“Okay, I’m sorry. But we didn’t know about the insurance until right before my Wisconsin trip. And with our history I didn’t want to tell you until I saw a doctor.”
He pulls a hand through his thick blond hair and leans back on the couch. “What did the doctor say?”
“First of all, he’s a jerk and I’m not going back there.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story but he was rude and calling you first, what doctor does that? It’s a privacy infraction at least.”
TB thinks on this, finally asking, “Would you have told me otherwise?
I turn to face him, take both his hands. “Of course, I was going to tell you tonight.”
He looks at me for a long time, his eyes welling up. “Is everything okay?”
The only person more scared of birthing this child is my husband. He feared for everything when I was pregnant with Lillye and now, with her history behind us, I can tell he’s frightened to his bones. That painful gaze he sends makes my tears fall but I nod my head.
“She’s fine. Healthy heartbeat.”
He finally smiles, too, but his tears are falling. “She?”
I shrug. “We won’t know until the ultrasound and maybe not even then.”
TB straightens. “Call them right away and make an appointment.”
“No way. I have to find another doctor.”
I explain to TB what happened this afternoon and Maribelle’s explanation for Touché acting as he did. I assure him I will find a new OB in the morning and get my ultrasound and we agree that we’ll tell family after the test. TB’s still reeling from the news but from the gleam in his eyes I know he’s starting to imagine children again. After dinner we lie in bed discussing logistics. We’ll have to convert half of the second bedroom, now my office, into a nursery and baby-proof the houseboat. We consider buying a small house or renting an apartment near TB’s school but we’ve grown to love our little cove, so we vow to make necessary adjustments.
“We’ll make it work,” TB says, and I know his carpenter skills will do just that.
“Or we’ll cross that bridge later.”
It’s a perfectly appropriate remark but underneath there’s the fear that our child may become sick like Lillye and we’ll have to move to a larger city with hospitals. Neither one of us talks for a long time, both of us staring out the bedroom door, down the hallway to the giant picture window overlooking the lake.
“And hopefully Clayton calls in the morning,” TB whispers.
For not the first time, I wonder how I will bring a child into the world with so much violence and disease.
“Vi, do you ever consider…?”
“Yes.”
I don’t have to explain. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. Simply turn off the ability to see ghosts.
* * *
The phone jolts me awake at seven and I sit up in bed, trying to bring my heartbeat back to normal. I dreamt of Dwayne again, this time the horrid man was watching TB and I sleep from the living room’s window. The bedroom door’s closed now so I can’t see the window down the hall and am thankful for it. But, I wonder if I must keep the door closed and give up my lake view in the morning, must alter my life now to fear.
The phone rings again so I gingerly rise, since the faster I’ve gotten up from sleeping, the worst my morning sickness. I carefully open the bedroom door and gaze down the hallway but outside the window there’s nothing but water. I head in that direction because it’s the only phone outlet on the boat.
“Vi,” Clayton says from the other end when I pick up. “I wasn’t sure if you were on Central or Eastern time so I hope I’m not waking you.”
“Not at all, I’m awake,” I lie, since the answer is Central. I walk around the living room peeking behind doors and glancing outside to the nearby woods. From what I gather, it’s just me here. While I make myself comfortable on the couch I gaze around and notice TB gone; on Wednesdays, he has an early biology class. Stinky, on the other hand, lies across the floor along the back of the front door and sends me a confident gaze. Anyone else would never assume the cat’s being protective — what cat does that? But they don’t know Stinky.
“What’s going on?” Clayton asks.
I explain Dwayne and how he almost killed me in Natchez, but unbeknownst to me Clayton’s on top of it, having looked up my file when we parted ways in Galveston last fall. I relate my recent experience in the Atlanta airport and, because Clayton insisted he’s a Fox Mulder X-Files type of FBI agent, add the part about Gorton and his cryptic message.
