Ghost Moon

by Karen Robards

  ‘‘Big John! Big John!’’ Others were moving toward them, but instead of rushing they seemed to Olivia to be moving almost in slow motion. She was only vaguely aware of them as they began to cluster around. All her attention was concentrated on Big John.

  Urgently, she grabbed his upper arm through the nubby linen of his sport coat, shaking it, only to find him unresponsive. He did not seem to be breathing. He was tieless, his collar open at the throat, and she placed her fingers against the warm skin at the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  Please, oh, please. Terror, sharp-tasting as bile, rose in her throat. Surely he wasn’t going to die. Not now, not like this. Not on the very day that she was come home again.

  If there was a pulse, she could not detect it.

  ‘‘It’s me. Olivia,’’ she said pitifully, uncertain whether he could hear her but hoping that he could.

  ‘‘Move!’’ Uncle Charlie dropped to his knees beside her, unceremoniously pushing her out of the way as he turned Big John onto his back and placed his own hand against the place where the pulse should be in his neck. Above them, one elderly woman began to scream, a nerve-shattering, high-pitched keening, while another ran toward the house, presumably to fetch help.

  ‘‘Oh, please help him!’’ Rocking back on her heels, Olivia pressed both hands to her mouth, watching helplessly as Charlie repositioned Big John’s head and jaw, and opened his mouth.

  ‘‘Mom.’’ Standing just behind her, Sara touched her shoulder, her voice hushed, scared. A glance back showed Olivia that Sara’s face was as pale and frightened as her own surely must be.

  For Sara’s sake, Olivia fought to regain some measure of control.

  ‘‘It’s okay, pumpkin.’’ Her voice was hoarse, but at least she could speak. She reached for the little hand on her shoulder, and clasped it. The warmth of Sara’s fingers made her realize how icy hers had become.

  ‘‘Mom, is he dead?’’

  ‘‘No. No, of course not.’’ She prayed Big John was not, although she was terrified that her words were a lie. He lay unmoving, sprawled on his back now, his arms flung out to either side, his legs splayed. His skin was turning gray, visibly as she watched, the color leaching from his face, and the flesh of his cheeks and neck sagged in folds away from his bones.

  Had she come home again only just in time to watch him die?

  More and more people were crowding around. The babble of their voices wove together so that Olivia could make sense of only a few disjointed phrases.

  ‘‘What’s happened?’’

  ‘‘Some kind of accident . . .’’

  ‘‘Sacrebleu, did anyone call an ambulance?’’

  ‘‘Help him, Jesus!’’

  ‘‘It’s Big John. . . .’’

  Some of the newcomers hunkered down, so that in moments those crouched around Big John formed a protective circle, while what seemed like dozens more hovered above them. Shocked questions and exclamations overhead joined with the pounding of her own heart to create a relentless roaring in Olivia’s ears; she felt dizzy, short of breath. Her vision was affected, so that Big John and the crowd around him became no more than a shifting blur of color. After a moment Olivia realized that that was because she was seeing them through the tears in her eyes. The full enormity of the tragedy she had precipitated made her numb. Grief closed her throat as Charlie blew into Big John’s mouth, then straightened and with a grim face began performing the rhythmic chest compressions of CPR.

  Hail Mary, full of grace . . . The prayers of her earliest childhood popped into Olivia’s mind as they always did in times of stress, and she repeated them silently, grasping for comfort in the familiar litany. Behind her there was more comfort in the feel of Sara’s solid little body pressed against her back. She could feel the knobbiness of Sara’s knees like hard balls on either side of her spine. Sara’s fingers squeezed her own, and Olivia clung to them as if to a lifeline.

  Another man shouldered through the crowd to drop down on one knee on the opposite side of Big John’s body from where she crouched. He had short, sandy hair, a powerful build, and was clad in a navy sport coat, a dark T-shirt, and khaki slacks.

  ‘‘What in the name of God happened?’’ The question, addressed to Charlie, was low and rough.

  ‘‘Heart attack, I think.’’

  ‘‘What? What caused it? He was fine. . . .’’

  ‘‘She showed up,’’ Charlie said briefly, his head jerking sideways to indicate Olivia. ‘‘He took one look at her and keeled over.’’

