by C. C. Wood
“I hate confrontation,” I answered with a shrug. “Something about women screaming at me sets my teeth on edge.”
“Same here,” he muttered. “If it helps, I do cold visits like this all the time about haunted spaces and most people can be standoffish, but I’ve encountered very little yelling.”
“Good to know.”
Mal smiled. “I promise, if she starts screaming or being nasty, we’ll leave. We can find out what we need to know another way.”
“Thanks.”
We drove the rest of the way to Trisha’s house discussing what we would say and do. Mal suggested that he introduce me as his assistant, which would allow him to do most of the talking. It also decreased the likelihood that I would be on the receiving end of Trisha’s wrath should the interview go sideways. Mal didn’t mention it, but I understood that was his intention.
I probably should have insisted that it wasn’t necessary, but I appreciated his consideration.
He turned into a driveway and I felt my heart rate kick up.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
We got out of the car together and were met on the porch by a woman who appeared to be in her mid to late-forties. Her light brown hair was lightly streaked with grey and lines were beginning to deepen around her eyes and mouth.
Her harsh features were those of someone who’d led an unhappy life. I could also see the echoes of the loveliness she once had, but time and bitterness had erased it.
She had a cigarette in her left hand and lifted it to her mouth as she moved to the top step. “Can I help you?” While her words implied hospitality, her tone and body language clearly stated that we weren’t welcome here.
Mal stopped at the base the stairs. He smiled up at her from the bottom step, but didn’t move any closer. “Hello, my name is Malachi Flemming. I’m a producer for a reality television show and I’m looking for Patricia Murphy Dwyer.”
Her expression remained suspicious, but she also seemed interested. “I’m Patricia Dwyer. Why do you want to speak to me?”
“Well, we’re in the area filming with local residents for a documentary about small towns and someone mentioned that your first husband had died around twenty years ago. We were hoping that it would be possible to include an interview with you and maybe some of your late husband’s friends.”
His words surprised me. I thought he was going to introduce himself as a writer. Either way, it was too late to do anything about it now.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to include something like that in a documentary on small towns?”
“We’re trying to include a broad spectrum of stories, from the incredible success to unbearable loss. We want to demonstrate that small towns and big cities have all of those things in common.”
She studied Mal carefully as she sucked on her cigarette. “Fine,” she answered, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Come on in.”
We climbed the steps and followed her inside. The house was meticulously tidy, no dust on the furniture, knickknacks perfectly arranged. Still, the house reeked of smoke and ashtrays were scattered on all of the tables.
“Have a seat,” Trisha invited. “My husband, Steve, won’t be home for an hour or so.”
“By the way,” Mal said as he sat on the sofa, “This is my assistant, Zoe. Do you mind if she records our interview?”
Trisha’s eyes flicked to me. “I guess.”
I took out one of the digital recorders that Mal kept to document electronic voice phenomena and turned it on. I stated the date, time, and that we were interviewing Mrs. Trisha Murphy Dwyer before I placed the recorder on the coffee table.
For fifteen minutes, Mal asked her general questions about how she met Hank and how old they were when they married. Somehow he coaxed her out of her surly mood. He even had her smiling and laughing.
Mal asked her about their friends and relatives. I was amazed at how skillfully he broached the subject of anyone who might not have had the best relationship with Hank. He said he would like to avoid anyone who might not represent Hank in a way she would approve.
That’s where we hit a wall. Trisha insisted that everyone loved her husband and that he hadn’t made a single enemy in his short life.
It wasn’t long after that she glanced at the clock on the wall and stood. “Well, I’ve truly enjoyed speaking to you about my first husband. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to talk about him at length with anyone. But my current husband will be home soon and I need to get dinner started.”
I gathered the digital recorder and my notebook and followed the two of them outside. Mal thanked her for her help and shook her hand. Trisha didn’t even spare me a glance.
Once we were in the car and on our way back to my house, Mal glanced at me. “See that wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, right?”
I shook my head in amazement. “You are too much.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he answered.
“It kind of is,” I quipped. “But I’m also wondering now if you are leading a double life as a con artist.”
Mal laughed. “No, I’ve just learned to read people quickly over the years.”
“Uh, that’s pretty much the same thing a con artist does, Mal,” I quipped.
“I guess you’re right.” He chuckled quietly. “Well, I’m hungry now. Wanna grab some dinner?”
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost five-thirty. “I’d love to, but I already have plans tonight.”
“Hot date?” he asked lightly.
I huffed out a short bark of laughter. “Not exactly.”
The only thing hot at my parents’ house for Thursday night dinner was the food and occasionally my mother’s temper.
“Well, then I guess I’ll drive you home.”
Chapter
“How’s your new job going?” my mother asked casually as she flipped the fried chicken.
“Fine,” I answered. “I’ve got until the end of the month before my temporary status is up, but they’re interested in hiring me full time.”
