Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  Aubrey closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them, concentrating on tangible items: umbrellas, volleyballs, coolers, books, people layered like seals . . . An airplane flew overhead. The crowd and Aubrey looked up. A banner trailing behind: “Brewsters, half-price drinks, shrimp by the pound, $4.99 before 5 p.m.” The plane pushed on and Aubrey realized her mistake. She was left with nothing but empty blue sky. The blank space allowed enough room for the singular lifeguard—the one in the orange shorts—to push his way in. “Damn it . . .” she said, heaving a breath. His energy connected with hers, adamant and unyielding.

  “We’ll go,” Charley said. “That’s enough beach time . . .”

  She shook her head. “He’s so insistent. He’s been waiting so long . . .”

  “Let him wait a little longer. Give it a few years; surely another medium will be along.” Charley looked toward a man she could not see. “Tell him you’re on vacation.”

  Aubrey squinted, hearing beach noises that had turned tinny. He’d won, nodding in Aubrey’s direction. “I can’t,” she said, feeling oddly responsive. “It has to be me.”

  “Aubrey?” It was a struggle to look at Charley. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I think I do.”

  Moving toward the lifeguard’s growing presence, Charley’s voice waned, saying, “I’ll be right here . . . watching . . .”

  Aubrey slogged forward, the solid edges of beach paraphernalia and people dimming. It was like looking through dark sunglasses at everything but the lifeguard. There was a rush, the topsy-turvy sense of being turned upside down in that saltwater sea. A few yards away, the lifeguard appeared glassy against the mottled glint of ocean, neither here nor there—part of the sunlight, part of the earth. A flotation device rested around his shoulders, a whistle on his neck. On his wrist was a leather-banded watch. His swim trunks, she guessed, were an older version of the lifeguarding uniform for Rocky Neck—this was definitely his beach. Aubrey gave in to the feathery feeling unearthing her. “Shit,” she muttered as he smiled.

  As eerie and dead as the lifeguard was, Aubrey felt his heart flutter; he was so anxious to communicate. Cool little waves washed over her toes, and Aubrey curled them into muddy silt. It figured. There was nothing solid here to hang on to. The smell of sea air mixed with smoky scents, marijuana and burning wood. She tasted booze. She didn’t know what to make of any of it. Like the napalm that had wafted off George Everett’s Roy, smells and tastes often played an undefined role. On the upside, at least vomiting wasn’t imminent. Yes, she was better at this than a few years ago, and hopeful that she could steer the exchange.

  “Hello,” he said. Ordinary etiquette forced Aubrey to make eye contact. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for days . . . longer, I think.”

  Aubrey motioned at the horizon, forcing her glance to follow. “From what I can gather, it’s all about timing. What do you want?” she said, practicing the art of control.

  “At first I was confused. I thought it was your grandmother.”

  “It’s not. Not like me. Sometimes she dreams of people . . . family members, loved ones.”

  “I can imagine. She’s very spiritual. There’s a strong energy—but it’s not like yours. I think it was her swimsuit. The pink. Color, it’s like a phosphorous trail.”

  “I know. Hence the dark swim suit.” Aubrey grazed her hand down her long frame and dull navy suit.

  “But color would make it so much easier to find you.”

  “And I would want to make it easier because . . .” Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Can we cut to the chase? What is it you need? Did you have a fight with your girlfriend, leave things unsaid?” Aubrey looked over her shoulder. It could be that one of the giggling, bikini-clad girls behind her belonged to him. She supposed he was handsome enough, with his shiny lifeguard muscles, eyes the color of fallen sky.

  “What’s the hurry?” He smiled, his aura more California surfer, less specter—though Aubrey had the distinct impression he’d been in his current state a while. The sun sparkled off him, matching the twinkle of ocean. It made for a seamless blend. “Why are you so determined to avoid me? I’ve watched you count things for days. Tasks won’t help. You know you can’t ever stop it.”

  His demeanor was frustrating. Usually spirits were more anxious to deliver their message. This one was perplexing, like he had all the time in the world—on the other hand, maybe he did. “Fine. So now that you have my attention . . .”

