Give Up the Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  “I know I’m not going to be like you.”

  He leans in so close I can smell the mint he ate before.

  “You’re a medium and a witch, do you have any idea what you can do with that power? And I wanted to teach you, show you ways to hone your craft, develop your skills. You could have been awesome.”

  “I could have been a murderer, you mean?”

  “The ghosts are already dead.”

  Dwayne’s voice raises enough that the man in the front seat turns and looks. I want to shout out to get help but Dwayne immediately turns and apologizes to the man who smiles and continues reading his newspaper. When Dwayne looks back at me, the smile fades.

  “Get me a soul, Vi,” he says sternly. “Or the world has one less descendant.”

  And with those final words, Dwayne rises and leaves the car while the conductor announces our first stop.

  I’m still shaking as I watch Dwayne through the window. He exits the train and heads toward the station and I watch his bright red flannel shirt and hunter’s cap disappear among the hoard of people waiting to get on board. I sip my decaf coffee and try to relax — my heartbeat is pumping at an alarming rate — and feel much better when all those folks enter my train car and grab seats. So much for peace and quiet, but what I need now are crowds.

  I take a deep breath and think about my next action. I need to call Clayton, but tell him what? He doesn’t know about descendants. Do I tell TB what happened? He’ll insist I never leave the house.

  I’m confused as hell and not sure which action to take when I hear the ring tone of my phone belting out ELO’s Mister Blue Skies. I locate my purse — it had fallen on the floor when I dropped my laptop — and pull out my ancient flip phone. I answer without looking at the source.

  “Vi,” my Aunt Mimi exclaims. “What’s going on?”

  I had phoned Mimi the night before to share the good news but she wasn’t home. Thursdays are bingo nights in Branson and Mimi’s their favorite bingo caller. I would love to gush out the exciting news about me giving birth to twins but a lump the size of Texas lodges in my throat.

  “Vi, what’s wrong?”

  Like Sebastian, my witchy aunt senses everything.

  It’s difficult for me to talk but I manage to whisper, “Dwayne. He’s back.”

  There’s silence on the other end for a few moments, then a thousand questions. Mimi demands to know where and when I saw him, what he said, how confident he seemed, and how I reacted.

  “I’m a mess,” I say through tears that may soon develop into hiccups. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What do you have with you?”

  I look around and spot my laptop, purse, and backpack, and relay that information.

  “No, darling, what protection?”

  I’m still in Lala Land so I’m about to tell her that TB and I didn’t use protection, which is why I’m having twins.

  “Did you mean like stones and herbs?”

  I can almost feel her smiling. “Yes, darling.”

  I reach into the deep pocket of my purse and pull out a black stone polished and shiny. “Black tourmaline.”

  “Good, is that it?”

  I pull out the remaining three. “Lapis, obsidian and angelite.”

  “Black tourmaline is tops in my book for protection, as well as obsidian, and I love lapis for a lot of reasons, but angelite isn’t a protection stone, sweetheart. It’s a good one for attracting the other world.”

  Might be time to rethink that one. The last thing I need right now are ghosts.

  “I don’t think stones are going to save me from him,” I finally say.

  “First of all, you need to work in threes and you have four stones there so when you get to Chattanooga, find a store that sells these things and buy an extra or two to get your numbers straight. Maybe a nice hematite necklace or a handful of crystal points for your pockets.”

  Anyone listening to this conversation would think we’re nuts but I’ve seen her in action and trust her advice.

  “And second, only you can save you from him.” Mimi sighs. “We need to build your confidence.”

  “I can’t possibly fight off this man.”

  “You can’t if that’s your attitude.”

  I love my aunt, I really do, and I believe with all my heart and soul she can commune with nature and work miracles. Teaching me these powers and either of us fighting off Dwayne? I don’t think so.

  “Maybe I need to give this up,” I whisper. “Stop being a SCANC. Then he wouldn’t have a reason to hound me.”

  She sighs again. “That’s fear talking.”

