I could totally see Ellen’s side of it. If my dead husband suddenly materialized in our living room, acting as though everything was peachy—and assuming I knew nothing about the Station—I might have made an exit out of the nearest one-story window.
“You were surprised by her reaction?” I said. “You did show up out of nowhere.”
“Yes, well, you need to understand that Ellen used to see her dead cousin, Molly, in the kitchen all the time. They shared such a love of baking that it didn’t surprise me when Ellen would start talking aloud in what looked to me like an empty kitchen . . .”
“So what did you do?” I had leaned so far over the table, I had ice cream in my hair. I pushed my hair back and ignored it.
“My silence seemed to make it worse,” Gus went on shortly. “She was staring at me as if she thought I was about to start performing circus tricks. And then without any warning, she began throwing things at me—anything she could get her hands on. Her knitting needles, several skeins of yarn, cushions from the couch, our wedding photo . . .”
I shook my head, feeling a bit sorry for Ellen and Gus. And truth be told, grateful for Ethan’s brief bout of drama. Our visit could have been a complete disaster.
“But eventually,” he said with a crooked grin, “she calmed down when I promised I’d do something the next day, the day that would have been our fifty-third anniversary. It would be, I told her, irrefutable proof of how much I still loved her.”
“Irrefutable.” I enunciated every syllable. “That’s very romantic.”
Charlotte’s heart-shaped face was beaming. “That’s nothing. Wait till you hear what happened next!”
Evidently, the dead repeated stories as often as the living. And as slowly. Maybe after all this practice, I could listen to Uncle Donald’s jokes without yawning through the punch line.
Creesie must have been listening.
“Gus,” she said sweetly “do you mind if I pick it up from here? You talk too slow for the dead.” Then she chuckled, avoiding looking directly at me. “ . . . Almost too slow for the living.”
Gus waved her off with a grin. “Be my guest. You know it as well as I do.”
Creesie squeezed his arm again, picking up where he left off. “The best part was yet to come, Hope, because Gus told Ellen that very soon a random dove would—Oh, how do I put this delicately?”
An image appeared in my mind. I grimaced.
“Bird poop? That’s your irrefutable proof?” You could have knocked me over with a feather. Dead people were wackier than I’d thought.
“Creesie, you skipped too far ahead,” Rin groaned.
“I can see you don’t fully comprehend the significance of the, um, bird doo. Let me take you back. On the morning of Ellen and Gus’s wedding, as she was about to slide into her father’s gleaming 1945 DeSoto wearing a white lace gown that once belonged to her mother, a pearl grey dove flew over her head and—well, I think you can see the rest.”
“That’s sort of gross,” I admitted, waiting as the four of them wiped tears of laughter from their eyes.
Finally, Gus said, “Ellen felt the same way . . . at first. Actually, she viewed it as a bad omen and almost didn’t marry me, but I told her it was widely know that it’s a sign of good luck in Germany. It will bring you unending happiness for the rest of your days.”
“It will?” I asked. This brought another round of guffawing. Sometimes I could be so gullible. Rin arched her eyebrows, but thankfully swallowed any sarcastic replies.
“Gus,” Creesie continued, “was obviously trying to make Ellen feel better about this unforeseen event, but that little white lie worked for decades. You see, Hope, Ellen was my dearest friend. We met shortly after the birth of my first daughter, Edie, when I was looking for work, and she and Gus were looking for help with their new business. We had no secrets. We told each other everything.” She smiled briefly at Charlotte and Rin. “And honestly, for more years than I could count, Ellen like to tell me how perfect her life was . . . chalking it all up to the morning of her wedding when a misguided bird dropped a gloppy mess on her head.”
“That’s why,” Charlotte broke in, unable to keep the excitement from trickling out of her, “when Gus mentioned his irrefutable proof, Ellen paid attention. Only Gus could pull off a crazy stunt like that.”
“But why that?” In my limited experience, this didn’t seem the straightest route to Ellen’s heart.
