Ghost Town

by Cherie Claire

  Miss Bessie instantly changes. “What’s wrong, Boo?”

  “I need to speak with Ms. Valentine, Nana.”

  Something’s definitely wrong but I try to lighten up the situation as I follow Elijah to his truck where we can have some privacy.

  “I saw the ghosts.” I can’t help but gush enthusiastically. “There were five people and I saw every one.”

  He nods but he’s not listening, or at least it’s not sinking in.

  “Did you hear me? I saw five ghosts. Right here in your grandmother’s front yard.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Vi, I’m afraid we have to discontinue your services.”

  This stops me cold. “What?”

  “The powers that be think it best that we take care of whatever is happening here — if there is something happening here — on our own.”

  “Of course, something’s happening here. Did you not hear what I just said? I saw five….”

  “Naturally, we want you to keep the money we already gave you, since you took the time to come up here twice.”

  “Elijah….”

  “But, um, we’ll take it from here.”

  I’m stunned. Flabbergasted. Just when I was getting somewhere after I was the one who doubted I would, the one man who believed in me is firing my ass. I glance over at Miss Bessie who looks as surprised as I am.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be on my way then.”

  Miss Bessie calls out Elijah’s name but he doesn’t look her way, gets back into his truck, and drives off. Even his rudeness to both me and his grandmother seems odd.

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Bessie says. “That’s not like him.”

  I head to the porch to gather my purse that I left on the porch swing and give Miss Bessie one last hug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Come back anytime,” she says, although I doubt I will see this place again.

  I head down the porch but remember the postcard. Curiosity getting the best of me, I decide to ask Miss Bessie about the woman in the back of the crowd.

  “Miss Bessie, may I ask you something.”

  “Anything.”

  I pull the postcard from my purse and hand it to her, pointing to the woman who looks identical to Sirona.

  “Do you recognize that woman in the back?”

  Miss Bessie pulls a pair of glasses from her apron pocket, places them on her nose, and squints at the photo. She moves back towards the porch light to get a better view and stares harder. I point at the woman again, to make sure she sees who I’m getting at.

  Suddenly, Miss Bessie’s face pales and her hand begins to shake. Her eyes enlarge and she looks at me in a panic.

  “Do you know her?”

  She shakes her head, hands me the postcard and starts backing up.

  “She’s not real,” she tells me. “My mother said she’s not real.”

  Before I can inquire further, she rushes through the door and slams it in her wake. I glance back at the postcard with Sirona looking back — or whomever this woman is — and slide it back into my purse.

  I leave Miss Bessie’s house and Fontus Springs, glad to be rid of this crazy town with ghosts parading about and mysterious people traveling through time, lakes that rise and fall which no one wants to discuss. I drive home to Lafayette, free of the strange mystery that surrounds Lorelie Lake, but I can’t think of anything else.

  Chapter Six

  I call TB as soon as I hit Interstate 49 and tell him about the ghosts, then add that I was fired and Miss Bessie went all crazy on me.

  “Why did you get fired?”

  “Did you hear what I said? I saw ghosts who have not died by water.”

  “I know but why did they fire you?”

  I grind my teeth and groan. This is why I don’t want to stay married to TB. He can be clueless sometimes.

  “Don’t you get it? I might finally be able to connect with Lillye.”

  There’s silence on the other end, which irritates me further. “Hello?”

  “Vi, Carmine said you would only be able to speak to the dead within your specialty.”

  “Well, Carmine was wrong.”

  More silence, and now I’m really irritated. “I thought you would be pleased. Do you know what this means.”

  “I am. I mean, if it’s possible I am.”

  “Of course, it’s possible. I saw five people today outside my ‘specialty.’” My voice is getting louder and my blood pressure higher, and I know I’m losing control but I can’t help myself. I so want this to happen.

  “Vi,” TB says calmly and softly, “Lillye is gone and you have to come to turns with that.”

  The standard advice for every grieving parent. I’ve heard it all from friends and family to the psychiatrist I saw following the storm. Make it through the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — then learn to live with the loss. I’ve been through the depths of hell watching my child suffer and die, then Katrina washed away my life. But, I emerged on the other side with this crazy gift. It had to have been bestowed on me for a reason.

  “It’s a sign, TB. I know it is.”

  TB sighs and I can almost feel the sadness emanating through the phone. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  I try to breathe but my chest constricts and my heart races. I know he means well and there’s logic to what he’s saying but I can’t let this go. I feel like I’ve made a breakthrough and I don’t want anyone to bring me down.

  “I’ll talk to you later, TB.”

  “Vi….”

  “See you back at the apartment.”

  I hang up thinking I did the right thing. He’s wrong and I’m breaking new ground but the hum of the car’s wheels on the interstate and the darkness surrounding me as I make my way through the rural areas of St. Landry Parish give me pause. What if I’m wrong? Maybe there’s something mystical about that lake causing these ghosts to appear, and because it’s a water source I’m seeing them like everybody else?