“I could have imagined the whole thing. Maybe the ghost put the idea into my head.”
“That would have been a pretty big hallucination, Vi.”
I exhale and close my eyes, thinking of the discussion the night before. “Well, I am pregnant, so there’s that.”
“Mazel tov,” Clayton says with enthusiasm. “How wonderful.”
I find myself smiling broadly. Now that I’ve seen a doctor and TB knows, I’m having a baby!
“Thank you.”
“But you’re not imagining things. You just gave me incredible details about the man’s scar and it’s right on.”
My happiness fades.
“We’ve been searching for Dwayne Garrett for a long time, even before he escaped police custody in Natchez. Fraud, tax evasion, among other things. He was spotted not long ago in a small town called Lithia Springs outside Atlanta.”
My heart sinks. “I know the place. It’s about three hours away.”
“He’s been recently traveling under the name of Robert Johnson.”
“The blues singer?”
“You know the story?”
I laugh, because I know Dwayne. He’ll be creative in disguises, even if it gets him caught. Intelligent criminals worry more about how they perform the crime, as if they’re playing for an audience.
“Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil on the crossroads in Mississippi,” I say. “Or so the story goes. Of course, I know the tale. I almost sold my soul to the Devil — Dwayne — myself, on a crossroads along the Natchez Trace. He’s quite the charmer. He’s likely chosen it for me, connecting the dots between Johnson’s story and our meeting last fall.”
“He’s been moving around and just when we think we have him, he disappears,” Clayton continues. “But lately he’s slowed down. We suspect he’s feeling confident. Which is good news. When criminals get to this point, they get sloppy.”
I pull my hand through my sleep hair. “I hope he doesn’t get sloppy killing me.”
“Where are you now?”
I explain how TB and I moved to Emma’s Cove after Christmas and give Clayton my address. He’s stationed in Birmingham so he promises to drive up this afternoon when TB’s free and we can discuss this more.
“I doubt you have anything to worry about,” he says. “He must know that we’re watching you.”
“Wait, what?”
“Vi,” he says like a father, “you were almost killed by a man who’s now on the loose, then you helped solve a murder last fall in Galveston involving an international drug cartel. You’re on our radar.”
I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
“Dwayne’s not going to chance getting caught visiting you.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“Just take precautions.”
After more catching up and my FBI hero (at least I hope) offering me safety tips, we say our goodbyes. It’s then I realize it’s quarter to eight.
I rush into the bathroom and jump in the shower, throw on jeans and my favorite LSU sweatshirt and hit the front door with two minutes to spare. I think about what Clayton said, so I pull my pepper spray out of my purse’s zippered sleeve and place it in my jean pocket where I can retrieve it easily. He insisted I get a gun and learn how to use it but I’m not a fan of firearms.
I pause at the door because Stinky’s refusing to move. The moment allows me to consid
er, once again, leaving my SCANCness behind, which may, in turn, be the reason Dwayne’s searching for me. All I have to do is tell the ghosts to go away, stop tapping into that plane of existence, let someone else carry them over to heaven or wherever death takes us.
Stinky cocks his head and sends me a funny look.
“It’s just a thought,” I say, then gently move him aside with my foot.
Maribelle’s waiting in the back of the diner but thankfully it’s well lighted and I can see my way. Plus, there’s this gorgeous bay window stretching along the back offering a wide view of Emma’s Cove. In all the town, which isn’t saying much considering its size, this remains my favorite spot.
“I can’t believe this sweet little town never got developed into a resort of some kind,” I say sitting down.
Maribelle grimaces.
“Not that I want it to,” I quickly add.
“How’re you feeling?” she asks.
Now, that I think about it, I feel great. No morning sickness, no dizziness, no revisits of dinner.
“Wow, pretty darn good.”
She slides a bag of herbs my way and I feel like a stoner getting a bag of weed. “Smoke this or brew?”
