Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “Of course, none of that was the curious part.”

  Aubrey heaved an irritated breath. “What else?”

  “There was a boy seated next to him, eleven or so, I’d say. Handsome fellow in a Rhodes scholar sort of way. Too big for his age . . . glasses. He had a book in his hands—Treasure Island, but he wasn’t reading it. More like he was clutching it, hanging on to it for dear life. The dream drifted into a feeling of horror, regret. The intense guilt emanating off the boy was powerful—I woke feeling terribly sorry for him. He was clearly . . . tormented. But Levi, he simply ignored the child.”

  “Again, sounds like Levi behavior—impassive, closed off. I’m surprised he didn’t ask the flight attendant to change the kid’s seat.”

  “Perhaps. If it hadn’t been for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The child was also Levi.”

  Aubrey waved her hand in the air. “Enough! I don’t want to hear anymore. I’m not playing psychic Sigmund Freud to Levi and his ghosts. It’s not my problem.” Aubrey grabbed a throw from the sofa back. She curled into a ball and covered herself. “And forget any ideas about me attempting to connect with Missy. I swear, I had everything under control. This was not my life. Not until a skeleton fell out of Dustin Byrd’s basement wall and Levi showed up, upending everything. I don’t need this right now—not with Owen.”

  “Life has a nasty habit of doing that, not going according to plan.” Charley stared at Aubrey, her grandmotherly side showing. “Fine. We’ll move on. Tell me about your standard reporter progress. You said something about solving a piece of the puzzle via Mr. Stallworth’s daughter.”

  It would be like Charley to point out the living via the dead. “Kitty Stallworth,” she said, perking up from her balled retreat. “It was marginally helpful—another chunk of blue sky in a million-piece puzzle. But I don’t know that the information puts us any closer to knowing Missy Flannigan’s whole story.” Aubrey reached for her wine glass. But her line of vision stayed with the tin box.

  “You don’t take it out very often. I was surprised to see it here.”

  Aubrey’s blistered, bandaged fingers circled the wine glass rim. “Not half as surprised as me,” she said, staring at the box. “It . . . it was just there, on my mind all day. I guess that’s why I got it out of my closet.”

  “Is it your plan to open it?”

  She shrugged. She sat up, discarding the throw. Aubrey took a last sip of wine and flipped open the lid. Years later and she still imagined pink smoke rising or that fairy dust would twinkle through the air. More to the point, she thought a pop-up Pandora should simply explode in her face. Inside the box were mementos. The curious items left by the other side. Some screamed ghost gifts, but others were random keepsakes with which Aubrey could never make a solid connection to the dead. She began to sift through the tokens. A number of items looked as if they belonged in a scrapbook while others appeared destined for a trash can. Logically, it looked like a box of junk. “This one is still my standout souvenir.” Aubrey held up a crinkled bag of Skittles, its sell-by date long past.

  “Your first visual encounter. How could I forget? That boy, I think he nearly scared you to death.”

  “Almost,” Aubrey said, recalling the ginger-haired boy at a rest stop in Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania. “I was so naïve,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You were barely twelve.”

  “But I didn’t even suspect. At that age—sometimes I didn’t know if I was talking to the living or the dead. It took a while. Anyway, all I knew that morning was I’d spent three hard-earned dollars trying to get a box of Junior Mints out of a vending machine.”

  “Remind me. How many bags of Skittles came out?”

  “Three. Eventually, I gave up, figured I was stuck with the Skittles—which I still hate. I will never forget how the air stopped me cold. We were surrounded by sweltering asphalt and exhaust fumes and all I smelled was that hospital. It was so dense and disinfected.”

  “Anybody else would have high-tailed it to safety, Aubrey. It took a lot of courage for you to follow it and approach that woman.”

  Did it?

  At the time, Aubrey felt sure she’d only followed the young boy out of pure fear. A few feet beyond the vending machines, she spied a woman on a bench. She’d captured Aubrey’s attention, not because she looked at the twelve-year-old Aubrey, but by the way the woman stared into the sky—like she wanted to climb inside. Other sounds muted. They were there but in the background. The closer she got to the woman the more vivid the specter became. “The boy . . . it was like being inside a bubble with him.”

