7
After Mom and Grandma’s argument over the river ghost, it takes a while for Grandma to bring Shelly with her on a job again. Grandma waits until a Saturday when Mom is working late. She knocks on Shelly’s bedroom door and says, “How would you like to go downtown today?”
Shelly looks up from the book on parapsychology she got out of the library—it’s useless, full of facts about electromagnetic fields, and Shelly is pretty sure those don’t apply to ghosts at all. Honestly, it’s pretty funny—a whole field of people who think ghost hunting is all infrared cameras and EMF readers are so caught up thinking they know everything that they don’t realize they’re going about finding ghosts all wrong.
Shelly would rather be doing something else, though. “What for?”
“Ghosts,” Grandma says, a note of triumph in her voice. “We’re going to go someplace nice.”
Shelly closes the book.
Grandma pulls Shelly’s hair back into a neat French braid and ties her own in a bun. She makes Shelly change out of jeans into a skirt. They take the bus all the way into the heart of downtown, to a fancy old hotel, and Grandma leads Shelly through the big lobby to the concierge desk.
“We’re here about your ghost,” Grandma tells him.
He smiles at her indulgently—like he thinks he knows what Grandma is here to say. “Lots of people stay here hoping to see her,” he says. “We sell a book about the history of the haunting if you’re interested in more information. I’ve never personally had an encounter, but I know a few staff members who think they have. I’m not sure I believe in ghosts.”
Grandma isn’t always asked to take jobs and doesn’t always get to help the ghosts she comes across. Sometimes the living think they’re more important than the dead.
“Oh, you’ve got a ghost all right,” says Grandma. “Could I speak with the hotel manager?”
The concierge pauses, the smile slipping from his face. Grandma’s question has obviously caught him off guard. “The manager?” he repeats. “Can I ask what you want to speak to him about, ma’am? He might not be available right now. I could certainly pass on a message for you.”
“We can wait until he’s free,” Grandma says, smiling at the concierge, stubborn as anything. “We want to talk to him about your ghost problem and I could use a cup of tea. I’m sure the restaurant is a perfectly comfortable place for us to wait. Would you call and let him know we’re here?”
Grandma stands right where she is, staring the concierge down, until he gives in and reaches for the phone. Shelly feels smug. Grandma can be immovable as a mountain when she wants to be—same with Mom. Maybe that runs in the family the way seeing ghosts does. Shelly hopes so. She wants to be like that, too.
“I’ll call,” he says. “No promises. I’m not sure—what about the ghost?” There’s a look in his eyes like he thinks maybe they’re going to claim something outlandish, something unbelievable that he’s going to have to deal with.
“I’m a professional,” says Grandma. “I deal with the dead for a living. I’d like to speak with the manager about helping your ghost move on.”
The concierge stares at Grandma, and this time she just smiles at him.
“You know what?” he says. “You’re right. The manager should be the one you talk to. I don’t get paid enough to decide whether or not the hotel gets an exorcism.”
Shelly presses her lips together to keep from laughing, but Grandma doesn’t bother hiding her amusement. “Perfect,” she says, grinning at the concierge. “We’ll be in the lounge having some tea while we wait.”
• • •
Shelly sees the ghost before Grandma does. The two of them are sitting in the restaurant. Grandma has a pot of orange pekoe and Shelly mint. The concierge called the ghost a her, but when one of the brass-doored elevators dings and nobody walks out, Shelly looks over and sees a spectral boy peering at her from inside. He looks about her age and he’s dressed nicely, but in clothes that look old-fashioned—shorts and a blazer, his socks pulled up to his knees. When a bellhop pulling a cart of luggage walks into the elevator with him, the ghost reaches up and slides a hand over the inside wall.
Shelly can’t see inside the car, but the dismayed expression on the bellhop’s face and the gleeful look on the ghost’s make it pretty easy to guess that he just hit a bunch of buttons.
