Ghost No More (Ghost No More Series Book 1)

by CeeCee James

  “Mama, that sure looks good on you.”

  She didn’t answer because she was laughing at a comment my step-dad made.

  She didn’t talk to me again until after dinner. “Make sure you do a good job washing the dishes.” I never wore the yellow sweater.

  Christmas break ended and I went back to school. Mama was gone all day too, because she had begun working as a sixth grade teacher’s aide at the elementary school. Every night, while I sat alone eating dinner, I listened to her in the other room tell Adam about how impressed she was with her wonderful kids.

  After dinner was over and I was clearing the dishes, Mama pulled out the craft bin and hummed to herself while she assembled the next day’s craft pieces. She loved doing crafts with the school kids. She told Adam, while cutting shapes out of the construction paper, “Oh one of the boys is so special, he’s such a smart kid. And then there’s this girl named Jessica, so sweet. She actually follows me wherever I go. She has the softest voice I’ve ever heard. Those kids really love me.”

  The little girl inside of me crumpled while I washed the dishes. I ran the water at a trickle so that I might hear if Mama said anything about me.

  After I finished my chores, I walked into the living room and told Mama that I loved her. She paused with her scissors in the air, little scraps of colored paper scattered all around her. “If you were a good girl I’d do crafts, or make cookies with you too.” I closed the stairway door behind me and trudged downstairs.

  Despite my many sincere attempts to turn over a new leaf, Mama never did do crafts or bake with me.

  Spring came with warm breezes that melted the snow after five frozen months. Spring was my favorite season. Sandy and I traipsed through the empty forest by her house, rediscovering our woods finally released from the thick winter snow. We found a cluster of little purple flowers that had pushed their way up through a patch of stubborn snowy remnants.

  “You see that,” I pointed to them in a poetic flush, “This is our special sign that hope always conquers.”

  We saw another colorful patch a little further away and ran over to investigate.

  “Holy Buckets,” Sandy said, gazing at the forest floor littered with torn envelopes, newspapers, and wet magazines half buried in pine needles. We grinned at each other over our incredible fortune and sifted through the paper mess looking for treasure. Sandy found a padded envelope that held a sample of knee high panty hose. I called dibs on it because it was my thirteenth birthday. She was not impressed with the knee highs, having already obtained permission to wear pantyhose, and tossed them over to me. “Happy birthday!” she shouted, and then threw handfuls of old letters in the air like confetti. She grabbed me by the hands and spun me around singing “It’s your birthday! Cha! Cha! Cha!”

  I ran home clutching my prize to my chest, and found Adam splitting firewood. He leaned against his axe like a cane, taking a break when he heard me call him. “Papa, guess what! There’s some weird garbage in the woods up behind the hill.”

  His eyebrows went up. “What are you talking about? Someone’s been dumping garbage in our woods?”

  I jumped up and down, my boots squelching in the mud, “Yeah! Yeah! And it’s all over the place!”

  After he finished his wood pile, he hiked up to the woods. When he came back, his face was red and his eyebrows furrowed deep over his glaring dark eyes. In all the years that I had I known him, I had never seen him so angry. He exploded, “Go!” and I ran for my room.

  Ten minutes later, I heard the stairwell door slam open against the wall, and violent pounding down the stairs. I squeezed myself into the space between the end of the bed and the wall and tried to hide with my hands over my head. I had no idea why they were so angry, but it didn’t matter if they were going to hurt me. I was astonished when they didn’t burst into my room. Instead, my door shook as they both screamed that I was thief, a liar, and accused me of mail fraud. Mama shrieked, “You stole that mail! I know it! I’m calling the police on you right now! They’re coming to get you, and they’ll haul you off to jail!”

  It got quiet for a minute, and then my door crashed open. I jerked in my hiding place. Mama thrust my birthday cake into my room with a fork stabbed into the top. She slammed it onto my desk and said, with a disgusted tone, “You eat your cake by yourself. Happy Birthday,” and banged the door shut. They both pounded back up the stairs.