  Across Big John’s body, Olivia’s stricken gaze met narrowed blue eyes that had once been as familiar to her as her own. Above them, straight ash-brown brows almost touched in a fierce frown. His eyes widened as he registered her identity. She supposed her eyes widened, too, as she recognized him.

  Seth.

  She must have said it aloud, because he replied with, ‘‘Olivia.’’

  Just her name, no more, in a tone that was about as welcoming as stone.

  ‘‘I think . . . Big John thought I was . . . my mother. He looked at me and said ‘Selena’ and—and just collapsed,’’ she said wretchedly. It was all she could do to force the words out around the lump in her throat. Tears filled her eyes, trickled down her cheeks. Surprised by the feel of their wetness against her skin, she wiped them away with her free hand.

  ‘‘Jesus Christ, have you ever in your life done anything but cause trouble?’’ Seth’s mouth twisted with anger. His gaze, hard with animosity, held hers.

  Olivia felt as if he had slapped her. Unfair! she wanted to cry, but her tongue and lips would not form the word.

  ‘‘I’m not getting anywhere with this.’’ Charlie’s voice was ragged. Despite his words, his hands were still rhythmically compressing Big John’s chest.

  Seth’s gaze dropped away from hers as they both switched their attention to Big John. Charlie was pumping hard, his right hand crossed over his left on Big John’s chest, his face red with effort. Seth’s strong brown hand moved to grasp the old man’s limp paper-white fingers.

  ‘‘Big John, it’s Seth,’’ he said softly. ‘‘It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.’’

  Seth was Big John’s oldest grandson, his favorite, the one the old man, with unabashed pride, pointed out to all and sundry as his heir. If Big John could hear anything in this moment of extremis, Seth’s would be the voice that would most comfort him.

  Pray for us now and at the hour of our death. . . . The words of the prayer ran through Olivia’s mind in an endless loop. Behind her, Sara’s knees still pressed into her back. Her daughter still clasped her hand. Drawing on these reminders for strength, Olivia once again dashed the tears from her cheeks.

  ‘‘The ambulance is here!’’ a woman called with high-pitched excitement, both hands waving as she ran toward them from the direction of the driveway. Behind her, cars pulled to one side and people scattered as an ambulance came up the driveway, then pulled off the pavement to bump over the lawn toward them, its red lights flashing but its siren mercifully silent. When at last the vehicle stopped just a few feet away, emergency medical technicians leaped out and hurried toward the victim.

  ‘‘Stand back, please! Stand back!’’

  Olivia stumbled to her feet, keeping Sara close to her, making room along with the rest of the crowd as the emergency personnel took over. With the sound of popping buttons, Big John’s shirt was ripped open and the paddles of a portable defibrillator were applied to either side of his chest.

  ‘‘One—two—three! Clear!’’

  With a sound like a watermelon hitting pavement, the defibrillator did its job, once, twice, lifting Big John’s body off the grass only to allow it to flop back down like a landed fish. The smell of burning filled the air.

  Olivia shuddered. Sara pressed close against her side, her arms wrapping around her mother’s waist. Olivia hugged her daughter close.

  ‘‘We’ve got a pulse!’’ one of the EMTs cried.

&
nbsp; ‘‘Let’s go!’’

  With a series of well-coordinated movements, the EMTs scooped Big John onto a stretcher, picked the stretcher up, ran the few steps to the open back door of the ambulance, and loaded him inside.

  Seth and Charlie ran behind them, sport coats flapping in the breeze made by their haste. They were joined by a thin, sixtyish woman with short, carefully groomed auburn hair. She wore a blue floral dress, and her high heels kept sinking into the turf, giving her an odd, jerking gait as she ran. With a shock, Olivia recognized her as Belinda Vernon, Big John’s daughter, Seth’s aunt, and Charlie’s wife.

  All those years ago, Belinda Vernon had disliked her. Swamp trash was what Belinda had called her once, angry over the teenage Olivia’s unrepentant attitude after Belinda took her to task for an outfit she was wearing. After that, Olivia had never again deigned to address her as Aunt Belinda, as she had been taught. The few times she’d had to call her something, she had said simply Belinda, in an insolent way that had only served to fuel the older woman’s outrage.

