A Question of Ghosts

by Cate Culpepper

  “Do you have a religious affiliation?”

  “No, I forgot to affiliate. Can you tell me—ˮ

  “Are you currently partnered?”

  “Look, the story is that my mother killed herself when I was five years old. Two nights ago, my mother told me, through a radio, for the second time since she died, that the story isn’t true. That’s why I’m here.”

  Dr. Call’s fingers slowed on the keyboard, then stopped. She pulled her drill bit gaze from the monitor and focused on Becca fully. An awkward few seconds passed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hawkins. Sometimes I forget that manners are a part of this work, if I’m to deal with the public. I tend to move too fast.”

  Becca, the public, was startled by this confession. “Okay,” she said. “No harm done.”

  Dr. Call rested her hands in her lap and sat still for a moment. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “I’m sure I have some chips or something upstairs, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m really fine.”

  Dr. Call nodded, as if relieved to have successfully negotiated some kind of social checklist. She relaxed in her chair. “All right. How much do you know about Electronic Voice Phenomenon?”

  “Not a lot.” Becca must be growing accustomed to dissembling. She might be skeptical, but she’d read a great deal about EVP in the last few days. “Just that some people believe the voices of the dead can be heard in the static of old electronic devices.”

  “That’s correct.” Dr. Call lifted a pen and turned it in her fingers. “A major portion of my work involves studying EVP. Recording voices, tracking sources of messages.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “You should know that this phenomenon is not considered particularly credible by the science community at large.”

  “Yes, I can imagine.” Becca might share that wariness, were it not for the periodic talkativeness of her decades-dead mother. Her notion of the afterlife was vague in the extreme; more a wistful hope than a belief grounded in faith.

  Dr. Call was observing her as if she were a specimen in a Petri dish. “Do you believe the voice you heard two days ago was the voice of your mother?”

  “It sounded very much like her…but I was so little when she…” Becca studied her hands, clenched in her lap. “Yes. I believe it was my mother.”

  “And you said that this is the second time she spoke to you.”

  “That’s right. I heard her for the first time on my sixteenth birthday. It was my birthday two days ago, too.”

  Dr. Call’s fingers drummed softly on the desk, as if itching for the keyboard. “And the message was the same?”

  “Both times, yes. She said my name. And the words ‘not true.’” To her astonishment and dismay, Becca felt tears fill her eyes. She stared at the wall, praying this unexpected display of emotion would pass without comment.

  “I see.” Dr. Call seemed as disconcerted as Becca. The silence grew, and Becca feared she might be offered chips again. To her relief, Dr. Call resumed her clipped and professional tone. “Does this message have meaning for you?”

  Becca’s shoulder twitched, a parody of a casual shrug. “I guess a lot of things about my mother could turn out not to be true.” Maybe she did love my father. Maybe she did love me too much to leave me. “I’ve never believed she killed herself.”

  “And she died when you were five years old.” Dr. Call cleared her throat. “Can I ask how it happened?”

  She handed me a doll. Then she went into the kitchen. “She shot herself in the head in the kitchen of our house.”

  “You were present at the time?”

  “I was in the living room. I didn’t see it happen.” The detached tone this interview had taken was helping. Becca was able to relate these distant horrors without dredging them too painfully from the past.

  “Explain your doubts about your mother’s suicide.” Dr. Call winced. “Please,” she added.

  “I’m not sure I can.” Becca released a long breath. Her belief that Madelyn Healy had not deliberately put a gun to her head was like her faith in any god, fleeting and sporadic. She had no memory of the night itself, beyond her father’s voice, her mother’s delicate hands placing the doll in her arms. But police reports and years of therapy hadn’t banished the small, ambivalent doubt that the world was wrong about her mother’s death. Becca shrugged, defeated. “Just a little kid’s insistence that her mom wouldn’t do such a thing, I guess.”

  “Perhaps an insistence your mother endorses. ‘Not true.’”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you have any theories, any alternate explanations for her death? Accident? Homicide?”

