Charlene laughs and I suddenly realize I spoke that out loud. “You’re probably right,” Charlene says. “What woman wouldn’t?”
I place the angelite back in its box, thinking I should focus more by actually making eye contact.
“Around the turn of the century,” Bud continues, “a family by the name of Jones bought the land and opened it up for tours, mainly attracting visitors who came for the waters at Eureka Springs. They used to advertise that waters deep within the cave would cure diseases, but there’s only one spring that we have found in the cave and it’s inaccessible.”
“We’ve only owned the property for eight months,” Charlene interjects. “We haven’t thoroughly investigated the entire cave yet.”
Stephanie asks when they will open the entire cave so she can adequately report this to her readers and the couple explains their construction schedule, how they are adding a boardwalk, a nature hike and a corn maze in the fall as added attractions. When Stephanie starts asking about details, my mind wonders back to the angelite. The light-blue stone has been cut into a heart and polished and when I pick it up again, sits warm in my palm. People believe angelite assists its owners with spiritual communication. When Lillye died, I bought several, placed them throughout my house in the hopes that I could hear her voice one more time. The effort was futile and I’m trying to convince myself to place this rock — it’s only a rock, after all — back on the shelf when I feel someone approach from behind.
“You picked that stone up twice,” Charlene says to me. “I think it wants to go home with you.”
Goosebumps charge up my body as if they are racing with one another to reach my neck. Wasn’t that the very thing Aunt Mimi told me when I visited her cave? I shiver as if to shake off the feeling but I find the angelite remains in my hand.
“I think I will buy this one,” I say to Charlene, adding, “It’s a lovely color” to keep her from thinking I’m buying it for any other reason.
To my surprise, Charlene places her hand beneath mine and folds her fingers and mine over the angelite. “My gift,” is all she says and heads back to Bud who is opening the back door.
“Y’all ready?” Bud calls out.
I slip my angelite into my pocket and follow the line out the door. I’m the last one on the long woodsy path down to the lake and the cave and I’m missing most of what is being spoken at the front of the line. I don’t mind because it allows me an opportunity to drop back and enjoy the sycamores and maples, witness a chipmunk scurrying across the way and listen to birds calling out from the treetops. The path is a switchback down a steep decline and the lake comes into view every few yards, teasing us with its placid blue waters, making us want more. By the time we reach the bottom of the trail, I hear snippets about Native Americans and how they used the cave, dating back centuries. Suddenly, I wish I had been closer. Yet, the peacefulness of the woods embraces me like a mother and I find my soul lifting. I will ask Winnie later what I missed.
We follow the lake for a small time before the cave comes into view. Indeed, Bud and Charlene have their work cut out to make this attraction more tourist friendly. For now, those in wheelchairs have no access and they are working on that, they say. The path heading inside is rugged and bumpy and sometimes difficult for those of us on two feet with boots. I stumble, naturally, and Winnie laughs.
“LSU wimp,” she whispers back at me.
“Redneck colonels,” I whisper back, and we both giggle like college students.
We pause at the first area large enough for a group to assemble, where a few stalactites drip from the ceiling and pools of milky water form at the floor. A hole in the rock ceiling allows for light to cascade down and the illuminating effect is remarkable. We all take a moment to enjoy this delicate balance of light and water and I can feel our shared energy of awe.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bud asks.
“Very nice,” Stephanie answers, while Joe pulls out a small tripod and shoots a bunch of photos. He kneels ever so slightly to catch the water dripping into a particularly lovely pool, its drops sending circles through the water as if in slow motion. I won’t doubt his abilities again.
“As we said, records have indicated that the Native Americans of this area used the cave, although for what we don’t know for sure.” Bud points to unusual markings on the wall behind us. “A local archaeologist claims those pre-date white settlers to this area. We’ve heard lots of stories from locals that Indians used this cave for the spring waters. One local historian believes those signs mean ‘a special place for water.’”
“Where is the spring?” Winnie asks.
Bud and Charlene look at each other and Charlene laughs nervously. “It’s down a long, dark corridor that’s very dangerous,” Bud says. “Once we get the cave up to where we want it to be, we will start exploring and developing that side.”
“But if that’s where this special spring is, wouldn’t that be a high priority,” Winnie insists. She looks at me and gives me a “Duh?” look, and I agree. That’s what I would want to see, just like those early twentieth century tourists coming over from Eureka Springs.
Charlene scratches her head, looks away and offers up that nervous laugh again, like the criminals I used to interview for the newspaper, the ones who would claim they were innocent while avoiding your eyes and shuffling their feet. There’s more to this story, I think.
Winnie starts to retort but Bud turns and begins talking about the Civil War markings a few yards away, claiming that these scribblings left by retreating Confederates never fail to attract history buffs and re-enactors. Personally, graffiti doesn’t interest me. I’ve seen it in other Southern caves and find it as distasteful as the gang markings lining the streets of New Orleans. I look up at the ceiling where light filters down and let the sun bath my face before descending into darkness. Nature is perfect just the way it is.
It only takes a few yards of walking from the hole in the ceiling before we can’t see without the aid of Bud and Charlene’s lantern. At this point, the couple hands us all flashlights and we continue on our way.
