Ghost No More (Ghost No More Series Book 1)

by CeeCee James

  Around my eighth birthday, we were shown an adobe house in the town of Casa del Fuego. I stayed outside in the dusty front yard while the realtor gave my parents the tour. Seeing a little bit of shade, I walked over and sat on the porch steps, and stared out at the cramped front yard full of dead grass. Reaching down without a thought, my hands found little clods of dirt and crumpled them into dust. I was disgusted to see that the lawn was covered in hundreds of piles of white dog poop. Inside the house, my parents were signing papers. I would soon be spending hours in the hot sun chipping them out of the grass.

  We never did grow grass there, and eventually the straw-like stubble blew away in the desert wind. We didn’t use the front yard anyway. Adam built a tall privacy fence enclosing an eight by eight foot cement patio in the back yard where they spent their evenings smoking cigarettes in lawn chairs.

  There was a home-made swing that hung off a pole in the middle of the yard that was left by the previous owners.

  I loved my swing, and daydreamed it was a rocket ship, or a covered wagon going west, or a mom rocking me as a baby. I swung it in dizzy circles, and whipped myself around the pole as though I were a tether ball. At night I swung gently, and leaned back as far as possible while hanging on with one hand, gazing up at the stars.

  At the end of our first month there, I heard the roar of a chain saw as it started up. Adam decided that the swing made the back yard look cluttered and cut down the pole. From the corner of the house I watched my swing shudder and fall over, flinching as it took my daydreams with it when it toppled.

  My bedroom in the adobe house was in what used to be the back porch. One night, I heard a scurry up the side of the wall, so I jumped out of bed and flipped on the light. The raspy sound was a centipede crawling up the stucco paint. My heart thumped in my throat as it moved in fast spurts. I bent down and felt around for my shoe. When I ran over, my shadow fell across the bug. It curled up and dropped on the bed, immediately lost in the wrinkled sheets. I let out a shriek.

  “What’s the matter?” I heard Mama from her bedroom.

  “A centipede just fell in my bed! I can’t find it!” There was no noise for a minute. There was mumbling through the heater vent in the wall from their room. Finally, Mama yelled, “Just go back to bed. It’s probably fine.”

  I stared toward their room for a moment, before ripping back the covers---nothing. Dragging the bed from the wall, I peered down the side. It wasn’t anywhere. I sat there and tried to catch my breath, and then shook out my blankets. I didn’t want to turn out the light, but once I did I bounded across the floor in two steps, and landed on my bed with a jump. After tucking the blankets in tight around me, I tried to sleep.

  My bedroom had three large windows in the inner wall that looked into the kitchen, left over from the days when it had once been a porch. Mama hung curtains on her side of the windows. She stood there with a corner of the curtain flipped up and watched me. I never knew when she would be there. Sometimes I’d get a prickly feeling down my back and turn to look, and there would be her eyes staring from under the turned-up curtain.

  “I like to watch to see if you are misbehaving,” she said.

  I had to be careful getting my toys off their shelf, because she might consider my room a mess. I peeked over my shoulder at her window while playing with my doll.

  Mama was stricter than she ever had been before. I had more rules to obey, and I was always being punished. She slapped my face if I forgot to call Adam, “Papa.”

  “I said Papa that time, I promise.” I cried.

  “Don’t lie to me, I heard you say Adam.”

  She used wooden spoons on my bare skin, and hit me until I lost control of myself from the pain. I’d struggle to get away, and the blows landed on my legs and back, leaving red spoon shaped welts that didn’t go away.

  One day, she invited Adam into my room to watch her punish me.

  “Please don’t make me,” I cried, and she wrenched my arm and forced me to bend. My sobs came from a deeper place than pain could reach, as he stood there and watched her hit me. I fell off the bed, and tried to hide my nakedness from him.

  The new house was still divided into the adult side, and my room, but Mama didn’t allow me in my room during the day. I learned to love the desert. I watched for dust devils when it was windy outside, because those mini tornados were strong enough to carry away someone my size. I was supposed to watch for rattlesnakes, but always forgot as I skipped through the dust in my sandals and kicked at the tumbleweeds.