“It was the only thing that would have made Ellen believe that Gus—her Gus—was really okay ‘wherever he was.’” I carefully avoided Creesie’s gaze, but in my mind I told her it wasn’t nice to yank other people’s words out of their heads. Mine, in particular.
“It was the only thing that would let her move on with her life.” Gus agreed. “And that’s all I ever wanted for her.”
“And you . . .” I hesitated, already imagining additional laughter. “You can make a bird . . . do that?”
Gus shrugged noncommittally. “It does require some concentration, a bit of practice, as well as a certain level of skill. If it’s a small creature, I usually can. But I have to get very close, focus, and squeeze gently.”
“And not everyone can do this?” I asked more pointedly.
I must have made it sound like brain surgery, and everyone laughed.
“Well, not that specifically,” I muttered to another round of laughter. It wasn’t like I was about to embark a dove-squeezing rampage anytime soon.
“Some of us are blessed with greater talents than others,” Gus replied. “Mine is but a simple one.”
I watched with growing impatience as Gus and Creesie exchanged thoughts. I wished this mind-reading thing worked more consistently. Whatever tidbit they’d just shared, I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Creesie’s special talents.
“What happened after that?” I asked, hoping the conclusion was coming shortly and feeling self-conscious about having that thought—knowing all the while they were listening.
“Yes, of course, hurrying along now . . .” Gus straightened his head and returned his attention to the entire group. “Can you imagine my Ellen, the day after our visit, pushing her grocery cart back to her car, when something wet hits the top of her head? An expression of genuine astonishment crosses her face as she glances up to see a dove flying away. And, to my delight, she began a torrent of whoops and shouts in the parking lot, ‘Gus, is that you? I know it’s you! I love you! I still love you, Gus!’”
Gus’s eyes momentarily leaked tears, but he didn’t stop smiling.
“Then she yells at the sky, ‘“Don’t think for a minute I believed your malarkey all those years. Damned bird had nothing to do with it. You were always my good luck!’”
I wiped the tears from my eyes, not knowing the appropriate thing to say or even sure if the story was true. Gus seemed like the total practical joker type.
But Creesie changed my mind when she sniffed, “That’s beautiful, Gus . . . One of my favorites. That last bit gets me every time.”
“Speaking of good luck, we have somewhere we need to be.” Charlotte shoved her tiny hip against mine and catapulted me out of the booth. Getting better at being bodiless, I managed to land lithely on my feet, and rubbed my already tender hip.
“Ow! I think that’s going to leave a mark.”
Though I was kidding, Charlotte started to apologize. I saw the words forming in her mind, but Creesie spoke first, “Have fun, girls. We’ll see you later.”
Creesie stacked our plates on top of one another, clearing the way for a huge slice of triple-layered chocolate cake with lots of curled shavings on top. My mouth watered at the sight of it, and instantly I regretted the fact that we were leaving.
“What’s on the agenda?” I asked as we reached the arched doorway of the café.
Charlotte twittered with excitement. “We’re going to see if you can break through to my mother. I just know you’re going to be our good luck!”
“Just promise
not to squeeze me too hard, I don’t think I could take it.”
I was being totally serious, but for some reason, they couldn’t stop laughing.
12 New Visits
We ran without stopping, dodging visitors as we went, making our way quickly to the ticket booth. There wasn’t a soul waiting in line there, nor at the shiny, flat-nosed bus. Our timing was perfect. Joining hands so we didn’t lose one another, we took three steps, and then disappeared briefly into blackness before landing in a quiet neighborhood park. Mature trees shielded us from the warm afternoon sun, colorful flowers sprang up everywhere, and over at the playground area, two kids were swinging so high they nearly gave me a heart attack.
Charlotte, Rin, and I waited in tense anticipation for Mrs. Gooding. In my mind’s eye, I saw her as a beautiful redhead, just like Charlotte, with thick hair and bright blue eyes. Then again, that might not have been my image of her, but rather, Charlotte’s. Even if this mindreading stuff was getting easier, I didn’t always know when I was doing it.
“That’s her!” Charlotte cried suddenly. I started to shush her, but no one looked in our direction, most notably not her mother.