  In the face of the present emergency, though, past enmity merited no more than a flicker of remembrance. Olivia found herself instinctively running toward the ambulance, too, Sara’s hand clutched in hers. She caught up with the others just as Charlie jumped in the back with Big John and the EMTs. Belinda clambered up next. Olivia grabbed at Seth’s sleeve as he put a foot on the ambulance floor preparatory to heaving himself inside.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘‘SETH . . .’’ INSTINCTIVELY OLIVIA WANTED to go with them. In the face of this calamity, the years of separation vanished as though they had never been. Seth glanced back at her, his face hard and un-welcoming.

  ‘‘Stay here,’’ he said shortly. Then he was inside the ambulance and the door closed in her face. Olivia recoiled inside. As clearly as if he had said the words, Seth’s tone told her that she had no right to a place at Big John’s side. No longer was she to be considered one of the family. How could she complain, though? She’d abdicated her place herself.

  ‘‘Oh, my God, Olivia.’’ A hand curled around her arm above her elbow as the ambulance jolted away. Olivia glanced up to discover another familiar face.

  ‘‘Aunt Callie,’’ she said in what was almost a sob, as Seth’s mother wrapped her in a warm embrace. Sara was still pressed close against her side and Olivia put one arm around her daughter’s shoulders, holding her close, enfolding her in the hug. Callie had lost a great deal of weight, Olivia discovered, so that the once-sturdy woman felt almost fragile in her arms. Callie’s hair was short now, framing her narrow face in spiky wisps, and the former brunette had gone completely gray. There were dark circles around her eyes, and her face was deeply lined. But the eyes, which were the same deep blue as Seth’s, were unchanged.

  In her invitation to Olivia to come home for a visit, she’d written that she was ill.

  ‘‘I’m glad you came, Olivia. Thank you.’’ Although she was clearly upset, Callie managed a shaky smile for Olivia as they separated. ‘‘Oh, my goodness, forgive me, but I’ve got to go to the hospital right away. Do you know what happened to Big John?’’

  ‘‘He had a heart attack, I think. At least, that’s what Uncle Charlie said. He was standing on the gazebo steps and he just clutched his chest and keeled over. It was my fault. I’m almost sure—he thought I was my mother.’’ Guilt and pain and shock had rendered Olivia almost numb. She knew what had happened, but at the moment she could not really feel it.

  ‘‘Oh, my goodness,’’ Callie said again helplessly. Her lips trembled. She took a deep breath, seemed to struggle to get hold of herself, and caught Olivia’s hand, squeezing it. ‘‘Don’t blame yourself, dear. Please. You and’’—she glanced down at Sara, who was looking up at her with huge, frightened eyes from the protection of Olivia’s skirt—‘‘your daughter are very welcome. What happened surely wasn’t your fault. Big John hasn’t been well for some time, and he’s been—a little unclear in his mind.’’ She looked desperately around. ‘‘Oh, my, oh, my. I have to get to the hospital. Where is that car?’’

  ‘‘This is Sara.’’ Olivia’s arm was still around Sara’s shoulders as she identified her daughter by name. It was clear from Callie’s hesitation that she couldn’t immediately call it to mind. Given the awful circumstances, though, that wasn’t too surprising. Olivia herself felt as if her brain had ceased to function properly. Images of Big John as he had looked lying so still and gray on the grass filled her mind almost to the exclusion of all else.

  ‘‘Please, let’s head toward the house.’’ With murmured acknowledgments and waves for other guests who came up to pat her consolingly or called out to her, Callie herded them forward with little shooing gestures. After a few moments and a few deep breaths, she managed a smile for Sara. ‘‘Hello, Sara. I’m your aunt Callie.’’

  Sara said nothing, just nodded her head and peeped at Callie from Olivia’s other side. With an arm still around her shoulders, Olivia hugged her a little closer. Sara would be overwhelmed by this crisis involving strangers and her mother’s obvious emotion, and silence was the way she generally reacted. Not that Olivia blamed her: She was overwhelmed herself.

