Dead Living (Spirit Caller Book 5)

by Krista D. Ball

  I smiled to myself. Was this what normal life was like? No spirits. No paranormal or supernatural weird crap. Just couples bickering over an appliance. I could get used to this.

  I gathered up some of the French toast from breakfast on a plate and wrapped it in plastic wrap. I dressed in quasi-clean clothes and shoved my feet into my rubber boats. Then I trekked across my large yard to Mrs. Saunders’s house to drop off some French toast. Jeremy loved the old lady as much as I did and often made her extras. It also gave me an additional excuse to check on her every day.

  Mrs. Saunders’s house was in need of a paint job. The roof was still solid, at least, but the paint was starting to peel off the wooden boards now. She had been anxious about hiring someone to paint the house, but Jeremy offered up the services of some of the Mounties. They’d come over and scrape all of the old paint off the house; a tedious and carpal tunnel syndrome-inducing activity. Then, she could pay Amy’s brother-in-law to paint the house. He wouldn’t overcharge her and he’d do a good job.

  Plus, he’d charge less because we’d have done all of the horrible work.

  Depending on Mrs. Saunders’s mood, I’d bring it up again with Amy there. We could do it in the late spring, which could give her enough time to decide if she wanted to change the colour of the house.

  Mrs. Saunders’s granddaughter, Amy, and I had been sharing the heavy lifting of helping Mrs. Saunders stay independent in her own home. I’d learned a lot about myself in looking after Mrs. Saunders. I never cared about learning to cook, for example, nor did I care about nutrition. Kraft Dinner and wieners were fine by me. But, the old lady was a diabetic and had high blood pressure, so needed to be on a special diet.

  I even took a couple of cooking classes in Corner Brook. Jeremy used to see a specialist for his hip and a therapist for his PTSD, so I coordinated a few courses around being in the city. We’d stay overnight at one of Mrs. Saunders’s many grandchildren’s houses (who were all very happy to help out their “Nan” by looking after us).

  I wasn’t related to Mrs. Saunders, and I certainly didn’t know her as long as some of my neighbours, but I cared about her. Now knowing her history and knowing Dema was protecting Mrs. Saunders made me respect her all the more. She had lived a long, good life—and, yes, I do believe killing her best friend’s rapist is a good thing, thank you very much—and she deserved to be pampered and looked after in her twilight years.

  And, on a selfish note, her kitchen table was one of the few places I could go where the other left me the hell alone. Mrs. Saunders could’ve been the devil herself and I’d probably still visit just to get away from the crazy.

  I ducked around my woodpile and crossed the grassy field between our houses. The wind was blowing hard today, and my eyes watered. I had to turn my head away from the gale to catch my breath. I loved Wisemen’s Cove, but I could sure do with less wind. I couldn’t even rely on trees since the poor trees grew horizontal here, forming the island’s famous tuckamores. Sure, they were pretty, but they didn’t help brace against the wind.

  I knocked on the wooden door and walked in, not bothering to wait for an invitation. That’s how things were done in Wisemen’s Cove. It was rude, in fact, to expect the homeowner to get up from whatever they were doing to come greet you at the door. Who did you think you were? The Queen of England? Take off your boots, and come on in. That was the motto of the place.

  You can see why I loved it here. Well, that, and Jeremy, Mrs. Saunders, all of my friends, and the quiet acceptance that I could be myself. But the knocking-on-the-door thing was a big part of the acceptance.

  “Mrs. Saunders!” I called out, walking into the tiny porch. I pulled off my rubber boots and walked into the 70s style kitchen. “Oh, hey, Amy! I didn’t know you were here. Your car isn’t outside.”

  “I walked, my love,” Amy said. “That doctor got me doing all kinds of foolishness.”

  Amy was a large woman in her fifties, with a big smile and a thick Newfoundland accent. Well, she used to have a thick accent. Nowadays, it just all sounded…normal.

