by J. R. Rain
“The dream was there for the taking. I didn’t take it.”
“Why?”
“People change. Dreams change. Life goes on. If I really wanted it, I would pursue it.”
“So you don’t really want it? Is that because of me? God, I feel horrible.”
“Not because of you. When I was twenty-two, I wanted to prove I could play in the NFL. I wanted to prove I was tough enough. I had no other goals in life, no other conceivable ambition. Then, suddenly, I was forced to rethink and refocus my life, and I discovered that I could live without playing football.”
“But you’ve always been...bitter towards being a detective. Because it was something your father did. It was something that caused him not to be in your life when you were growing up.”
“Father runs a big agency. I am determined never to be that big. But you’re right, I was bitter towards my job. It was not my first choice. But then something happened.”
“You discovered you were good at detecting,” she said. “Damn good.”
“Yes.”
“What about proving yourself in the NFL?”
“Maybe some things are better left unproven.”
“But you think you could have made it?”
“In a heartbeat.” I said. “Wanna go for that walk?”
“Okay.”
I knew she didn’t want to get wet, but she did it for me. We got our coats on. I grabbed an umbrella for her. I didn’t mind getting wet.
Outside, in the rain, we moved slowly along Main Street. The shops and stores were all open, and a trickle of tourists, looking confused at this unprecedented Southern California weather, moved past us. I heard one of them say: “We can get rain at home.”
“Can’t please everyone,” I said to Cindy.
“No.”
“Want some chocolate?” I asked.
“Mmm, sounds yummy.”
We ducked into The Chocolatiers. A massive peanut butter cup for me and a sugar-free almond rocca for Cindy.
“Sugar-free?” I asked, when we stepped outside again.
“You can’t taste the difference.”
“Sure.”
“Plus it’s half the calories.”
We sat down on a bench under an awning and ate our chocolate and watched the rain.
“How’s Derrick doing?” asked Cindy.
“His family is moving east. Hard to have a normal life after being accused of murder. Kid will be looked at differently, no matter how innocent he is. UCLA is interested in giving him a scholarship.”
“Did you have anything to do with that?”
“I happen to know a few people there.”
“So your work here is done?”
I looked away, inhaling deeply.
She reached out and placed her hand on top of mine. It was warm and comforting.
“You’re thinking of your mother,” she said.
I kept looking away. “Her killer is still out there.”
The rain continued to fall. She continued holding my hand. She squeezed it.
“You’re going to find him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know what I will do to him when I find him.”
“Does that worry you?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then it doesn’t worry me.”
65.
Jack was drinking a non-steaming cup of coffee. I was drinking a bubbling Coke. The dining room was empty. A very large teenage boy was filling some straw containers behind the counter. Minutes before closing.
I was toying with the scrap of folded paper.
“One thing I don’t get,” I said, turning the paper over in my fingers, “is why you always blow on your coffee. I mean, couldn’t you just snap your fingers and it would be instantly cool? Or, a better question: how is it even possible that God could burn his lips?”
“That’s more than one thing,” said Jack.
“You’re not going to answer, are you?”
He drank more of his coffee. His eyes were brownish, maybe with a touch of green. Maybe. What the hell did I know? I was colorblind.
“Could you heal me of my colorblindness?” I asked.
“Heal yourself.”
“Heal myself?”
“Sure. I gave you a big brain for a reason.”
“They say we’re only using ninety percent,” I said.
“If that much.”
We were silent some more. I was thinking about my big brain...surely mine was bigger than most, since I was always being told I had a big head. Or were they referring to something else? I held up the folded piece of paper.
“I’m going to open this now,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve wanted to for quite sometime.”
“I’m sure you did, but you didn’t.”
“No,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to find the answer myself.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
The kid behind the counter walked over to us and told us we had five minutes. I said sure. Jack didn’t say anything. And when the kid was gone, I unfolded the paper and looked down at the single word: Dana.
“Lucky guess,” I said.
Jack laughed.
“So why did you come to me,” I said. “Why are you here now?”
“You asked me here.”
“Fine. Now what do I do with you?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I’m thinking about writing a book.”
“Good for you,” said Jack.
“It’s going to be about this case.”
“Would make a good book,” said Jack.
“I want to put you in it,” I said.
“I’m honored.”
“That is why you came to me, right?”
“That is for you to decide.”
We were silent some more. The kid behind the counter was turning off the lights, banging stuff loudly so we’d get the hint.
“I feel we’ve only scratched the surface here,” I said.
“That’s why there’s something called sequels.”
“You mentioned something earlier about loving me.”
“I did.”
“So do you really love me?” I asked, a hell of a strange question for one grown man to ask another grown man. Especially a man as tough as myself.