  My skin wasn’t use to the hot desert sun. I sunburned around my tank top, the skin on my face and shoulders turning a deep, angry red. Mama took me to the doctor when the blisters began to form. He walked into the examining room, took one look at my face, and turned to Mama. “Wow! What happened?”

  I hunched in misery on the paper cover table, not sure of what kind of trouble I was in.

  Mama said, “Oh I tell her to put sunscreen on, but you know kids. She was only outside for twenty minutes.”

  The doctor studied her for a moment and solemnly said, “This can never happen again. She has the worst sunburn I’ve ever seen. She might even scar. With blonde hair like that, your daughter can’t be outside without sunscreen. Her skin is too fair.”

  He prescribed some medicine and lotions, and sent me home. I still stayed outside, but spent more time in the shade of the porch. And, as I healed my skin peeled off in sheets.

  I was soon exploring the town. Men leered at me from their doorsteps, and called to me in their language, but I learned to look the other way.

  One day, I noticed my shoes left leaf prints in the dust, and I looked back to see the little leaves following me, enchanted. I found a rock to kick, and after kicking the rock for a while, glanced up to discover I was in a strange neighborhood. Striped blankets hung where the doors should have been, and faces peered at me out of windows before settling back into the dark gloom. Panic stopped me in my tracks, because I couldn’t remember my way home. I spun around and tried to follow my footprints back, looking for the landmarks of the melted adobe building that I had passed. When I finally saw something familiar I let out a huge sigh of relief, like I’d escaped back into the sunshine.

  Casa del Fuego was a small town with only a few other white families. My family was not liked, and I wasn’t sure why. I stood out among the town’s people with my blonde hair and blue eyes, and school wasn’t fun. The kids teased me without mercy.

  “Hey Gringo! What are you doing here? Wait until we get you outside!”

  I hid during recess, but my third grade teacher found me waiting along the back row of the school library, and sent me out to the play yard. It was as if the teacher had thrown a bone to wolves as the kids gathered around my gangly form. The boys and girls spoke in rapid Spanish and laughed, and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I spun in a circle and looked for an escape, but all I saw were dark eyes and mocking faces that closed in.

  One of the boys entered the circle with me. He shrugged his shoulders and, with a smirk, pushed me with big, sweaty hands.

  “Hey Gringo, why are you here? Why did you come? We don’t want you! Why are you crying?” I backed away, but hands from behind shoved me towards him. His hands were quick and squeezed into fists as he knocked me down. All the kids hooted while I lay on my back in the dust. The bell rang. I stayed there until the kids walked away, and then got up and brushed myself off. With the back of my arm I wiped the dirty tear marks off my face, tucked my shirt back into my pants and returned to class.

  I had two friends at the school, a brother and sister whose parents owned the local restaurant, and the three of us ruled the corner where the restaurant was located. The sister was seven, a year younger than me, and the brother was ten. We raced up and down the street, and pretended our banged up bikes were wild mustangs, and played rodeo. We used flat dried Horny Toad lizards that had been run over by cars as our barrels when we ran the figure eights.

  T
he three of us liked to spin lazy circles outside the haunted, deserted old hotel, with its front saloon doors hanging askew.

  One of us would tell a story. “It’s true! That one cowboy turned into an old ghost. He stomps around the hotel at night in his boots. If you’re real quiet, you can hear his spurs hit the floor.” Another one of us would add that if the ghost caught you, he’d run bony cold fingers across the back of your neck, and drag you down into the dark underworld. We would shake with delighted shivers, and soon dare each other to go yell “Boo!” at the ghost. None of us were that brave, so we’d creep up the steps together. We’d push open the hotel’s broken saloon doors for a quick look inside. There was a dark hole in the hotel floor, faded rose colored wall paper that peeled in long curly strips, and a staircase that tilted crazily away from the wall. Right away, one of us would hear a creak that had us all sprinting for the safety of the street.

