rachelle said, her chin wobbling as her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You’re taking me to a shrink?’

  ‘A mental health professional.’

  Morgan swore. Her own mother thought she needed a psychiatrist? ‘What brought this on?’

  Rachelle tapped at her iPad and brought up a series of pictures from one of those click-bait-y tabloid websites. ‘This did, darling. You were photographed talking to yourself in the street.’

  Nausea rose in her throat as she looked at the pictures, and the hideous headlines.

  Plastics Princess Goes Potty

  Parker Heiress Losing Her Bottle?

  Morgan P Talks To A Tree

  So Much Money, So Little Sense

  Memories flooded Morgan of her day out with George. She’d been so caught up with getting him out of the house and showing him the world, she’d forgotten about the world being so interested in her scandal-prone family. And now she’d added to it.

  One of the pictures showed her hand in a funny position, holding it in the air for no reason at all. She and George were walking – perambulating George had called it – and she’d rested her palm on his forearm. Unfortunately, George didn’t show up in any of the photos, leaving Morgan looking like a nuff-nuff. ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t see the paps, Mum. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s not about the photos per se, it’s about you retreating into childhood with imaginary friends.’

  Morgan shot her mum an ‘oh really?’ look, trying for her own version of The Eyebrow of Truth.

  ‘It was Dave’s suggestion,’ Rachelle said. ‘He Googled psychology for me.’

  With a deep sigh, Morgan opened her door. ‘Come on then. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘It’s all very well to pretend we have a ghost at home, but to be out in public like this. Don’t you agree Doctor Bhavani?’ Rachelle said as the session dragged on.

  Doctor Bhavani looked younger than Rachelle and wore rectangular glasses low on her nose. ‘It’s really up to Morgan. Morgan, how do you feel, seeing yourself in the tabloids?’

  Morgan watched the fish in the aquarium. What a life, swimming about, oblivious to the outside world. Was it true that fish had terrible memories? George certainly did.

  ‘She hates it,’ Rachelle said.

  Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘This is supposed to be about me.’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’ Rachelle said. ‘Doctor, is she turning into an emo?’

  Doctor Bhavani suppressed a smile and nudged her glasses up. ‘I don’t think you need worry yourself on that account.’ She wrote notes on a yellow lecture pad.

  ‘You’re so sure? After one meeting?’

  ‘Mrs Parker, I have seen a great many troubled teens over the years. I appreciate that you are worried about your daughter, but Morgan is showing no signs of being in any way disturbed, aside from regular teen issues, which everyone faces.’

  ‘But you –’

  ‘– Please. I assure you, you are the very best kind of parent, getting help early on. I wish all parents were as caring and loving as you. Morgan is a well-adjusted young lady. She makes good eye contact. Her grades are not slipping, and most importantly, she does not wear black nail polish.’

  Morgan snorted a laugh.

  Rachelle looked back and forth between the two of them. ‘Children have imaginary friends, not teenagers. Clearly, she’s withdrawing or regressioning into some kind of imaginary world. You’re supposed to work out what that is!’

  Talking about yourself much? An annoyed tisk escaped Morgan as she shook her head. ‘George is not an imaginary friend. He’s a ghost. He was born in my room, and came with the house when we moved it here.’

  ‘Morgan please, you’re imagining things.’ Rachelle reached into her purse and withdrew another tissue so she could dab at her eyes.

  ‘George helped me with my history assignment. My grades will probably improve.’

  Her voice dripping with sarcasm, Rachelle looked slightly left of Morgan and said, ‘Thank you George, now can you please leave my daughter alone?’

  ‘He’s not here.’ Morgan turned to the doctor. ‘He was stuck in my room but now he can come out with me if I bring a roof tile.’

  Rachelle bawled into her tissue. Morgan rubbed her mother’s back in support.

  ‘I see,’ Dr Bhavani made more notes, then adjusted her glasses, ‘How long has George been around?’