  “What was his name?” Charley said, as if caught in the same memory.

  “Matthew . . .”

  “That’s right. I’d dreamed of his mother a few nights before. Gingies, both of them.”

  “Mmm, redheads with freckles,” Aubrey said. “Matthew was so adamant, standing on the bench, pushing on my shoulders. He kept telling me to sit and talk to her.”

  “And how wonderful that you did. What a gift you gave her, Aubrey.”

  She smiled, then didn’t. “I never imagined handing someone a bag of candy could be so meaningful . . . the way she reacted.”

  “What better symbol could the boy have chosen than the treat his mother brought him in the hospital—his favorite candy.”

  “Lucky for him they had them in the vending machine.”

  “And the boy’s message . . . I remember you telling me afterward how clear it’d come to you. That you’d actually spoken with him.”

  Aubrey nodded, repeating the message that went with the favorite tale. “‘Matthew says he loves Skittles . . . and you. He says you shouldn’t worry about him. Nothing hurts anymore.’ And then he was gone. The woman . . . I never even asked her name.” Aubrey’s eyes were teary. She looked back at her box. “I wish I’d been more careful. I’d get so upset or startled by an encounter I’d just throw the ghost gift in the box and slam the lid. I should have written Matthew’s mother’s name on the Skittles bag, the date . . . some kind of record.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Aubrey. The important thing is the gift you gave to her, the message from her son.”

  “I suppose,” she said, shrugging. “That day at Jim Thorpe. It was the first time, you know?”

  “First time what?”

  “The first time I thought I could be something besides Heinz-Bodette’s next big attraction.” Aubrey put the Skittles back in the box. “Of course, not every encounter went as smoothly,” she said, opening her hand to reveal two marbles.

  Charley’s expression soured. “George Everett—an ass who didn’t deserve the privilege of your gift.”

  “In George’s defense, I wasn’t terribly composed about the whole thing.” She hesitated, the marbles rolling around her hand. “I get it. Lots of people aren’t wired that way.”

  “Like your Mr. St John?”

  “He’s not . . . I was thinking about Owen.”

  “Owen is disturbed by it, Aubrey. I don’t know that he’ll ever understand. Deep inside, you know it’s the reason you never told him. Brilliant as Owen may be, he doesn’t possess that kind of . . . moxie.” Aubrey’s hand shot up in a defensive gesture, and Charley pursed her lips tight. “Moving right along . . . What brings the box to the table? Perhaps a confession from Missy’s killer?”

  “I wish,” Aubrey said. She plucked more random items from the tin treasure chest. Onto the coffee table, Aubrey laid a teething ring and matchbooks, coins from Turkey and a thimble. Next to them she placed an envelope. Inside were the violet-colored flowers that had wilted in Aubrey’s hand. She remembered them turning up at the duck-shooting booth that she’d worked with Yvette late one season. There was also a shiny gold key, a glass butterfly, and a plastic bag full of beach sand. While these last items were undoubtedly ghost gifts, A
ubrey never could connect them to anything but a curious moment in time. Staring, she found herself drawn to the sand. Unlike the other items, which had been delivered to her, Aubrey had gathered the sand herself. It made it different than the rest of the ghost gifts, perhaps less meaningful. Still, she picked up the plastic bag, shifting its weight like a Slinky, one hand to the other.

  “Aubrey? Is there some . . . Is the sand significant? If I recall, it came from our mid-season break, after our Connecticut-Rhode Island stops.”

  “I think that’s where I got it. Mystic, maybe?” She shook her head. With so much travel, physical and metaphysical—like Matthew’s Skittles—Aubrey wished she’d better labeled her ghost gifts. Levi would be appalled by her slipshod filing. “I was what? Maybe fifteen?”

  “No, sixteen, I believe. And it wasn’t Mystic,” Charley said. “Not that summer. They had a terrible jellyfish infestation, so we went up the coast a bit.”

  She looked at Charley. “You’re right. I’d forgotten that. What was the name of the beach?”

  “Oh my, it was outside Old Saybrook. I remember because it’s where Katharine Hepburn lived. I thought it might be fun to look her up! You’d disagreed—profusely.” She smiled, pointing a crooked finger at her granddaughter. “Rocky Neck, that’s where we were.”