  ‘‘Callie, how dreadful! Phillip just told me that Big John collapsed! Do you need a ride to the hospital?’’ A tall, slender blonde in perhaps her midthirties ran up to them, long-legged in high-heeled black pumps, and placed a hand on Callie’s arm. She had rather sharp features that were carefully made-up, chic, chin-length blond hair, and wore a simple, sleeveless black linen sheath that looked like it had cost the earth. A stocky, dark-haired man in a red polo shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes with ankle-length socks followed a step behind her, looking agitated. Olivia recognized the man as Seth’s cousin, Phillip Vernon. Actually, she had always thought of him as her cousin, too, although he wasn’t. He and his brother Carl were the ones who had once thrown her in the lake, for which heinous deed Seth had obligingly beaten them up. Phillip would be about thirty-four now, Olivia calculated, some three years younger than Seth. He was quite a bit heavier than he had been the last time she had seen him, but Olivia would have recognized him anywhere.

  ‘‘Oh, Mallory, yes, I do mean to go to the hospital, right away, but Ira’s already fetching the car,’’ Callie said, her voice quivering. ‘‘I am just about out of my mind—’’

  ‘‘Olivia!’’ Phillip interrupted, his eyes widening as they moved past Callie to fix on Olivia’s face. ‘‘By all that’s holy! What the hell are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘I asked her to come, Phillip,’’ Callie intervened. ‘‘She and her daughter are my guests. And watch your language, if you please! Olivia, this is Mallory Hodges, Seth’s fiancée. Mallory, this is Seth’s cousin Olivia Morrison, and her daughter, Sara.’’

  Seth’s fiancée. As they all hurried toward the house, and Olivia and Mallory Hodges exchanged hasty greetings, Olivia turned the knowledge over in her mind. She had known that Seth had married and divorced, but she hadn’t known he was planning to marry again.

  But then, how should she? It was she, after all, who had cut the connection and chosen to stay away. For nine years.

  ‘‘Did my father go with Big John in the ambulance?’’ Phillip asked as they neared the house.

  ‘‘Both your parents did, and so did Seth,’’ Callie replied, glancing around distractedly. ‘‘Olivia . . .’’

  They reached the Big House’s wide front steps as Callie spoke, and began to ascend in a group to the firstfloor veranda. The house was built in the fashion of southern Louisiana, with the first floor some ten feet above the lawn to combat groundwater. The cellar beneath was only partially underground, and had windows half the size of the upper-story windows looking out onto the mass of shrubbery that surrounded the house. The cellar walls were made of stone, as were the steps. The rest of the house was built of white-painted brick. Those used for the center section had been handmade and fired on the former sugar plantation by slaves before the Civil War.
/>
  A white Lincoln Town Car stopped by the walkway that led from the driveway to the house, and honked twice, causing Callie to break off in midsentence, stop climbing stairs, and glance toward it. Everyone else followed suit.

  ‘‘Oh, thank goodness! I must go. Olivia—’’

  She was interrupted again.

  ‘‘Do you mind if I ride with you? I feel I should be there for Seth, in case . . .’’ Mallory’s voice trailed off delicately, but her meaning was clear: in case Big John died.

  Hail Mary, full of grace . . .

  ‘‘Oh, dear, oh, surely he won’t need you that way! But of course you may come, Mallory. You’re one of the family now. Olivia . . .’’ Callie cast a wild-eyed glance at Olivia. Olivia wondered if the icy shock she was experiencing was as visible as Callie’s distress.

  Before she could finish whatever it was she had been trying to say, Callie was cut off by a blond sprite in an ankle-length blue cotton nightgown who darted out the front door.

  ‘‘Nana, what’s happened? What’s wrong?’’ The screen banged shut behind the child, the sound as loud as a gunshot. She was about Sara’s age, and exquisitely pretty, Olivia saw, as she skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs, with hair down to her waist, delicate bones, and huge cornflower-blue eyes.

  ‘‘Oh, Chloe, what are you doing up? It’s after midnight!’’ Callie said in a despairing voice.

  ‘‘She ain’t never been to bed, though I swear I tried.’’ Martha Hendricks, the family’s longtime housekeeper, followed on the little girl’s heels. She was fiftyish, clad in a flowered cotton zip-front robe and pink terry-cloth slippers, a big-boned woman with a plain round face and an unnaturally black beehive of hair. She sounded harassed. ‘‘She saw that there ambulance out of the window, and you know how Miss Curiosity is. Nothing would suit her but that she had to get out here and stick her nose in the middle of what was goin’ on.’’

  ‘‘Oh, dear,’’ Callie said, her hands fluttering uncharacteristically. It was clear that she was torn between the waiting Lincoln and Chloe.