  “Well, right now I’m scared shitless.”

  We talk logistics until one of the nursing home residents demands her attention; Aunt Mimi owns an assistant living facility. I can hear the resident in the background complaining about the toilet overflowing into the hallway.

  “I have to go, sweetheart, but I’ll call back as soon as I’m done. Make sure you’re never alone.”

  “I’m going to see Sebastian in Chattanooga in about an hour and I’ll call Clayton with updates. I’ll figure something out.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” she says and we disconnect.

  The more I think about it, the better giving up the ghost seems. It would solve a lot of my problems. Plus, I’m bringing two souls into the world. I have a family to worry about, not a few beings trapped on the earthly plane. Let some other SCANC solve their mysteries.

  I pull out my laptop and try to write my story while the train chugs through industrial areas, but I can’t focus. When we move past the towns and into the forested mountains, I stare out the window and enjoy the comfort of the trees, as if their branches are reaching out and enveloping me in a bear hug. My blood pressure drops and I remind myself I’m about to see my long-lost twin. But Dwayne’s face, complete with hideous scar, keeps popping into my mind.

  We finally arrive in Chattanooga but not at the famous historic station with the Chattanooga Choo Choo hotel. I’m a little disappointed but the train ride was exquisite, full of historic information relayed by the conductor and staff and a delicious lunch that I barely ate. I’m crushed that I didn’t enjoy the ride more, vow to take the train again sans crazy relative of Lucifer.

  Sebastian texts me that he’s still at least an hour out so I text him back that I will find a taxi and head downtown. I text TB and Aunt Mimi the same thing, just in case. I still need to call Clayton but for the life of me can’t think of what to say.

  I arrive at the Hunter Museum of American Art and there are three buildings to choose from, an early twentieth century mansion with fancy Greek columns, a seventies structure, and a sleek modern building of steel and glass, all of which overlook the Tennessee River atop a dramatic bluff. It’s all gorgeous and inviting and I long to absorb the museum’s collections and exhibits, but I first ask about Emma Harrington’s famous quilt and am directed to the second floor of the mansion. On one end of the room the windows overlook downtown Chattanooga and at the other end of the hall lies the river. In between, on a massive wall, hangs Emma’s quilt.

  It’s enormous, filling the entire space with vibrant colors I could only imagine when I gazed at the black-and-white press photo the day before. In fact, it’s so startlingly different, that I pull the photo out of my backpack to make sure.

  Sure enough, I’m viewing Speak to the Trees, what Emma’s obit called her most famous artwork. The lake’s at the center of this masterpiece with old-growth trees surrounding the water, each one swaying in an invisible breeze. At the lower right-hand corner stands the woman, her hair skipping about her face, her eyes closed in deep reflection.

  I read the art description:

  Emma Harrington, 1898-1999

  Speak to the Trees

  Dyed fabric

  Rich earthy tones make up Emma Harrington’s most celebrated work, a scene she recreates from her long-time home of Emma’s Cove, Tennessee. Named for the internationally f
amous artist, the hamlet located an hour outside of Chattanooga provided her constant inspiration. The artwork’s fabric was dyed using elements from nature found in Emma’s Cove, producing some colors modern artists have yet to replicate. This piece not only showcases the beauty of Harrington’s work but her innovation with materials as well.

  I walk backwards and sit on the bench in the middle of the room, letting the image sweep over me. The colors almost glow they’re so vibrant and I wonder, no doubt like so many before me, how she produced such an art piece from nature.

  And there’s that woman, so peaceful, a resplendent look on her face. Was she one of the company’s wives who arrived in the Cove in the beginning? Or was she one of Emma’s many protégées, escaping an abusive past?

  Once again, I feel sucked into the scene, as if the trees are beckoning me. I close my eyes and suddenly I’m at the water’s edge, standing where the brown clearing exists today. No trees grow here. In fact, there’s nothing but mud from the lake to the town. I turn and gaze up at the few buildings that make up Emma’s Cove, namely the old empty buildings I found so intriguing and the one containing the library and post office. All appear new with bustling activity inside. The only thing missing in this scene is the diner, but I suspect it was built in the twenty-first century. And the motel and my houseboat, of course.