  I was shaking when I crawled out from behind the bed, wondering what had happened, and if I was going to jail that night. I brushed my tears off with the back of my arm, trying to calm my hitching breaths. My cake sat tilted on the desk, half on my math book. Picking up the fork, I put it into a corner of the pink frosted ballerina slipper that was surrounded by thirteen unlit pink candles. I tried to eat it. The cake tasted like sawdust, and my throat was choked closed from anxiety. Tears ran down my face as I pulled the knee high panty hose out of my pocket and tried it on.

  The police never showed up, and neither Mama nor Adam brought up the stolen mail again. I never learned what happened with the police and the mail. I didn’t even go back to the woods to see if the stolen mail was still there.

  I was thankful they never brought it up again. Mama’s discipline had gotten out of control. Just that week, she had accused me of rolling my eyes after she gave me a chore. Lightning fast, Mama grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me into the air. She dragged me across the floor, dangling from the hair she clenched. First she swung me over the back of the bench, and then she swung me like a bowling ball down the stairs. I pin-wheeled my arms wildly, and was saved from falling head first by a miraculous catch on the hand rail. It was the defining moment that I realized my mom could cause me serious harm in her anger. I didn’t know what to do, or where to go for help.

  I did know someone with a story that gave me an idea, though. There was a popular boy at our school who our teachers used to point out and tell us that he was a role-model for the rest of us students. He had given a presentation to the class about the many obstacles in his life that he had overcome through foster care and counseling.

  The next day at class I gazed over the top of my text book at him with hope, maybe he could help me somehow. I was scared, but wrote a note in tiny words, “help me,” and folded it into a tight, little square. When I went up to sharpen my pencil, I dropped the note on his desk undetected. The shaking started as I staggered back to my desk. I watched him unfold it and couldn’t take a breath. My heart crashed against my ribs.

  He turned to study the girl two seats across from him. With a sinking feeling, I watched as he got up and put his hand on her shoulder, leaning down to whisper in her ear that he would help her. She didn’t deny writing the note, in fact she even nodded. Bile rolled up my throat when I saw her come up with a few tears. I realized that there was no help for me. I wasn’t popular like the girl was, and didn’t have the guts to tell him the note was from me.

  My grandparents came for a quick visit over the weekend soon after my birthday. A few hours after they unpacked, Mama gathered up Adam and Grandma, and abandoned me again with Grandpa. She smiled at him and said, “You two enjoy your time.” And leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Behave, don’t give him any trouble.”

  Grandma gave me a cheery wave with her hand as she headed out the door, and called to us, “Have fun!”

  Grandpa nodded at them, and answered, “Oh, don’t worry about us.” He turned to smile at me after the front door shut. The three of them were gone all day.

  Not long after their visit I got into trouble again. Mama said she heard me sigh when talking to me so she sent me to my room without dinner. As I walked down the steps to my room the echo pounded inside of me.

  I sat on my bed, and exhaled deeply as the red haze flared up inside the echo. I threw my pillow across the room and fumed when it tipped over the trash basket. Flipping off the light, I climbed under the covers and tried to sleep. My breathing began to hitch, ending with a low moan. I pulled the covers over my fa
ce. Something inside of me broke open with a scream. Life’s so unfair! There’s no escape! Hopeless tears poured out of me, in a room so dark I couldn’t even tell my eyes were open. The more I cried, the more pain fought to be released. I suddenly didn’t care what happened to me anymore. Hurt me, don’t hurt me! I don’t care!

  The pain wrenched a high-pitched shriek from my core, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

  I screamed and cried for over an hour. When Mama came downstairs, I expected a belt in her hands and didn’t even care. Instead, she held a striped afghan. Mama held the afghan out to me and said, “I made this for you, CeeCee. Every stitch is an 'I love you.'” My tears shut off in that instant. I took it with shaking hands. “Oh, I am so sorry! I love you too! I love you Mama!” She smiled at me and left the room, while I wrapped myself up in the blanket of her love. So many stitches! Finally, finally, finally, I had the affection of Mama. I was overwhelmed with joy.

