Give Up the Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  He appears aggravated looking over my chart, shaking his head.

  “Three months? You really didn’t think you were pregnant until now? Or did you think you could deliver this baby on your own?”

  Now, it’s getting strange. I lean forward, not caring that he’s way into my personal space. “What are you talking about?”

  He shakes his head, asks me to lean back and put my feet into those damn stirrups. If I didn’t want answers so badly, I would have said never mind and left this place, but I do as I’m told. He gives me an examination and it’s not the most pleasant experience. They never are, but this man isn’t even trying to be gentle. I’m glad he’s not accepting patients because he’s last on my list.

  He then pulls out a fetal Doppler, rolls it around the bottom of my belly. I stop breathing and close my eyes, dreading what comes next. I know I couldn’t have gotten this far into the pregnancy without the baby being somewhat healthy but still, once you lose a child, the fear remains.

  Suddenly, a strong heartbeat emerges and I light up like a lightbulb.

  “Good strong heartbeat,” the doctor says. “Sounds like a very healthy baby. You’re lucky.”

  My happiness fades. “Lucky?”

  He straightens, pulling off the Playtex gloves. “You took a big chance waiting three months. I’ll never understand how women can play with their health like that.”

  I’m now fuming inside, but I bite the inside of my lip. “How far along am I?”

  “Guessing from what you thought was your last period....”

  “I’m certain of the date.”

  His gaze narrows and he crosses his arms over his chest. “If you’re certain of the date, then why did you wait this long?”

  I’m sure the inside of my mouth is bleeding from my grinding me teeth. “Due date?”

  “I suspect you are 23 weeks along and your due date will be the first week of August. You’ll need an ultrasound, though, to confirm that.”

  At least I got that much information.

  “First time?” he asks.

  Did he even look at my medical history? He appeared to do so.

  “Second,” I whisper.

  “Second? And you didn’t know you were pregnant until now?”

  I sit up, pulling my paper gown around my chest. He’s getting on my very last nerve. “You don’t need to talk to me like this. My body is my own business.”

  “You’re one of those crazy liberals, then? Is that why your name is different from your husband’s?”

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “You have him listed as next of kin.”

  “I’m a journalist and I kept my last name for business reasons.”

  He smirks. “Figures.”

  I’m done. “I’m ready to leave, thanks. And I’ll be finding another person to birth my child.”

  He throws his gloves into the trash and stands. “Fine. Have one of those insane women in Emma’s Cove help you, then.”

  And with those final words, Doctor Touch-ee leaves the room.

  I look at the nurse who stares in disbelief as he closes the door behind him. She, no doubt, is as surprised as I am at his rude behavior.

  “He doesn’t approve of them,” she finally says.

  “Who?”

  She leans in close and whispers, “Those women.”

  I want to ask more but another nurse comes in to take a blood sample. Now, it’s my turn to stand and be abrupt.

  “No, thank you,” I tell her. “I’m going to dress, pay my copayment, and get the hell out of here.”

  The two nurses look at each other, say nothing and leave. I hurriedly dress, pay at the window, and hit the sidewalk. When I emerge into the sunlight, however, I’m mad as hell and equally confused.

  It’s then I spot Maribelle on the other side of the street, hauling plants and potting soil into the bed of her pickup. It’s February and too early for spring planting but I’ve noticed the endless greenery in her kitchen window. She’s really into plants.

  She notices me but turns away, continues with her duties. I check for traffic and march across the street.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say and I’m not too nice about it.

  My tone causes her to turn and examine me.

  “I need to know what the hell is going on in Emma’s Cove.”

  She smiles sarcastically and nods toward Doctor Touch-ee’s office. “So now Doctor Know-it-all is enlisting spies.”

  I shake my head because this song-and-dance routine is driving me nuttier than a blind dog in a meat factory. I stomp my foot because between the Dwayne episode and this weird town mystery — not to mention being hormonal and grumpy — I’m about to pop a blood vessel.

  Just then the counter woman at Doctor Touch-ee’s office emerges and runs over to my side of the street, handing me my insurance card.

  “You forgot this,” she says. “And you forgot to make another appointment. He says you need an ultrasound.”

  I laugh. “There’s no way in hell I’m ever going back to that rude, insulting man. Tell him I’m going to do my own ultrasound.”

  The woman’s taken aback, glances over at Maribelle nervously, and leaves. I look heavenward and sigh. Loudly. I still need an ultrasound to make sure my baby’s okay, not to mention a doctor to help bring my child into the world. Maybe I need to drive to Cleveland — Tennessee, not Ohio — to find one.

  When I glance back at Maribelle, she’s softened. She throws the last bag of mulch into the back of the pickup, takes my elbow, and leads me to the passenger side.

  “Coffee?” is all she says.

  Chapter 3

  We enter the Lightning Latte Coffee Shop and I stop to allow my eyes to adjust. It’s barely lit inside but the walls are filled with painted lightning bugs drinking giant cups of caffeine, their tails glowing tiny sparks of light.

  “Cool,” I mutter as Maribelle leads us to the back.