  One day, as I pushed my bike from behind our house, Mama hollered at me out the window to go wash her car. I was crabby when I headed back outside with the bucket of soapy water. There were hours of work ahead of me. I thought jealously of my friends riding their bikes. Soon, my shorts were soaked from washing one side of the car. I worked on the other, sloshing the white bubbles over the door and window with my sponge. I didn’t know that Mama was standing at the window watching me when I mumbled, “This stinks.”

  The screen door banged, and Mama raced out of the house with her hair streaming behind, her eyes wild and crazy. She held her largest wooden spoon over her head. I cringed, bad pain was coming. THWACK! Mama swung it with all her strength, breaking the spoon across my face. She knocked me to the ground with the blow. I lay there dazed, seeing black out of my right eye. The sky and ground whirled. I tasted blood. My eye and cheek felt hot and started to swell. I froze on the ground trying not to make a sound, but little moans escaped. Mama stepped around me, her feet close to my head. I vaguely heard her through a ringing ear.

  “YOU will clean this car with no sass.”

  She went back inside the house. I rolled over on to my hands and knees, and slowly stood up, wanting to retch as the world spun. Fire shot through the right side of my jaw when I tried to open my mouth. I didn’t know what to do about that. Through the throbbing pain I worried that my neighbors thought I was a bad girl. I picked up the sponge from where it had landed a few feet away, picked off a bit of dirt, and finished washing the car.

  When I was done, I put the bucket away in the little shed and then walked inside to find Mama. I stood quiet before her as she worked on her embroidery. She finished two rows of stitches, and then threaded her needle with a new color, before she looked up.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” She blinked at me. I took a deep breath and said, “My mouth won’t open right.”

  She gave a small laugh. “You’re lucky the spoon broke, because I wasn’t finished. I guess its soup for you for dinner then. Hope it’s better tomorrow!”

  The next morning, I leaned against the bathroom counter and studied the mirror. My fingers traced the deep black bruise that covered the right side of my face. I covered my eyes with my hands, wishing I could hide forever. The toothbrush stayed in the water glass on the counter. I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to slide the brush in. Mama ignored me while I got ready for school; I felt like a ghost to her again.

  Face flushed, I ducked my head as I made my way down the busy hallway at school. Everyone stared when I entered the classroom. The quiet exploded into whispers. I saw them laugh, and hot tears stung my eyes. Throughout the day a few of my teachers came up and asked me what had happened. I gave a tiny smile and said, “I tripped and fell into a door knob in the middle of the night.” The tightness in my chest lessened when I saw that the explanation satisfied them.

  I told Mama that afternoon how the teachers had questioned me about my face, and how I had lied to defend her. I thought Mama would be proud of me, and she would see that I sincerely loved her. Instead Mama was indignant. She lit her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke in a gray stream, and then said, “You better have lied. You deserved it. You won’t be sassing me anymore, will you?”

  The bruise lasted for a long, long time. I had to be very gentle when opening my mouth, because it hurt so much.

  After the bruise faded, Mama surprised me by showing up at my school during lunch time. She pulled out two pink snowball cupcakes from a paper bag for us to share. I held the treat in my hand in awe.

  Mama smiled at me, “How was your day honey?”

  My heart so filled with joy that I thought I might die. I blinked back tears and smiled at her. I didn’t know how to talk with her; she was so beautiful and perfect. Let the other kids make fun of me; they didn’t have their moms giving them snowballs at lunch. Mama said hello to the principal on her way out.

  That weekend I was surprised even further when Mama offered to take me roller skating. She drove me a few blocks over to the main street of Casa del Fuego where I roller-skated on the sidewalk right in front of the Post Office. Her arm firmly gripped mine as she guided me up the sidewalk, and then back down again a few times.

  “Slow and steady, there you go!” She carefully led me around two old ladies who stood outside the post office door.

  One of the ladies said to the other, “Isn’t that sweet,” and nodded in my direction.

  Adam took a picture, and then we left. When we got home Mama disappeared inside, and life continued like it had never happened.

  The principal came over for dinner one night, and Mama made a roast with potatoes. We all sat at the kitchen table to eat. Mama dished up the plates as the principal told a story about a difficult kid at school.

