“You need to see something else,” Celia says. “Grab the robe again.”
I clutch the fabric and we’re off again. Swooshing through time and space as if it’s nothing at all. We speed past the shoreline of Georgia, then Florida, heading farther south into the Caribbean and over the azure waters filled with tropical fish and precious coral. The ghost sets us down gently in the middle of a village hanging on the edge of the water. Sail boats, fishing vessels, and charters line the docks with offers for deep sea adventures for tourists. The sky overhead is the most brilliant blue I’ve seen since first gazing into the eyes of my former boyfriend—now Celia’s boyfriend—Jason Tillson. A nearby open market bustles with Caribbean folk buying all sorts of assorted foods and supplies this sunny morning.
Celia breaths in deeply, absorbing the surroundings. “It’s spectacular here.”
I close my eyes and let the warmth of the sun bathe over me. “It really is.” Then I add, “Where are we exactly?”
She turns her bold gaze on me. “Belize.”
My mouth flattens. “So we’re checking up on Patrick, huh? Mr. Dive Boy who wanted to be a hundred feet down in the ocean instead of spending Christmas with me. Where are we going to find him? Sitting poolside? Floating in the water? Having grilled shrimp and lobster instead of a big Christmas turkey?”
Anger seethes through me for some stupid reason. Patrick has every right to spend his holiday any way he wants to. I guess I just thought it would have been more special if we’d been together—if he’d been my date to Loreen and Mass’s wedding instead of diving with his dad.
“‘There is nothing either good, or bad, but thinking makes it so,’” Celia says to me.
I lighten up for a sec. “Wow, even as the Ghost of Christmas Present, you still quote Shakespeare to me. Hamlet, Act Two, Scene Two.”
“Excellent,” Celia says. “But do you know what it means?”
I pause for a moment, knowing where she’s heading with this lesson. “Our mind usually takes over and decides whether something is good or bad, judging when we probably shouldn’t. In reality, there is no good or bad.”
Celia waves her torch at me, the flames dancing dangerously close to my face. “The Bard would be very proud of you, Kendall. Now, let’s go… not judge.”
Rapidly, we find ourselves in an expansive green field. Horses graze nearby and there are two cows checking out our every move. Up ahead, I see a house that’s deep into construction. It looks as if the roof was ripped away by a storm or something. However, a crew of three guys is climbing down a ladder, sweaty from the work they’ve been doing to repair the damage. I squint to see who they are, but we’re too far away.
“Can’t you just snap us over there?” I ask the ghost.
Celia lifts her shoulders. “The walking will do us good.”
I roll my eyes. “Honestly.”
By the time we get to the house, I see a plethora of building materials spread around. A sign to the right reads, “A Project of Habitat for Humanity.”
“How awesome,” I say. “These people are getting their home rebuilt. Was there a hurricane or something?”
Celia nods her head. “A tropical storm skirted the island not too long ago. We never really heard about it on the news at home because it didn’t happen to us, you know? That whole ‘out of sight, out of mind’ sort of thing.”
A black couple pulls up in a Toyota truck, bringing with them a box that’s so heavy both of them have to carry it.
“We’re here!” they shout.
I hear whoops and hollers from within. I follow along quietly—not like they can hear me—into the house. The windows are open, allowing the cool breeze to blow through the structure. Construction rules the inside, as well, but I notice the small kitchen is intact. On the other side of it is a door to the back porch where I see people gathered. A huge picnic table is covered with a smooth cloth and the newly arrived couple speaks furiously in Spanish as they dole out the bounty.
Not quite like the banquet table in my closet, but there are fresh bananas, papayas, a bushel of steamed shrimp, several thick, freshly caught fish—probably snapper or jacks—and something that looks like sugar cane.
“Joseph, you be outdoin’ yourself,” an older lady sings. “You come help us in the kitchen while Beatrice cooks them fish.”
The grill must have already been fired up because I can smell the charring of the fresh seafood as it sizzles away.
