by Cate Lawley
“It’ll be fine, peanut. You worry too much.”
Hillary couldn’t budge him on the evaluation. He was going, and that was that. And when she asked in a fit of pique what Brad thought about it all, she was a little surprised that Brad was on her side. As she drove back to her house, she couldn’t decide exactly what that meant. But on a positive note, it was some evidence that Brad didn’t hold ultimate sway over her grandpa’s decisions. Some comfort that was.
Chapter 3
Brad no longer crept into rooms, worrying he’d give Walter a heart attack. The old guy didn’t even blink when his ghostly roommate moved silently from room to room. So Brad didn’t worry overmuch that Walter didn’t immediately notice his presence in the kitchen. “She’s concerned.”
“Hmph. I don’t know why. I’m fitter now than I was eight years ago.” Walter didn’t even look up as he continued to load his dishwasher.
Brad didn’t point out that from what he knew of Walter’s life eight years ago, he hadn’t been doing all that well. His wife Ingrid had passed from an aggressive form of brain cancer, and Walter hadn’t handled it well. “You do know why. You can’t have an imaginary friend. People start talking dementia, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, crazy old guy. Any label that lets them explain away why you’re seeing and hearing things that no one else can. I don’t think it will matter that you’re otherwise completely rational.”
“Call it what it is, son: hallucinating.” Walter looked over his shoulder. “And no one would think I’m losing my mind if you’d show yourself to the rest of the world.”
“We’ve talked about this. I promise, Walter, I’ve tried. And tried and tried. I don’t know why, but you’re it; you’re the only one who can see me. I love you, man, but having only one person to talk to for seven years? Come on. That’s not how I’d choose to live.”
“Being dead stinks,” Walter grumped.
“Amen to that.” Brad couldn’t argue, although after all this time, he still didn’t feel dead. Walter hypothesized it was Brad’s inability to let go—of life, of a particular person, of a certain problem—that continued to tether him to this plane of existence. Maybe Walter was right, because Brad wasn’t ready to let go.
And, fortunately, after Brad had shown up seven years ago, Walter had decided he wasn’t ready to stop living, either. They’d started walking together, sharing stories, watching TV—hanging out. And Walter had gotten fitter and slowly climbed out of a depressive funk. Win-win, as far as Brad was concerned. Walter was a great guy, and both of them had needed a buddy to get them through a rough patch. Brad’s rough patch—death—just happened to be a little more permanent.
Walter pulled out a glass and retrieved his favorite whiskey stones from the freezer. “Still wonder why that psychic gal couldn’t see you.”
As Walter poured himself a few fingers of whiskey, Brad considered the question.
“My guess? She was a fake. Maybe we should try again. Do you think Hillary would bring her new psychic, that lady Mary Margaret?” Brad sat down at the kitchen table. However this ghost stuff worked, he was glad he had just enough ectoplasm, or whatever made up his physical presence, to interact with physical objects. He couldn’t imagine hovering for eternity.
Walter sat opposite him and scratched his day-old beard. Brad had finally convinced him that he didn’t have to shave every day—that the ladies liked a little scruff. Mostly he got sick of watching the guy nick himself. How could a guy shave for more than fifty years and be so bad at it?
Finally, Walter said, “I don’t know. Hillary said this one doesn’t see ghosts, just auras.”
“I don’t get the difference. I could have an aura, right? Besides, this one seems less sketchy. Even the name is solid. I mean, Mary Margaret? Are we sure she’s not a nun?”
“Ha! A psychic nun. No, not a nun.” Walter shook his head and chuckled again. “I have to say, before you, I always thought Hillary was a little loony about the psychics and the crystals and the tarot. Guess I was wrong about some of that stuff.” He took a sip of whiskey, then said, ”Yeah, okay. I’ll ask her. This Mary Margaret does seem like a straight shooter. Now, that Madame Celeste, she was another story altogether.”
