Ghosters

by Corbitt, Diana;

  The more I hear him talk the angrier I get. I pull back. “That’s it? Sorry? You and Mom lied to me. You should have told me about Isabel. I lost my sister and my grandparents that day. And now I’m supposed to forgive you just because you hug me? Maybe I did push Isabel into the water, but whose fault is that anyway?” I stand up. “Maybe if you guys weren’t always dumping us with our grandparents I’d still have a sister.”

  “Theresa, wait. You’re not being fair.” Kerry tries to stop me but I push her hand aside and head for the kitchen where I slam the back door behind me and run out into the yard.

  It’s not raining anymore, but at this hour it’s cold. Windy too, but there’s no way I’m going back inside for a sweater. The motion lights Dad installed last week flash on as I march across the weed-choked grass to the pool. Shivering, I sit on the edge, hugging myself. My hair whips my face as leaves cartwheel through the shadows. Dad cleaned most of the gunk from the deep end, but there’s still no water. Considering what I’ve just learned, it makes sense he’s in no rush to get it filled.

  I shouldn’t have said that to him, but, my God, all these years and they never even mention her? Even Tita Gloria was in on it. It’s like they all wanted to wipe Isabel from existence.

  I stare up at the sky, still scattered with clouds. But my sister did exist. For two-and-a-half years we ate, slept, and played together, until . . .

  There’s a gust of wind, and across the pool the busted straps of Grandma Carmen’s chaise longue flap and sway. I turn and peer up at the house. Even now, its windows are still lit from top to bottom. Papa Joe lived for three years after Isabel died and Grandma Carmen, for eight. I wonder if Isabel ever appeared to them.

  After a while, the motion lights click off, and the pool goes black. It’s like I’m sitting on the side of a cliff.

  You know, toddlers are notoriously bad at sharing.

  Startled, I turn back to find Mom sitting on the edge of the pool beside me, still dressed in the same white capris and tee-shirt from my dream. If not for the fuzzy edges and her hair not moving from the wind, she looks almost real.

  “Mom . . . you . . . you’re . . .”It’s just like the dream.

  A ghost, yes. She stares into the empty pool, smiling sadly. I’m really sorry things worked out this way, Theresa. You’re angry, but try not to resent your dad for too long. Like he said, we kept Isabel’s death a secret because we thought it would be best for you in the long run.

  Strangely, our conversation feels so normal that I’m not scared. But I’m still fuming, so I cross my arms, determined to stay that way. “It’s not just Dad I’m mad at. It’s you too.”

  I know.

  “And Grandma. She should have known better than to—”

  Leave you babies out there alone?

  The female voice comes from behind. I look over my shoulder. Grandma Carmen is standing there wearing the same dress she had on when she took the picture that’s sitting on the living room mantle. Like Mom, the wind doesn’t seem to touch her.

  Chin lowered, my ghostly grandmother shakes her head slowly. It was a horrible mistake, Theresa, and something I had to live with for the rest of my life.

  I scramble to my feet, staring wide-eyed at my grandmother’s ghost.

  Mom stands too and rests her hand on my shoulder. It feels cool. Tingly.

  Your sister’s death had a terrible effect on all of our lives, she tells me. Like you, I felt my mother had let me down. I was furious.

  We never spoke again, Grandma says.

  That’s eight years, Mom reminds me. Eight years neither of us would ever get back. You don’t want that to happen with your father, do you?

  “No, I . . .” Tears burst from me. “I’m just sick of all the dishonesty. I want it all out.”

  With a grim twist of the mouth, Grandma points down at the edge of the pool where I was sitting just a few moments earlier. Sit.

  A little surprised, I look at Mom. She nods. I drop down and hang my legs over the side again.

  Close your eyes, Grandma says.

  So I do. For a moment, nothing happens. But soon the wind stops. My skin starts to warm, and the inside of my eyelids go red, like when you close your eyes and turn your face up to the sun.

  You can open your eyes now.

  There we are, Little Theresa and Little Isabel, sitting on a blanket, surrounded by newly mown grass and freshly clipped shrubs. A few feet away, Grandma Carmen suns herself on a chaise longue with an open magazine draped across her chest. And me? I’m still sitting right where I am, but now there’s water halfway up my calves and the sun’s beating down on me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I stir the water with my feet and wait. After a few moments, the phone rings inside. Grandma gets up. She tells us to stay right where we are, that she’ll be back in a minute. If the girls would just continue to play with their toys, everything would be fine. But no.