  Aubrey nodded. “Rocky Neck. I didn’t remember that. I should have marked the bag . . . and the flowers,” she said, touching the envelope. “My teenage years . . . Most of the time I was just trying to keep from throwing up.”

  “True,” Charley said.

  “But now that you say it, the sand did come from Rocky Neck. I don’t know if it’s our whirlwind travels or my whirlwind encounters, but I don’t recall what motivated me to gather it.”

  “Rocky Neck is only a few hours from Surrey. Is it possible that the sand connects to Missy Flannigan?”

  Aubrey wanted it to connect; she held tight to the bag. Moments later she felt nothing but frustration. “If it does, I have no idea how.”

  “Give it time, dear. You never know how or when something will clarify.” Charley rose from her chair, heading to bed. As she did, Aubrey pulled the coarse twine that secured the bag. She stuck her hand inside and bit down on a breathy gasp. Charley didn’t hear, motoring up the stairway. The theory felt cold, but the sand filtering through Aubrey’s fingers was warm. It felt as if the grains had been scooped seconds ago from beneath a blazing summer sun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thoughts stirred like a potion in Aubrey’s head. She’d tugged on a nightgown and brushed her teeth, all the while unable to escape the bag of sand. Its meaning was no longer abstract, but confusing and present. How did a bag of sand connect to Missy Flannigan? It was utterly removed from any theories they’d formulated. There was Missy in her paid-in-cash convertible. Missy the college co-ed. They knew of a benevolent Missy, the girl who’d offered Frank Delacort shelter and volunteered at Surrey town activities. Nowhere was there speculation about Missy and the beach. After going to bed, Aubrey tossed and turned until tomorrow became today, until she’d concocted a scenario by which Dustin Byrd dragged Missy over state lines and to the beach, shooting her before drowning her. Or perhaps Nancy Grace was correct, and it was Frank Delacort who’d carried out the devious plot. Hours later, Aubrey sat upright, the antique bed squeaking as she hurled a pillow at the wall. It collided with her earring tree. The tinkle of metal was the only sound that resonated as jewelry scattered across the hardwood floor. “Damn it,” she said, flopping flat onto the mattress.

  Frustrated and out of reasonable ideas, Aubrey lay awake for a while longer. Her last thoughts were of Levi. How he’d kept his conversation with Tom Flannigan to himself, not able to make sense or use of the information. She’d do the same. The sand was like that, something that had meaning but didn’t fit. A weary breath escaped her lips and Aubrey murmured sleepily, “Sand in a bag . . . Sand from Rocky Neck . . . Sand doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Missy Flannigan . . . But sand and Levi . . . Levi grew up near Rocky Neck . . .” A bright sun rose over the fact as the sound of seagulls circled. It pulled and churned until a whirlpool surrounded Aubrey, its strength drawing her inward. She couldn’t get out; she couldn’t fight it. Her bedroom seemed to fill with salt air and smoke. In the distance she was aware of a lifeguard—a whistle around his neck, light glinting off his watch. His hair, she thought, was blond and buzzed. She might be right or wrong about these tangibles. The beach was too sunny and distant to know for certain. But as Aubrey drifted to sleep, a memory came wrapped in a dream. She saw a young man, a lifeguard. He appeared, so it seemed, dead on arrival.

  Cone-shaped light stretched east, blanketing Rocky Neck beach. The Heinz-Bodette Troupe was on a July retreat, a respite from routine heat and grind. Aubrey had risen late, indulging in the nuances of being sixteen—a motel room and cable TV. Now she walked along the beach, looking for her grandmother. Shuffling through the sand, Aubrey appreciated her growing ability to control random spirits. She immersed herself in an inventory of physical elements, a device she’d nearly perfected. Real beach-goers came with endless sights and smells, particularly noise, the squawk of circling waterfowl aiding her efforts. The listing of tangible things enhanced normalcy. It made it safe to be there. Ordinary mothers tended to children while fathers rammed umbrellas into sandy earth. Breathing in sticky salt air, Aubrey continued to tally earthly items, separating the living from the dead.