My mother’s reaction was not at all what I expected. She dropped the tongs on the counter with a clatter. “What?”
I looked up from the potatoes I was mashing with butter. “I said that my temp status is up at the end of this month and they want to hire me on for full time work.”
She scowled at me fiercely. “Full time?”
“Yeah.”
My mother shook her head. “I can’t believe this. I thought you’d given up all this nonsense years ago.”
I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my gut. “What nonsense, Mom?”
“This ghost crap!” she snapped. “I thought you’d finally outgrown it, but now you’re looking to make a career out of it!”
I gaped at her. “How did you know what I was doing?”
“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence! Kenna is a small town. People talk. Now that you taken up with those…those…wraith guys,” she sneered, “It’s all anyone wants to talk about when they see me. It’s embarrassing and it has to stop.”
As I watched my mother rant, I realized that nothing I did or said would ever satisfy her. I’d always held out hope that eventually she would see the efforts I made and finally appreciate them.
But that was never going to happen.
Because my mother explained exactly what the problem was when it came to our relationship; I embarrassed her. The epiphany stung. No, it hurt like a mule kick to the chest. My own mother felt humiliated by me, by the choices I made. By the job I held. Everything about me was a reason for ridicule in her eyes.
“Well, I’m sorry that I embarrass you, Mother,” I stated levelly. “That was never my intention. Even as a child when I tried to tell you about the people only I could see and hear. Even when you screamed at me in the street, telling me to stop lying. Even when I cried because you punished me for refusing to keep quiet.”
Her face paled at m
y words.
I suddenly noticed my tight grip on the potato masher and pried my fingers loose. After I wiped my hands on a dishtowel, I walked over to the hook where I hung my purse when I came to visit.
“But what I won’t apologize for is wanting to work with people who don’t make me feel like a freak because of what I see. People who appreciate my abilities and what I can offer.”
My mother scoffed. “You mean those weirdos with the Internet show? I’m sure they’re mothers are very proud.”
I stared at her for a long moment, still feeling the reverberations of the pain that sliced through me at her scorn. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ve finally realized that nothing I do will make you proud, Mother. It wouldn’t matter if I were a doctor or a great teacher or if I won the Nobel Peace Prize. You would always find fault with me.” I fished my keys out of my purse. “But none of that matters any longer. I’m twenty-seven years old and it’s time that I stopped worrying about how you’ll feel about my decisions. I need to make choices that make me happy.”
I opened the back door and glanced over my shoulder one last time. “When you’re ready to make peace with that, I’ll listen.”
My mother didn’t say a word as I walked out the back door, letting the screen slam shut behind me. She didn’t call out as I marched to my car and climbed inside.
She didn’t even watch me back out of the driveway from the kitchen window.
It wasn’t until I parked in my own garage that the tears came.
I climbed stiffly from my car and walked into the house in a daze. Immediately, Teri materialized in the kitchen.
“Zoe, what’s wrong?”
I waved a hand at her. “Just give me a sec,” I mumbled.
I dropped my purse on the kitchen table and trudged into the living room to collapse on the couch. I hated that my mother and I couldn’t seem to get along. After twenty-seven years, I should be used to her harsh words and short temper, but I wasn’t. It still hurt.
I’m sure a psychologist would have a damn good time explaining how my intense dislike of confrontation stemmed from my antagonistic relationship with my mom. Even though I understood it, it didn’t solve the problem.
“Zoe?” It was the first time in the two years I’d been living in this house that Teri’s voice sounded hesitant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.” I felt the cold touch of her hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
I inhaled deeply, drying the last of the tears as they fell from my eyes. “Oh nothing unusual. Just a fight with my mother.”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen you so upset over a disagreement with your mom.”
“Well, let’s just say I won’t be welcome at Thursday dinner anytime soon,” I whispered.
Teri was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Zoe.”
“It’s okay,” I answered, my breath hitching. “It was a long time coming.”
Once I’d calmed down, I went into the half bath under the stairs and washed my face with cool water. Teri was hovering by the door when I came out.
“Maybe you should call Jonelle,” she suggested. “She’ll know how to make you feel better.”
“I just need some time to myself, Teri. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
She nodded and her image shimmered.
“Teri,” I called.
She stopped and looked at me.
“I mean it. Don’t text Jonelle and tell her to come over, okay? I want to be alone tonight.”
Teri sighed audibly. “Fine, I won’t.”
After she vanished, I moved to the couch, stretched out, and grabbed the remote. I just needed to switch off my mind for a while.
The doorbell rang about an hour later and I immediately assumed that Teri had gone against my instructions and texted Jonelle.
“Dammit, Teri,” I muttered, rolling to my feet.
But when I looked out the window, I saw my father standing on the front porch, his hands in his pockets.
“Dad?” I asked as I opened the door.
“Hey, sweetie. Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
I turned off the TV and we sat on the couch, facing each other in an uncomfortable silence.