“Grandma,” Shelly says, reaching out to tap her arm, “it’s a kid.”
Grandma looks up from stirring milk into her tea, following Shelly’s gaze to the elevator just as the doors close on the exasperated bellhop. She snorts. “Up to mischief, I see,” she says. “You have to respect that in a boy his age—he’s keeping himself entertained.”
“You mean he’s bored,” says Shelly, grinning. She’d love to push an entire bank of elevator buttons. Being a ghost has its advantages.
Grandma nods. “The hotel and its ghost story are both old. Got me thinking that if I was the ghost of this place, I’d be just about ready to move on now. There’s only so much unfinished business you can cling to. Besides, I’d be bored, wouldn’t you?”
Shelly takes a sip of her tea. “I’m already bored of sitting here. Do you think the manager will actually talk to us?”
“Someone will come,” Grandma says. She’s been doing this since before Shelly’s mother was Shelly’s age. When she says something is going to happen, it’s easy to believe her. “They won’t want us living in their lobby. Eventually it’ll be easier to send someone down than to have us here.”
They have to wait, though. So long that a server comes and refills the hot water in both their teapots. Shelly spends the wait watching the ghost. The hotel staff avoid the boy’s elevator when they can. There’s a whole bank of them to choose from, so if you know which one is haunted, it’s easy to avoid. The ghost looks disappointed every time someone doesn’t get in with him.
But Grandma is right. After 40 minutes, a man in a neatly pressed suit with an official little name tag and nice hair comes to speak with them. He’s carrying a book and smiling—polite but obviously ready to move on fast.
“Hello,” he says. “My name is Marc. Nick says you want to talk to someone about our ghost story?”
“Did you know it’s wrong?” Shelly asks, doing her best not to point to the elevators. “It’s not a woman haunting the hotel, it’s a little boy.”
Marc pauses, looking down at Shelly then at Grandma. “I brought you a copy of the official history of the hotel,” he says and places the book he’s carrying on their table. The cover features a photograph of the hotel’s roof. It looks very official.
Grandma pushes the book to the side. “I’m offering to get rid of your ghost,” she says. “I can see he’s bothering your guests and staff, and he’s been stuck here a long time. He’s restless. I can help him move on.”
Marc glances at the haunted elevator like he knows exactly what they’re talking about then shakes his head. “Thank you, ladies, but we’re quite happy with our ghost. Like I said, she’s included in the official history.” Marc gestures toward the book. “People love coming to see her. It’s a fun spot for the tourists.”
“If they’ve never seen a ghost before, they won’t see one now,” Grandma says. Shelly’s never met anyone else who can see ghosts the way her family can. Plenty of people can feel them around, but being able to have a conversation with them and move them the way they can is special. “The dead don’t decide to make themselves known to you just the one time. It’s all or nothing.”
Marc’s smile is stiff and official. “I see,” he says. “We’re really not interested in buying an exorcism.”
“Oh, no charge,” Grandma says. “I just need your permission.”
“We’re not interested,” he says again. “We like having her around.”
“It’s not a her,” says Shelly. “It’s a little boy. He’s not much older tha
n me. That’s why he’s playing in the elevator. He doesn’t have any friends here and he’s bored.”
Marc looks down at Shelly. “Aren’t you a little young to be telling ghost stories?” he asks. “Listen, it’s better if it’s the ghost of a young woman. A child, that’s morbid—sad. The death of a young woman is romantic. People enjoy it more.”
Shelly’s never seen anyone turn down Grandma’s offer before. She feels angry at Marc for saying no. Even people who don’t really believe her usually don’t mind having her walk around a bit, but Nick the concierge watches them from his desk after Marc leaves. Shelly and Grandma leave the restaurant and go home.
On the bus ride, Grandma takes Shelly’s hand in hers. “There’s nothing romantic about it,” she says. She’s annoyed. “Death is just death. You understand?”