  Well, except when they said things like “barmp.” As in, “He barmped his horn.” As opposed to the more common, “He honked his horn.” But, beyond unique words that made no goddamn sense, I didn’t really notice much about their accents anymore.

  “How goes the no smoking?” I asked as I walked over to the sink to begin washing the few small plates and mugs that had built up.

  “It’s why I’m walking,” Amy said. “It keeps my mind off the smokes.”

  “Maid, leave those be,” Mrs. Saunders scolded me.

  “Is that gin in your mug?” I asked her, a big grin on my face.

  “I needs something to make this skim milk taste good,” she said in her mock-offended voice. But, she didn’t argue anymore as I filled the sink with a bit of warm water to wash her dishes.

  “Have you told her yet, Nan?” Amy asked.

  “Told who what?” I interjected as I rinsed a mug with a cross and the words JESUS LIVES in big, bold letters around the top rim.

  Mrs. Saunders drew in a deep breath and said, “There’s something I needs to tell you, Rachel.”

  I didn’t like the tone of her voice. I put the small plate into the strainer and dried off my hands. I leaned against the sink, still holding the dishcloth, and asked, “Is everything all right?”

  She was ninety-four years old. At her age, even a head cold could be lethal. I needed to prepare myself.

  It was Amy who answered. “Nan wants to sell the house and move in with me.”

  Okay, so not cancer, but nevertheless my stomach dropped. “Are you sick?”

  “My dear, I’m ninety-four years old. Of course I’m sick.”

  I smiled at that. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, why now?”

  Mrs. Saunders waved off my concern. “It’s hard livin’ here by myself, with you and Amy doing everything for me.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said quickly.

  “I knows that, maid, but I’m allowed to have a say in it, too.” Mrs. Saunders sipped at what was most likely a gin-laced instant latte. I’d gotten her hooked on lattes. “Millie is all alone in that old folks home of hers, and I’m here, and if you want the truth, my love, I’m lonely. Now, don’t look at me like that. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You comes over here every day and takes care of me. Jeremy is here every day, now that he’s better. Everyone is good to me. I’m not saying that. But I don’t want the worry of this big house anymore, and I wants to leave it when it’s still my idea and not some fool doctor’s.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly.

  There wasn’t much to say to that; she was right. Mrs. Saunders had earned the right to live wherever she wanted. If she wanted to move out into her granddaughter’s house to be with her best friend, that was her right. My feelings didn’t matter at all in this.

  “So you’d move in with Amy?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Dammit, Rachel. This is about the old woman and not you.

  “Well, I gots some good news on that one. The Newfoundland government has a grant for family members to renovate their houses to let elderly relatives move in, so they don’t need to live in a seniors’ home. I got one for Nan. They approved me for ten thousand! Can you imagine? Ten thousand dollars!” Amy waved her hands. “Oh! And I got the one for us to get new siding and windows! They match us half of it, up to ten thousand. We’ve been saving for three years to afford those suckers, and now we can get them!”

  Mrs. Saunders nodded enthusiastically. “And me husband’s pension is going to give me two thousand to renovate Amy’s bathroom, so that I can have all of the handles and the special tub I needs. Two thousand, maid!”

  I chuckled. “That is a lot of money! You can build an extension on your house for that, Amy!”

  “That’s what we’re going to do. I talked to the old man about it and we’re going to build on a little apartment for Millie and Nan. I checked with the government fellow and h
e said it was okay. We have to pay for it all upfront, but then we give them the receipts and they pay us back.”

  “Well, let us know if we can do anything. And, we’ll still come visit and help and all that,” I said.

  “You’re acting like I’m moving to China, not down the blasted road,” Mrs. Saunders said severely.

  “True. I could probably bike down to visit you every day, until the weather turns,” I said.

  “I don’t understand either of you,” Mrs. Saunders said. “Amy here walking three hours a day. You biking everywhere. Back in my way, we didn’t have time for all that foolishness.”

  “That’s because you had a dozen youngsters to look after, now,” Amy said.