My dad sat on the edge of the cushion, his elbows resting on his knees. “I, uh, I’m not sure what to say, Zoe.”
“I’m guessing Mom told you what happened?”
“Her side of it, yes,” he paused and looked at me, his expression apologetic. “But I’d like to hear what you have to say too. I know your mom can be…difficult.”
“Well, you know I’m working temporarily for a show on YouTube, right?”
Dad nodded. “Yeah, your mom mentioned it. Some ghost hunting show?”
“Yeah. They investigate reports of hauntings and paranormal events.” I laughed a little. “At first I thought it would be silly, but it’s actually kind of fun. And Mal, my boss, he pays me well.”
My dad rubbed his hands together. “What do you do on the show?” he asked.
“I speak to the spirits that we encounter,” I admitted quietly. “Like a medium.”
Dad sighed. “Your mom said as much.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Zoe, honey, are you absolutely sure that this is something you want to do?”
My heart sank at his words. Dad always seemed to believe in my abilities. He never questioned me or chastised me the way my mother had.
He reached out and covered my hand with his own. “Please don’t look at me like that. I’m not angry or telling you that you shouldn’t. I just want to be sure that you’ve thought this through. You haven’t talked about your…” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “Gifts for years. I thought maybe you’d stopped seeing things. To hear that you were working with this group, well, it was a surprise.”
“It just seemed easier not to talk about it,” I stated. “Especially since it seemed to upset Mom.”
My father nodded. “I understand.” He looked down at his work-roughened hands. “Do you know why it upsets your mother, Zoe? Your gift?”
I always wondered why my father referred to my abilities as a gift, especially since my mother seemed to disagree so vehemently. I shook my head in response.
“When your mother was young, she was a lot like you,” he stated.
“What do you mean?”
He sighed. “Well, she saw the things that you see.”
I gaped at him. “What?”
“Your mother, she used to see spirits. For as long as she could remember.”
“Used to?” I asked.
“She can’t any longer,” he answered.
I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
“You were too young to remember Glynnis when she passed away, but your mother’s mother—” Dad rubbed his hands over his face. “She wasn’t a very nice person, Zoe. When Sarah tried to tell her what she saw, Glynnis swore she was possessed by Satan himself. The things she did to your mother, they,” he cleared his throat, “They were horrible.”
My entire body felt cold at his words. “What happened, I mean, why did she stop seeing?”
“She didn’t want to see them anymore. She wished that the gift would disappear and it finally did. To your mother, it was a relief because she thought it meant your grandmother would stop hurting her.”
I winced at his words. “If Glynnis hurt her because of what she saw, why is she so angry with me?”
My father reached out and placed his hand over mine. “Because it scares her, Zoe. She doesn’t understand why she could see and hear the things she did or why you do either. Growing up, all she heard was that her abilities were from Satan and that she was going to Hell. Can you blame her for being terrified?”
I couldn’t.
“Dad, I can’t just sit back and let her talk to me like that anymore,” I explained.
He nodded. “I know, sweetie. Honestly, I’m surprised it took you this long to put your foot down. I just didn’t expect it to be about this
. Like I said, you haven’t talked about the spirits you see in years. I thought that perhaps you’d stopped seeing them as your mother had.”
“If you’re not upset with me, why did you come?” I asked.
My dad’s face fell. There was no other way to describe it. “Because, baby, your mother was in tears when I got home, so I knew it had to have been a horrible fight. I wanted to check on my girl.”
My eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be okay.” I sniffed. “I’m just glad that you’re not mad at me.”
Dad reached out and pulled me into a hug. “I love you, Zoe. You’re my favorite daughter.”
I had to laugh, even as tears trickled down my cheeks. “I’m your only daughter,” I replied.
“Yeah, but you’re still my favorite.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
Dad released me. “Now, I’m not making excuses for your mother. I’ve talked to her several times over the years about how she’s going to drive you away if she doesn’t ease up. I only wanted you to understand why she gets so upset.”
I nodded. “I do.”
“Well, go get your old man a beer and we’ll sit and talk for a bit before I go home. I want to know all about this new job.”
Chapter
The next day, the chiming of my cell phone woke me up from a dead sleep. My eyes felt puffy and my head ached as though I was hung over, even though I’d only drunk one beer.
I flailed as I fought my way out of the blankets and snatched up my phone.
“Hello?” My voice was hoarse and rough.
“Zoe?”
I shoved my hair out of my face. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Mal chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice for a second. Did I wake you?”
“No, I was just contemplating my plans to take over the world on the backs of my eyelids.”
He laughed again. “I see you’re just as witty first thing in the morning as you are any other time.”
I sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “So what’s up?”
“Oh, I just thought you might want to keep working on Hank Murphy’s case today,” he commented. “Stony and Blaine finished all our episodes up to date and want to help us with this.”