by Mona Marple
Get your mind out of the gutter, thank you. Sure, he’s kind of my spirit-boyfriend I guess (although he’s never asked me out), but let’s keep this PG-13.
“Finally.” I say. I’ve cleared the veranda and now I’m scrubbing - actually scrubbing - the floorboards. It’s hard, dirty work, but it’s strangely satisfying. I can see the difference I’m making. The yellowed boards are coming up cream, restored to something approaching their original beauty. I’ll have to stop soon, because while 20 years dead has let me build up quite a tolerance for the physical world, I still have my limits. I put the scrubbing brush down and take a breath. “Bruce Skipton wants to buy this place.”
“The Baker House?” Patton asks, receiving the news as calmly as you’d expect from the town’s former Sheriff. “He thinks we need another parking lot?”
“A supermarket.”
“We’ve got Bill’s.”
“He doesn’t care. He just wants the deal. Already got the buyer lined up, so he says. Some chain store to keep the little women happy.” I say with an eye roll.
“The man’s a pig.”
“A chauvinist pig.”
Patton sighs. “Where will we all go?”
“Hey!” I object, surprised by his defeatist tone. The Baker House, empty for years since the Baker family passed away, houses the town’s spirit community. I’m lucky, I’m in town because my sister lives here, and she lets me hang out at hers all the time, but not everyone is as welcoming of the dead as she is. She is a medium, after all. Dead people are kind of her thing. “He’s not going to get his hands on this place. Is he?”
“I’ve never seen that man not get a deal when he decides it’s what he wants.” Patton says, shoulders slumped. I watch him and feel panic bubble up from within me. Everything is changing. Too much, too fast. Stop the world for a moment, I need a break.
“Are you listening, Sage?” Patton asks, concern etched across his face.
“Sorry, I…”
“Let’s get you home, hey? All that cleaning’s gonna wipe you out sooner or later.” He holds out a hand and I accept, allowing him to pull me up to my feet. We stand, close enough to embrace, or kiss, but we do neither. We just look at each other for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts, before we begin the walk down Cedar Grove, past the peeling clapboard front of the Dairy Queen, towards Connie’s house.
“Looking forward to the Hallowe’en… stuff?” Patton asks awkwardly.
“It’s an extravaganza.” I correct, then flash him a smile. The Hallowe’en festivities, planned every year by Lavinia Blackbottom, promise to be bigger and better than ever this year, culminating in a Grand Ball on Hallowe’en itself.
“It’s a security nightmare.” Patton says. Work mode activated.
“How so?”
“People in masks. Ideal time to commit a crime, when you’re not easily identifiable.”
I shudder as a cool air blows through the street, stirring up the fallen leaves that coat the sidewalk. A tangle of browns and oranges dance in the breeze.
“Well, here we are.” Patton says as we reach Connie’s house. He doesn’t follow me in through the gate and I look at him curiously. “I’m gonna head back, need to spread the word about Bruce Skipton’s plans.”
“Oh.” I say. “You want me to help with that?”
He shakes his head. “You’ve got enough going on.”
He takes a step towards me and plants a kiss on my forehead, a gesture so tender I’m unsure whether to feel like his girlfriend or his daughter. For once, I’ve got no interest in the drama of dating and would just like to know where I stand. Or don’t stand. Whatever.
“Well, I’ll see you soon.” I say, with a shrug.
“We’re going to the concert together, aren’t we? I mean, unless you don’t want to. It’s your call.” Patton says.
“Well, I have the tickets…” I say. Vera and the Vamps are headlining the Hallowe’en concert tomorrow night. They’re the most flamboyant and spooky group out, and their shows are legendary.
“I’ll pick you up at 7 then.” He says, and then he’s gone, hunched over, hands in pockets.
**
“You look tired.” Connie fusses as soon as I enter the house. She’s sitting on the settee, feet curled up under her, reading a magazine about succulents. I mean, seriously.