  “No, I have no idea.” Becca shifted in her seat. The woman should really conduct her interviews wearing perma-dark sunglasses. She could cut glass etchings with those eyes. “So. Where do we go from here?”

  “That’s up to you, actually. I can simply note the specifics of this report and close the file. Or I have time in my schedule for a more thorough investigation, if you wish.”

  “An investigation. What would that entail?”

  “I would invade your life, basically.” Dr. Call dipped her head, as if acknowledging what a pleasant prospect that must be. “I’d want to examine the radio that transmitted this message. If possible, to see the room in which you heard it, to run sound tests. And together we would try to establish the conditions most receptive to a third transmission.”

  “You’d try to get her to speak again.” Becca stared at this strange woman. First she was queen of the lentils, then Virgil, now she was Merlin. “Is that really possible?”

  “Frankly, it’s unlikely. In the research, authentic messages are capricious and unpredictable at best. We’ve had very little success evoking new information from a single credible voice. Either the given message is repeated, or the voice falls silent. But I feel there are enough anecdotal successes, enough promising attempts, to make the effort worthwhile.”

  “Uh huh.” Becca’s flautas were coming back on her with a vengeance. She didn’t know what she’d expected from this meeting—a one-stop cure, a fast and soothing interpretation. She hadn’t planned to bare her life to this odd duck, though, and that would be inevitable if she continued.

  Her mother’s voice had held such grief, both times she’d spoken. Not outrage or anger, as would be natural from a woman protesting a lie. Sadness. A faint note of pleading, as if she were begging Becca to believe her.

  “All right,” Becca said. “I want to do this.”

  “Fine.” Dr. Call swiveled back to her laptop and began typing, a jarring transition that pulled Becca out of her pensive thoughts.

  “Wait…I’d better be sure I can pay for this.”

  “I don’t charge subjects for my studies.” Dr. Call didn’t turn from the monitor. “My work is privately funded. I’d like to meet you tomorrow at two o’clock, at the site of the transmission. Address?”

  Yes, tomorrow works for me too, thanks. Becca recited the address of the house on Fifteenth Avenue.

  Dr. Call frowned, which didn’t change her usual expression all that much. “I recall your saying you live off Lake City? This is a Capitol Hill address, five blocks from here.”

  “I didn’t hear the voice in my apartment. I heard it in the house I lived in as a child, where my mother died.”

  “I see.” This time Becca rather enjoyed the doctor’s discomfort. “Meet me here tomorrow, then, and we’ll walk there together.”

  “At two o’clock.” Becca waited, but Dr. Call just stared at her. It seemed Becca’s audience was concluded. She pushed back her chair.

  Dr. Call stood quickly and extended her hand across the desk. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Hawkins. Good night.”

  Becca accepted the formal clasp with a small flare of sympathy for this woman’s social clumsiness, her studied but stilted attempts at human interaction. Asperger’s, perhaps? Doubtful. People with Asperger’s were usually uncom
fortable with eye contact, and that was not this chica’s problem.

  Dr. Call escorted her out of her shadowed office and into the darkening street. She closed the barred gate behind Becca promptly, without further comment.

  Which Becca would not have waited to hear anyway. She filled her lungs with fresh air and shook off the intensity of the last thirty minutes with every step she took away from the spooky scientist’s lair. Walking faster, toward Charlie’s and her friends, Becca pictured the immense hot fudge sundae awaiting her, and she homed in on it like a bat on a convention of grasshoppers.

  *

  Jo turned the bolt of the heavy inner door. She watched out the beveled glass pane as the blond woman hurried up the street. The bars between them were a tangible and welcome shield. Shivering with relief, she turned back to the solitude of her refuge.

  She’d seen the pity in Becca Hawkins’s eyes as they shook hands. With long and hard study, Jo had learned to read facial expressions as well or better than anyone. Often, the emotions that prompted them still mystified her, but pity was never hard to grasp.

