We talk about money. Or rather, I don’t talk but keep my body flat to the carpet, my head turned toward the wall. Everyone who is not me talks about the now sizeable cache of angel donations. I refuse to hear numbers, exact amounts. There’s no way I’m putting a dollar value to any of this. When exact amounts are being said, I say the word “gratis” in my head. Gratis means free—as in zero price—in at least six different languages. Maybe more. Maybe I’ll study language again? Maybe I want to learn about something that exists outside this room? Every now and then I raise my arm, or my leg, in agreement with what’s being said.
“‘GRATIS’ amount goes to Rose for damages to her property.” I raise my arm.
“‘GRATIS’ amount will go to Bobby and Lucky to fly up and meet their relatives. It costs a lot of money to fly to Sioux Lookout.” I kick up my leg, both legs. Sensation is returning to my limbs again. It feels good. I kick once more for the simple joy of being able to kick.
“‘GRATIS’ amount to pay the witches their fee for de-ghosting the Crystal Beach artifacts.”
“‘GRATIS’ amount to Starla for debt recovery or counselling or both.” I roll over to face the room. I want to refuse this money. Refusing seems easier than accepting it. For a split second, I allow myself to picture the bills in my hands. Or begrudgingly handing it all over to Barbara to manage for me. I remember how the ATM machine sucked up my first overdrawn credit card; the screen flashed with CONTACT YOUR BANK IMMEDIATELY. I remember buying rounds of tequila shots at the bar. I remember carrying shopping bags down Bloor Street, a.k.a. the Mink Mile. I remember paying cash for scalped concert tickets, outbidding the other punks in the lineup. I remember how dry the air seemed inside Toronto Women’s Bookstore whenever I waited for my purchases to be rung up. Was I happy in those moments? What did I feel?
“Don’t be a shithead,” Bobby snaps at me. “Take the money. You don’t even know where you’re gonna live next, what you’re gonna do. So take the money and do something with your damn self.”
“Rahn thinks you should go to counselling. With this money you could see a real fancy therapist, at least for a few of months,” says Barbara. “That’s a good idea, eh?”
“Studies show that most psychotherapy clients improve after about twelve sessions, that is, depending on the severity of the problem,” says Rahn. “In your case, Starla, I really encourage you to commit to therapy. Get the help you need.”
“You people are hilarious,” huffs Dolores. “Oh, go to therapy and you’re as good as new. Girl, you’re going to be dealing with this for the rest of your life. It’s lifelong.”
“Welcome to the club,” Bobby says. “Club screwed-up-for-life.” She, Dolores, and Leanne cackle and jiggle together on the sofa. Leanne clamps her hand over her mouth to protect her split lip as she laughs. Right, yes, life is not a book or a movie. No one writes “the end” when the crisis is over. But why is that funny? One day, will I get the joke? I have a terrible feeling I will.
Hal claps his hands together loudly, says, “This is a good place to break for lunch.” Feet shuffle across the carpet and out of the living room. How are they handling this so well? Are they handling it well? Like normal? I think about eating a normal lunch, a tuna fish sandwich, but nothing happens. I’m not hungry. I can’t stand up. I’ll be screwed up for the rest of my life.
“I’m proud of you, Star,” Tamara wriggles up beside me. “We all are. It’s just too fresh, you know. Not everyone’s ready to say it, but we all know how brave you’re being.”
“It’s not like I tore down the gazebo. Or cleared all those people from Rose’s property.”
“Yeah, but in the end, you’re the only one that had the power to say ‘it’s over.’”
“What if I don’t want it to be over?” I’m queasy as I peel myself off the floor. I bring my sick head closer to hers and she touches my cheek, only for a second, but long enough to make my breath catch.
She says she has something to show me, slides a VHS tape into Rose’s player. The salt-and-pepper on the TV screen turns into a woman news anchor’s face. The anchor’s shoulder-padded blazer is so 1986. Someone give this poor woman a wardrobe refresh, I think, before I realize she is talking about Etta. “Do ghosts really exist? Are we alone in this world? Parapsychologist Dr Jaguar Tongue claims, indeed, we are not. Dr Tongue took his photo on July 22nd, and it has been the subject of growing debate ever since …”
The photo, evidently taken through the cabin window, shows Etta, Tamara, and me curled together on the cot. Post-coitus sleeping, though I know Etta doesn’t sleep. Her ghostly eyes may be closed, but at the time that photo was taken she was whispering in my ear. Dollface, you’re mine.