The two men shared a lengthy silence, Walter sipping his whiskey and Brad wishing he could have a whiskey. Finally, Walter said, “It’s hard not to talk about you. We spend a lot of time together.” Walter raised his bushy, but recently and neatly trimmed eyebrows. “A lot.”
“Tell me about it.” Brad clasped his hands together on the table. He thanked God, or whoever was pulling the strings of his fate, every day for Walter. Before he’d stumbled on Walter in his previously unkempt and depressed state, Brad had been homeless, nameless, and completely without hope. Walter had given him a name and a home, but more than that—Walter had given him purpose. Life had been grim in those months before meeting his roommate. “Hey, didn’t you want to show me your new phone?”
Walter smacked his hand on the table. “That’s right. I left it on my dresser. Give me a minute to fetch it.” Walter took another sip of his whiskey, and then stood up. “Oh, did you watch the video on audiobooks? I want you to show me how to set my phone up to listen to books. For my walks, when you’re not around.”
“Watched it. I think I got it.” As Walter disappeared, Brad thought about the questions they’d stopped talking about. Why couldn’t Brad always manifest his physical self? And where did he go when he wasn’t here? The unanswered questions were less troubling than they’d once been, because he continued to reappear. He popped back into place. But answers would be nice. Maybe Mary Margaret, the psychic nun, would have some answers.
Chapter 4
“Gramps. She’s not a nun and a psychic, just a psychic. Where do you get this stuff? Wait, don’t tell me. Brad.” Hillary shifted the phone to her other ear and rinsed the dish she’d been washing.
“I didn’t say it; you did. So? Will you call your not-a-nun, just-a-psychic friend and have her come over?”
Her grandfather seemed convinced this time would be different and she hated to disappoint him, but—it wouldn’t be different because there was no Brad. ”I’ll talk to her, but I don’t think—”
“You’re an angel, peanut. Dinner the day after tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Hillary viciously scrubbed a particularly resistant bit of food, then blinked when she realized she’d not only been scrubbing a clean dish for several seconds, she’d also forgotten to put her gloves on.
“Great. I’ll tell you all about this new thing I found, audiobooks. I can walk and listen to a book at the same time, all on my new phone. I’m still trying to decide on the ear buds or the over-ear headphones. I think over-ear—better sound quality.”
Hillary grinned, her concerns about Brad shelved for the moment. Her grandfather came up with some new gadget about once every two or three months. And he never asked her advice. Imaginary Brad, her tush. Gramps had a geeky, gadgety side that had only surfaced after her grandmother had passed. “That sounds really cool, Gramps. I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”
“Call your psychic. Don’t forget.”
“Yes, sir.” After she ended the call, her hand hovered over the contacts icon. After a few seconds, she put the phone down. She said she’d call, but she didn’t say she’d call immediately.
Once she was done with the dishes that had accumulated throughout the day—with her dish gloves on—she got ready for bed. Tonight was definitely TV catch-up night. She needed a little escapism about now. She might even have an unwatched episode of The Bachelor recorded. Just as she was about to get into bed, her phone chirped with a text from Beth. Have you tried on the glasses?
“Oops.” Hillary booked it out to her car barefooted, grabbing her keys on the way out. She’d completely forgotten about them. She’d been so distracted, and then she’d eaten dinner with Gramps and when she got back in the car she hadn’t seen them, so the glasses had slipped from her mind entirely.
Nothing on the seat. She opened the passenger side door and ran her hand along the floor. A few fraught seconds later, her fingers touched the bedazzled frames. “Thank goodness.” She’d almost lost what were probably magic glasses. Magic glasses. Almost lost. Who did that? And even if she was annoyed with the implications—again, magic—she had to admit they were fabulous. She couldn’t let them sit at the bottom of her Fiat, all alone and sad.
She clutched the glasses against her chest and hurried back into the house before one of her neighbors mistook her for a car thief. A hot, scantily clad car thief, yes. But rocking bod or not, in her neighborhood the cops would be called. Her heart thumped loudly as she closed the side door to her house. She leaned back against the door, waiting for her heart to stop racing.