“They are definitely not ready to open for tourists,” Winnie whispers. “You could kill yourself in here.”
As if hearing us — although I know we were well out of earshot — Charlene begins shouting from the front that for now they do specialized guided tours for those who want a real cave experience. So far, they have been mostly catering to college students coming over from Fayetteville.
At the mention of the University of Arkansas, another esteemed member of the Southeastern football conference, Winnie and I both scrunch our noses in disdain.
“Razorbacks!” she whispers, and I fight off the giggles.
We stop when the tunnel becomes tight and it’s now completely dark except for the faint glow of our flashlights. As we shine our beacons around us we see a delightful dwelling of stalagmites emerging from the cave floor. Off to the right, next to where the couple is pointing is a collection of soldier names scratched upon the wall.
Bud is obviously a Civil War fan for he begins relating battles that occurred in Arkansas and their significance to the Southern cause. I find the Civil War tiring, a simple case of not doing the right thing in regards to slavery, that resulted in the loss of so many lives. I’m not a fan of either side, mind you. I find war ridiculous, like children fighting over toys. But the Civil War happened on my turf, so its legacy lingers throughout my homeland. I love Southern history, particularly Louisiana, but you can have the blue and grey nonsense.
Since I’m once again at the back of the line, I slink back and explore the unusual natural formations that surround me. There’s a particularly gorgeous stalagmite off to the side, but I have to practically crawl to get a better view and snap a photo. I figured it’s worth it, but I suddenly find myself slipping down a slick decline that seems to go on forever. I keep moving, hoping the momentum will help me remain on my feet, and quickly slip the camera into my jacket pocket for safe
keeping. No matter how I attempt to right myself, several yards later I’m flat on my butt on the cold, wet floor. I slide my hands into my pockets to make sure my camera is okay — it is — and find the angelite cool and humming.
Before I can regain my composure, a wave of goosebumps skitters up my arms and my head feels light and dizzy. I slowly stand, trying to recoup my equilibrium and it’s then that I hear a soft whimpering to my right. My first thought is that it’s an animal trapped in the darkness, unable to find its way out. I swallow hard, hoping it’s nothing prone to attacking people, and slowly make my way back from whence I came. The more I head back towards the others, however, the stronger the sound, and the goosebumps double. As I round the corner and lock my boot on a solid rock, I’m able to pull myself back up the path. Here, the sound is strongest. I’m almost sure now that it’s right next to me. Only it’s not an animal.
I raise my flashlight slowly, trying to keep the beam steady from all my shaking. I’m scared to death, have no idea what the light will uncover. In the darkness all I can make out for sure is the sound of a young girl softly crying.
When the light meets the origin of the sound, it is indeed a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in old-fashioned school clothes of a mid-calf white pleaded skirt, white shirt and a little navy blue tie around her neck that reminds me of sailor outfits. She’s sitting in a pool of water, legs outstretched before her with cuts and bruises appearing where her tights are torn and her skin exposed. I try to make out her face but her right hand is placed over her right eye as she whimpers, rocking back and forth agitated.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaking. What on earth is this girl doing here? I don’t know what frightens me more, the fact that I may be witnessing another ghost or finally losing my mind. And yet, this girl appears so real, down to the dark clay marring her shoes.
She glances up at me and her eyes narrow in anger. She stops whimpering, instead holding up her right hand like a cop signaling a car to stop, as if she wants me to get a good look at her fingers and palm. Her hand is covered in blood, captured, no doubt, from the gaping wound in her forehead that I now witness. I sense this girl is just now figuring out she’s been hurt and wants to express her rage over the accident to someone. Did she fall here like I did? Was she part of a school group that may have been here before our arrival? But then why wouldn’t the Moseleys know about it?
Before I can inquire further, the girl’s face contorts into rage, she lurches toward me and screams with all her might. I’m so startled by her piercing and angry outburst that I stumble backwards in an effort to put distance between us. My first thought is she will do me harm and I reach out to find the path to get away. In my rushed attempt to do so, my head hits the stone wall behind me. Hard. I don’t realize immediately that I have done damage to myself, stand swaying like an idiot while the schoolgirl yells to the high heavens. The world tilts and fades and I notice the blood across the girl’s lap before total darkness consumes me.
Chapter Five
I hear the voices before I see them, particularly Winnie insisting someone take me to a hospital. I suddenly remember the line of doctors at the Cajundome in Lafayette, checking vital signs, poking me as they looked for infections and god knew what, probing me with needles to prevent new ones. After two days on a roof you’d have thought that they would have let me rest, showed me to a comfy bed and a hot meal, but we stood in line for two hours filling out forms and getting poked.
I bolt upright and practically shout, “I’m fine.”
Winnie rushes over and takes me in from head to foot like a mom. I now realize I’m lying on a couch in the cave office. How did I get here?
“How do you feel?” Winnie asks.
“Like running a marathon,” I answer weakly.
A sliver of a smile emerges on its own but Winnie’s in mom mode, touching my head for fever, checking out the back of my head where someone has placed a gauze.