“Turn it off. Turn it off,” I shout. Tamara bangs the TV power button. “I’m cool. I won’t swing any punches. I just can’t see her. Not even on TV.”
“I only wanted you to see what they’re saying about us,” says Tamara. “Lesbian ghosts! Imagine the scandal. Rose had to change her telephone number. People were calling day and night to heavy breathe into the phone. She even got a few death threats. Couple of a-holes said they were going to round us lezzie demons up and slit our throats.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I say.
Tamara’s brow creases, she tilts her head away from me.
“I mean literally, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I literally don’t know. I don’t know.” I must be yelling because Lucky darts back into the living room waving a half-eaten grilled cheese at us. Bobby and Hal bound in after him. Bobby gives me a “stay calm” warning look.
“Breathe, Star. It’s not all death threats. We got lots of fan mail too. Gay men and women from all over North America wrote us. I’ve saved every letter for when you are ready.”
Hal scratches his beard, “It ain’t right. First we was angel seers. Now folks thinks we’re a buncha lesbian feminists.”
Tamara slaps her hand against her forehead.
“For pity’s sake, Hal,” says Bobby. “Whatcha think’s been going on here this whole time? You’ve been takln’ advice from a lesbian, is what.” Hal and Bobby retreat to the kitchen, Hal grumbling about lesbians as he goes. Lucky belly-crawls under the coffee table to keep an eye on us.
“A bunch of the letters said it’s horrible to live and die in the closet. Or to lie and die all alone.” Tamara inches closer to me. “That’s probably what happened to Etta, right?”
I wince at her name and Tamara quickly takes my hand. “Yeah, that, and other things,” I say.
“What things? The mediums told us if we learned about her life, maybe we could bring her to peace.”
I touch my forehead, as if touch will make her voice vent in my head. I slap my bony sternum, as if force will dislodge her in my body. Tamara takes my hands again—this time to prevent me from hitting myself.
“She told me she ran away from home,” I say. “And that she made her money hustling men, like an escort, I guess. She loved dancing and movies, especially scary movies. And she thinks no one loved her, not really. When she died no one came to claim her body. She was buried as Jane Doe in an unmarked grave.”
“That’s awful. No wonder she went evil.”
“She’s not evil, Tamara.” I pull my hands back from hers, wrap my arms around myself in a solo hug.
“I saved this for her.” Tamara births an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket. The curly monogramed initials read YDM. “Yuri Denis Matveev,” she tells me. “That’s my dad. He was a solid guy before he got sick. Like a real protector, man of the house kinda guy. I wanted to use something of his to wrap this up.” Inside the folded handkerchief is Etta’s lost locket. I hug myself harder, clutch the sides of my tank top, pinch my flesh through the thin fabric. Lucky squeaks from under the coffee table. I’m captured by the small swirl of Etta’s black hair pressed behind the cracked glass lid. Tamara wraps the locket back up tightly and slips it into her pocket again.
“She became extra violent the day whatshisname brought it. Maybe she wants to be buried with it. Doesn’t help that she’s buried in an unmarked grave. I bet if we all put our heads together, we could figure out how to find her.”
I feel my jaw unhinge, my mouth widen to let the first round of wails and sobs come out. I take a fire-belly breath and begin round two. Lucky throws his body into mine in a rough hug. Tamara is shushing me, telling me not to be scared. My next inhale trembles through my whole body. The living room fills again. Bobby and Dolores hover particularly close.
“You need a time-out, Star. Let’s get you to the bedroom.” Dolores hooks her hands under my armpits to lift me.
“Don’t! She’s just having a good cry,” Tamara tells her.
A good cry. The noises I make are mine. The hands that have slipped under my shirt to lay bare against my chest are mine. Everyone gathered around me sees me and only me. Am I good? I am good and crying.
“Thank you for going through this with me,” I bring myself to say.
“Well, the ghost said we need to stick together,” says Rose.
“The one good thing she did say,” says Tamara.
“Yup, the ghost did say one good thing, that we have to stick together,” Leanne speaks for the first time. She looks at me too, almost smiles.
“Actually, I said that. I said that on my own. She didn’t tell me to say it.”
Tamara takes my hand, says, “Well, that makes it twice as true.”