  “Brody,” he said. “My name’s Brody.”

  “Brody,” she repeated. Aubrey glanced over her shoulder, curious if his family was nearby—a mother, maybe a sister.

  “I’m going to West Point in the fall.”

  Aubrey smirked and her gaze dropped to her muddy toes. A muddled past, present, and future was telltale. They often confused time. Some apparitions had no earthly idea where they belonged. “Quite an accomplishment, West Point,” she said, playing along.

  “Yeah, you’d think that.”

  “You don’t want to go.” Aubrey was struck by the disconnect, as his easy-going manner seemed naturally opposed to marching and weapons.

  Brody shrugged, his square chin bucking up toward the deep sea. “I’m used to it. I went to Valley Forge Military Prep. I hated it, but Pa, he expects . . . I can’t disappoint him.”

  The smell of smoldering wood overtook the salty sea. Then a blast of heat hit her that had nothing to do with the sun—it was more like a roaring fire. “Even if that’s not what you want?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I want. You know how parents are—fathers in particular.”

  “Not really. Both mine are gone.”

  “My mother’s dead. It was Pa and me until he remarried.”

  “Wicked stepmother?” Perhaps this was the problem. Clearly, no blood relative was present, and Aubrey now assumed it reasonable to rule out a girlfriend.

  “J.C.? That’s what I call her . . . Jacqueline Claire. Nah,” he said shaking his head. “She’s cool. Squirrely but cool. Blond, curvy, tall, big boobs.” He laughed. “She used to be a Playboy Bunny.” Aubrey shrugged. When you lived in a carnival, Playboy Bunny didn’t seem so off the grid. “J.C. and Pa, it went like this: USO tours London. Military hero attempts to reinvent life.” His face sobered. “The only thing they invented was my brother. I . . . I haven’t seen him in a long time, my brother . . .” As he spoke his frame dimmed, like a bulb on the fritz.

  “A brother?”

  “Half-brother,” he said, brightening—literally. “We’re flying out to California to visit J.C. Pa doesn’t trust her, not after last summer.”

  “What happened last summer?”

  “My brother almost drowned. The gardener pulled him out of the pool. Pa went nuts. But it wasn’t all J.C.’s fault. My brother told me he’d gotten bored, decided to dive for pennies . . . But kids do stupid stuff, right? Pa says it’s a good idea if I tag along before . . . I go.”

  “To West Point?” He didn’t respond but waded farther into the water. With her arms crossed, Aubrey traced her long toes through fine sand and tiny shells. “So it’s nice chatting, but there must be a reason you dropped in on my seaside visit?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “There’s a reason you dropped in on mine.”

  “Like what?”

  His appearance grew more vague. “If only you didn’t fight it so hard . . .”

  Aubrey looked directly at him. “Thanks, but I don’t need advice from you, ghost. You worry about your side of things. I’ll take care of mine.”

  “Okay, but it’s your own fault. Had you responded sooner, there’d be more time. As it is,” he said, “you’ll have to run.”

  “To what? Where?” she said, her head whipping from side to side.

  “To the family. The one with the boys. Earlier, you ignored your instinct to help. You shouldn’t have.” />
  With a clear direction in mind, Aubrey turned hard to the west. “The baby?”

  “The toddler. The older brother, he’s not paying attention. Frankly, he’s a little reckless.”

  “That’s what I said! But when?”

  He looked at his leather-banded watch, the sun beaming off the rim—like it was real. “Soon . . . High tide, it can catch you off guard here . . . One minute it’s a pond, and the next . . .”

  “The tide?” she said. A jogger veered wide, staring at Aubrey. She started toward the tower chair, but the lifeguard’s warning and a stronger intuition stopped her. She pivoted in the muddy shore. “Wait! I don’t understand. You don’t know those people. You’re not here because of them!”

  The lifeguard’s toned body stood firm—as if he had mass. Larger waves crashed around him, creating the illusion of substance. “Geez, I am a lifeguard. This is my stretch to patrol. And you’re not being very grateful. I went out of my way to show up, help you out.”