“You hit the back of your head,” Winnie tells me. “But you must have bit the inside of your cheek when you fell because there was blood on your face.”
I explore the area around my mouth, hoping it’s not that bad, but it feels soft and clean. Bless her heart, that Winnie. She cleaned me up.
“What happened to the girl?”
Everyone stops for a moment, gazing at me like they’re afraid I might have dislodged something inside my brain. It dawns on me that the schoolgirl might have been my imagination again — or worse. And now everyone is concerned I might have lost my mind.
“What girl?” Charlene asks from behind Winnie.
I lean over and spot Charlene, ashen face, hands clutched tightly in front of her, and gather that she’s worried I will sue them, put them out of business before they have time to adequately start their new adventure.
Or maybe she knows something.
Before I have time to inquire, a paramedic arrives at my side, carrying all sorts of torture. It’s more gauze, antiseptic and what looks like some Acetaminophen but there’s a big needle in the pile.
“I’m fine,” I reiterate, never taking my eyes off that needle.
He follows my gaze and to his credit reads my mind instantly. “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
I can’t help but laugh at this. Ten a.m. Wednesday, September 1, 2005. “Within the last few months,” I answer.
“Are you sure?” He looks at me sternly. Must be a dad. Do they go to school for this or something? “Because most people can’t remember. And it’s important that you have one.”
I smile like a good student.
“Trust me. It was within six months.”
He relaxes and starts bandaging me up and it’s here that I catch his name on his right breast pocket. Peter Parker. Really? I start to giggle which turns into a snort and then suddenly gag on the blood that must have been waiting inside my throat. It tastes nasty but Winnie and Charlene are looking at me with concern so I don’t want to spit it out and have them faint at my feet. I swallow the nastiness and grimace, which makes Spiderman suddenly concerned.
Wow, blue eyes, I think as he turns his attention away from my wound and into my face. Maybe I’m not as dead to men as I thought. Reece, my gorgeous Cajun landlord, comes to mind and that childish grin keeps on keeping on.
“You okay?” he asks and I nod like a teenager.
“Is your name really Peter Parker?” I am a teenager.
He gives me a smile he must bestow upon half the population who routinely ask that question, the one that says “Yes it’s my name and I know, I know” but what he’s really thinking is “Get over it, why don’t you.”
“It’s a family name,” he says politely, and I suddenly feel stupid. People in glass houses, you know? Viola Valentine is no walk in the park.
“My last name is Valentine,” I tell him, hoping this will bond us. “I got a lot of grief in school, especially because I never had a date.”
“I doubt that.”
He’s not flirting with me — believe me I know because I’ve had a lifetime of people not flirting with me — but it’s sweet of him to say. I smile politely, kicking myself for laughing at his name. He’s cute, but I now realize as I gaze into a head full of thick black hair and a face devoid of life’s harsh lessons that he’s about five years younger than me.
“She needs to go to the ER,” Winnie says from somewhere, bringing me back to the pounding in my head. Amazing how blue eyes and a cute ass (Okay, he turned at one point and I looked; I’m not dead, thank you Jesus!) can take your mind off the pain. But it’s there, dull and consistent, and I’m ready for drugs, not a hospital. A strong martini might do the trick.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” I tell Winnie.
“You blacked out,” she insists. “Poor Bud and Joe had to carry you up the hill unconscious. Viola, it could be something worse.”
I stand up to test my sea legs and find it’s a throbbing headache but nothing else. I teeter a bit, but I�
��m fine. Instinctively, I know there is nothing worse going on in my head. Well, physically that is.
“Look,” I proclaim to everyone in the small room that appears to be the office off the gift shop. “I’m fine.”
Winnie places hands firmly on her tiny waist and gives me a stare. For a petite woman, she packs a force. “You were talking about some girl down there.”
At this point, Spiderman gives me a questioning look and starts to ask, but Charlene jumps in the mix, gently pushing Winnie and Peter out of the room. “Let me talk to Viola for a minute, please you all?”
“I need to check her blood pressure,” Peter insists and Winnie starts mentioning hospital again, but Charlene gently nudges them toward the door, convincing them in her sweet Southern accent that she will only be a moment.
“A little girl talk, that’s all,” she concludes as Winnie and Peter slide into the gift shop and Charlene closes the door.
I don’t even give her time to speak. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
She pauses, which makes me worry I may be wrong and I’m indeed insane from post-traumatic stress. But Charlene nods and I find myself exhaling.
“What in the world…?”
Charlene looks around even though we’re alone. She pulls up the stool Peter was using and scoots up close. I can sense she doesn’t know what to say or how to explain this, pulling her hands through her hair nervously and causing a bit of it to stand up straight on top. I want to smooth it down, but she suddenly finds her voice.
“I’ve heard screaming in there. In fact, pretty much every time I go past that entrance.”
“It’s where the spring is, isn’t it?”
Charlene nods.
“Have you ever been down there?”
I can tell she has and it was an experience she regrets. I sympathize. “Once, I took a strong lantern and ventured down about a quarter mile. I found the spring, which is quite lovely and pure. I took some water in a jug to have it tested and headed home. And that’s when I saw her.”
A Ghost of a Chance Page 5