by Lynn Bohart
Elizabeth shook her head vehemently, sending out renewed bursts of rose scent. She then put her hand to her transparent throat and squeezed, lolling her tongue as if she were being strangled. You can imagine my reaction. Well, maybe you can’t. After all, you probably have never had the pleasure of talking with a ghost, especially one that was attempting to strangle itself. It made me queasy.
“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping she would stop.
Just then, Mickey lunged at the sliding glass door and barked at something outside.
“Mickey!” I snapped.
And then Elizabeth was gone.
Damn!
I glanced around again, but her image had disappeared, along with her signature perfume. It was if she’d never been there at all.
I stomped over to the door and closed the curtain, all the while chastising Mickey. He let the curtain fall over his back, while he kept his long snout pressed up against the window, staring intently at some unknown monster in the dark.
CHAPTER TEN
It was Friday morning, the day after Martha died, when I woke to a light dusting of snow. The white crystals sat lightly on pine branches and layered the backyard like a fine mist of powdered sugar. I let the dogs out, watching them leave little footprints everywhere they padded. Mickey ran immediately to the gate, sniffing along the bottom.
“C’mon, Mickey. Let’s get going.”
When they’d finished, I went back to the bedroom and threw on a turtleneck and jeans and my favorite sterling silver hoop earrings.
“Okay, let’s get you guys fed,” I said, leading them to the kitchen.
While Minnie waited patiently for her food, Mickey liked to spin in circles. Why, I don’t know. Every dog has a personality, and this was part of his.
As I got ready to place his bowl on the floor, I commanded, “Mickey, stop!”
He stopped abruptly, listing to one side, a bit dizzy.
After feeding the dogs, I closed up the apartment and the three of us headed for the main kitchen. As we moved through the breakfast room, I uncovered Ahab’s cage and greeted him.
“Good morning, Ahab.”
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he replied, dancing back and forth on his perch.
I filled his food tray and then joined April in the kitchen as she was finishing up a batch of cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
Our kitchen was designed in a grand cottage style, with warm white cabinetry, black marble countertops, a large center island with a farmhouse sink and white bead board on three sides. Barn red fabric accent lights hung over the center island, while a small butcher block table and four wooden chairs sat off to one side under a Victorian chandelier. The whole room was accented with red and white checked curtains and a small red and blue floral wall paper. Above an old fireplace at the far end hung white-washed wooden letters that spell out, “Good Eats.” All in all, the kitchen looked right out of House and Garden Magazine. Add the smell of cinnamon and sugar on that particular morning, and I felt like I had just walked into heaven.
The dogs bustled in, their nails clicking on the hardwood floor. April looked down and said, “Hello, wieners.” They greeted her and then hurried over to a cupboard in the corner where I kept a box of toys. I pulled out a couple of squeaker toys and left them to fight over them while I joined April at the center island.
“Need help?”
April smiled at me. She was the most efficient person I know, and cinnamon rolls were one of her specialties. From what I could see, she had everything under control. But I needed something to do to keep me from thinking about Martha.
“Why don’t you beat a bunch of eggs for a frittata?” she said.
I grabbed a carton of eggs and a bowl and started cracking, while the dogs chased each other around the kitchen, stealing and re-stealing each other’s toys. Their repetitive growls served as background noise to our conversation.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” April said over her shoulder.
It’s spooky how she could always read my mind.
“I know,” I said. “But first my mother, then Ellen, and now Martha. They say death comes in threes…I hope that means we’re done for a while.”
“I think the rule of threes only applies to famous people,” she laughed. “Not everyday people like you and me.”
She flashed her brilliant smile at me, making her hazel eyes dance. She’d told me once that those hazel eyes had come from her great, great granddaddy who had been a Civil War soldier. Since she’d never told me anything else about him, I suspected it might be a tall tale. Still, hazel eyes against her black skin and black hair was a stunning combination.
“Well, who knows?” I said reflectively, as I whipped eggs and milk into a frothy lather, “I just know I’m tired of going to unexpected funerals.”
“Your mother was ninety-three and confined to a wheelchair. I don’t think she falls into the unexpected category.”
“Maybe. But the women in our family are known for their longevity. My grandmother toppled over on her way to get a second piece of cake at her ninety-eighth birthday party. I plan to beat her by at least two years.”
April chuckled as Minnie barked in the background. I glanced over as she lunged for the nasty-looking skunk held firmly in Mickey’s mouth.
“Good for you,” April said. “I plan to slide gracefully to the other side when I’m ready, and then spend my days in heaven eating whatever I want and never gaining a pound.”
I laughed, but in truth, I was the one who carried the extra weight on my small frame. April was taller than me by three inches and merely round where she needed to be.
“Wait a minute,” I said, lifting my eyes to hers. “I don’t want you dying before me. You’ll come back to haunt me for sure.”
“No, I won’t,” she said, shaking her head.
Her hair was braided into corn rows, accented with beads that rattled whenever she shook her head.
“I have no desire to become one of those spirits that can’t seem to get on with their heavenly life. When I’m gone, I’m gone.”