“I’ve been cleaning.” I say, preparing myself for the sarcastic reply. Instead, Connie drops the magazine and sits upright, eyes focused on me.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, and the relief of how well she knows me washes over me in a wave, reducing me to tears. She summons me and I stumble across to her and allow her to hold me.
“What if they don’t like me?” I manage, in between huge gulping sobs.
“Oh my darling, they love you.” Connie soothes. “They love you more than anyone in the world. You’re their mum.”
I manage to get my breathing under control as I picture them. My girls. My darling girls. Sandy and Coral. My daughters. My living, breathing daughters. Who don’t believe in ghosts and haven’t seen me since I died twenty years ago. They’re coming, coming here, hoping beyond hope that Connie’s letter to them tells the truth and that they will be able to see me.
**
I wake up hours later, in Connie’s bed, the heavy blanket suffocating me with its weight in a way that is desperately reassuring. Connie sits at the edge of the bed, and I realise she’s been speaking to me, trying to wake me.
“They’re here.” She says quietly, with a soft smile. Her curls are in place but splashes of mascara sit across her cheek. She’s been crying. Have my daughters been crying?
“How are they?” I ask, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
Connie laughs at the question and nods vigorously, chins wobbling. “They’re amazing, Sage. They’re just… they’re perfect. They’re nervous, but they’re… they’re here. They know you’re sleeping so just come down when you’re ready, okay?”
I nod, unsure whether to remain in the bedroom and let this moment of anticipation stretch on forever, or race downstairs right away. Should I seem eager, or calm and collected?
I decide in the end to give them ten minutes. Ten minutes to get to know their aunt Connie and brace themselves for the idea that their dead mother will be joining them shortly.
You can do many things with ten minutes.
You can do a word search puzzle, or read a magazine article, or update your social media profiles with a cryptic status so your friends all beg you to inbox them with the scoop. You can apply make-up, take a shower, do sit-ups. You can call someone and say hi, you can write a letter to your grandma, you can paint your toenails. You can watch an episode of kids’ TV and probably adult’s too if they skipped the ads, apply moisturiser, sing three of your favourite songs. You can read a chapter of a book, heat up ravioli and eat it too, sketch a picture. You can organise your sock drawer, write in your journal, make up a haiku. You can book a holiday, do some online shopping, tidy your purse. You can change the bedding, iron five shirts, write that complaint letter for the really rude service you experienced in that store last month.
Oh, yeah, you can do a bazillion things in ten minutes.
And yet I cannot think of a single thing to do as I remain hidden under Connie’s blanket, my heartbeat deafening me with its ba-bum-ba-bum-bum.
Finally, the time has passed, and I force myself out of the cocoon and onto the hallway, where I can hear the distant sound of nervous chatter. One American accent, two English.
My girls.
“I’m coming down.” I call, and the silence that follows tells me that I’ve been heard. If they can hear me, they’ll see me. Mystic Springs is cast in a magic spell that allows all residents to see the spirits who live here, but it’s not as black and white for visitors and often comes down to their belief. If they believe they can see spirits, they probably will. Non-believers will keep on non-believing, even if we walk right up to them and say boo.
&nbs
p; Connie appears from the sitting room and flashes me an encouraging smile.
We’ll enter the room together. Good idea.
“Okay?” She asks me quietly as I descend the stairs. I feel like a bride walking to the altar. I close my eyes and take a breath, then paste a smile across my face.
“Let’s do this.” I whisper.
We enter the room and I try not to stare too intensely at the beautiful women sitting on the settee. Sandy and Coral are holding hands, and their gaze flits between me and Connie.
“You weren’t lying.” Sandy breathes, pulling her hand away from Coral and covering her mouth.
“Well, darn.” Coral says, always the straight-talker.
“Mum?” They say in unison, and the word transports me twenty years back in time, drawing chalk pictures on the bricks of the house while neighbours watched in disapproval.
“Oh, girls.” I say, willing myself not to cry. “I’m so glad you came.”
