She cupped her hands underneath her chin and waited for him to notice her, notice anything, to even feel the slightest bit of something. But he didn’'t. He went on reading the paper, his eyes focused on the print, not even remotely aware that dead Lucy was mere inches from him and wanting to communicate from beyond the grave, or urn, or mayonnaise jar, or whatever.
“"Martin,”" she said aloud.
Nothing. No response. He kept reading, uninterrupted, then turned the page.
“"MARTIN,”" she said louder, but again, there was no answer, not a hint of indication that he’'d heard anything.
She raised her hand up and flicked the corner of his paper, which did bend and tremble, but nothing more, and with a response flick of the paper, he straightened it back out again. Then Lucy took a deep breath and blew, blew straight at him, straight at his face, determined to get him to look at her.
She could see by a slight startle that he had felt it, and he shuddered slightly. He put the paper down, got up from his chair, and walked over to the back door, which he found completely closed. He glanced back over to the kitchen table with a somewhat puzzled look on his face, and a moment later heard Tulip scratching the other side of the door.
“"MARTIN!”" Lucy yelled as loudly as she could this time, and as Tulip trotted into the house, he looked back toward the living room and replied, “"YES?”"
He’'d heard her. He’'d actually heard her. And had answered her.
Lucy giggled with delight. Maybe this wasn’'t going to be that bad of a gig after all. This could actually turn out to be a lot of fun, haunting the crap out of Martin, especially now that she knew he would reply to phantom voices. Poor Martin, Lucy thought, still giggling, he’'s been living alone for too long.
He paused for a moment, listened intently, then asked, “"YES?”" again, this time louder.
“"What?”" another voice called out from another part of the house. “"Did you say something?”"
Another voice. A female voice. A voice Lucy swore she knew. Perhaps it was Martin’'s mother or sister who might be visiting, helping him through this difficult time. Of course he couldn’'t be alone, Lucy realized. That would be really hard after what had happened. Hopefully. After she’'d gone, after she’'d died. Lucy was sure Martin had to feel terrible about it. Who wouldn’'t? It made sense to her that he would have someone come and stay with him until time got around to healing things, and Lucy found herself almost feeling bad for him. She was feeling a bit sorry she had doubted his ability to mourn. No one would want to do that alone. Look at him, she said to herself. He’'s wearing the robe I bought him. It must be symbolic. He’'s holding on to the pieces of me that he has left.
Tulip padded over and sat next to Lucy, and she gently patted the dog’'s head.
“"Did you say something?”" Lucy heard again, this time much clearer and louder, and then suddenly another figure was in the kitchen, the figure of a woman in a white, fluffy robe and wearing matching fluffy slippers. Lucy saw only the back of her.
In the dimly lit kitchen, she saw the figure reach over and put her arms around Martin’'s neck, and then kiss him on the cheek.
“"Why are you wearing that old thing?”" the woman said, picking up the collar of the blue plaid robe. “"I thought you got rid of this.”"
“"Nah, nah,”" Martin replied, shaking his head. “"It’'s a good robe, nice and not too warm. Comes in handy, especially on a morning like this when it’'s starting to get warm. I felt a chill this morning, gave me goose bumps. I thought I had left the door open, but I guess it’'s just the cold weather coming in.”"
Warm weather? Lucy was puzzled. Spring right around the corner? When Lucy had walked out in front of the bus, it had already been spring. It had been a beautiful, brilliant day. How much time had gone by, she wondered. Just how long had she been dead?
“"Oh, just toss it,”" the woman said, kissing Martin again. “"I’'ll buy you a new one. And then it will be from me, and not her.”"
That’'s a lot of kissing for a sister, Lucy thought. That’'s a lot of kissing even for a mother. Kind of gross for either one, to tell the truth. And what’'s this “"her”" business? Let him remember me the way he wants to remember me, for crying out loud. No need to get pushy. And let the man go, she wanted to shout. You’'re hanging off him like an orangutan! Sister, mother, whomever. He’'s a man, not a jungle gym.