Shelly didn’t like Marc much either, but the boy in the elevator hadn’t looked too upset about being stuck in the hotel. Maybe he wasn’t ready to move on—some ghosts were stuck, but some wanted to stay. Shelly doesn’t like the hotel keeping the ghost around just to make money, doesn’t like him having his story changed, but maybe he’s happy haunting the elevators.
Grandma’s obviously upset about the ghost this time, though, so Shelly can’t say it doesn’t seem that bad to her. She nods instead. “I know.”
Grandma gives Shelly’s hand a gentle squeeze and lets go. “We shouldn’t tell your mother about this one,” she says. “I was hoping for a different outcome, but she’ll worry about this.”
Shelly’s got ghost secrets and french fry secrets. She doesn’t want her mother to worry about either. She nods and squeezes Grandma’s hand. “I won’t tell, I promise.”
• • •
The long wait in the hotel lobby means Mom is home from work when Shelly and Grandma open the front door.
“Let me guess,” Mom says. “Ghost hunting?” Her hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s changed out of her uniform into a hoodie and leggings. “Mom, we just had this discussion!”
“We didn’t get close to the ghost,” Grandma says. “We observed it.”
Shelly’s mother closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, exhaling through her nose. “Okay,” she says, pulling a hair tie out of her hoodie pocket. She reaches up and twists her hair into a bun. “Shell, we’re going to go pick up some food for dinner. Go to the car, please.”
The tension between Grandma and Mom is thick in the air. Shelly turns on her heel and walks back out the door. She doesn’t want to be caught in the argument just waiting to spark between them. Their family has always been just the three of them living together in a small space. Mom and Grandma fighting makes everything uncomfortable, especially because Shelly’s usually what they’re arguing about.
Mom doesn’t take long to follow her out, slamming the door behind her. “We’re getting Zhou’s,” she says. “I need an egg roll.”
“We just went to a hotel and had tea,” Shelly says, getting into the car. “I didn’t even talk to the ghost.”
“You should be spending weekends playing with other kids,” Mom says, starting up the car. “You should be having friends over, not hanging out in graveyards.”
“I like ghosts. I don’t mind going places with Grandma.”
Mom sighs. “I know you don’t,” she says, sounding tired. “Promise me you’ll have fun too, though, okay?”
It’s an easy promise to make. Ghosts can be a lot of fun. “I promise,” she says. “Music?”
“You’re changing the subject,” says her mom, but she’s smiling a little, so she’s not too upset. She reaches out and hits play on the tape deck. Joseph’s music fills up the car again, the singer promising some unnamed person, in his thick-with-sorrow voice, that he will always love them.
8
The police come again but not to ask for help. It’s late evening this time. Outside it’s dark and cold and raining so hard Shelly can hear the water splashing against the house. The cars driving past on the street send huge arcs of water flying through the air.
When Grandma opens the door, Jenny is there, her uniform soggy around the edges like the ghost Shelly and Grandma brought home from the river. She runs her hands through her hair nervously. She glances over Grandma’s shoulder, at Shelly, but looks away, focusing on Grandma instead, like she’s pretending Shelly isn’t there.
“There was an accident,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Grandma knows what Jenny means right away. She freezes up in the doorway like someone hit pause. It takes Shelly a little longer.
What Jenny means is the car was so old it could only play tapes. She means the brakes needed replacing. She means the weather was bad and the world was dark. She means Shelly’s mother was tired and coming off a long shift. She means there was an accident and Shelly’s mom didn’t walk away from it.
Grandma comes unstuck gradually, moving slowly as her face crumples. She looks at Shelly—reaches for her—but Shelly can’t hear her.
A ringing in Shelly’s ears drowns out everything except the sound of her heartbeat, unsteady and too fast. She feels . . . distant. Like she’s underwater so she can’t see Grandma and Jenny clearly. She can’t concentrate on them talking about what happened and how it happened and what to do next. It feels like someone took an ice cream scoop and scooped Shelly out of her body, pulled the part of her that feels things away and set it aside for later.