  ‘Um, a couple of weeks.’

  Rachelle blew her nose. ‘Ever since she moved into her new room. It really put the wind up me because I don’t like living in a haunted house. It’s creepy. It was good for a laugh at first, but now . . . ’ Rachelle’s chin wobbled again and she grabbed another tissue.

  ‘The pictures in the tabloids,’ Dr Bhavani directed her question to Morgan while Rachelle moaned on. ‘How do you feel about those?’

  ‘I feel it’s gone too far,’ Rachelle said.

  ‘I am in the room, you know?’ Morgan said

  Dr Bhavani nudged her glasses again. ‘I see a broad range of clients. Some have always been in the public eye; some have come to it more recently. It’s the newcomers that don’t always cope so well to the adjustment of public scrutiny.’

  Morgan and the Doctor both looked at the sobbing Rachelle.

  ‘Is everything all right at home?’ Doctor Bhavani asked Morgan.

  ‘The new show is stressing her out a bit.’ Morgan rubbed Mum’s back some more.

  ‘Oh yes, and what does that involve?’

  ‘Go on, Mum, tell her about the food show.’

  Rachelle waved her hand in front of her face before grabbing another clean tissue. The used ones were bunching up in her hand so Morgan looked about for a bin.

  ‘Starting new projects involves a great deal of adjustment,’ the Doctor said. ‘Morgan, you’ve moved into your new house, and I’m sure your school work isn’t getting any easier now that you’re in the senior years. Rachelle, you’re launching a new career. When things are in flux, everyday stresses can mount up. On top of that, you have to cope with constant public intrusion in your lives.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Rachelle bawled afresh. ‘It wouldn’t matter if it was Gareth. He’s always doing crazy things for attention. But Morgan’s supposed to be the normal one!’

  ‘Oh wow, thanks for that!’ A grin split Morgan’s face and she gave her mum a hug.

  Back home, the kitchen filled with inviting smells as Dave produced a fresh batch of shortbread from the oven. The kitchen was also filled with production staff: A bloke with headphones on and an enormous, fluffy microphone on the end of a long pole. Another woman had a camera on her shoulder and a back-brace on the outside of her t-shirt. There was also another woman leafing through pages of recipes.

  Rachelle spoke in a rush, ‘Ohmigosh I’msosorryI’mlate!’

  ‘I’ll be upstairs.’ Morgan grabbed her schoolbag and headed off.

  Judging by the soothing noises from below, the crew were calming her mother down. Probably with a cup of coffee. Or something stronger. If she was this wobbly now, Morgan wondered how her mother would cope once people started watching the show and criticising it.

  ‘There you are!’ George beamed as she set foot in her room, ‘I’ve been waiting all day for you. Look at this discovery! Apparently, back in my day, people wore riding clothes only when they were actually riding. That means I must have been riding when I . . . end
ed up here.’

  ‘That’s nice, George.’ She dropped her schoolbag on the floor and slumped on to her bed.

  ‘Are you not pleased? I have begun to solve the mystery.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Morgan rubbed her temples.

  ‘Do come and look.’

  Something marshmallowy encase her hand. With a jolt she flew forward to stand by George and the laptop she’d left on for him. It was open on a page dedicated to nineteenth century clothing. Common fashions for every career, class and past-time.

  ‘Oh wow, look at the dresses! So steampunky.’

  ‘Look at this gentleman. We are wearing similar riding habits. And as I seem to always be in this attire . . .’

  ‘Except when you were in my bed the other night.’

  George coughed dramatically. ‘Back to the task at hand. Thank you for this wonderful device. It’s a cornucopia of information.’

  Morgan rubbed her eyes. ‘How are you so quick at that, when my gran can’t even open her messages to read back an SMS so I can do her internet banking?’

  George shook his head in confusion. ‘Have you noticed that when I think too much about certain things, they – or I for that matter – fall through. But when I don’t think, I can achieve my aims. In this instance, I was thinking of you instead of the confounded device.’