  The next morning, I drifted over to where she stood drinking her coffee in the kitchen.

  “Thank you again, Mama. I love my blanket.”

  She looked at me for a second as she set down the coffee cup. My heart fluttered, anticipating her smile. She gave a sarcastic laugh and rolled her eyes.

  “Oh that. I only said that to get you to quit your screaming. I’m sure the neighbors could hear, how embarrassing! A big girl like you throwing a temper tantrum. You were ridiculous. I’d have said anything to get you to shut up.”

  My jaw dropped open for a second, before I grabbed my lunch. I ran out to catch the school bus. On the bus, I looked out the window to hide the falling tears, and grieved the loss of the meaning in the blanket’s precious stitches.

  Chapter 16

  ~The Day I Broke~

  The temperatures soared the last few days of school. We sat at our desks waving notebooks to cool down, while we took our final tests. Then there was an energy burst to find and return all of our library books and clean out desks and lockers. When the final bell rang, we cheered and sent hundreds of balls of crumpled paper flying through the air before we ran out to the bus. Summer was here.

  When I got home Mama was waiting for me with a suitcase. Just like the year before, she told me to pack my stuff because I was going to my grandparents.

  My grandparents had moved to a new house, this one with a small yard. Grandma stayed in her room for most of the visit, either napping or reading. We didn’t sing or make dinners together any more. In the mornings, Grandma left to run her errands or visited the hairdressers for the local gossip. She didn’t invite me along; I was always left alone with Grandpa.

  The instant Grandma pulled out of the driveway Grandpa would come find me and give the predatory nod towards the garage. I had barely developed in a feminine way at thirteen, starved skinny, but that didn’t matter to him. I was powerless to escape him and felt strangled by hopelessness.

  Then one day it ended.

  The day began like any other. Grandma returned home from the hair dressers that afternoon with her hair teased into high curls. When her car door banged shut, I ran from Grandpa and hid in my bedroom. I sat trembling on the white chenille bedspread with my fist jammed against my mouth to keep from screaming. With deep breaths, I tried to slow my breathing. My eye caught the cracked leather bible on the night stand and I lunged for it. I flipped open the bible, whispering, “please, please,” and stabbed my finger down on the page. Leaning close, I read where I had pointed.

  The scripture was Matthew 5:27-30, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to go into hell.’ “

  My hand grasped my throat in horror. God sees me as an adulterer. Fear shot through me in icy waves, and drove the air out of me. I thrust the bible away and stared blindly at the wall. The walls felt like they were closing in, every bit of oxygen sucked from the room. I gasped for air and prayed, “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” What have I done?

  In a panic, I stumbled to Grandma’s room. She had just arranged herself on the bed with her reading glasses on, one of her romance novels propped open on a little pillow on her lap. Startled, she looked up when I burst into her room. Gasping, with tears streaking down my face, I stuttered, “I’ve done something naughty with… with… with….,” I couldn’t say it.

  “A boy?” she gently prompted.

  “No!” My heart clattered in my chest. I lied, “It was the man next door.”

  The poor old neighbor man didn’t deserve to be accused. He was friendly. Every morning he talked to me in his calm, deep voice while he pruned his roses. He shared stories about his grandkids, and all his tricks for caring for his beautiful, red velvety roses. I had listened on the other side of the rose bush hedge, as the grass tickled my bare feet, and sipped from a glass of orange juice. Our talks were innocent, wrapped in the clean smell of morning dew and fresh cut flowers.

  For a long time after that summer I couldn’t stand the smell of roses.

  Grandma remained very calm even as I continued to break before her. My face was running. I grabbed the corner of my shirt to wipe my eyes and nose. She spoke to soothe me with gentle words that I never really heard. She repeated, “Everything’s okay, everything’s fine.” When I stopped crying, she sent me back to my room to rest. I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the mirror with the scroll-worked demon eyes. It was over for me now. I could not fix this.