  She moved silently across the dim room. The glass case containing her prized collection of Spiricoms reflected her image in the meager light. Jo recognized a muted excitement lingering in her features. The intellectual thrill of this new study intrigued her. The chronology was unusual—the birthdays. This mother died on her daughter’s fifth birthday, then spoke to her on her sixteenth, then again on her thirty-ninth. This implied a meaningful pattern of contact, a consistent sequence that was generally absent in EVP.

  Jo lived for it, the wonder of these voices. That a soul could be so connected to the world they were able to reach through death to speak to the living. To be so bonded to humanity, they were compelled to break the ancient command of silence after death. Human connection was Jo’s alien frontier, her life’s mystery.

  The familiar contours of her chair and the burnished wood of her desk comforted her. She smoothed her hands lightly over the keyboard of her notebook. The Hawkins woman presented a more mundane puzzle.

  She tapped up one of her programs on microexpressions, checking her conclusion with expert results. Jo would never be a great font of insight into human behavior, but the woman’s minute, fleeting facial expressions during this initial interview all told the same story.

  Becca Hawkins was lying.

  Chapter Two

  Bran muffins. Joanne Call was a bran woman; Becca was sure of it. If she wasn’t, she desperately needed to be. Becca bit deeply into her huge chocolate cupcake as she walked, juggling the extra muffin and two cups of coffee.

  Broadway was relatively quiet this afternoon, bright and hot. Becca wended around the parking kiosks, missing Khadijah’s friendly hand on her shoulder. Marty had offered to hide in the closet of Becca’s old house as backup today, should things get too bizarre. Becca nearly took her up on it. She wasn’t looking forward to entering the house again. Before her birthday two days ago, she hadn’t set foot in the place in more than thirty years.

  Had not the illustrious Dr. Call gruffly cleared her throat, Becca would have walked straight into her. She came to an abrupt halt and blinked up into twin reflections of her own face. Dr. Call wore aviator sunglasses that mirrored Becca’s startled eyes while completely concealing her own. She tried to say something civil, but her mouth was still full of chocolate cupcake. She strived for a dignified expression, chewed furiously, and swallowed hard.

  “Breakfast, Ms. Hawkins?” The aviator sunglasses nodded at the burdens Becca carried. “You sleep in rather late.”

  Ignoring this insinuation of sloth, Becca handed over one cup of coffee and the muffin. “I thought we were meeting at your office.”

  “We’re standing in front of my office.”

  Becca glanced at the barred gate, three feet to her left. Ach. So they were.

  Dr. Call examined the bran muffin, which was the size of a cannonball. A curious transformation came over the part of her face that Becca could see, a slight softening around the mouth. A dimple actually appeared in her cheek.

  “Was I that rough on you last night?”

  Becca liked her getting the joke. “Eh, I’m not the easiest interview. I guess we both did all right.”

  Dr. Call nodded, turned, and walked up the street. Becca sighed and appealed to the heavens. All right, there were signs of humor and humility in the lentil queen, but small talk was not her forte. She trotted to catch up.

  *

  Jo walked the shaded avenues of Capitol Hill often, but always at dawn, before Broadway fully awoke. There were few other pedestrians blocking the sidewalks now, which suited her. Her mind had charted an efficient path to the address Hawkins had provided and they could be there in ten minutes. The muffin was actually quite tasty, and the coffee an excellent chaser. She tried to remember if she had thanked Hawkins for them.

  “Hey, Batman. You’re giving me bunions.”

  Jo turned, surprised. Hawkins was far behind her, limping. She waited. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hawkins. I didn’t mean to race.”

  “You have very long legs and I have very cheap Target sneakers.” Becca braced herself on a splintered wooden pole, which was stapled with a hundred flyers advertising local bands, and adjusted her laces. She pointed at the small satchel Jo carried over her shoulder. “Can I ask what’s in there?”

  “Oh. I’ve brought some instruments to measure the acoustics of your house. Some recording devices. Is it occupied right now?”

  “No.” A shadow passed over Becca’s features. “It’s not my house. My uncle owns it. A family friend shows it to prospective renters for him. She’s going to meet us there. It’s between tenants.”