  I shake my head. Where am I?

  “It’s nothing now,” the woman in the quilt tells me. “But one day the trees will come back and the children will play here.”

  I turn and there she is, skirt hanging to her ankles, white lacy top, that long silky hair blowing around her face.

  “Soon it will be lovely, the pride of southern Tennessee.”

  I have so many questions but the one that emerges first is, “Where am I?”

  She smiles sweetly. “Why, Everhart, of course.”

  I own a head of wild curls so nothing’s flitting around my face, but I feel the breeze just the same, hear trees whispering around me although I don’t know why since the area has been logged.

  “And you are?” I ask.

  “Caroline.” Again, that warm smile. “Caroline Montclair.”

  The name rings a bell but I’m not sure why.

  A shadow falls across us both and Caroline’s smile fades.

  “They came here for me,” she says softly. “They only wanted me.”

  “Who?”

  “I didn’t blame them for what happened, it was my choice to make. But Emma did. It was natural she would feel that way but she needs to let it go. Her anger keeps it there. We need to let the earth heal. Let the darkness fade away.”

  I have no idea what Caroline is imparting but when I try to inquire, the image fades away.

  And the shadow remains.

  My heart skips a beat and I open my eyes, expecting the worst. Instead, I find Sebastian looking down on me. I jump up and give my twin the biggest hug.

  “What were you doing and why were you talking to yourself?”

  I pull back and cringe. “Was it out loud?”

  “A bit.”

  I loop my arm through his bent elbow. “Never mind. I’ll explain all later. Wanna get some lunch or would you rather go through the art museum.”

  I almost laugh because there’s two things my brother can’t tolerate, art museums and plays. He’s quite the literary man, enjoys novels and the food section in the Sunday New York Times, but he can’t sit or stand still too long.

  “What do you think?” he replies.

  We turn to leave but I take one last look at Emma’s quilt. I could swear the woman sends me a smile.

  “Ask MB” is the last thing that skips through my mind.

  Chapter 7

  It’s a bit chilly at the outdoor café but I’m not missing out on Chattanooga’s gorgeous view of the river and the late winter sun warming my face. My eyes are closed as I lean back and enjoy the moment, but those large red blobs beneath my eyelids have begun so I sit back up before I do permanent damage to my sight. I gaze at Sebastian through the sun spots that won’t go away; he’s shaking his head.

  “Aunt Mimi says to commune more with nature, but I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

  “I doubt there’s a right and wrong way, Vi. But you might want to avoid looking straight into the sun.”

  Sebastian takes a long drink from his iced macchiato with almond milk and a hazelnut splash, topped with hand-whipped cream, mind you. His instructions for lunch nearly took twenty minutes. I want to enjoy being with my twin for the first time in years, laugh about his peculiar relationship with food, but the earlier incident hangs over my heart.

  Sebastian studies me hard. “Vi, what’s going on?”

  The tears threaten and he takes my hand and suddenly the walls come down. I tell him everything, from turning into a SCANC at the hands of Katrina to finding out TB is a descendant of angels. I mention Stinky showing up out of the blue and adopting me and the weird things that cat has done since. I relate my trip down the Natchez Trace and how I originally followed Dwayne with his promises to evolve my gift only to realize who he is and what he does to stay immortal. I end with our meeting on the train that morning.

  “Oh, and according to Dwayne and Aunt Mimi, I’m a witch.”

  I say this with a smile because I’m still not sure I believe it. Aunt Mimi carries the family powers, ones her mother owned and shared at the old family homestead in Alabama. People came from miles around for divine advice from Grandma Willow. And my cousin, it turns out, who lives next to the old homestead, found powers of her own the last time I visited. I think to impart that news to Sebastian but I doubt he will believe that Tabitha reads energy only when she’s wearing her Mardi Gras tiara.