  For whatever reason, Theresa decides it’s the perfect time to ride her tricycle. She starts pedaling around the pool. Safe enough, but then Isabel climbs on her trike too and she’s pedaling in the opposite direction. When they meet on the far side of the pool, the sidewalk is too narrow for them to pass. Isabel is furious. If it were any other place in the yard, she could get around me by pulling her tricycle out onto the grass, but there, a thick hedge blocks her way.

  “Teesa, go.” She bumps her front wheel into mine again and again.

  “No!” my baby-self bellows. My feet rock on the pedals as I try to move forward.

  Howling in frustration, Isabel climbs off her pink tricycle. I climb off mine and we continue to bang them into each other. Since that doesn’t get us anywhere, Isabel decides she wants my red trike instead. She pushes my hands off the handlebars and tries to take it from me.

  “No!” I shout. “Bad Isa! My trike!”

  She slaps me away. I plop down on the sidewalk crying as Isabel struggles with turning my tricycle around. Back and forth, Isabel jerks the handlebars and stamps her feet when the front tire gets twisted around backward. With one especially hard thrust she loses her balance and stumbles.

  In the blink of an eye, I’m not watching from across the pool anymore. I’m right there, thrusting out my hand, my two-year-old hand, reaching for my falling sister. But I guess toddlers aren’t known for their lightning-fast reflexes. Helpless, all I can do is watch as both Isabel and my red tricycle slip over the side and into the water. Crying, I kneel at the edge of the pool, stare through the ripples as my sister sinks to the bottom. Grandma is gone for only a few minutes, but that’s more than enough. When she returns, I’m still reaching into the water for Isabel. Grandma screams.

  I look up and point at the water, shouting, “Bad Isa! My trike!”

  You can open your eyes now.

  A deep moan flows out of me and I fall back on my elbows breathing hard. Mom and Grandma are standing on either side of me, or should I say hovering since their feet barely graze the concrete walkway.

  I think about what I just experienced and sob. Having lived it, it’s clear that my baby-self was talking about Isabel taking away her trike. But I can understand why Grandma thought I pushed her into the water.

  “I . . . I tried to help her.”

  Yes, Grandma says. But I didn’t know that. From the way you were talking . . .

  Look, Mom says. We all agree that leaving you girls out there unsupervised was wrong, but so was the way your dad and I reacted. Your grandmother didn’t mean for Isabel to die just like your father didn’t mean to hurt you. He loves you, Theresa. You heard him say it. Please, find it in yourself to forgive him. He knows he messed up. She takes Grandma Carmen’s hand. Don’t waste your life resenting him.

  They wait, staring down at me with pleading eyes.

  I try to stand but end up on all fours, a little woozy after the experience. “Okay.” I wipe my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and push myself to my feet. “You’re right . . . I should forgive him.”

  I look do
wn as a small but familiar figure peeks out from between them. It’s Isabel.

  Mom glances up at the sky, then scoops Isabel up and rests her on her hip. She turns back to me, looking not only relieved, but a little sad too. I’m so happy you feel that way, baby. But now that everything is as it should be, we have to go. Just remember . . . we love you, and we’ll always be watching over you.

  Isabel stretches her hand toward me, so Mom steps closer and my little ghost-twin pats my cheek. Smiling, she gives me a tingly but wet baby kiss and says, Bye-bye, Teesa. You kiss Daddy too, okay?

  “Sure, I’ll kiss Daddy.” How can I hold a grudge when three ghosts tell me not to?

  There’s a flash of light, and I find myself sitting back on the side of the pool. Alone.

  “Mom . . . ? Grandma . . . ? Isabel . . . ?Were you even here?” I stare up at the sky, now sparkling with stars. Does it matter?Smiling,I jump up and run back into the house.

  Diana Corbitt is a retired elementary school teacher who has lived her entire life in northern California. She has two sons who, although grown up and out of the house, still live nearby. Ever since she was a kid she loved to be scared, either by movies or books. She started writing her first story in sixth grade. That one never got past six pages, but now that she’s retired she can’t stop writing. Her work has appeared in Bewildering Stories and Encounters Magazine. She had a podcast on Manor House and one of her short stories was published in an anthology entitled Wax and Wane: A Gathering of Witch Tales. When she’s not trying to scare herself silly, Diana enjoys working with stained glass, travel, and going to the movies. They don’t all have to be scary. Just not chick flicks.