  That afternoon, Grandpa came to my bedroom, and told me to get up.

  “You’re coming with me while I run to the store.” Grandma looked over the top of her book as I passed her door.

  I walked out to the car like a zombie, barely having sensation in my numb hands to find the door handle to open the car door. We drove for a few minutes without talking. I stared out the window.

  He pulled up to a gas station, and with a clunk, put the nozzle in the car to fuel up. I sat in the passenger seat and looked out at the dark, gray sky. My chest began to squeeze around my heart like a vise. My heart fought to beat against the pressure, fighting for space with my lungs. I struggled to take a breath. I felt like the heavy clouds had collapsed on me. I was smothering in their sooty wisps. The pressure erupted into a single scream that knifed its way out of my throat. Slamming the window with my fists, I tried to break the glass.

  Horror flashed across Grandpa’s face when he saw me. He hurried to disengage the gas pump and then jumped back into the driver’s seat. I turned my shrieks on him as he started the car. He drove away under a barrage of my babbles about being an adulterer, screaming about how much I hated him touching me, and how I was going to go to hell. I screamed, “I told Grandma!”

  He slammed on the brakes, leaving black stripes down the middle of the road. I hit the dashboard. “What?” he croaked.

  I whispered, “I told her it was the neighbor.”

  Grandpa eased off the brake and resumed driving at a smooth speed while gazing steadily out the windshield. He began a barrage of mind numbing words like a hypnotist. “I’ll never do it again. It will be okay. Let me smooth things over with Grandma. You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.”

  My eyes tried to focus on my hands while my head bobbed from the bumps in the road. He told me that he would save money so that I could go to college one day, and then he suggested that we go buy Grandma some of her favorite perfume. Maybe I’d like some perfume too? And I mustn’t ever tell the truth of what happened. Never, ever tell.

  I don’t remember the rest of my stay at their house. I detached from most of my emotions, walking through my days like a sleepwalker. When I flew home, I didn’t look out the window on the airpl
ane, even though I had a window seat. I stared at my fold-out tray and felt like nothing in life would interest me again. The lady sitting next to me tried to draw my attention to some of the sites on the ground below, but I didn’t respond. She looked at me curiously. I didn’t care. When my parents picked me up that afternoon, I told them, “I behaved myself. I had fun. I am tired.” I barely found the strength to say that much to them.

  My first evening home, there was a show on TV about two boys who had caused their parents an incredible amount of worry by doing drugs. They had been arrested and were serving time in a prison in another country. Mama made me watch it. She shook her head.

  “Kids are terrible. You destroy families by your actions and don’t even care.”

  Blood rushed with a roar to my head. I pulled at the collar on my shirt and reminded myself to breathe.

  The summer days that followed my visit with Grandparents were some of the worst in my life. My body moved slowly, like it weighed a thousand pounds. It was a struggle to find the energy to wash dishes, get dressed, and brush my teeth. Every bite of food tasted like dust. When I lay in my bed at night, I stared at the ceiling in hopelessness. My life lost its meaning.

  While I was outside drifting aimlessly one day, I passed the club house. Instantly, I connected the filthy word ‘molestation’ to what had happened to me. I fought to control the scream that ripped through my gut, still trying to keep my face placid so that Mama wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong.

  A few minutes later, she caught me calling to our dog. “Come here. Come here.” I growled in my meanest voice. The dog thought she was in trouble and crawled on her belly towards me. As she crawled, a feeling of control infused me, giving me the strength to push down the pain.

  “What’s going on out here?” Mama’s sharp voice cut through the power.

  I wilted, ashamed. What am I doing? I’ve completely lost it. “I’m sorry, sweet doggy,” I murmured. My dog wagged her tail in forgiveness and gave my fingers a lick. Mama called the dog inside. “You are the cruelest person I’ve ever known. Don’t you ever touch or talk to the dog again.”