  A blush marched up Morgan’s neck. ‘You were?’

  ‘Correct. I’d a notion you should dress more appropriately. Ergo, the device found appropriate clothing for me to show you.’

  Deflated, Morgan let out a low breath. ‘No worries, George. You’ll be selling things on e-Bay in no time.’

  George’s eyebrows came closer together in confusion.

  Morgan said, ‘Figure of speech.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have been unable to secure further information about my family. However, now that I may perambulate, perhaps tomorrow we could visit a library to make more discoveries?’

  Another walk. In the open? Instead of answering, Morgan tapped her phone and brought up one of the gossip sites that had caused her mother so much heartache. Herself too. Not to mention the teasing she’d get at school tomorrow. Thanks to the tabloids, everything was out in the open now. Or at least, Morgan was. Chatting away to herself like the poster child for Mental Health Awareness Week.

  ‘George, I don’t think we should go for walks in public any more. The tabs are having a field day.’

  ‘Alas. You have materialised in the scene, but I have not. Can anybody access these pictures?’

  Heavy dread made her sigh. ‘It’s there for the whole world. It’s not your fault, George, you didn’t know I was famous. Well . . . I’m not famous, but my family is and it’s so annoying. I mean, how is it my fault my parents are who they are?’

  ‘Nothing has changed in one hundred and forty years then. These ‘tabs’ as you call them. They sound like the matronly ‘tabbies’ of my time. A coven of catty society mamas with nothing better to do than gossip. You don’t have to do much to get their attention. Accepting someone’s hand as you alight from a carriage is enough to have you betrothed in some circles. They can ruin a girl’s reputation with a single word. My sister is always so terribly careful and well behaved in public.’

  He’d slipped into present tense, as if his family were still alive. Then again, he was here in front of her. What’s to say the rest of his clan weren’t materialising in other parts of the house? Morgan shook the thought away and studied the computer screen. ‘All it takes is one photo. Urgh, it’s so annoying! I suppose I could make a complaint, but next minute, Streisand Effect.’

  They sat on the end of her bed, Morgan regretting how badly she’d messed up. ‘Don’t know if Dad’s seen it yet but Mum’s so freaked out she took me to a shrink. That’s why I was late home.’

  George tilted his head. ‘Would you mind ever so much speaking in words I may understand?’

  ‘Sorry, a psychologist.’

  ‘You still have me at a disadvantage, I am unfamiliar with the term.’

  Morgan looked the phrase up on her phone and found a page full of definitions and dates. ‘Huh, I thought it had been around forever but it turns out it was barely around when you were.’

  For the next little while they were both quiet as George read the information and Morgan mentally beat herself up for being such an idiot in public. ‘You know what’s weird? Gareth would kill for this kind of publicity.’

  ‘There, there.’ George put his hand over Morgan’s. ‘Try not to let it rile your disposition.’

  At first, she didn’t register the marshmallowy touch of him. Then when she did, she found herself liking it. A sensation of feeling him there and yet not there at the same time. More like a strong presence, as if he were holding his hand millimetres above hers, enough to raise the soft, downy hairs of her skin.

  ‘Mister Wallace, I do believe you are holding my hand.’

  ‘Miss Parker,’ George said with a cheeky smile, ‘I do believe I am.’

  She shot back, ‘This could create quite the scandal!’

  ‘And the lady is without a chaperone!’

  They shared a private giggle and Morgan found herself unable to make eye contact all of a sudden. She couldn’t help grinning. They were definitely flirting, but there was no way she would voice this thought because it would pop the magical bubble surrounding them. Considering the awful afternoon she’d had, she really liked being in the bubble.

  The bubble was safe and protective.

  She liked it so much she wished she could live in it.

  8

  Public Scrutiny

  As Morgan predicted, the next day at school was hideous. Everyone had seen the pictures shared all over social media. Most students snickered as she walked past, the others gave her funny looks.

