Chapter Twenty

“All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection.”

I lie in bed, listening to the wind coo over the house, shutters wheezing in and out, wondering if there will be any thunder to accompany this quiet lightning flashing behind my eyelids. Finally, the tranquil storm eventually lulls me to sleep.

The soft aroma of flowers filters into the room. I’m no longer in bed. I’m under a half moon in a beautiful silvery garden with patches of shrubs, curving stone walkways, fragrant herbs, and tall swaying grasses. Cold wind caresses my memory with scents of roses and English lavender, my mother’s favorite. I feel like I know this place.

I scan the garden for her familiar presence, finding only a mouse scurrying ahead of me. My wrapped arms fight off cold air. Twigs snap behind me. I whirl around and spot a house—a tiny, charming house under the stars that I’ve seen many times—one room, gray walls, red roof, a sole window above the wooden door.

I might be able to place it in my memory if it weren’t for the weeping I hear. A woman’s sobbing, mumbling under her breath, sobbing again. I look around, fully expecting Mary’s spirit to accost me out of nowhere, beg me to follow, push and pull me where she wants me to go, but I don’t see her. The isolated weeping continues as another sound rises over the cries—a baby’s piercing wail.

My bare feet crush a spot in the tall grass. The infant’s cries ebb then start again, ebb and then again…the smell of lavender is stronger now, almost too pungent. I’m overwhelmed with a maternal instinct to find the baby and protect it. I crouch on the ground and run my hands along the hard earth, feeling for a warm body, a basket, blanket, anything.

“Shh, baby. It’s all right.”

Twigs snap again. I raise my eyes just above the level of the grass. Someone is there, rounding the corner of the house. I wait with suspended breath, forcing myself perfectly still in the squatted position. Then I see him. I’d know him anywhere. Only he looks older, a future version of himself, a hybrid of a man my father’s age and the boy I grew up with, a powerful form hovering in the tall grass. Bram? Dad?

I've invested so much in you.

I know…

His words might comfort me if his voice didn’t sound so twisted, manic, as if I wronged him. Like he’s not Bram at all. I’ve had dreams like this before, where the person I’m seeing has an identity belonging to someone else.

It’s a dream, I remind myself. Anything can happen.

My father–Bram hybrid steps out of the shadows on a mission. In his right hand, he holds something. A shovel? Old, rusted, and black.

Bram…Dad…you’re scaring me. Please stop.

He reaches me and grabs my wrists tightly with one strong hand. I feel his warm breath on my cheek. No one takes what's mine. He squeezes my wrists until I cry out, until my circulation is cut and I no longer feel my hands. Nobody.

I twist my wrists to set them free. Let go of me! I yell.

Nobody can take me away from you.

He means me. Yes, of course he does. Why is he so angry? Because of Dane? Angry, like my father had been on the only night I’ve ever seen him enraged, the night I hid in the pantry, listening in on his jealous tirade.

Please let go of me. You’re hurting me. This is crazy!

You’re not crazy, Betty Anne’s words echo, as Dad–Bram releases his hold on me and shoves me back onto the ground. You’re home. For a flickering second, Shelley’s ghost stands in the garden, longing to help but powerless.

Bram’s look-alike lifts his other hand and brings it down with such force, I brace for the blow. But my eyes shoot open. I sit up screaming, realizing I’m still in Betty Anne’s spare room, not a garden. Lightning flashes against the walls, the old TV, the pictures in frames everywhere bathed in electric white light.

“Jesus.” I try regulating my breath back to even, but the lightning flashes again, and this time, in the second it takes for the room to light up, I see a woman in a white nightdress standing at the foot of my bed.

I take in the full horrific sight. Messy hair over her face and shoulders, chin hanging. She doesn’t speak—or can’t—though it seems like she wants to from the mournful look in her dark eyes. She should still be alive, should still be here to make amends with me.

“Mami,” I say, a single sigh suspended between us.

I have a million questions for her, about the journal, about my father, about why she wanted me home, but the first thing that comes flying out of my mouth is, “Mami, I’m sorry. I was unfair to you. I should have stuck with you no matter what. But you didn’t tell me what was going on. I didn’t know.” I cover my face with my hands and weep. She deserved the benefit of the doubt, and I never gave it to her.

...not your fault...

I uncover my face, realizing the mistake it is to look away, knowing she might not be there again when I look twice. But she’s still here, gliding out the door, feet and legs bone white, nightdress trailing her knees. The outline of her body, the curve of her breasts, beautiful shape visible through the fabric.