He said, “More than you know, my son. More than you know.” He reached out and put his hand on my hand. Radiating warmth spread through me instantly. “I am with you always. Remember that.”
Something caught in my throat. “Then why do I feel so alone?”
“Do you feel alone now?”
“No,” I said. The lights went out, and we got up together from the table. “No, I don’t.”
The End
Now available on Smashwords.com:
The Body Departed
A Ghost Story
by
J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
1.
I stepped through the wall and into my daughter’s bedroom.
She was sleeping contentedly on her side. It was before dawn and the building was quiet. The curtains were open and the sky was black beyond. If there were any stars, they were lost to the L.A. smog. The curtains were covered with ponies, as was most of the room. A plastic pony light switch, a pony bed lamp, pony wallpaper and bedspread. Someday she would outgrow her obsession with ponies, although I secretly hoped not.
A girl and her pony. It’s a beautiful thing.
I stepped closer to my sleeping daughter, and as I did so she shifted slightly towards me. She mewed like a newborn kitten. Crimson light from her alarm clock splashed over her delicate features, highlighting a slightly upturned nose and impossibly big eyes. Sometimes when she slept her closed eyelids fluttered and danced. But not tonight. Tonight she was sleeping deeply, no doubt dreaming of sugar and spice and everything nice.
Or of
Barbies and boys and everything in-between.
I wondered if she ever dreamed of me. I’m sure she did at times. Were those dreams good or bad? Did she ever wake up sad and missing her father?
Do you want her to wake up sad? I asked myself.
No, I thought. I wanted her to wake up rested, restored and full of peace.
I stepped away from the far wall and glided over to the small chair in the corner of her room. We had made the chair together one weekend, a father/daughter project for the Girl’s Scouts. To her credit, she did most of the work.
I sat in it now, lowering my weightless body into it, mimicking the act of sitting. Unsurprisingly, the chair didn’t creak.
As I sat, my daughter rolled over in her sleep, facing me. Her aura, usually blue and streaked with red flames, often reacted to my presence, as it did now. The red flames crackled and gravitated toward me like a pulsating static ball, sensing me like I sensed it.
As I continued to sit, the lapping red flames grew in intensity, snapping and licking the air like solar flares on the surface of the sun. My daughter’s aura always reacted this way to me. But only in sleep. Somehow her subconscious recognized, or perhaps it was her soul. Or both. And from this subconscious state, she would sometimes speak to me, as she did now.
“Hi, daddy.”
“Hi, baby,” I said.
“Mommy said you got hurt real bad.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Mommy said that a bad man hurt you and you got killed.”
“Mommy’s right, but I don’t want you thinking about that right now, okay?”
“Okay,” she said sleepily. “Am I dreaming, daddy?”
“Yes, baby.”
We were quiet and she shifted subtly, lifting her face toward me, her eyes still closed in sleep. There was a sound from outside her window, a light tapping. I ignored it, but it came again and again, and then with more consistency. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was raining. I looked back at my daughter and thought of the rain, remembering how it felt on my skin, on my face. Or, rather, I was trying to remember. Lately, such memories of the flesh were getting harder and harder to recall.
“It’s raining, daddy,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Do you live in the rain?”
“No.”
“Where do you live, daddy?”
“I live here, with you.”
“But you’re dead.”
I said nothing. I hated to be reminded of this, even by my daughter.
“Why don’t you go to heaven, daddy?”
I thought about that. I think about that a lot, actually. I said, “Daddy still has work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“Good work.”
“I miss you,” she said. “I miss you so much. I think about you every day. I’m always crying. People at school say I’m a crybaby.”
“You’re not a crybaby,” I said. “You’re just sad.” My heart broke all over again. “It’s time to go back to sleep, angel.”
“Okay, daddy.”
“I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too, daddy.”
I drifted up from the small wooden chair and moved across the room the way I do—silently and easily—and at the far wall I looked back at her. Her aura had subsided, although some of it still flared here and there. For her to relax—to truly relax—I needed to leave her room entirely.
And so I did. Through the wall.
To hell with doors.
2.
I was standing behind him, reading the newspaper from over his shoulder, as I did every morning.
His name was Jerrold and he was close to sixty and close to retirement. He lived alone and seemed mostly happy. He was addicted to internet poker, but, as far as I could tell, that was his only vice.
Thank God.
He turned the paper casually, snapping it taught, then reached for his steaming mug of coffee, heavy with sugar and cream, and took a long sip. I could smell the coffee. Or at least a hint of it, just like I could smell a hint of his aftershave and hair gel. My senses were weak at best.
As he set the mug down, some of the coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the back of his hand. He yelped and shook his hand. I could see that it had immediately reddened.
Pain.