And, as if on command, the woman dropped her arms and grabbed an empty coffee mug from the cabinet. She poured herself a cup from Lucy’'s broken coffeemaker, spilled a little onto the countertop, and began walking toward the table. Lucy quickly scrambled up out of the seat and wedged herself next to the refrigerator to get out of the way.
And as the woman neared the kitchen table and the light hanging over it, Lucy saw that she was not Martin’'s sister.
It was not Martin’'s mother.
About to sit down in Lucy’'s seat next to Lucy’'s dog and drink coffee from what was probably Lucy’'s mug, was Nola.
chapter twelve The Big Reveal
Nola liked stupid TV.
For two days, Lucy had been anchored on the itchy sofa with the office manager who had gotten her fired and was now living in Lucy’'s house. They sat watching mind-numbing television shows full of people getting makeovers, getting face-lifts, or having their homes redone or renovated as a result of social mockery, having a crush on a guy at work who didn’'t notice, or having a medical malady that was so serious that only a grand piano and some framed posters could fix it. Nola especially liked the episodes in which women got dental work or were awarded some sort of facial implant for their suffering. Episodes in which, upon the big reveal, the accountant, who’'d never noticed the victim before, now suddenly did, thus guaranteeing courtship, marriage, and a litter of offspring with unfortunate bone structure. What Nola couldn’'t watch on live television she recorded, and was able to bring up with the push of a couple of buttons on the remote. Mr. Basic Cable, it seemed, had upgraded his viewing possibilities to the status of infinite.
It’'s not that Lucy was surprised that Nola was a champion of causes such as buckteeth or chipped teeth, weak chins, and scoliosis, but what was amazing was just how much of the schlock she could watch while still craving more.
When it came to the plight of the orally malformed or spinally challenged, Nola was insatiable, especially if they were getting their makeup professionally done or were on the receiving end of a new house with angel wallpaper and a hot tub.
And Lucy, unfortunately, sat there right alongside her. It wasn’'t that Lucy wanted to watch these shows or be within a thousand-mile radius of Nola, but she really didn’'t have a choice. The 1950s ranch house was small, and the available options of where Lucy could spend her off-duty ghost time were rather limited. She could hang out in the living room, where Nola was much of the time; in the kitchen, where Nola was when she wasn’'t in the living room; in the bathroom, where Lucy could very well be trapped should Nola barge in and then do something unholy; in Martin’'s “"hobby room,”" which was packed with camping and fishing equipment; or in her old bedroom, which was no option at all. Much to Lucy’'s dismay, she’'d arrived on a Saturday, and after Martin had scooted off to work, it had been Nola’'s humanitarian duty to tune in to every corporate-sponsored tale of woe, tragedy, and overbites that had been televised that week, and Lucy, frankly, had had no choice but to join in.
She had quickly realized that the days of spooks and specters were long, drawn-out affairs, full of watching people conduct their intricately boring lives and not having any control over her own time. If she wanted to flip through a magazine on the table, she’'d have to wait until the living left the house, much like if she wanted to watch TV on her own, or play with the dog. There was only so much spooking one ghost could do in a day’'s time; while it might be fun to flicker the lights or turn on the alarm clock at 3 A.M., self-control was key. Too much tinkering might have disastrous results, and Lucy knew she had to pace her
self. It was no wonder that some ghosts went mad and started carrying their heads like purses simply to scare the living for the sake of a cheap thrill; thrills and excitement or the mere task of even being occupied were all too hard to come by when you observed but didn’'t exist. She could go for a walk around the neighborhood, but that was about it; in the suburban sprawl that was this town, anything remotely interesting, like a movie theater, was miles away, and Lucy had no idea what the bus schedule was, let alone her newfound bus-related terror. She was, in a sense, stuck in limbo. She actually found herself yearning for the days back at ghost school, where at least she could interact with others. But being dead in a real-life environment was some excruciatingly boring stuff, with a whole lot of nothing to do. Plus, it was fairly safe to say that in her two days’' time back at the house, Lucy still had not figured out why she’'d been placed there or what her objective was supposed to be.