  Jo wondered at the shadow, then wondered why a family would hold on to a house with such painful memories for so many years. She clasped her hands behind her and walked on, shortening her stride so Hawkins could keep up.

  She noted an attractive flush coloring Hawkins’s high cheeks. Her propensities for chocolate, sleeping in, and bad sneakers aside, Becca Hawkins seemed healthy enough, even vigorous. She couldn’t be called trim, but her full curves were aesthetically pleasing. She was dressed in a light blue T-shirt and cotton shorts, and Jo looked down at her own pristine white shirt and black slacks. She envied this woman’s easy informality.

  “How did you get into this work, Dr. Call? You can call me Becca, by the way.”

  Damn. Jo considered simply walking faster to evade that most onerous of social conventions, the personal conversation. Why did people always begin with that insipid question? As if she could explain her belief system in a sound bite. She summoned the stock answer she used in interviews. “My doctorates are in organic chemistry and transpersonal psychology. The latter involves the self-transcendent or spiritual aspects of the human experience. I suppose exploring EVP was a natural offshoot of my earlier studies.”

  “Okay. A little Wikipedish, but fascinating.” There was no mockery in Becca’s eyes, just a benevolent teasing. “Transpersonal psych. That has to be the coolest degree on the books. Does it still excite you, exploring these ghostly realms?”

  Usually a brief summation of Jo’s career satisfied the casual inquiry. If it didn’t, she was asked about the technical aspects of her research, not her feelings for it. Becca’s expression was friendly and open, and to her surprise, Jo found herself answering in kind. “Yes, it does still excite me. Every single day.”

  “I can tell. When you talk about your work, your face changes. Something in you lights up.”

  “I see.” Jo was unaware of ever lighting up, but she didn’t particularly mind this perception. She realized she was walking alone again, and turned back. “Ms. Hawkins?”

  Becca was looking into a store window. She seemed only momentarily distracted; one inexpensive sneaker was lifted to take the next step. But her foot was frozen in midair, and an odd, rigid stillness held her body. She looked like a photograph, flat and lifeless. Jo walked back.

  She followed Be
cca’s gaze into the large window of a new vintage clothing store, one of several such trendy triflings dotting Capitol Hill. This shop was not of the classier variety. Lifelike mannequins wore glittered, spaghetti-strapped halter tops, net shawls, and artfully tattered denim skirts. Not to Jo’s taste, but she claimed no real discernment when it came to fashion. She looked at Becca’s still face, at her eyes.

  They were rolled back, exposing only the whites.

  “Ms. Hawkins!” Jo took her arms and turned her from the window. She spoke her name again, with no reaction. Becca’s features were slack and shining with sweat, and her breath came in swift, shallow pants. Seizure? A severe allergic reaction. She was allergic to peanuts. Had there been nuts in her cupcake? “Becca, talk to me.”

  Becca’s eyes fluttered, and Jo glimpsed slivers of green irises. She stood stiffly in Jo’s grip, apparently dazed, and then turned back toward the window.

  Becca punched Jo in the chest, hard, knocking her aside, and bolted past her. Air woofed out of Jo’s lungs. She clutched her sternum in one hand and gaped for only a moment before taking off in pursuit.

  “Becca! Ms. Hawkins!” Jo pounded down the sidewalk, ducking under the low-hanging eaves shading it. Becca was running full-out, but at least she had the presence of mind to weave through the few pedestrians she encountered rather than plow them down.

  Jo was intensely aware of the spectacle they were creating on a public street. To her relief, Becca’s cheap Target sneakers proved, literally, her downfall. She scuffed a toe over a raised edge of asphalt and went airborne, sailing, thankfully, onto a wide patch of grass bordering the walk. She landed with a frightening crash and sprawled gracelessly on her belly.

  *

  Becca scrambled mindlessly to her feet, still driven by the horror of the corpses.

  “Hey! Hold on!”

  It was Joanne Call. For a moment, Becca’s disorientation was so extreme she couldn’t remember where she was or why Dr. Call was with her, clenching her arms so fiercely. Saliva flooded her dry mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. It had never been this bad before.