  “You have like forty kids, Amy!” I said severely.

  Amy waved me off. “Half a dozen or so.”

  “Or so? If you forget how many children you have, you have too many.”

  “I don’t like some of them right now, so I’m pretending they’re not mine.”

  “When you going to give me some babies, Rachel?” Mrs. Saunders asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  Now was not the time to tell her about me and Jeremy, so I smiled and said, “When I find out, you’ll be the second person I tell, right after my mother.”

  “That mother of yours don’t need to know right away,” Mrs. Saunders said with a big grin. She took another sip of her gin-latte and smacked her lips. “This is some good stuff.”

  I went back to my dishes, as Amy and Mrs. Saunders discussed the logistics of moving her. Mrs. Saunders wanted her own bedroom that was big enough for a comfy chair and a tiny television, in case she wasn’t in the mood to be out and around everyone. Then, she wanted a tiny little living room to share with Millie and for them to entertain company.

  Mrs. Saunders was in her nineties, and she had a busier social schedule than I did. Mind you, she didn’t act like it.

  “Nan,” Amy was saying, “you can use my living room for your company.”

  “What company do I ever get?” Mrs. Saunders exclaimed.

  “Hey! I’m right here,” I said jokingly.

  “You’re not company,” Mrs. Saunders said.

  Amy went through a list of the people who dropped by to see Mrs. Saunders during the last week. There were various reasons why none of them could be classed as company. The local priest didn’t count, and neither did the two nuns. Neither did the various members of the local Catholic Church’s “Shut In” program, who visited seniors who weren’t overly mobile.

  Oh, and the Pentecostal church’s seniors’ program? Those people didn’t count. Neither did the Anglican church’s “home visits” people. Neither did the United Church’s people, either, though at least they were the nicest because they brought her a slice of cake whenever they came, unlike those Pentecostals who brought her bananas, and the priest who brought her sugar-free cookies.

  All of the people in Wisemen’s Cove didn’t count. Neither did most of the people in Swan Hills, Goose Point, Hawke’s Landing, or Tickle Me Cove (don’t ask).

  In fact, by my calculation, there was about six people on the entire island who Mrs. Saunders would class as “company.”

  I’d have to speak with Dema about setting up supernatural surveillance of Amy’s house. I was getting better at doing wards, too, so I would head down there and do up one. Amy was a Christian, though, so I’d have to be careful to make it seem like me being my usual weird self and not some demon summoning strange shit.

  Ah, the joys of interdenominational relationships.

  “What’s going to happen to the house?” I asked.

  “I guess I’ll sell it,” Mrs. Saunders said. “If anyone wants this ol’ shack.”

  “It’s not easy to sell houses in a place like this,” Amy said.

  I knew how true that was. I sold my condo in Edmonton for a lot and came here and bought my own house in cash. I’ve been able to live off the balance since, just working here and there whenever my expenses exceeded the allowance I gave myself.

  I looked around the old house. It seemed a shame that it might sit vacant for years, until some developer bulldozed the house to make way for a high-priced summer home for some mainlander doctor whose money would cause the housing rates to go sky high and locals wouldn’t be able to afford to live here…

  My God. I’d turned into a Newfoundlander.

  My head was swarming with emotions and thoughts when I left Mrs. Saunders’s house. I didn’t know exactly how long Mrs. Saunders had lived in her house, but it was for most of her adult life. She had raised all of her children in that house, and had seen her family grow up and move away. Her husband died, and still she remained. She grew frail and elderly, but she stayed there all of these years.

  I tried never to think about how old Mrs. Saunders truly was because the dread of knowing what was to come always stung too much. I would mourn that woman like the grandmother figure and the friend she was to me. And I never wanted to think about any of that because it seemed wrong to begin mourning while I still had time left with her.

  “The Elder One will eventually pass from this life,” Dema said from behind me only a few steps from Mrs. Saunders’ door.