However, Lucy had already arrived at the conclusion that once she unleashed her wrath, it would all come raining down on Nola, Nola, Nola. She did her best to distance herself from what was right before her eyes—--Nola living in her house with her boyfriend and her dog. Nola living her life. The thought of it made Lucy nauseous, furious, vengeful. Lucy had to stop herself from thinking the obvious questions and trying to figure out the answers, because it was all too much. She knew she couldn’'t take it. But every thirty seconds or so, Lucy glanced over at Nola, sniffling on the couch because a little boy with no bones got a bunk bed in his new bedroom, and she wanted to kick Nola like she had kicked the chair at her funeral. Nola was deserving of it, so deserving. But Lucy did something else instead. As the little boy was being carried into his new bedroom painted with racing stripes and bold, empowering colors, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Lucy simply reached over and pushed the power button on the remote.
While a cloud of blackness swallowed the TV screen, Nola shrieked as if a surgeon had just rammed a six-inch needle under her kneecap. Nola fumbled for the remote, tried to recapture the precious moment of highest emotional exploitation that she had desperately been waiting for.
How did this even happen? Lucy said to herself as she shook her head. She couldn’'t help but wonder. How did this pairing even come about, how does it even make sense? Seriously. This is what Martin replaced me with? Nola? And no one stopped it?
Over the last couple of days, she had observed them as a couple, had tried to figure it out, had watched their interactions, and she still didn’'t have a clue. Martin was still Martin, simple, self-sufficient, matter-of-fact. Nola was fawning, overachieving, annoying in her inconsequential details.
“"Oh! Oh! Oh! Don’'t eat yet, Martin! I put the fork in the wrong spot. Let me fix that!”"
Or:
“"There’'s too much salt in these instant potatoes, Martin. Too much salt! I have to watch my sodium. I’'m never buying this brand again.”"
Or:
“"I am covered in Tulip fur. I’'ve just given up on wearing any dark colors at all. And that’'s terrible, because purple is my color. People have always said that.”"
Or:
“"Oh, you’'re already watching something? I’'m sure it will be better than the show I’'ve been waiting to watch all week about the girl who lost both eyeteeth in a softball accident and is getting a makeover and a new wardrobe so she can learn how to camouflage her thick hips. But I’'m sure your show will be good, too. I guess.”"
Lucy could barely stand it. It was all she could do to not plug herself into the fridge and then try to tip it over on the office manager in the middle of dinner.
But she couldn’'t do that, because that was not her mission, and if she didn’'t complete her mystery objective, she’'d be stuck in this house with Nola and Martin until she could eventually see through them, too.
Then Lucy had a terrible thought. What if this was not a new pairing? What if this had not spontaneously happened post-Lucy? What if Nola was the reason why Lucy had found her stuff on the sidewalk? What if this was the reason Lucy had lost her job, because it had all been set up from the beginning? If Lucy could have felt ill, she would have, but instead, she waited until Nola left the room for another snack, and when she was officially out of sight, Lucy kicked her Pepsi can over, completely soaking her treasured arsenal of ladies’' magazines with the rushing sticky sweet soda.
If Nola had possessed a finer ear, she would have heard Lucy laughing heartily when she saw her nemesis’'s face after she walked back into the living room and discovered the mess, and then she would have heard the laughter abruptly stop when Nola scowled, turned, and huffed, “"Oh, Tulip! Bad dog! Bad dog! You are not worth the trouble, and you are trouble!”"
Lucy reached down to where Tulip sat loyally at her feet, and scratched the good dog’'s head.
“"Don’'t listen to her. You’'re a good girl, Tulip,”" Lucy reassured her, but Tulip didn’'t look so sure.
“"Bad dog!”" Nola snipped again, pointing her nasty finger at Tulip. Then she returned to mopping up the runny mess with the napkin she’'d pulled from the collar of her shirt, where she’'d already had it tucked in from snacking.
Lucy sneered at her. What you have coming, she thought as she shook her head. Oh, what you have coming, dear Nola.