And then she laughed. They probably weren’t anything special. Sparkly-fab, yes. But otherwise, just a little pair of glasses. Walking to her bedroom, she ran her finger along the frames. The cool bumpy stones felt just like the crystals they were. She plopped down on her bed and grabbed her phone off the night stand. She quickly typed: Nope, but think I might.
Her phone rang immediately. Hillary tapped the ignore button.
The glasses lay innocently in her lap, the gaudy yet gorgeous crystals catching the bedside light and flashing.
“Why not?” she whispered. What were the chances something would actually happen? She was the believer; Beth, the skeptic. And yet it was Beth who’d traveled back in time. So, the way Hillary saw it, it would either do nothing and she could stop worrying over the silly things, or she’d get a grand adventure in the fifties. After all, it wasn’t like Beth had been trapped in Victorian England. And Glenda didn’t have any reason to banish Hillary—a frequent and well-funded customer—to another era. The thought of her grandpa made her hesitate, but it was almost as if she couldn’t say no to the glasses.
It boiled down to a simple equation. She wanted to. The risk seemed small. Why not?
Hillary tipped her head. At least the fifties had demonstrated a sense of style she could appreciate. And she looked like a million bucks in a fitted bodice with an A-line swing skirt. That’s right—she would rock the fifties. She picked up the glasses and perched them carefully on her nose.
And waited.
Then she flipped the chain around her neck.
And waited.
The weight of the glasses pressed down on the bridge of her nose. The sturdy frame, the crystals, and the glass combined to make the weight noticeable. Hillary looked at her hands, then did a double take. Was that an age spot? She inspected the blemish more carefully. Hm. Maybe a freckle.
Hillary pursed her lips. Shouldn’t she feel different? Well, she’d had them on for at least a minute or two. If that wasn’t long enough, maybe the glorious Glenda needed to polish up on her magic. If she remembered the next step correctly, she should go to sleep and dream sweet fifties dreams, although Hillary suspected her dreams might be closer to R than the PG stuff Beth had reported.
Not surprisingly, as soon as she laid her head on the pillow, Hillary’s mind started to churn. How did one enchant glasses? How was time travel possible? Why Beth? If the glasses worked, why her? What would it smell like in the fifties? Would she just appear out of thin air? If she did, would she be in some hidden place so as not to frighten the natives? Would she arrive attired in movie-star glamour? Or—horrors—be made up like a housewife? What about…
Bright light pierced Hillary’s lids. This was it—this was time travel. She opened her eyes and squinted at the harsh light. The light streaming through her bedroom window. She’d forgotten to draw the curtains last night.
“Seriously, Glenda?” Hillary rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.
A little water splashed on her face woke her up enough to text Beth: Tried the glasses. Epic fizzle.
Her phone didn’t ring immediately, so Beth was likely still asleep. Just as well—Hillary hadn’t decided how she felt about it yet. Except the peeved part. Not much doubt in her mind on that count. She was definitely peeved that Glenda was a hope-raising, evil bat and liked to mess about in innocent people’s lives. Hillary pursed her lips. Innocent might be a stretch. Harmless? She smirked. No one would accuse her of that. Unsuspecting? That might work.
The glitter of the glasses caught her eye. “Oh you lovely darlings. Away you go.” She shoved them in her nightstand.
After some breakfast and an immodest dose of caffeine, Hillary recognized that there was a smallish—or possibly not so small—chance that she was being an ungrateful cow. The glasses had been a gift. One should be appreciative of gifts.
But then her newfound regret gave way to a twitchy uneasiness. The gift had actually been an odd one, given out of the blue and for no apparent reason. Sure, she’d eyed them, but she hadn’t even voiced a compliment…had she? And why had she accepted them? In accepting them, why hadn’t she questioned the reason for the gift? And oddest of all, why had she tried them on? Disappearing into the pale-complected, red-lipped flawlessness of 1950s make-up might seem like a treat, but even the slightest risk she might not return, that she would leave her grandpa alone, was simply not worth it.