  I shake my head. “It’s all crazy, isn’t it?”

  Amazingly enough, Sebastian doesn’t smile back.

  “You think I’ve lost it?”

  Sebastian places his cup on the table, pauses as if collecting his thoughts. “Vi, we’re twins.”

  Not what I was expecting. “Uh, I realize that, Sebastian.”

  “And did you not think that if you were a witch, that I might be too?”

  I’m so stunned my jaw drops. “What?”

  He looks around and leans in. “Why do you think I’m so successful in my career?” Then, with a shrug, adds, “At least some of the time.”

  It takes me a while for this to sink in. “Your magic is cooking?”

  He grins slyly. “Well, I’d like to think my brain adds something to the equation, but yes.”

  I’m confused and when my brain doesn’t work at top speed, I add coffee. I call over the waitress and this time ask for a caffeinated cup.

  “You shouldn’t drink that,” Sebastian warns.

  “Okay,” I tell the waitress. “Make it half decaf and half regular and bring lots of cream.”

  “What’s with you and coffee?” Sebastian asks.

  I point to his intricate glass of a thousand ingredients. He laughs. “Noted.”

  “Must be a witch thing.”

  We turn serious, both of us gazing at each other as if seeing our truths for the first time and wondering what to do next.

  “I don’t understand,” I finally say. “You’re an amazing cook. You went to school for it. What about that is magical?”

  He leans his head one way and then the other and I can hear his neck cracking.

  “When I’m creating and I’m allowed to let go and follow my bliss, magic happens. When I’m working a job, I’m using my brain and that’s all there is.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  The waitress brings me my cup and I get comfortable. “Spill.”

  Sebastian explains how he could create dishes that were out of this world, mainly when he was in charge and allowed free rein. In school, things were different, everything precise and controlled.

  “I made terrible grades the first year. Y’all thought I was doing an internship in
Atlanta but I actually escaped there to stay with a friend, trying to figure out what to do since I flunked out of the Louisiana Culinary Academy.”

  “What?”

  He shrugs. “Turned out to be a good thing. My friend introduced me to a culinary school that was more experimental. Still a lot of regulated classes, but I managed to pass. But that’s why when I came back home I had those crappy jobs. I wasn’t good at being a sous chef and the guys I worked with and for were assholes. Looking back, I can’t blame them. I was bored and it showed in my work.”

  Now that I think about it, Sebastian never seemed happy in those restaurants. I used to think it was because they were entry-level jobs but now I realize he was creatively stifled.

  “Katrina was a blessing for me,” he continued. “When I evacuated to Atlanta, that same friend introduced me to chefs he was working with and they gave me freedom to create my own dishes. And that’s when I blossomed.”

  I take his hand. “All this time I thought you were being a brat, basking in the limelight and forgetting you had a family.”

  “Well….” He smiles. “It was nice being the center of attention.”

  “And now?”

  The smile fades. “I came home because I was lonely, missed y’all, but it was back to the same grind. Working at Commander’s, what a dream job. Chefs would kill to have that opportunity.”

  “But not you.”

  He shakes his head. “Not me.”

  I know what it’s like to be miserable in a job. I despised writing about school board meetings and murders, although in hindsight that cops beat gave me knowledge I now use in solving ghost stories.

  I squeeze his hand. “No worries. Let the other chefs have that job. Your dream position is somewhere up ahead.”

  “Sounds like the opening of The Twilight Zone.”

  “If it has something to do with me, it likely is The Twilight Zone.”

  We decide to skip the hotel for the night and head back to Emma’s Cove, mainly because TB and Clayton Ginsburg have called numerous times, no doubt because Aunt Mimi called them. We had hoped to walk around town and enjoy ourselves and pretend the real world doesn’t exist for an hour or two but the cell phone constantly beeping was driving us nuts. We find a New Age shop where rocks and other spiritual products are sold and lo and behold they have a hematite necklace.