Her comment made me think of Elizabeth’s appearance the night before, but I decided not to say anything.
“We’ll see,” I said skeptically.
Breakfast was available for the guests between 7:30 and 9:30 each morning. We currently had six adults (two couples and two singles) and two young children staying with us. Another guest had left early that morning. When April and I brought in the chafing dish, the Pedersons were already there with their five-year old son and two-year old daughter. The kids were talking to Ahab. He was always a hit with the guests, especially the children. I helped April finish setting out the cinnamon rolls, coffee, and juice. Then I wandered over to the dining room with a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll to be alone.
As I looked at the room, it looked as if nothing had ever happened the day before. It was as if Martha’s death had been erased. It made me sad to think we would never watch her face twist into stubborn confusion, or hear her whine again about something she didn’t want to do. While she was alive, those traits had driven me crazy at times. That’s why I privately thought of her as the Whiner, a name I’d never shared with her, of course. But now, I realized those traits had only added depth to a very kind and generous woman, who may have never really had a chance to discover who she was.
I reflected on my fondness for applying nicknames to my friends. Perhaps it was because for most of my life, my mother had called me by a nickname. It was something I equated with affection, even if the nickname wasn’t so flattering, like the Whiner. Of course there were the outliers, like the one I used for Dana Finkle, my nemesis, whose nickname I couldn’t express in polite company.
Once the sun was up, I forced myself to get busy. I called the church to reserve the chapel and meeting room for a Wednesday afternoon service and reception. I also called the shelter to let them know what happened to Martha and texted back and forth with the girls to set up a meeting for Saturd
ay morning.
It was quarter to nine when Matt Samson, the Program Director from the shelter, called.
“Julia,” he said, “I heard about Martha. I’m so sorry. We’ll really miss her.”
My throat swelled so that it felt as if I’d swallowed something large that wouldn’t pass.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re devastated.”
“Well, I’m calling because we’re short a volunteer this morning. I was hoping you could come in, but I’d completely understand if you can’t.”
I allowed my eyes to linger on a picture that sat on my desk of the book club from the year before. It included both Ellen and Martha. What would they want me to do? I breathed in, filling my lungs in an effort to revive my spirit. It didn’t work.
“I’ll come in,” I said. “I think Martha would want me to.”
“Thanks, Julia. We’ve got a couple of new kids, including a little boy who doesn’t speak English. I already spoke to Rosa and she said she could help.”
“That would be great,” I said. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”
My decision to go to the shelter gave me a sense of purpose and helped lift my spirits, if only briefly. It was almost nine-thirty when I made it to the shelter in Ballard. The shelter was located in a converted auto parts store and housed only women and children. Its twenty-five rooms were almost always full. The numbers of children varied, ranging from infants to sixteen years of age, but never any boys over the age of twelve. The school-aged children attended school during the week, but there were always a few toddlers and infants to look after, and that was usually my job.
I checked in with Matt. He was a good-natured young man with a master’s degree in social work. As the only man on the premises, he also provided the only handy male role model for the kids.
“Good morning,” he greeted me. “Thanks so much for coming in.”
“Well, I thought this would give me something positive to do.”
My heart started to race as I thought about Martha again. I had to keep my emotions in check. I hoped that being out among other people would help.
“I understand,” Matt said. “The kids will be happy to see you. The new little boy is named Julio. He’s four and cries a lot, and we have twin five-year old girls, Sierra and Samantha. They’re already in the children’s room with Emma. I think Rosa is in her bedroom.”
Rosa was one of the homeless women who had been found living on the streets several months earlier. She was eight and a half months pregnant and spoke only Spanish, and so would often help with the Spanish-speaking children. A few of the other women were from the Ukraine. Since the shelter’s executive director, Faye Kramer, spoke both Spanish and Ukrainian, I figured social services sent those cases to her.
I put my purse in a locker just outside the office and went to Rosa’s room and knocked. No one answered, so I started for the playroom, thinking she might already be with the children. As I turned a corner, I passed the chapel, a small room set aside for private contemplation. It wasn’t much bigger than a small bedroom, but had a water feature that helped make it quiet and peaceful. As I passed, I heard the muffled sound of someone crying. Tears weren’t a stranger in a shelter like this, where all the women were down on their luck. But this sounded different—more desperate, more frightened.
I took a chance and quietly pushed the door open and found Rosa sitting with her back to me. She was rocking back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably and muttering to herself. I came up behind her and was about to place a hand on her shoulder when I heard what she was saying.
“No tome a mi bebé. No tome a mi bebé. Please, please, you can’t take my baby girl,” she sobbed, saying the last phrase in English.
When my hand landed on her shoulder, she jumped up and spun around as if I’d dropped an electric wire on her.
“No. Please don’t take my baby!” she cried out. “Don’t…!”
“Rosa. Rosa,” I said, holding my hands up in a gesture of peace. “No one is going to take your baby. It’s just me…Julia.”
She started gulping air and wiping her eyes.
“Come and sit down,” I said, directing her back to the chair. “Please, no one is going to hurt you.”