“I hope y’all like mashed potatoes,” I hear a familiar voice call out.
I freeze for a moment, not believing my own ears.
Then another voice I know says, “My boy makes the best mashed potatoes. Lots of salt and butter is his secret.”
The older woman cackles and smacks the white man playfully on his shoulder.
Is that… Patrick’s dad?
The mashed potato maker spins around, in search of said salt, and my mouth falls open.
“Patrick!”
“He can’t hear you,” Celia scolds.
“I don’t care!” I rush forward into the festive kitchen. “Patrick! What are you doing here? I thought you were diving?” Yet, he’s…cooking? I had no idea he could cook. Or build anything, for that matter.
Celia touches me delicately on the shoulder. “Like I said, he doesn’t see or hear you.”
I stretch my arms out, fingering the tool belt that hangs from his slender waist. His gray and white camouflage shorts are filthy dirty and his black T-shirt is torn in the back. Caught on a nail earlier. “We’re connected psychically. How did I not know he was doing this?”
Ghostly Celia screws up her face. “Because you were wallowing in your own self-pity to really care?”
I spin to her. “Hey! That’s not fair.” Her eyes bore into me. “Okay, so it’s sort of fair.”
Patrick moves around this lady’s kitchen, preparing the potatoes while Beatrice and Joseph cook the fish outside. Patrick’s dad hauls in a large cooler full of soda, water, iced tea, and fruit punch as their hostess fusses about.
“They lost everything,” Celia tells me. “Their roof was ripped off, most of their personal items and memorabilia were blown away, and their son, Edgar, died.”
Hand to my heart, I let my eyes flutter closed. I can see Edgar—nineteen—a strong guy who worked on a dive boat taking tourists out to the Blue Hole, as he tried to batten things down in the storm. The hood of his truck ripped off in the vicious, swirling winds, and knocked him in the head, killing him instantly. The father—I’m picking up that his name is George—was grieve-stricken and hospitalized afterwards for heart problems. The mother—Joyce—contacted Habitat for Humanity for help.
And they sent Patrick and his dad.
“He’s not down here just Jolly Rogering around. He’s here to make a difference. He’s helping people.”
Celia puts her finger to her nose and points at me. “Give that girl a blue ribbon.”
I’m not sure if I could possibly love him more than I do right now, knowing he sacrificed his own Christmas to help others. I want to go to him, hug him, kiss him, hold his face in my hands and peer into those Hershey Eyes that I adore so much. Tell him what a bitch I’ve been. Let him know I’m sorry for the pity party. That I’m wicked proud of him for who he is and what he does.
Patrick stops mashing the potatoes and spoons them into one of Joyce’s large fiesta ware dishes. As he walks outside to set it on the table, he lets out a long sigh.
Beatrice turns to him and smiles. “Now that’s the sign of a young man missin’ his love.”
Patrick laughs and closes his eyes for a second, a little embarrassed. I can tell because of the pink stain on his sunburned cheeks. “I wish Kendall could be here. She’d love this country, the people, helping out.”
I’m surprised to hear him say this, although I beam at his words.
“She be beautiful, eh?” Joyce asks.
“The prettiest,” Patrick says.
“You bring her down here any
time,” George tells him. “You’ve helped restore our home. It’s ours to share.”
Tears of joy pour down my face mixed together with ones of regret because I had no idea what Patrick was up to.
It’s announced that the fish is finished cooking and so Patrick, his dad, and the two couples take their seats around the table. Drinks are distributed and plates are filled. George leads a quick blessing and then everyone dives in to the bounty.
Patrick holds up his soda. “God bless us, everyone!”
“Amen!” Joyce and Beatrice say at the same time.
Over in the corner, I see a faint spirit of Edgar watching over them. I wave at him and he smiles back at me. He’s not really in limbo like other ghosts I’ve encountered in and around Radisson. Instead, it just appears that he’s checking in on his family. He gives me the okay sign with his fingers and I know all is well.