  I didn’t flinch or jump this time. I knew Dema would poke her head up when I needed to be alone with my thoughts the most.

  “She has lived a very good life. If she wishes to spend her remaining days surrounded with family, she deserves it.”

  “I know that. I can still worry.” I looked over my shoulder and frowned at her. “You understand that, right?”

  Dema was unusually grave and it reflected in her clothes. She wore black yoga pants and tall rubber boots. She had on her usual caribou-skin tunic, but it had no embellishments today. Her hair was tied back, but not braided. Her hair, like her clothes, lacked the usual accessories.

  “Spirit Caller,” Dema said, and her voice was eerily sombre, “has it not occurred to you that the Elder One might not want you to discover her when she’s departed the world?”

  That froze me in my tracks. “What?”

  “Though you are a grown woman, you are but a child to her. You will always be a child to her. She does not want to give you the grief of discovering her. Be happy that the burden will no longer be yours, and be willing to support those who have been handed your former burden.”

  There are times I forget that Dema is six thousand years old. She is far wiser than I will ever hope to be. And she was right. Damn it all, but she was right. I was being selfish to make this all about me.

  “I wish people didn’t have to grow old and die.”

  Dema appeared next to me and walked along side. Her outfit changed again. This time, she was wearing caribou-skin trousers and a matching knee-length dress and was barefoot. Her hair wasn’t tied back, but also didn’t move in the gale winds. “It is a waste of energy to wish for something that can never be.”

  “It’s my energy. I can do with it as I please.”

  “Then you are a very wasteful girl,” were Dema’s parting words.

  I started laughing, even as tears trickled down my face. No, I couldn’t control who lived or who died, no more than I could wish away the wind that was giving me a pounding headache. I still gave myself permission to be sad. Mrs. Saunders was my friend, and I looked up to her. I loved helping her maintain her independence. I loved doing her dishes, and listening to her tell me stories about when she was a naughty young woman in the “big city” of St. John’s.

  I loved her life advice, which generally boiled down to: My love, you could be dead tomorrow. Do something.

  And it was great advice. I could be dead tomorrow. My life lately was dangerous enough that anything could happen. Even the normal mundane world had more than enough hazards that could suck the life from me. I should do things now, because there might not be a tomorrow.

  I looked over my shoulder at Mrs. Saunders’s house. Since moving to this quiet, outport town, I’ve had a tug to do something. I put it off for various re
asons, but now…And I think it would make Mrs. Saunders happy. I wonder…

  Chapter 3

  Decisions Are for Grown Ups

  With all of the shock of Mrs. Saunders’s news, I’d completely forgotten to tell her The Big News. Now that I thought about it, I should call my parents and tell them. Mom would love to know her only child had finally gotten engaged and, therefore, would be providing Mom with several grandchildren. Oh Ancestors in their graves. It occurred to me that Mom might convince Dad to move here if I ever had kids. To be near the theoretical grandbabies. Then I’d never get to eat poutine and battered shrimp ever again.

  Hmm. Should Jeremy tell his parents before I tell my parents? Should we tell them at the same time?

  Is there such a thing as announcement protocol? Are we supposed to take loads of photos of my engagement ring and post them to Facebook? Are we supposed to do cheesy engagement photos of us displaying our love in a field of rotting, dead leaves? Am I allowed to just tell people online, or do I have to wait for permission?

  The idea of me needing permission made me smile. I’d say that to Jeremy when he got home; that I was waiting for his permission to make the announcement. He’d get a kick out of that.

  The entire pregnancy scare was still too new for me to inflict Mom’s grandbaby salvos on my soul. I decided that I needed to clear my head and enjoy the quiet of my day before announcing anything to anyone, and that definitely included my mother. I made the way across the connecting yard to my house, dodging through the small slit in my woodpile. I’d need to get Johnny Cooper and his boys to bring me a couple loads of wood to cure over the winter, so they’d be good to use in a year. There’s no way I’m going out there to pack wood once the weather turned for the winter.