  We pass students in tattered jeans and T-shirts, their heads deep in laptops. A group of Tennisians — what Winnie calls women in tennis garb who don’t work and spend hours at lunch — pause in their animated conversation and healthy salads to look our way.

  “Ignore them,” Maribelle mumbles.

  The back is even darker and no lightning bugs.

  “Did someone forget to pay the light bill?” I ask.

  As we sit in two comfy chairs, a girl sporting one long braid down her back and an enormous collection of freckles arrives.

  “Hey Linsey,” Maribelle says to the petite girl. “Two of your ginger scones, one dark roast and the chamomile blend, you know the kind.”

  She nods and I can’t stop staring at her freckles. It’s as if a supernovae exploded on her face and sent tiny drops of brown everywhere. With her enormous chocolate eyes and that braid, she’s quite fanciful looking.

  “And I’ll have….” I raise my hand.

  “The chamomile.”

  Freckles takes off and I send Maribelle a look. “I thought only arrogant men order for women. And for the record, I hate chamomile.”

  Maribelle leans in close. “It’s my special blend that I’ve developed. Only special people — and me, of course — know to order it. It’ll help with the morning sickness. Tomorrow morning you’ll feel much better.”

  “How did you know about the morning sickness?”

  Maribelle leans back, gets comfortable in her chair. “What did Doctor Perfect say?”

  I exhale because I’m still wound up from the encounter. “That if I want to take my baby’s life in my own hands, to ask the women of Emma’s Cove.”

  “Asshole,” Maribelle mutters.

  “Big question is why did he say that?”

  Now it’s Maribelle’s turn to exhale. “He doesn’t like us.”

  “Really?”

  She sends me a stink eye. “We have history.”

  My sarcasm’s feeling spry. “Let me guess, could it have something to do with the fact that y’all are cold, unfr
iendly, and sometimes rude?”

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she says, looking away. “I had to talk to someone I’m not too happy with.”

  “I’d say you and the other women in town aren’t happy with anyone, anytime.”

  She looks back and her gaze has grown cold. “We have our reasons.”

  “And they are?”

  Caroline arrives with our drinks and places both on the table between us. Maribelle’s smells like heaven, that intoxicating freshly roast coffee aroma. Mine smells like dirt.

  “Sugar?” I ask her.

  “She’ll have it plain.”

  Now, it’s my turn to send Maribelle the stink eye.

  “Drink it,” she instructs me. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

  I sip the giant cup of herbal medicine, tiny tea bits floating inside, and surprisingly, it’s not bad. I bite my scone and send my companion a look as if it’s the scone that tastes good and not her weird-smelling tea.

  “So, what’s the big issue with Emma’s Cove?” I ask. “And who was Emma, anyway. I can’t find much on her.”

  “Why would you want to know?”

  Again, that ridiculous suspicious nature. “Uh, because I live there, it’s the name of the town, and I’m curious. Why the big deal?”

  She sighs and relaxes a bit. A bit.

  “Have you looked in the library here in town?”

  “I don’t know if you know what I do….”

  “You’re a travel writer.”

  I’m impressed. Didn’t think she spent a moment thinking about me and TB.

  “Well, I haven’t had much time to look into it and the librarian in Emma’s Cove wasn’t much help,” I explain.

  Maribelle looks around the room. “Lightning Bug and Emma’s Cove have a history. They don’t like us and we don’t trust them. Go to the library here and they’ll talk your ear off about our town. We won’t.”

  With an afterthought, she adds, “How’s the tea?”

  I push the cup forward between us. “Want me to answer that and finish the cup? Explain.”

  Maribelle slips the last bite of scone into her mouth, chews it thoughtfully, and follows with a swig of coffee. She looks around the room again but we’re the only ones in the dark back corner. Finally, she leans forward.

  “Emma’s Cove has a reputation for being a haven for women looking to get out of bad situations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Abusive marriages, family troubles.” She shrugs. “Sometimes a crime.”

  I sip my tea that’s beginning to grow on me. “Go on.”

  “I came here because I was looking to start over.” She leans back, gets comfortable again in her chair. “My husband was a good man but I didn’t love him, married him to get away from my insane parents and an abusive brother. After a few years, I desperately needed a change. He was sweet but the possessive type, always wanting to know where I was, who I was with, didn’t want me to work. I felt suffocated.”

  “So, you came to Emma’s Cove?”

  “The motel was on the market, I had some money, and I had a skill, thought I could work and renovate it on the side until it was up and running. Today, it is.”

  I don’t see conflict or reasons for distrust in any of this. Maribelle suspects my thoughts, places her elbows on the table and leans forward.

  “I worked as a midwife.”

  “Ah,” I say, because now I’m beginning to catch Touch-ee’s disapproval.

  “Doctor Best-in-the-Business over there never approved, talked trash about me all the time.”

  “Are you still practicing? I’ve always been curious about midwives and I would love to….”

  “No, I’m not.”

  There’s a deep sadness in that last remark and I don’t know why, but something tells me to reach out and take her hand. Surprisingly, she doesn’t recoil.

  “My husband showed up, didn’t cause trouble but he wouldn’t leave, said he was there to protect me, like I needed protection. He hung around the motel, living in one of the rooms, and was here so long he lost his job back in Rhode Island.”