Thankfully, Nola returned to work on Monday, and Lucy had the run of the house. She was free to do what she pleased, and the sense of freedom was a tremendous relief. No longer being trapped by Nola’'s presence was delightful, and Lucy was not bothered by Martin’'s days off, just like when she’'d been alive. That was because Martin rarely took any time off, and when he did, you could count on him to have his tackle box in the cab of his truck by 6 A.M., next to a steaming mug of coffee as he pulled out of the driveway.
Lucy had the days to herself and her dog, but she still felt rather limited. She knew it was wise to stay in the house rather than venture out with Tulip, even though there was nothing more that she wanted to do than take her for a walk. Once, she was staring out the window and saw a dog come trotting along, no leash, no harness, just as free as a bird. A couple of paces behind was its owner, bringing up the rear and smiling. From that distance, it had been difficult for Lucy to see if the person was outlined with a shine, and Lucy had wondered if the person was real, flesh and blood, alive, or if the owner was like her, weightless and earthbound. Instead, Lucy and Tulip played ball in the living room, hide-and-seek, and Lucy gave Tulip little doggie massages, which Tulip greatly enjoyed and which caused her floppy tongue to loll out of her mouth. When Nola and Martin arrived home at the end of the day, Lucy simply stayed as far away from them as she could, which she knew was not helping her mission any. The whole scenario simply disgusted her, and she thought the best way to deal with it—--for now—--was to simply remove herself from what little interaction they had with each other.
At night, Lucy made peace with the couch or roamed restlessly through the house. She had been back for less than a week, and already the days and nights were beginning to blur into one another as if she was a hostage. Although she liked the idea of “"falling asleep”" at nighttime, it was simply a ritual she felt comfortable with more than anything she got a benefit from. She never felt tired or sleepy, never felt the aches and pains of the day creep up on her at night the way she had before city-bus impact. Curling up on the sofa or in her little ghost school Super 8 bed was nothing more than a link to her former life, something that had been the only constant between life and death, aside from the clothes she’'d entered the big sleep in.
Now quite dead, Lucy realized that there were far more hours in the day when there was nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no one to talk to. Martin had been quite thorough in picking through their belongings and culling her stuff, it had become apparent. There was nothing left of Lucy in the house—--not a picture on the wall, not one of her books, none of her music, nothing. He had even replaced the calendar she had bought at the beginning of the year and tacked up in the kitchen. She had singled out importa
nt dates, such as their birthdays; Lucy’'s Hawaiian vacation; her return date, including the flight number and time; the date of their wedding, writing little notes for each date. Even that, apparently, was too much of Lucy for Martin to tolerate. The calendar was gone, replaced by a free one from AAA. He really had eradicated her from everything, Lucy noted as she scoured the bookshelves, magazine rack, and even the pantry.
“"Hmmmm,”" Lucy said out loud to Tulip as she peeked at the shelves of food on one of her first days alone in what used to be her house. “"Tons of Little Debbies, but not an Oreo in sight. But look, here are some cookies for you!”"
After pulling some energy from the fridge, she grabbed the box, noticing they were the generic store brand and not Tulip’'s favorite kind of liver snaps, which Lucy had always made sure to have on hand for her. She held out the store-brand biscuit to Tulip, who simply sniffed it and then turned her head.
“"I’'m sorry,”" she said as she ruffled the dog’'s head with her hand. “"My snacks are gone, too.”"
Lucy heard a clanking noise and then a loud thud in the living room, and she recognized that familiar racket of the mail being delivered through the slot in the front door. Lucy motioned Tulip to follow her as she made her way to the living room to commence with Lucy’'s newfound best part of the day—--going through the magazines, ads, and bills of the daily delivery of mail. It wasn’'t snooping, she decided. The dead can’'t snoop. And besides, even if it was snooping, who was she going to tell? In just several days’' time, Lucy had discovered some fascinating things about her hosts: that they were planning a tropical cruise, based on the pamphlets and advertisements that were delivered; that Nola had a three-year subscription to Homemakers magazine; and that she had allowed her membership to Totally Ladies! gym to lapse. It was amazing, Lucy thought, the things you can gather just from a tumble of mail that you can’'t even open.
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