Mrs. Gooding in person was not quite as Charlotte had depicted. Maybe earlier—before Charlotte had died, maybe then she was lovely. The woman I saw today was frail, thin, on the verge of breaking. Her pain pulsed through me, and instantly I wished I could leave.
“It gets easier,” Charlotte whispered, gripping my arm. I saw the tears in her eyes. “I need your help, Hope. Please make her happy again.”
“That’s a tall order, Char,” Rin said gently. “Just talk to her if you can, Hope.”
“I’m sure I can do that.” I tried to appear eager, but my voice betrayed me.
I walked toward Mrs. Gooding, but only a few feet from Charlotte and Rin I bumped into something hard that knocked me backwards. I couldn’t see it at first, but as I felt around in front of me, a thin, sheer curtain—grayish in color—seemed to surround Mrs. Gooding. Unlike a curtain, however, it was solid. Like an invisible wall.
I pushed.
Nothing happened.
Over my right shoulder, I glanced surreptitiously at Rin and Charlotte. Sensing their disappointment, I pushed again. Harder. As I pushed, I thought of my mother. If the situation were reversed, how desperate would she be to hear that I was okay? If I had died, and Mom had lived, wouldn’t she want someone to come to her and do what I was now doing for Charlotte?
With everything I had within me, every ounce of concentration I could muster, I threw my shoulder against the solid curtain again and again, and just when I was on the verge of giving up, I tumbled miraculously through to the other side.
Mrs. Gooding sprang from the park bench.
“Sweetheart, are you all right? Where did you come from?” She appeared startled, as though I’d materialized out of nowhere and, from her perspective, I supposed I had.
“I—I—” I had no idea what to tell her.
“Oh, my goodness!” She helped me up. “Did you hit your head?”
I could see Charlotte and Rin sending me exaggerated nods behind the curtain.
“Yes . . . yes, I think I did.” Absently, I rubbed my head, one side and then the other. Though I sucked at acting, she seemed to believe me.
She walked me to the bench as I feigned a head injury, throwing in a few Ow’s for good measure. Being one of those nurturing, overprotective Moms, she offered to call me an ambulance, but I told her I’d be fine. For several minutes, we watched the children playing on the swings, and then, without any prompting, she started talking.
“I had a daughter about your age,” she said, the weariness creeping into her voice. “She bumped her head as well, but I wasn’t there to help her.” There were tears in her sad eyes. I watched them fill up, like a cup about to overflow. And then they did.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I blurted out, knowing she was referring to the drunk driver and Charlotte’s car accident. “That driver never should have been on the road.”
“It’s a mother’s job to keep her children safe. I should have driven her myself . . . I should have kept her home.” Her pain was tearing at my insides, but each time I looked at Charlotte, I was reminded to stay exactly where I was.
“What if I told you she was okay?” I whispered. “What if I told you that Charlotte wants you to be happy again?”
She stiffened, shouting at me, “I never told you her name! How did you know her name? Who—WHO ARE YOU?”
I was craning my neck at Charlotte, pleading with my eyes for help. Charlotte and Rin were waving their arms in the air, at a loss for words as much as I was.
Mrs. Gooding stood and began to walk away. She couldn’t have been more than a few feet from me when the lights flickered off, and then on, and I knew we were running out of time.
“Do something!” Rin bellowed. “Don’t let her get away!”
My mind was frantic, racing.
“Wait, Mrs. Gooding! Wait!” I shouted.
But she didn’t slow her pace.
“I’m—I’m—I’m an angel!” The lie flew out before I could stop it. I slapped a hand across my mouth, but it was too late. To my amazement, Mrs. Gooding stopped, and slowly turned.
When she was facing me eye to eye, she asked warily, “What’s your name?”
“Hope,” I managed to say. “My name is Hope.”
Mrs. Gooding collapsed on the grass.