  She paused, mentally sorting one family’s beach kit: towels, beach balls, buckets, shovels, Cheese Nips, water wings, maybe peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. She listened to the impatient mother who gave directions about not drowning. Three . . . no, four boys. The oldest wasn’t close to Aubrey’s age. The father buried a cigarette butt into the sand and moved on to man things, tuning his radio to all-day sports talk and camouflaging his cooler cans of Bud Light. The mother basted her four little ducklings with sunscreen so they might brown and not burn. The second to the youngest, maybe three years old, stood out from his brothers. He possessed a greater presence and Aubrey was transfixed. She shook her head, forcing her attention away. After sunscreening the infant, the mother plunked the slimy baby near the father. He mumbled something about keeping an eye on that one.

  Poised at the narrow tip, Aubrey looked into the widening cone of brightness; the crowds were growing thick. She spotted Charley. Her grandmother was hard to miss in a flamingo-colored bathing suit. Aubrey glanced back at the family. The burdened mother, fringe father, and loud boys moved on with their beach day activities. The oldest one was deep into directing the “pirates” with orders about castle building and treasure hunting. “No prisoners, aye? Just cut their throats when you spy ’em, matey!” His brothers growled spit-and-vinegar replies. They pushed past Aubrey, who murmured, “Reckless . . .” Instinct hummed. She should keep an eye on the boys, especially the one with personality. But Aubrey didn’t make an effort. Instead, she trudged deeper into the light.

  “Here you are!” Charley’s gregarious voice jumped out as always. “Thought maybe a third day with an old fat woman and her leathery tan was too much for you!”

  Aubrey dropped her tote onto the blanket. “Charley, your tan is not leathery, it’s bronze and warm.”

  “So’s a good saddle,” she said, patting the chair next to hers. “Were you taking in the sights?”

  “Just getting my bearings . . .”

  Charley nodded, her silver hair bobbing at her shoulders. “Ah, object counting.” She twisted as best she could, glancing at Aubrey. “All’s clear, I take it?”

  Dropping to her knees, Aubrey didn’t reply. Instead, she dug through the beach bag for sunscreen. “Here, put this on.”

  “Oh, go away with that stuff. I may take a swim later. In all probability that will result in a stroke or shark attack. Then it’s just a waste of sunscreen.”

  “Charley, don’t be difficult.” But as she smeared a
greasy handful onto her grandmother’s back, Aubrey’s gaze hooked on to the horizon. For a second, it was all she saw—the luring sparkle of water, brighter than it should be. Her belly gurgled, cinching to a cramp. Aubrey took a deep breath and tried to relax as nothing but intense salt air hit her lungs.

  “Aubrey . . . you didn’t answer me.” Charley gripped the arms of her beach chair, forcing her body harder toward her granddaughter.

  From the corner of her eye, Aubrey saw her grandmother’s painful turn. Her expression collapsed the looming sense of the surreal. “I’m fine,” she said, grasping on to her grandmother’s shoulders “I’m fine,” she repeated as Charley faced forward.

  “If you’re sure . . .” Her grandmother opened a magazine and Aubrey put the sunscreen away, not bothering to apply any to herself. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed—moments, maybe minutes—when the poke of a magazine met with her knee. “Here . . . they had a new Time at the newsstand. I bought the latest Glamour too. If you don’t want it, Yvette will flip through and . . .” The magazine nudged Aubrey again; then it dropped onto the blanket. In one concentrated effort, Charley heaved herself up from the chair. She turned her back to the ocean and faced Aubrey. The sudden movement, which defied the woman’s size and arthritic bones, drew Aubrey’s attention. “What do you see?”

  “A lifeguard . . .”

  Charley turned toward the ocean. She shielded her eyes with her hand, then scanned the beach. “Me too . . . Blue shorts and swimsuits, one man, two girls . . . women, whistles around their necks.”

  Aubrey stood and sweat trickled down the back of her legs. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She swallowed, tasting a mouthful of salt water, a hint of alcohol. “No, two girls . . . and two men. But one is wearing orange shorts—he’s different. He’s been here a while, watching over the crowds . . . He’s an excellent swimmer.” The thought had filtered into her head and out of her mouth—not an observation but a fact she suddenly knew. “Athletic . . . so very determined . . . and . . .” she said, looking at Charley. “Utterly dead.”