  “That explains your accent,” I say. “I’ve been trying to place it ever since I met you.”

  “What accent?”

  She attempts a smile but her heart’s not in it.

  “What happened to the husband?”

  Her half-hearted smile fades and she rubs her forehead nervously. “They found his body behind the motel. Autopsy said he drowned, which is weird because he spent his life on the water. The police had no clues but Touché convinced them I had killed my husband.”

  My immediate thought is “Did you?” One thing I’ve learned in this ghost-solving business is that the most obvious person to kill the victim is usually the perpetrator. My witchy Aunt Mimi says use your intuition, and I don’t know if it’s my warm chamomile-enhanced gut talking but I don’t sense Maribelle capable of killing anyone.

  “They arrested me but had to let me go because they had no evidence.” Maribelle stares into her empty coffee cup. “But Touché convinced the board to have my license revoked and that was the end of my midwifery career.”

  “That’s awful.” I understand what it’s like to not follow your dream job.

  Maribelle shrugs but the darkness in her eyes remains. I’m still confused, however.

  “So, I’m assuming Doctor Touché was rude to me today because he spotted my address on my chart. And that’s bad enough, of course, but why are the women in Emma’s Cove so unfriendly?”

  “There’s history between the two towns.”

  “But….”

  Suddenly, Maribelle’s standing, throwing money down on the table. “I have to go. Come by the diner at eight tomorrow morning and I’ll explain more.”

  I shake my head, thinking about what morning brings. “Sure, but I don’t eat breakfast these days.”

  She pulls on her coat. “You will tomorrow.” And with those final words, heads out the coffee shop.

  The last bus leaves in thirty minutes but I pull out my cell and call TB, hoping he’s available to give me a ride home.

  “Vi?”

  “I’m at Lightning Latte. Ride home?”

  In the silence that follows, I remember him insisting I stay home. “It’s fine. There are tons of people around.” Not true, the Tennisians have left, but I am in the middle of town. “And we needed groceries.” True, but I failed to get there. “Pick me up at the Piggly Wiggly in ten?” At least, I can get milk.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says softly and hangs up, both of which are unusual. He never ends a call without saying he loves me at least twice.

  I try not to think about it, head to the grocery and grab a few items as fast as I can. He’s waiting by his pickup truck as I exit the store, grabs my one bag and opens the passenger door. He’s not smiling. We don’t say anything as we slip into the car and are silent halfway to home. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.

  “You’re mad at me because I left the house?”

  His hands flex on the steering wheel and I see the muscles in his jaw tighten. This is so not like TB. I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen him mad.

  “Seriously, TB, I was careful. I told you I wasn’t about to stay….”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  My heart pauses beating. There’s no way he could know. “Uh, what do you mean?”

  “Some doctor’s office called and said you needed an ultrasound for the baby.”

  My mind whirls. I had listed TB’s cell phone number on my chart as an emergency contact. How dare them call him and not me?

  “I can’t believe this,” I say with more force than I should. “They called you?”

  TB’s hands grip the wheel. Hard. “You’re three month’s pregnant and you haven’t told me and you’re mad at the doctor?”

  He’s practically shouting, which also isn’t like my demure husband. “Almost three months.”

  He glances
at me with a look that says I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have.

  “I suspected but I was waiting for the insurance to kick in.”

  We’re so close to home I spot Maribelle’s motel, but TB pulls off to the side of the road and shoves the truck into park.

  “You suspected? How long have you suspected, Vi?”

  I swallow hard. “A little while.”

  He’s staring at me, hard, with so many emotions seeping through that gaze. He’s angry, but he’s also scared, worried. We’re bringing another child into the world after losing the first. What happens now we have no idea.

  I reach for him but he pulls away. Then in a quick motion, wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, pulls the truck into drive and we head toward our houseboat. We pull into our parking spot so fast dust flies and I spot Maribelle in her kitchen looking out her window with a curious gaze.

  “Please, let’s talk,” I whisper.

  TB turns off the truck, slamming the door as he leaves and heads into the woods beside our home. From the stomp of his gait, he doesn’t want to be followed. I grab my one bag of groceries and head inside, greeted by Stinky at the threshold, who immediately dashes into the woods.

  “Thanks, y’all.”

  It’s more than an hour with darkness descending over our pristine lake when the men return. Stinky heads for the food bowl, which I refilled thanks to my Piggly Wiggly visit. TB heads to the kitchen and pulls out a beer. I sit on the couch watching those HGTV shows — I keep thinking I’ll use their advice to renovate our floating home — while I wait for one of my roommates to resurface into the living room.

  Finally, TB turns the corner and, without looking at me, joins me on the couch.

  “How long have you known?”

  I hate admitting my lie but now’s the time to lay out the truth. I turn off the TV.

  “Since Thanksgiving.”

  TB closes his eyes and winces.

  “You said then that if I were to get pregnant, you would stay in New Orleans and work for your uncle. I didn’t want that to happen.”

  “Three months, Vi?”

  “Not quite three months.”

  He sends me that incredulous look again.