  “Help me?”

  “Think how awful you’d feel if that kid drowned. Stop ignoring your instincts. Keep that in mind—because now, you owe me.” She couldn’t tell if he was joking. Just what she needed, a specter with a sense of humor. “You said it yourself, timing is everything. He’d never listen right now. He’s got too much of Pa in him. But next time . . .”

  She sloshed backward in the surf. Aubrey turned toward the family. Though the matter was urgent, Aubrey spun back once more. “Next time?” she said. This was about closure. Specters didn’t pencil in return engagements.

  “Next time . . .” he said. The smell of fire was doused by salt-covered air. The incoming swell was harsher. It crashed and claimed him like a bubble. Aubrey was left with no choice but to take off running, full charge, down the beach.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Present Day

  Aubrey sat up sharply, panting and squinting into darkness. Her heart fluttered like a moth trapped in light. At three a.m., caught in a feverish sweat and tide of nausea, most people would have called a doctor. In her case, medicinal intervention was moot. She stumbled to the bathroom in search of a cool cloth. Aubrey gripped the porcelain sink and closed her eyes, aiming for deep gulps of air. The vision had left her with memories of a younger Aubrey, blindsiding her. It had been some time since the presence of the dead felt so overwhelming.

  Like the old days, she lost the battle and heaved over the toilet. Aubrey crumpled onto the tile floor, feeling the grouted seams and cold penetrate her knees as she retched again. She flushed and wadded up some toilet paper to wipe her watery mouth. By the time she righted the queasy feeling, Charley was in the doorway. “Something you ate?” she asked. Aubrey shook her head and slumped onto her rear end, the edge of the commode lending support. “See someone you recognize?” She nodded hard, the nausea pulsing again.

  “The sand . . .” Aubrey swiped her hand across her mouth.

  “From Rocky Neck.”

  “It belongs to a lifeguard.”

  “And the lifeguard, does he belong to Missy Flannigan?”

  “No,” she said, spitting into the toilet. She peered up at her grandmother. “He belongs to Levi. It’s his brother.”

  They talked for a few minutes before Aubrey insisted that Charley go back to bed. There was nothing she could do. A short time later, shivering from the sweat and implication, Aubrey retrieved the tin box from the living room. She climbed the stairs and got back into bed, but she didn’t open the box’s lid. What for? She’d gotten the message. The question was what to do about it. Aubrey might have endured a month’s worth of fever and nausea for a portal to Missy Flannigan. Having to invest that much of herself in Levi’s ghost wasn’t as welcome. Yet, between the adamant dream and a persistent presence, she saw no choice.

  Shortly before four a.m. she settled on a plan—direct and simple. Aubrey would start at the beginning, explaining her box of ghost gifts. From there, Levi could take it or leave it. She even went as far as to text him:

  4:08 Can you come by my house in the a.m.? Need to tell you something.

  Levi texted back almost immediately, and Aubrey muttered, “Jesus, do you ever sleep?”

  4:10 What’s up?

  4:12: Long story. Needs to be in person.

  4:13: Something about Missy?

  Aubrey thought for a moment. Missy might very well be the only temptation to which he’d respond. No, even a white lie was not the way to win Levi’s confidence.

  4:16: Not exactly. But important. Will you?

  Several unanswered minutes went by and Aubrey did wonder, in a four a.m. sort of way, what Levi was doing.

  4:27: OK. Beth’s got a conference call at 8. Is 7:30 good?

  4:29: Sure.

  She thought a moment longer. Curiosity and the need for a little more clarity about Levi prodded one more text.

  4:30: You never said, what does Bethany do?

  4:31: Works in publishing, acquisitions editor. Why?

  4:32: No reason. Just wondering . . .

  She didn’t anticipate another text from Levi and was surprised to see one more:

  4:34: I’ll bring coffee. See you then.