  Kaz came over and linked her arm with Morgan’s. ‘Chin up. It will blow over in a few days.’

  Morgan groaned.

  ‘This is where you come to be educated?’ It was George’s voice behind her.

  Why had he followed her to school? How had he . . . oh no! A chunk of roof tile must still be in her backpack, which meant he could walk alongside her. Follow her anywhere. Exactly what she didn’t need at the very time she was trying to appear sane.

  ‘Eeeee! A ghost!’ One of the students screamed. It was a girl from the year below. Emily? Isabelle? No idea. Morgan’s stomach sank as Emily/Isabelle pointed where George was standing.

  ‘He’s right there! In the school! There’s a ghost in the school!’

  More students gathered around, all looking where Emily/Isabelle pointed.

  Stunned, Morgan and Kaz looked to each other. Kaz hadn’t said anything about seeing George . . .

  ‘Oh no! He’s going into the girls’ toilets!’ Emily/Isabelle screamed again. Her friends fell about laughing. ‘The dunnies are haunted!’

  Relief flooded Morgan. They were faking it. Pure luck the girl had managed to point where George was standing.

  ‘Come on, let’s get to maths,’ Kaz said.

  When they arrived, their teacher Ms Jenkins held out a basket and made them surrender their mobile phones and devices. Any moment now Kaz would complain about their loss of personal freedoms.

  Fresh relief coursed through Morgan. For this class at least, they’d be unable to tease her via text or twitter. It almost made her like Ms Jenkins.

  Ms Jenkins said nothing specific to Morgan, which raised her even further in Morgan’s estimations. No looks of ‘I understand’ or ‘Is there anything you need to talk about?’

  How wonderful.

  Today they were continuing work on probability. Some of the students were flipping coins and counting how many times they landed heads or tails. Morgan was rolling dice.

  George stood beside her in the classroom, whispering how clever Morgan was to be able to calculate such intricate sums. Counting the number of times a die landed on four compared to three was hardly ‘intricate’ until she realised he was studying the pos
ters of mathematicians on the wall. Ada Lovelace, Emmy Noether, John Forbes Nash, Omar Khayyam, Grace Hopper and others. He muttered things like, ‘fascinating’ and ‘remarkable’ as he read the biographies of each. Luckily, nobody heard him speak (or moan as her friends had claimed) so Morgan sighed and got back to her probability work.

  ‘It rather looks like they’re playing Pitch and Toss,’ George said. ‘Surely gambling is hardly a suitable subject for impressionable children.’

  In the quiet classroom, Morgan wrote in the margins of her notebook:

  ‘We’re studying random chance. Now shush.’

  ‘Goodness, really? This must be a new branch of mathematics. I see you are rolling a six-sided die and its likelihood to land on each face an equal number of times? Is that what you mean by chance?’

  She had work to do, and didn’t want to draw attention to herself by speaking when there was nobody there. Instead she wrote:

  ‘Can you go home and look it up? I’m sure I left my laptop open.’

  ‘Excellent notion! I shall return.’

  Peace at last. Now she could focus on maths. Later, when she got her devices back, she’d look up what Pitch and Toss was supposed to be.

  Her next class, English, began with the confiscation of phones and gadgets. The teachers must have colluded in the staff room.

  Everybody had to write notes on paper, with a pen. Maths had always been like that, but taking notes on their class text was frustratingly slow now that she couldn’t tap away on a keyboard.

  By the time lunch came around, Morgan’s wrist and fingers were killing her. She suspected she wasn’t the only one. Paranoia kicked in. Were the teachers taking phones because of general class behaviour, or were they doing it deliberately to protect her after the tabloid splash? In which case, would the students blame her for their aching joints?

  The strange looks in the hallway continued at lunch and Emily/Isabelle from the year below was back. Someone called out ‘Rebecca’ and Emily/Isabelle turned around.