“I smell something rotten.”
Before she could assess her actions, she was standing next to her bed, her nightstand drawer open. The morning sun glinted off the crystal embellishments on the glasses, catching her eye. Looking at the glasses resting innocuously enough inside the drawer, Hillary felt a tug to try them on again. And what was with all the glinting? Were the crystals even catching the sunlight, or did the darned things just flash sparkling temptation whenever she looked in their direction?
“Oh no you didn’t.” The glasses shined temptingly—with no direct sunlight in the vicinity. “You sneaky, under-handed witch.” Hillary grabbed her phone, and her fingers flew as she typed a text to Beth. I’ve been poison appled.
Her phone rang immediately.
“You’ve been what?” Beth didn’t even bother with “hello.”
“I’m the recipient of a Trojan horse, a poisoned apple.” Hillary tried not to fume, but she failed utterly, completely, and eventually without regret. She unclenched her jaw and continued. “That’s right. Our Goode Witch is an imposter—totally evil. The glasses were a tainted gift. That evil witch enchanted the glasses; I’m sure of it.
“Uh, you’re upset about missing out on the fifties?” Beth said in a small voice.
“No—this has nothing to do with time travel. It has everything to do with my unreasonable and persistent desire to put those darn glasses on.” Even now, Hillary felt her eyes drift, drawn to the sparkle and shine. She closed the nightstand drawer.
“I don’t get it. Why make you want to wear them if they don’t do anything?” Beth’s voice firmed and a suspicious note crept in. “Are you sure this isn’t your normal fashion obsession kicking in? You do love a good accessory.”
“Hm. That’s true; I do.” Just before the words left her lips, Hillary felt that same little push. “You have got to be kidding me. I’m grabbing at any excuse for them not to be cursed, against reason. I’m sure now; there’s something wrong with these glasses. Until I figure out how they’ve been jinxed, they’re not coming out of the drawer.”
“Okay. If that makes you feel better.”
“Really? You, the lady soon to be engaged to a time-traveling wonder, are doubting the existence of cursed glasses?
Beth sighed. “Good point. You know, I drank a lot of wine yesterday. I’m not quite up to par today.”
“Uh-huh. Go drink some coffee. I have no sympathy for you. I’m the one with the creepy glasses that are calling my name.”
“Right. Um, I guess call me if anything, you know, weird, or potentially hazardous happens.”
Hillary looked at her phone and had a pang of sympathy for her grandpa. Even at the end of that conversation, she could sense Beth’s hesitation. Her best friend didn’t buy that there was something going on with those glasses. It was
frustrating, because Hillary was so sure. She felt it.
“All right, Gramps, you win.” Hillary dialed Mary Margaret. Having a taste of what her grandpa had been suffering with this whole Brad situation made her more sympathetic. Seriously, she could feel the tug of those glasses, and even the one person on the planet most likely to believe her had been skeptical.
Mary Margaret answered with a cheerful greeting.
“It’s Hillary, and I’ve got a huge favor to ask.”
“Well, the last time you had an emergency, I met your time-traveling friend, so sure.” Hillary could hear the smile in Mary Margaret’s voice.
Mary Margaret was solid. Grounded, practical, happy with where she was in life. Just being around her made Hillary feel more relaxed. Gramps would love her.
“Here’s the thing, Gramps didn’t have much faith in the last psychic I had come out to the house, so he’s asked me to get you to come around. Any chance you can put aside your ethics for an afternoon and visit my grandpa?”
“Oh, you know I don’t do ghosts.”
“I know. He and Brad—his invisible buddy—have discussed it, and have decided you’re bound to be much better than Madame Celeste even though you’re not an expert in ghosts. I swear, I told him you don’t usually do dead people. Gramps says Brad doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t have an aura and I should ask you anyway.”
“Ah. He doesn’t have an aura, because he’s not alive. Assuming he exists.”
“I’ve tried to explain that, but Gramps keeps insisting. Also, I’m having a bad day and if you could do this, my karmic points would triple—roughly.”