  Aubrey laid the tin box beside her bed. In a few hours, all would be resolved. Levi could connect with his brother—or not—and they could move on with what mattered. Aubrey reached over and stroked the tin lid like she would a house cat. She closed her eyes. Even a little sleep would be a good thing. But her eyes felt spring-loaded, popping open. Who was she kidding? Aubrey had thought it herself earlier. Levi wouldn’t see anything more than a box of junk. She sat back up. He’d insist she was certifiable. The reporter credibility she’d earned would be ruined. He wouldn’t want her anywhere near the Missy Flannigan story. It also wouldn’t satisfy Brody, who she suspected would not be dismissed. No specter had ever visited twice, and Brody had waited years. Clearly, tenacity was a St John family trait—like red hair, or that damn dimple. Neither brother would vacate Surrey or Aubrey’s life until they got what they’d come for. Aubrey abandoned the box and picked up her phone. She’d cancel.

  While clicking through her messages, she saw earlier texts from Marian Sloane. They were pleas, really, almost begging Aubrey to find a spot on the schedule for her high-end reproduction on Acorn Circle. Aubrey’s thumb rolled over her bandaged fingertips. Singed skin. It was a sure sign of her neglected home portrait features and the specters that went with them. She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she might kill two ghosts with one stone. It just might work. Shortly before five, Aubrey texted Marian.

  4:50: Good news. I’ve had some space free up. Let me know if 8:30 will work for a tour.

  Apparently, realtors and ambitious newsmen were primed and ready before the crack of dawn. Marian also replied immediately. Eight-thirty would be just perfect. “All right, Levi,” Aubrey said while texting confirmation to Marian, “you’re a ‘show me’ kind of guy. So that’s what we’re going to do. Come for a ride with me. First I’ll show you. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Before seven thirty Aubrey was pacing her living room, showered, dressed, and having already shared her plan with Charley. Her grandmother sat in the dining room, which was more of an alcove. She ate grapefruit and toast while watching her granddaughter stride back and forth. “Aubrey, have you factored in the time it will take to explain the trench you’re standing in?”

  Aubrey stopped, the long, bright red sweater she wore swinging like a cape. “What?”

  “You’ve about worn a hole in that floor. Why don’t you sit, have a cup of tea?”

  “No, then I’ll just have to pee. Besides,” she said, pacing again, “Levi said he’s bringing coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee.”

  “I know,” she said, shrugging. “That’s mostly what I’m worried about.” They traded wry glances, Aubrey veering off course enough to glance
out the living room window.

  “And it’s your belief that the spirit on Acorn Circle will be open to putting on a convincing show for Levi? It’s a risk, wouldn’t you say?”

  Aubrey considered the heat emanating from the listing sheet, the subliminal message in Marian’s voicemails. “Normally, yes. But with the vibe I’m getting off this house, I don’t think Helen Keller would miss it. It should be obvious enough to make my point, start a conversation.” She peeked around the curtain again. “Damn. He’s here.”

  “I must have misunderstood. I thought that was the point.” Another droll glance passed between them, Charley’s morphing into a worried gaze. “Aubrey, you don’t have to do this. If there’s no chance he’s going to be open to it, I don’t see the necessity in subjecting yourself. Whatever the brother may want, you have no idea about Levi’s past. What you might be dredging up.”

  “True. It could be my gift is the far lesser thing Levi has to face today.”

  Charley secured a wedge of grapefruit, though her spoon stopped midair. “Regardless, keep in mind that your well-being is my main concern. You don’t owe Levi anything.” The doorbell rang and Aubrey sighed in Charley’s direction.

  “No, apparently I owe his brother.” At the door, she hesitated. Never once had Aubrey set out to prove her gift. “Nothing like starting with a Herculean challenge.” She swung the door wide. “Hi,” she said too cheerily.

  “Uh, hi.” A freshly shaven Levi, carrying a tray of coffee cups, opened the craftsman’s wooden screened door. Aubrey had been certain a sea-soaked flood of his brother would arrive with him, but there was nothing. “I brought . . .”

  “Coffee,” she said as he made his way into the living room. “Levi, this is . . .”

  “Charley,” he said, nodding. “El—your granddaughter’s mentioned you.”

  “You as well. How fascinating . . . You’re exactly as I pictured.”