By the time she came to and I’d assisted her back to the bench, Charlotte and Rin were jumping up and down hysterically from the other side of the curtain. Mrs. Gooding wasn’t fully convinced of my angelic status. Her skepticism was obvious. So I babbled on and on about Charlotte’s appearance—giving her every detail that I could see, including the tiny flowers in her upswept hair—thankfully Charlotte morphed back into her prom dress as I described it so I didn’t have to recall it. Then I spoke of Charlotte’s boundless optimism, her little-girl voice, and told her that she had a special message for her mother.
“I miss the sound of her voice . . .” she said weakly, breaking off into sobs. I held her against me, trying to think of something to say that would ease her pain.
“Mrs. Gooding, Charlotte wants . . .” I looked past her to her petite, copper-haired daughter for guidance. She had dropped to her knees, Rin at her side, unable to speak. It wasn’t easy to put myself in Charlotte’s shoes, to verbalize the wishes in her heart, or to imagine all the things she’d longed to say for the past ten years. But when I pictured my own mother, saw the face of Vivienne sitting beside me, the words finally came to me.
“She . . . she wants you to stop crying.” I placed an arm around her shoulder. It felt bony beneath my fingers. “She wants you to start eating.” At this, a maniacal chuckle erupted between Mrs. Gooding’s sobs. “She’s tried to see you several times, to let you know that she’s happy, but she’s been unable to, um, reach you. So she sent me instead.”
Her face turned ashen. Between fresh sobs, she said, “I see her everywhere I go. I feel her around me all the time. We used to love this little park. I come here to be close to her again . . .” Her body convulsed into sobs, rendering her speechless. After composing herself, she said, “I want her back with me so much that I’m certain I’m imagining her.”
Funny how people did that to themselves, I thought, and there was no need for it. I was having a difficult time speaking; hot tears were running down my face, and there was a heaviness in my chest. “You’re not imagining her,” I said. “Charlotte is happy. She’s with Rin. They’ve both been watching out for you.”
“She and Rin?” Her hand flew to her mouth.
“She doesn’t want you to be in any hurry to see her . . . permanently,” I added, and I saw Charlotte smile. “She loves you way too much for that.”
And then the park disappeared, the space going black, void of anything solid, and as I reached out, I felt two hands take mine firmly—one Rin’s, the other Charlotte’s. Dim light app
eared—Rin was holding back a corner of the heavy velvet drape, making it look unbelievably easy—and in less than a heartbeat, we stood in a very familiar place.
If the blowing autumn leaves and pilgrim pictures taped to the windows were any indication, it was a chilly November evening sometime around Thanksgiving, possibly a short time after my accident. I looked around with blurry, tear-filled eyes. I had missed this place more than I’d known.
Mom and Dad lived here until Claire hit the terrible two’s (or so I’d heard). Just a tiny bungalow near downtown McMinnville that Mom had fallen in love with, and Dad eventually had done the same. Painted moss green with deep purple shutters, and a picket fence and porch to match, it suited my mother’s personality. As soon as I came along, the house got a bit crowded so the four of us moved into our second home, a comfy two-story across town.
But then, last year, when Claire turned twenty and wanted to be “free”—which I took to mean, live on her own, be independent, throw wild parties—our parents offered up the bungalow. Implying that my older sister needed a sitter, Mom not-so-slyly hinted that I should go with her, mistakenly assuming that I had a hair’s-width of influence on Claire’s behavior—good or bad. Despite my ensuing rant, Mom bribed me. Free laundry service for a year, and all the cake I could eat was our agreed-upon settlement.
I unlatched the small gate and bounded up the sidewalk, pausing at the front door.
“Should I knock first?” I asked, suddenly nervous.
“Why are you whispering? This is your house, isn’t it? I say we . . . Aw, what the heck—Let’s surprise her!” Charlotte giggled. “This is a happy occasion! I can’t wait to meet her.” Our last visit had left us in an extremely buoyant mood, Charlotte most of all.
She pulled back the screen door. A paper turkey cut-out lurched into view, and I turned the handle of the front door. We never locked it. Mac was still one of those places where people trusted their neighbors. We walked into the narrow entryway. My sister’s room was behind the long wall on the left; mine was on the right. The small but tidy living room and kitchen stretched out in their entirety in front of us, and my eyes squinted against the brightness.
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