I hadn’t known pain in quite a long time. My last memory of it was when I had been working at a friend’s house, cutting carpet, and nearly severed my arm off.
I looked down at my translucent arm now. Although nearly imperceptible, the scar was still there—or at least the ghostly hint of it.
Still cursing under his breath, Jerrold turned back to his paper. So did I. He scanned the major headlines, and I scanned them along with him. After all, he was my hands in this situation.
He read through some local Los Angeles news, mostly political stuff that would have bored me to tears had I tears to be bored with. I glanced over at his coffee while he read, trying to remember what it tasted like. I think I remembered.
I think.
Hot, roasted, bitter and sweet. I knew the words, but I was having a hard time recalling the actual flavor. That scared me.
Jerrold turned the page. As he did so, something immediately caught my eye; luckily, it caught his eye, too.
A piano teacher had been murdered at St. Luke’s, a converted monastery that was now being used as a Catholic church and school. Lucy Randolph was eighty-six years old and just three days shy from celebrating her sixtieth anniversary with her husband.
I had known Mrs. Randolph. In fact, she had been my own music teacher back when I was a student at St. Luke’s. She had been kind to a fault, a source of inspiration and joy to her students, and especially to me.
And now, according to the report, someone had strangled her, leaving her for dead on the very piano she had taught from. Perhaps the very same piano I had been taught from.
Damn.
Jerrold clucked his tongue and shook his head and moved on to the next page, but I had seen enough. I stepped away,
“You’re still young, Jerrold,” I said to him. “Lose fifteen pounds and find someone special—and ditch the gambling.”
As I spoke, the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up and and his aura shifted towards me. He shivered unconsciously and turned the page.
I left his apartment.
3.
We were in Pauline’s apartment.
She was drinking an apple martini and I wasn’t, which was a damn shame. At the moment, I was sitting in an old wingback chair and she was on the couch, one bare foot up on a hand-painted coffee table which could have doubled for a modern piece of abstract art.
“If you ever need any extra money,” I said, “you could always sell your coffee table on eBay.”
“It’s not for sale,” she said. “Ever.”
“What if you were homeless and living on the streets and needed money?”
“Then I would be homeless and living on the streets with the world’s most bitchen hand-painted coffee table.”
Her name was Pauline and she was a world-famous medium. She could hear me, see me and sometimes even touch me. Hell, she could even read my thoughts, which was a bit disconcerting for me. She was a full-figured woman, with perhaps the most beautiful face I had ever seen. She often wore her long brown hair haphazardly, a look that would surely have your average California girl running back to the bathroom mirror. Pauline was not your average California girl. She wasn’t your average girl by any definition, spending as much of her time in the world of the dead as in the world of the living. Luckily, she just so happened to live in the very building I was presently haunting.
“Yeah, lucky me,” said Pauline, picking up on my thoughts.
She did her readings out of a small office near downtown Los Angeles, usually working with just one or two clients a day. Some of her sessions lasted longer than others and tonight she was home later than usual, hitting the booze hard, as she often did. I wou
ldn’t call her a drunk, but she was damn close to being one.
“I’m not a drunk,” Pauline said absently, reading my thoughts again. “I can stop any time I want. The booze just helps me...release.”
“Release?” I asked.
“Yeah, to forget. To unwind. To uneverything.”
“You should probably not drink so much,” I said.
She regarded me over her martini glass. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face gleamed with a fine film of sweat. She wasn’t as attractive when she was drunk.
“Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “And do you even remember what it’s like being drunk?”
I thought about that. “A little. And that was below the belt.”
“Do you even have a belt?”
I looked down at my slightly glowing ethereal body. Hell, even my clothing glowed, which was the same clothing I had been wearing on the night I was murdered two years ago: a white tee shirt and long red basketball shorts, my usual sleeping garb. I was barefoot and I suspected my hair was a mess, since I had been shot to death in my sleep. Dotting my body were the various bloody holes where the bullets had long ago entered my living flesh.
“No belt,” I said. “Then again, no shoes, either.”
She laughed, which caused some of her martini to slosh over the rim. She cursed and licked her fingers like a true alcoholic.
“Oh, shut up,” she said.
“Waste not, want not,” I said.
She glared at me some more as she took a long pull on her drink. When she set it down, she missed the center of the cork coaster by about three inches. Now part of the glass sat askew on the edge of the coaster, and the whole thing looked like it might tip over. She didn’t notice or care.
Pauline worked with spirits all day. Early on, she had tried her best to ignore my presence. But I knew she could see me, and so I pursued her relentlessly until she finally acknowledged my existence.
“And now I can’t get rid of you,” she said.
“You love me,” I said. “Admit it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Call me an idiot, but I do.”