“We had to.” Sandy says. “We had to take the chance.”
“This is so weird!” Coral exclaims.
“Too weird?” I ask. Connie has spent days preparing me for this meeting, telling me baby steps might be needed, that it all might be too much for the girls to take in. I’m desperate to scoop them into my arms, to smell their hair, to dig into their souls and hear their deepest dreams. Instead, I take a seat and let them set the pace.
“No, no… it’s just… wow.” Coral says. “It’s really you?”
“It’s really me.” I confirm with a smile.
“Does it… I mean, what’s it like?” Sandy asks, her doe-like eyes wide in wonder.
“Being a spirit? It’s just like being alive, except I can’t eat or drink, and I don’t need money so I don’t have to work. And nobody can see me, outside of Mystic Springs.”
“And you can transport yourself instantly to anywhere you want.” Connie reminds me.
“That must be so cool.” Coral exclaims. “Where’s the coolest place you’ve been?”
I grin. I don’t have to think hard about this. “Back home, to see you girls.”
Connie stiffens to the side of me.
“You’ve been back to Waterfell Tweed?” Sandy asks. “Those times when we’ve felt like you’re there, you really have been?”
I nod, and the girls look at each other, then back to me.
“Can we… we’d love a hug.” Sandy asks, nervously.
“I thought you’d never ask.” I admit, and the two of them dive across to me, until they’re both in my arms and all I can smell is them, and I feel the muscle memory returning to me, the sensation of holding these girls - women now - who were built from my body and will always fit.
“Welcome home.” I whisper.
2
Connie
The girls, as I’ve thought of the three of them since Sandy and Coral arrived yesterday and became inseparable from Sage, are all tucked up in bed. My bed, to be exact.
They went up there last night to watch a movie, which was high on the list of things that Sandy and Coral wanted to do with their mum. By the time I’d finished my chores and gone up to join them, they were all curled into each other, fast asleep. I’d shut off the power, drawn the drapes, and closed the door. Not wanting to disturb the well-plumped guest beds, which I’m hoping my nieces will actually sleep in tonight, I spent an uncomfortable night on the settee and my back is screaming in anger at me for putting it through that experience.
There’s no time to feel sorry for myself, though. Today’s the day of the concert, and there’s work to do. How I managed to get dragged into that work, I have no idea. They say if you want something doing, ask a busy person, and I can only guess that that’s what’s happened here.
I slip my feet into my oldest, most faithful pair of tattered trainers, and leave the house after writing a note and leaving two spare keys. It’s strange having a house full of living people. Of course, the work I did to prepare for their arrival went unnoticed as Sage worked herself into a puddle of anxiety. The fridge overflowing with every food you can imagine, the spare room decluttered and actually turned into a real guest bedroom.
Heck, I even upgraded the movie package on the TV and paid for the second TV - the one in my bedroom - to get all the channels. Except, in my imagination, I did that because I thought I might disappear to my room some evenings to give the girls some mother and daughter privacy. I didn’t imagine they’d all be crammed into my bed while I sofa-surfed.
I walk across to Main Street and push open the door to Screamin’ Beans Coffee House, where the front window is full of an elaborate Hallowe’en display. All very feline, of course. Ellie Bean loves cats. The uglier the better. As I think that, Godiva, her grumpy Persian, stalks across the shop and sits down right in front of me, blocking my path with it’s fur.
I roll my eyes and walk around the animal.
“Flaming nuisance.” The familiar drawl of Violet Warren reaches my ears and I turn towards her and give a conspiratorial nod. “Can’t be good for health and safety, neither.”
“I thought witches loved cats.” A teenage boy with an angry red spot on the end of his nose calls across the coffee house. He high-fives a friend and they burst into wild, pre-voice-breaking laughter before leaving the store, cappuccinos in hand.
“Ignore them.” I say. “And when did kids start drinking cappuccinos?”