“Hey, I can see a ghost,” Celia says. “Of course, I’m technically one right now, so I guess it doesn’t count.”
Scowling at her, I ask, “I thought you said this was a dream?”
“It’s whatever it needs to be to help you along the way, Kendall.”
In the blink of an eye, we’re back in Radisson in front of Loreen’s shop. She’s turning off the lights and locking up. I see her walk to her car and note the white linen dress bag in the back. Her wedding dress. She fingers the top of it and smiles knowingly.
“There’s my bride,” I hear behind us. I turn to see Father Massimo who is absolutely beaming with happiness. He embraces Loreen and there’s a bit of older person PDA right here on the Main Street of Radisson. A little embarrassed, I look away, giving them some privacy.
When they come up for air, Mass says, “I can’t wait until tonight.”
“Me, neither,” Loreen says in a breathy way. “It seems almost unreal.”
He touches his hand to her cheek. “I assure you, it’s all very real.”
She drops her gaze. “My father won’t be here. He refuses.”
“And my brother’s flight from Boston is delayed. He may not make it in time. The right people will be with us, Loreen. We’ll be together. That’s all that matters.”
She heaves a deep breath. “I hope Kendall is her old self.”
I pop to attention at the mention of my name. “Huh? What?”
“I’ve been praying for her,” Mass says. “She’s been through a lot and we put a ton of responsibilities on her with this wedding. She’ll be okay. She’s a tough girl.”
“I hope so,” Loreen says. “I love her so much. If it weren’t for her, you and I never would have found each other.”
Mass’s eyes sparkle—yes, they sparkle—at her. “Oh, we would have found each other.”
I drop my head. “I’m a total ass.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Celia agrees.
I’m about to scoff at her when I realize she’s right. I’m right. Loreen’s right. I have been a horrible person. Not myself. Patrick’s in another country helping strangers, and I’m moaning and carping about doing things for my family, sister, and mentor.
“You can make everything right,” the ghost tells me. “Only you, though.”
“I know,” I say. “I may be asleep, but my eyes are wide open.”
The bell tower of City Hall chimes once more, clanging twelve times. I cock my head. “Midnight was an hour ago.”
“Not really,” my guide says. “It’s time to go.”
Loreen glances my way, as if sensing that I’m there. I wave weakly and then duck my head. Celia sweeps her arms wide, holding the torch high in a blazing flame. The long sleeves of her robe extend to fluttering curtains of green felt, covering me in confusion and mist. “Be well, Kendall.”
Celia, my Ghost of Christmas Present, disappears and leaves something dark in her wake. I try to sidestep it; however, it knows where to find me.
Up from the ground arises a black mass, stretching bony fingers and pulling me under. Down, down, down.
I’m totally screwed.
STANZA 6: THE THIRD VISITING SPIRIT
“What are you doing, Kendall?” I hear a male voice call out to me.
I open my eyes and see that I haven’t actually been sucked into a vortex from hell as I first thought. Rather, I’m just in the darkened Radisson cemetery, shrouded in the hanging branches of leafless trees with a hooded figure standing over me.
“I seriously can’t take much more of this,” I tell the phantom before me. When this spirit moves, a frigid chill travels in a halo around him. He’s cloaked as if a mystery, an enigma, a warning.
Holding my hands in front of me, I climb back to my feet and slough off the dirt from my pajamas. “Look, I know you’re here to bitch me out about all the things I’ve been doing wrong. Let me assure you, I got it. I’m down with it. There are things I have to change, starting with my attitude.
The figure just stands stock-still before me. A satiny, black robe-ish garment hangs from broad shoulders. The head is covered with a hood, masking the spirit’s face, eyes, and other features.
A booming voice sounds forthlike the mighty wind. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Future. Of Christmas Yet to Come.”
I literally feel my body shake from my cheeks all the way down to my toes. A pain in my chest threatens to undo me with its firm clutch of dread. I think I’ve handled tonight pretty well… up until this point. Now, I just want to get home, crawl back into my bed, and sleep until the dawn awakens.