She walks to her mother’s bedroom and sits on her bed. She’s there, but she’s not. She’s there, but it’s like she’s watching herself. She’s watching and she’s waiting. She waits and waits. She stays up all night and watches the sun rise through the window.
She waits, but her mother’s ghost doesn’t come.
9
Not everyone who dies becomes a ghost. Most people just move on, but those people don’t know about ghosts like Shelly’s mom knew about ghosts. They didn’t grow up with ghosts clutching at their hair, with a mother who dealt with ghosts for a living. Those people don’t have Shelly waiting for them.
Shelly sits in her mother’s room all night, waiting for her ghost, surrounded by things that smell like her mom’s shampoo—sweet and citrusy, like orange hard candies. Shelly knows ghosts, but it turns out that doesn’t mean she knows death. It turns out knowing ghosts doesn’t prepare you for the raw ache of missing someone. Grandma was right. There’s nothing romantic about death.
When she can’t stand to be in the room any longer, Shelly goes looking for her mom. She can’t leave the house for long or go very far without her grandma being worried, but she lets her hair out and she circles round and round the neighborhood looking for any sign of her mother. It feels like everything should be different, but it’s not. Neighbors walk their dogs. Other kids walk home from school. Shelly passes people jogging who smile and wave hello.
Something should be different, but it’s not. The weather is overcast but not raining. People are living their lives. There are no new ghosts to be found.
When Shelly gets back, Grandma is busy arranging things. The funeral. There’s a lot of paperwork on this side of death, a lot of money. Mrs. Potts comes over with a tin of cookies and a tuna casserole she sticks in the oven while Grandma’s on the phone.
“Do you have anything to wear?” she asks Shelly, and when Shelly shakes her head, Mrs. Potts looks at Grandma. “Why don’t I take Shelly shopping tomorrow? We’ll find something for her and you won’t have to worry about it.”
“Would you? That would be a big help,” says Grandma. “There’s no time to do anything.”
“Of course,” says Mrs. Potts. She holds out the tin of cookies to Shelly. “What do you think? We’ll go to the thrift store and see what they’ve got.”
Shelly wants to say that is where she and her mother went—that Zhou’s Family Restaurant is where they had secret french fries together and Mom talked about one day getting a ni
cer car—but she presses her lips together and takes a cookie from the tin. “Thank you,” she says instead because it’s polite and because there are other things Shelly can get at the thrift store.
When they go to the store, Mrs. Potts starts searching for dresses that are black or navy in Shelly’s size. Shelly slips away, to the back corner of the store, where the box of barely touched cassettes sits, waiting.
Shelly’s never stolen anything before, but tapes are hard to find.
• • •
The dress Mrs. Potts bought is too tight in the collar, but Shelly has other things on her mind the day of the funeral. The service is in a little chapel on the grounds of the graveyard, the same one where they met Joseph. One of Grandma’s friends burns sweetgrass and walks around the room, slow and steady, letting them breathe in the smoke.
Shelly sits between Grandma and Mrs. Potts. They’re more comfortable with the ceremony than she is. She tries to follow along as they fan the smoke toward themselves, but she’s never been to a funeral before and it’s all new. Shelly tries to focus on looking like she knows what she’s doing because it’s something else to think about. If she’s thinking about the scent of sweetgrass, she’s not thinking about her mother being dead—she’s not thinking about how the next time she sees her, her mom will be a ghost.
Shelly’s hair is loose. She has to comb ghosts from it with her fingers on the way to the cemetery, but Grandma doesn’t say anything about her hair being down. She understands grief better than most people. Grandma makes her living with the dead, and that means she talks to people who are grieving. That means she’s met ghosts who never wanted to die, who were taken from the living too soon. Grandma has helped other people move on before, and now she and Shelly have lost someone, too.
The Ghost Collector Page 4