I shoot out of bed. The wraith floats down the hall and out of the house through the door without even opening it. In awe, I watch her and unlock the door, stepping into a whirlwind of wind and leaves, electric light and cold air. “Where are we going?” I watch my mother’s spirit float into the street and turn. “Your house?”

She looks over her shoulder disapprovingly, hair shifting down her back. I realize my mistake. “Home?” I notice the darkness behind her ear, the crusted patch of dark blood. Blunt trauma to the head.

“Was it an accident? Please tell me. I need to know.”

She doesn’t answer. Just leads me down Maple Street past our little gray house with the overgrown grass, the place I once loved, where dreams dried up and withered, past the barking dog on the corner, right and up North Broadway.

“Back to the cemetery?” I grow colder without my sweater, or shoes for that matter. My knee hurts. Another walk to the cemetery in this condition just might set its healing back to square one.

No.

“So you can talk to me?”

Not both.

I understand. Until now, I’ve always heard my mother’s voice without seeing her. But now she’s visible with few words. She must have enough energy for one or the other—to be seen or heard—not both. She hasn’t had enough time to learn the astral ways, as Betty Anne explained.

What if this is the last time I ever see her? I have to ask the right questions. “Everyone thinks you stole that journal. Did you? Is that the business you wanted me to finish, why you sent me that note? Just say yes or no.”

She’s preoccupied with her mission of leading me down the street.

“Mami, please, I’m not good at guessing games. You have to tell me what to do. Just tell me.” I start crying again.

If she hears me, she gives no indication, just glides past the porches with turned-off jack-o-lanterns and white cheesecloth ghosts fluttering around in the wind. Her apparition is starting to lose strength. One moment, her legs are made of light, wispy, dissipating smoke. The next, her whole body turns to miniscule dots of swirling bluish light, and I’m walking alone down the sloping street.

“No! Don’t leave me here like this. You have to answer at least one question, Mami, please!” I cover my face, shaking my head. “No, no, no.” I wonder if I should sit and wait for her to materialize again.

But then, she reappears a moment later, like frames on old black-and-white film, to reach out her hand toward the west side of the street.

“What is it?” I follow her to a squat abandoned building that looks a lot like the Hardee’s that used to be there when I was little. Now it’s an empty shell with nothing but an old parking lot and garbage dumpster next to it. “What are you showing me?”

Is the journal there? Is that what this is all about? Mami’s spirit begins fading, her shape dissipating into tiny dots of swirling light again. “Don’t you leave! Tell me what I’m supposed to do. Tell me!” But the blue dots swirl faster until they blink out, and a tiny starburst of light ends it all.

“Come back here!” I yell, flailing my arms. “I don’t believe this!” I close my eyes and try opening myself up to the other side again, inviting the voices and visions back in, but she’s gone—faded, like the last warm day of a bitter autumn.

“Where am I?” An insane asylum would be as good a place as any. I cross the parking lot and walk up to the building, placing my hands against the dark window to look inside. Hardee’s has been mostly gutted, only a few planks of pressed wood lying on the dusty floor.

...dumpster...

“What?” But I heard her clearly.

Pulling away from the window, I peer at the metal garbage container nestled in the shadowy corner of the parking lot. Something in it calls to me. It’s rusted and partially covered with tree roots cracking apart the asphalt it sits on. The more I look at it, the more I don’t want to approach it, but it dares me.

Slowly, I walk toward it. I wish I had a shovel or bat, an implement to swat with in case something charges at me. My breath is choppy and sounds annoyingly weak in my ears. Stay calm.

I stop a few feet away. This is not smart. I really should return some other time with Betty Anne and a flashlight. No, I’m not coming back here again, so I better get it over with now.

I force myself forward and notice it doesn’t smell like other dumpsters. Good sign. In fact, it doesn’t smell at all, and when I lift the lid and peek inside, emptiness stares back at me. I crane my neck over the edge for a better look. Except for a knotted-up grocery bag against the front wall, it’s empty.

“What about this?” I ask. I pull my head back, and I pause—the bag—and lean in again. It’s too far to reach, so I set down the heavy metal lid and circle the dumpster to rifle through the tree’s droppings, finding a nice, long branch among the fallen foliage.

Lifting the lid again, I reach as far as I can with the branch on my tiptoes, sliding the end of it into one of the knotted loops and pulling the bag up. It feels light, another good sign that I’m not hoisting up a rotting animal or discarded head. The dumpster closes with a loud clang.

I throw the stick on the ground and begin unknotting the plastic, but when it doesn’t loosen fast enough, I abandon all practicality and rip a hole in it. What I find crumpled inside is quite common—a well-worn, white cotton T-shirt, extra-large.

What I find spattered along the bottom edge of it—not quite as ordinary.