“Hey, there,” I manage to eke out. “What’s in store for me?”
The ghost stretches out a large hand which points away from the cemetery. Well, good for that. I’m creeped out enough as it is without being in the frickin’ graveyard with this spook. When he doesn’t move to join me, I summon my courage and face him with my best ghost huntress attitude and spunk.
I pop my hip out to the side and cross my hands in front of me. “Let me guess. You’re gonna show me all sorts of eerie and terrifying things that haven’t happened to me yet. Right?”
The hooded head bobs up and down, no feature revealed.
An unclear and ambiguous horror skitters through me as I stand before this ghost. Underneath his veil, I can sense his eyes penetrating through me, judging and waiting.
Powering up my nerve, I say, “Look, dude, I’m sort of like a professional ghost huntress. I work with spirits and ghosts all the time. Usually not as much as I have tonight, but I’ve been pushed, shoved, teased, tortured, tormented, frightened, spooked, threatened, and provoked by plenty of paranormal entities. You don’t scare me. You’re actually annoying me.”
The ghost cocks his head, as if studying me.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Talk to me, dammit!”
“Fine!” the spirit says and jerks the hood off of his face.
I nearly choke on my laughter. “Patrick! Are you kidding me? You’re the Ghost of Christmas Future?”
He scowls at me and pushes the hood off of his neck. “Whatever. I was trying to get into the role and you ruined it.”
Part of me wants to run and hug him, kiss the mess out of him, but he’s not really here. It’s not my Patrick, rather a dream Patrick here to walk me through the final stage of whatever it is I’m experiencing.
He slices his eyes up and tries to be somber. “This is really important, Kendall. I’m not supposed to do the talking. You’re supposed to figure things out on your own.”
I gesture with my hand for him to lead the way.
The silky fabric of Patrick’s robe drags the ground, making a dusty path that I follow. We weave our way through the Radisson streets with ease—why couldn’t we fly like the other ghosts?—to Fogarty Street. We pass the drugstore, the library, and then come to stop in front of a white building I haven’t visited since Farah’s death.
“Why are we at Bryant-Jennings Funeral home?”
Two women I don’t recognize push past me, hurrying up the front steps. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was just a little thing,” the wo
man in a black pantsuit says.
Her companion sniffles. “His mother and grandmother are devastated. You know his father hasn’t been to see him in the three years since the accident?”
“Shameful,” the first woman says.
Facing Patrick, I ask, “Who are they talking about? Is it someone we know?”
He points up into the funeral home, so I head on in.
“When did he pass away?” the pantsuit woman asks in a whisper once we’re inside.
“Late last night,” another mourner says.
Deeper into the room, I push past unseen faces to get to the open coffin. I’m used to seeing the dead, so why should this be any different?
Oh, but this one is vastly unlike any before.
When I gaze into the cherry wood coffin, my hands lift to cover my horror at what I see. Max Pilfer, about age twelve, slumbers silently and unmoving in his satin bedding.
“No!” I cry out.
To my right, his mother, Chandra, weeps into a knotted up wad of tissues while Miss Suzanne sits dazed and confused.
“The meningitis just destroyed him,” Chandra says between tears and sips of air.
“No, no, no,” I continue.
“You knew, Kendall,” ghostly Patrick says.
I spin on my heels and am in his face. “Don’t put this on me! I’m just a teenage psychic. What do I know? I’m not a doctor or a miracle worker!”
“You saw it, though,” he stresses. “The cards warned you.”
“The cards aren’t always right!” My head’s going to explode. This isn’t fair. This isn’t how it should be.
Patrick grips my shoulders and shakes me slightly. “The fact is, Kendall, you have a gift. One you still haven’t completely embraced. Some days you’re good with it, others, you run from it. You can’t escape who you are… what you are. You have to help people.”
“I do,” I say to him through my tears. “I do the best I can. I’m just a kid.” My head drops and my hair shields me from the reality of Max’s funeral going on around me.
The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella] Page 6