“Some of my best customers, the school crowd.” Ellie says with a shrug as I reach the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Well, I feel like I should have more sophisticated drinking habits than the local kids, so what would you recommend?”
“Hmm.” Ellie ponders. “You could go back to basics. Espresso?”
“That’s a man’s drink!” A voice calls from behind me. I turn to see a short man with greasy hair stand behind me in the queue, stomach hair poking through the gap in his straining shirt buttons. “She’ll probably want a latte.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Latte.” He repeats. “Lots of milk. Nice and creamy, not too strong.”
“I’ll take the espresso.” I mutter.
It takes one sip for me to realise that an espresso is not for me, but I’m definitely not letting the chauvinist pig from the queue see that, so I keep sipping.
“Nice, dear?” Violet asks, sitting across from me holding a drink that I suspect is a latte. I’m almost tempted to beg a little of her milk to dilute my drink.
“Very rich.” I say, with a forced smile. “Looking forward to tonight?”
“Not really.” Violet admits. Heading into her twilight years, she’s an artist who uses her fashion sense to show off her creativity as much as her paintings. Today she’s wearing a neon pink jumpsuit and deep purple velvet boots.
“Not your kind of thing?”
Violet glances around, clearly deciding whether to confide in me. “Vera’s my sister.”
“As in, from Vera and the Vamps?” I ask.
She nods. “Don’t tell anyone? We don’t have the easiest relationship. I don’t want everyone across town knowing.”
“Did Lavinia know that when she booked them?” I ask. I’d always thought it seemed an ambitious choice, to have such headliners come to our small town for a gig. But you could never quite be sure of Lavinia Blackbottom’s motive. She’ll generally do anything if it means a camera crew might be involved.
Violet shrugs. “Who knows? She certainly hadn’t heard it from me.”
“Won’t you be at the show, then? I thought you were handling tickets with me.” I say. I’ve been volunteered into working the door, checking tickets and helping point people towards their seats. It’s better than the other offer, which was working the beer stand, because once the show starts, I’ll have finished work for the night and can watch the performance.
“I’ll be on the door but I don’t think I’ll stick around to watch.” Violet says.
I nod, knowing not to push further.
We sip our drinks
in silence, and my eyes remain fixed firmly on Violet’s latte as I sip my espresso and try not to wince.
**
“Have you heard about this travesty of justice?” Atticus barks at me, his spirit form appearing in my line of vision, shaky at first. The dead former mayor is a mash of red face and white hair, furious about something.
“Atticus, what’s got into you?” I ask. I’m at the ticket booth that’s been erected on the lawn of the Town Hall, trying to get the system to work before the die-hard fans begin arriving.
“We shall defend our town, whatever the cost may be! We will fight him in the parking lot! We will fight him in the supermarket…” Atticus begins, orating for the benefit of the few other volunteers busying themselves with jobs.
“Alright, enough channeling your inner Churchill.” I tease. “What are you going on about?”
“Bruce Skipton!”
“Who?”
“Property developer. Got his eyes on the Baker House! Wants to get rid of it and build a supermarket.”
“Well, that’ll never work.” I say dismissively.
“You don’t know the chap, clearly.”
“He was the one telling you to stick to girls’ drinks this morning.” Violet calls across from the second ticket booth, where she has arranged the various flyers for the week-long Hallowe’en celebrations into neat piles, complete with discount coupons that she has stapled to each leaflet. When I arrived at the venue, she was already here, and I’d been surprised, wondering how much work there could be to do to get ready. She’s having the last laugh, clearly.
“Sounds like something he’d do.” Atticus says.
“Oh.” I say. “I didn’t get much of a look at him but are you sure? That guy didn’t look like a property developer.”
“Scruffy swine he is, but he’s like a tiger when it comes to deals. No morals. He’d steal from his shadow, that guy.” Atticus says.
“And he wants the Baker House?” I ask.
“He wants the land. He’s got no interest in the house, it’ll be bulldozed within a day and before you know it, we’ll have a generic supermarket and start turning into every other town.”