She doesn’t react so I sit across from her and grab my menu. Naturally, there’s a cup of chamomile waiting, no doubt with other ingredients because it smells weird.
“This isn’t a Rosemary’s Baby kind of thing, is it?”
Maribelle looks up clueless so I don’t bother explaining the horror movie involving a pregnant woman forced to give birth to a devil. Too close to home anyway.
We do small talk for a while, mainly how cold the mornings have been lately and the inauguration of the nation’s first African American president. When breakfast arrives, I hungrily down scrambled eggs, stone ground grits with butter and salt, and a biscuit smothered in brown gravy — and yes, I groaned.
“Town history?” I mumble.
Maribelle butters her wheat toast and gets comfortable. “Emma came here at the turn of the twentieth century when her husband was hired to clear the land for a timber company.”
“But the area’s full of old growth trees,” I say with a mouth full.
“It was too rocky and hilly so the company moved the men and their families west toward Chattanooga.”
I wipe my mouth. “Let me guess, Emma wanted to stay.”
“They lived in an employee cabin that the company was going to abandon and she was an expert seamstress. She had a loveless marriage and the husband wanted to keep moving with the company so they came to an agreement. She would stay here and work to support herself and he’d move on. They agreed that neither would remarry so they didn’t bother with a divorce.” Maribelle takes a long drink from her coffee, cupping it to enjoy its warmth. “They both thought it was for the best and Emma Harrington knew how to take care of herself.”
“I suspect she did since the cove’s named after her.”
Maribelle motions for the waitress to bring her more coffee and I stare longingly as Patrice — it’s on her name badge — pours Maribelle another cup.
“She worked as a seamstress in Lightning Bug when she needed cash,” Maribelle continues, “but mostly made money creating gorgeous quilts and fabric pieces that she sold in big cities like Chattanooga, Nashville, New Orleans. She was an artist, really, hailed from the mountains near Gatlinburg. She garnered some fame, had some big shots from New York come visit over the years, and she was in an issue of Look magazine once. She deposited much of her earnings in the bank in Lightning Bug so folks there knew all about her.”
I finish the bowl of grits and practically lick it clean. “Let me guess, people in town weren’t too happy with a self-made woman.”
Maribelle smiles, but it’s a sad one. “She was the Martha Stewart of her day.”
I save for last the biscuit swimming in thick gravy with pieces of ham. “Is that the bad blood between the towns?”
Maribelle looks outside toward the lake and that ugly patch of brown. “No. Well, sort of.”
I wait to hear more but Maribelle’s focus moves elsewhere. Patrice returns to pick up our plates and I almost ask for a cup of coffee to get my neighbor’s attention.
Finally, Maribelle sighs and checks her watch. “I have to run, have a couple arriving at nine for the RV slot.”
“Wait, what about the rest of the story?”
She slides me a piece of paper with a phone number. “Doctor Mary Mahoney. She’s a bit of a drive, on the other side of Lightning Bug, and she’s not taking on new patients. But I called her and she said she would take you on as a favor to me. Call her right away, though, so you can get your ultrasound.”
“Thanks.”
“She’s good.” She stands there wavering as if I might doubt her reference.
“I believe you.”
She nods, grabs her jacket, and heads toward the counter where she hands the waitress a twenty. “It’s on me,” she says and looks back. “We’ll continue this later.”
“You paid for the coffee yesterday…,” I say, protesting to the fleeting image heading out the door. Despite her generosity, I feel cheated, like I was watching The History Channel and the lights went out.
Suddenly everyone in the diner is looking at me. Where once I garnered a quick look and then complete avoidance, now I’m the town’s curiosity. I attempt a smile but receive none in return.
“Okay, then,” I say to myself and head out the door toward the library. I doubt the library will have what I’m looking for but it’s worth a trip. When I arrive next door, I pause and gaze down at the brown patch by the water’s edge. On a lark, I bypass the library and walk down the bank and stand dead center in its middle. The lake waters stretch smooth with barely a ripple but there’s a cold front expected soon and gray clouds line the horizon. No birds are chirping, likely headed to a safe place, which is where I’ll be next. But the silence is unnerving, as if I’m standing in a holy place.