  “You tell us if you catch CeeCee doing anything naughty. She’s a sneak, and likes to argue. Kids these days need to be whipped into shape. You see her do something, you have my permission to hit her. Make her scared of you.” Mama slapped her hand for emphasis.

  His eyes flicked over at me from across the table, his bald head shining. “I’ll keep my eye on her.” I crept to my room. His eyes seemed to burn into me every day afterward, from where he stood watching along the walls of the school.

  I always felt hungry while at school. Every day coffee cans were loaded with peanuts and kept out on the cafeteria counters for the students. I stuffed my pockets, and ate them all day long savoring their salty, oily crunch. I always waited for the moments the Principal was not looking in my direction before grabbing a handful. I didn’t bring any home. I didn’t want Mama to smell peanuts on my breath.

  The semester ended, and it was time for my third grade parent/teacher conferences. Mama made me come with them. Adam pulled the car up to the school, and she turned to look in the back seat.

  “I wonder what this teacher thinks of you. She knows who you are. Hope I don’t get a bad report.” She gave me a sarcastic smile, and said, “Come on Adam, this will be fun.”

  I shrank into the corner of the back seat. They were gone a long time. I squirmed to get comfortable, needing to use the bathroom, but didn’t dare leave. The sun set and then the moon came out, and still they didn’t return.

  My grades were good, but I still imagined Mama getting angrier and angrier at something the teacher was saying about me. I groaned. Maybe the Principal is there too, what would he say? I closed my eyes, I could see Mama agreeing with the teacher, while the other children’s parents watched and nodded. “That CeeCee, she is such trouble.” I wanted to throw up and leaned my head against the car door.

  Hours passed before they returned, ignoring me when they got back into the car. I watched their body language, afraid to make eye contact with them. They didn’t say a word to me on the home. What does this mean? Are they really mad? My heart pounded. We pulled into the driveway. Silently, they got out and walked inside. I had to use the bathroom badly, but stayed there, my hand frozen on the door handle. After a minute I followed them, and ran for the bathroom, expecting to hear a scream from the living room. “Get the spoon!” Th
ere was nothing. That night in bed I watched the curtain, waiting for it to flip up.

  The next day the school conference still wasn’t brought up, and I began to relax. Mama was in the living room working on a doll. She gave it to me a few weeks later for my ninth birthday. Mama loved to make crafts, and this was the second doll I had received from her that year. My dolls were proof that Mama loved me. They were my babies, and I wiped their cloth faces and told them they were beautiful. I played only with them so that Mama might see how much I appreciated her gifts.

  My dad in Pennsylvania sent a book for my birthday. He had taped money in between the pages of the book as a surprise. Filled with excitement, I jammed the handful of bills into my corduroy jeans pocket, and ran out to check the different stores for a prize that might possibly please Mama. And I finally found it! A fruit tray! She will love this! I raced home, my sandals pounding up dust clouds in my hurry to get home. I burst into the house, and found her sitting in the living room, another sewing craft laid out on the coffee table. Mama finished sorting her fabrics and then glanced up. I handed it to her with my face beaming. Her eyes lit up for a second as she reached for it.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  My heart squeezed with joy.

  The gift only brought me relief for a few moments. Life continued to get harder. The pressure of having to comply with so many rules in order to avoid being hurt or insulted, or have my meals taken away was making me exhausted, and dark circles puddled under my eyes. On top of the rules, I had to keep secret everything about my home life, especially from Dad in Pennsylvania. There were the lies to remember about how clumsy I was to get my bruises, and how active I was to be so skinny. And then there was the secret within my secret life. One I couldn’t acknowledge myself; Grandpa’s games and his constant groping hands.

  My life was like trying to navigate around hidden land mines while I waited for the explosion. One day, in frustration I pulled out a couple strands of my hair. I studied the blonde hair entwined in my fingers, and the weight in my chest felt lighter. I pulled out more of my hair, and relief flooded through me. With my pulse pounding in my throat I watched for my bedroom curtain to twitch, and prayed that Mama wouldn’t catch me as I hid the loose hair under my bed.