She hesitated and then returned to the bench and sat down, her hands shaking as she placed them on her enormous belly. I sat down next to her and kept a reassuring hand on her back. She used a sleeve to wipe her nose, and I got up and grabbed the box of Kleenex that was kept on the front table.
“Here, Rosa,” I said, handing it to her.
She took it gratefully and pulled out a handful. “Gracias,” she said.
That’s when it hit me. A minute earlier, she’d been speaking English.
“Rosa, you can speak English,” I said, somewhat astonished.
Again, she pulled away from me as if I was going to hit her.
“No, no, Miss Julia. Please, don’t tell anyone.” She began to cry desperately again. “Please,” she pleaded. “No one knows. Please. They’re going to take my baby.” She crumpled into the seat sobbing again.
I quickly put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me.
“Shush, I won’t say anything, Rosa. I’m your friend. Why are you so frightened? Who do you think is going to take your baby?”
Her entire body was shaking now, and I realized that whatever her fear, it was real. I had to wait patiently for the sobbing to subside before she could speak.
“I heard them talking…outside. I was in…washing my…uh…” she gestured to her legs.
“Your pants? You were in the laundry.”
“Si. They whisper outside. I hear through…uh…hole in the wall.”
“You mean the vent? Near the dryer?”
“Si. Si,” she said quietly, sniffling and wiping her nose. “No one knows I speak English. My father teach me when I was little. I hear many things. But I no say anything because I have no one. But now I hear my name, and I…” She stopped and started to cry again. “Please Miss Julia,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “Help me.”
Rosa probably wasn’t more than nineteen or twenty. She had dark eyes, long dark hair, high cheek bones, and a long, slender neck. She was very pretty, but I often found her with a troubled look on her face. In my ignorance, I’d always chalked it up to being homeless, figuring that would put a frown on anyone’s face. But perhaps I’d been wrong. If she was hiding something, it had to make her anxious. As she rocked back and forth, seemingly inconsolable, I tried to quiet her again.
“Rosa, who are the people you’re talking about? Who did you hear outside the laundry?”
“The woman who bring me here,” she sobbed. “I thought she is my friend.”
“You mean the person who brought you to the shelter?”
She shook her head. “No. From Venezuela. I live in a small town there. Very poor. I met a girl at…hmmm…the doc-tor office. I was very scared. I was pregnant; I have no family…no money. She said she know people who help girls like me…bring them to America to have babies and start new life. But she say they no take girls who speak English. So, I lie. But now…I…” She stopped, unable to go on.
Just then the door swung open and Faye Kramer, the Executive Director, stepped in. We both jumped up and turned to face her.
“Ms. Applegate,” she said sternly. Then, seeing Rosa, she stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry, is something wrong?”
Faye was in her late thirties, tall and thin, with hard edges everywhere. She and I got along fine, but I thought she was in the wrong job. While Matt seemed to truly care about the women who stayed at the shelter, Faye sometimes reminded me of Nurse Ratchet.
“Um…no, I think Rosa’s hormones are just a little out of whack.” I felt my nose grow again as I lied. I ushered Rosa toward the door. “I was just trying to give her some comfort, but she doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say. Maybe you could explain to her that she should just go back to her room and lie down. I can handle the kids today.”
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“Um…sure,” Faye said, looking from me to Rosa.
She turned to Rosa and said something to her in Spanish. Rosa nodded and hurried from the room. Faye turned to me.
“Did something happen?” Faye asked.
“No…uh, like I said, I just found her crying. I used to do that when I was pregnant. Just cried for no reason. Your hormones are just completely screwed up. It’s like you’re on an emotional roller coaster.”
Faye crinkled her eyebrows. “I thought you adopted your daughter.”
I paused for a moment in reflection. I wasn’t very good at lying.
“I had a miscarriage,” I said. “A long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, without much emotion. “My sister lost a baby. She’s never gotten over it.”
“No,” I said, faltering. “You don’t.”
“Well, thank you for coming in. Now you’d better get going—the children are waiting.”
“Of course, I’ll go right now.”
I continued down the hall, feeling the adrenaline thrum though my veins. Lying wasn’t really in my nature. I was more inclined to say exactly what I thought minus the social filters. But I was halfway down the hall before I realized that Faye hadn’t said a word about Martha’s death. Typical.
When I got to the room, three toddlers were sitting quietly at a low table, coloring. Emma, one of the staff members, was watching them. When I came in, she nodded and left. I spent the next hour and a half entertaining the twin girls and Julio, the four-year old boy, who had no idea what I said to him. But as long as he had crayons and a truck to play with, he seemed happy enough.
By eleven-thirty, it was time for lunch, and after that, the children would take a nap. I walked them to the kitchen, where Emma had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches waiting. They sat at small tables to eat their meal and then she took them off for nap time. At this point in the day, I sometimes helped with laundry or cleaning up in the kitchen before I left at twelve or twelve-thirty. I decided to check out the laundry, since Rosa had mentioned it. It was at the back of the building, off to one side.