But it’s not holy. There’s no peace here.
I don’t know how thoughts pop into my head, but my Aunt Mimi says they are messages from beyond and to not discount them. And if a person’s present, spit them out.
“These are divine messages,” she told me. “Always pass them on.”
She believes I’m a witch, from a long line of witches, including her. Since last November Aunt Mimi has tried to teach me the “Craft,” and I’ve been successful on some accounts and grossly a failure on others. I’m a work in progress.
I gaze around and there’s no one to recount this message to so I close my eyes, trying to discern what happened here, if anything did.
My first sense is I’m cold, which almost makes me laugh. And then I do the ADHA meditation thing, where I tell myself to stop thinking, but then that’s thinking and then a voice says I’m thinking that I’m still thinking. Finally, I yell, “Will you both shut up!” I take a deep breath and try to forget the morning chill, but that cold permeates like it did in Wisconsin.
And something black.
People died here and it was sudden. There was nothing anyone could do, but others were blamed. I don’t sense ghosts so I’m assuming whomever it was has passed on. Still, there’s an unsettled darkness that hugs the area and it feels angry.
Suddenly, I’m very cold and I want out of this place. I forgo the library and head for home, but that darkness clouds my mind, making me feel jittery, and I almost forget to gather the mail TB and I missed the day before. I head inside, lock the door, and check all the windows. I realize I’m being silly because my husband has the place battened down like a hurricane’s coming but that fear I discovered at the brown patch has taken hold of my senses.
I fall on to the couch and call the doctor and make an appointment for the following day, then watch an hour of HGTV with Stinky in my lap. I’m about to move into another episode of House Hunters since the mindless TV helps get my mind off the fear but it’s a couple of twenty-somethings with “only” a six thousan
d dollar budget and picky as hell. When they complain about the historic Craftsman house and how they want to pull out the gorgeous built-ins I yell at their stupidity and turn off the set.
I need to do something and I’m not in the mood to write my travel piece on Wisconsin. The weather’s about to turn nasty, so I gather up my dirty clothes and tell myself it’s okay to step outside. Our watery haven contains a floorplan much like a house — two bedrooms, a master bathroom and a tiny half-bath in the hall, a nice-sized kitchen (for a houseboat), small dining area and a living room spanning the width of the boat along the front. Or back, however you see it. We call that side facing the lake the boat’s front since the other side sports the engine and the boat’s name, which in our case is The Lillye Bea.
It’s why we bought the boat. We left New Orleans with a handful of items, having sold our house and what little furniture we still had after Katrina. The house sold quickly so we decided to head to Tennessee and figure out living arrangements once we got here. But, our hearts were heavy. Even though I hated that house in New Orleans, was glad to see it go, it was the home where we shared our lives with Lillye Beatrice Boudreaux.
We arrived at Emma’s Cove well into the evening and found the hotels booked, including Maribelle’s motel, so she offered to rent us her neighbor’s houseboat for the night. When we saw the name, we purchased it instead. We considered it a sign, that our little angel approved.
The only problem is the dang washer and dryer. I must exit the side door and walk along the deck that surrounds the boat to access both appliances in a lean-to that’s attached to the rear of the house. I suspect the designer wanted to provide more living space inside but it’s a pain braving the cold when I want to do laundry.
Not to mention anyone lurking in the woods. I’m still thinking about that dream and the feeling I got at the brown patch, so I bring my pepper spray just in case. As I’m loading the washer, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. I pretend I don’t notice, pull out the pepper spray and have it at the ready but head back inside, locking the door behind me. Then I move to the master bathroom which faces the woods and peer through the tiny window gracing the top of my shower.
Give Up the Ghost Page 5