  No, I command myself. I’m dedicated to breaking through the confines of my gift inherited from Katrina and I’m going to make this work. But, on the way home, I stop by Blue Moon Bayou and head to the water’s edge to see if that girl still lingers there, the one who spoke to me during the rising of the moon. I spot her sitting beneath the bridge, gazing at her reflection in the water. As I quietly approach, I notice there is no reflection staring back.

  She senses that I’m near and stands, surprised once again that I can see her.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello,” she returns.

  We stare at each other for a few moments, not sure how to proceed.

  “You can see me?” she finally asks. I nod and she adds, “Of course you can. You’re talking to me.”

  “Has no one talked to you before?”

  I move closer and make out her clothes, the same ragged ones from before. If I could date the outfit, I’m guessing 1930s.

  She shakes her head. “Just the old ladies who own the mortuary. Kids sometimes.” Now she studies me and my outfit. “What are you?”

  “I’m a ghost whisperer.” I laugh at the reference but, of course, my ghostly friend doesn’t get it.

  “Do you know you’re a ghost?” I ask.

  She sends me a sly smirk. “Yeah, I know I’m dead.”

  We stare silently at each other once more until she begins to fade. My heart races. There’s so much I need to know.

  I shout out, “Who are you?”

  She swallows hard, perhaps wondering if she can trust me, but she replies, “Abigail Earhart, like the lady pilot.”

  I can barely make out Abigail now. Her form fades into a silhouette, like poor television reception in the old days. I feel electricity travel through me standing so close to a vibrating spirit, one about to transform to another realm. There’s a buzzing akin to the one I felt at Hi Ho’s, like there’s a connection being made.

  “Wait, how did you die?”
/>   Just before Abigail fades into the night, she raises her arm and points to the bridge where a freight train has begun to cross, its whistle echoing down the bayou.

  “The train?” I ask and she nods, then disappears.

  I’ve got my answer. I’ve finally learned to talk to all spirits, no matter their deathly circumstances. I’ll prove TB wrong, I vow, and head back to Lafayette.

  TB is standing there when I open the door, waiting, looking as if he’s been pacing since our phone call. His bag remains unopened on the floor.

  “Vi…,” he begins.

  I throw my purse and things on to the bed.

  “I saw the girl at Blue Moon Bayou. She talked to me and guess what?” I feel so magnanimous. “Her name’s Abigail Earhart. She died in a train accident.”

  TB stares at me with that vacant look, the one that drives me insane, makes me think there are wheels turning in there but it may be weeks before they hit on something significant.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Vi, don’t get angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry.” Am I? “I’m frustrated that you don’t get this. As usual.”

  TB winces like I slapped him and I feel remorse. People — including me — are always accusing my ex of being dense and he’s naturally sensitive about it.

  “You of all people should understand what this means and how excited I am,” I continue. “But, you stand there, like always, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

  “I don’t think you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Really? You and everybody I knew acted like I was doing it all wrong when Lillye died, just because I didn’t fall apart like you all did.”

  “You retreated.”

  “I dealt.”

  I am angry. The old hurt and feelings of betrayal come rushing to the surface like the whole thing happened yesterday. The endless crying and talking. People “concerned” that I wasn’t doing the same. How would all that outward pain and suffering help me accept the fact that the most precious thing in my life was gone?

  I sigh and try to calm the rapid beating of my heart, rub the bridge of my nose to release the tension building there. The psychiatrist I finally saw after years of people begging me to do so called it emotional repression or something to that effect. Talking did help relieve the grief suffocating my soul but in the end, I grew tired of the talk. That’s all it is…talk! After a few months, I ended my relationship with Dr. Vincent and moved on.

  TB moves forward and touches my arm lovingly and I can’t help but wonder if I’m the one who’s wrong here.

  “I just want to see her again,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I want to talk to her.”

  TB moves to hug me but I retreat, backing up, and pulling my hair behind my ears.

  “Vi, she’s right here.”

  I look up to see him touching the area above his heart, something else everyone kept telling me over the years. “She’s always with you,” they would say. “You carry her in your heart.” Of course, I do, but I want to see my baby girl. I want to talk to her.

  I shake my head. “It’s not enough.”

  TB stares at me, hard, and it’s unnerving, something that usually doesn’t happen with him.

  “It’s never enough with you, is it?” he whispers.

  This takes me aback, but then he always wants more from me that I can deliver.

  “If you’re talking about me loving you because of that stupid legend on Blue Moon Bayou….”

  He surprises me again, steps close to me, and I can feel the tension emanating from his body.

  “I’m talking about me loving you, period.”

  I step back, anything to get away from that disarming look he’s sending me and the rigid tone in his voice.

  “We’re separated, TB. When are you going to get that through your thick skull? Lillye was what kept us together, remember? Nothing else.”

  I don’t mean this, because I think we did love each other once. But, we’re different people, both then and now, and I don’t see a future between us.

  He shakes his head and smiles sadly, then grabs his bag and heads out the door. I don’t want him to go, so wanted to discuss my weird day with him and plan a way to speak with Lillye, — after all, he’s the only one who truly understands — but too much has been said.

  TB pauses at the threshold.

  “I made some comments on Fontus Springs, if you’re interested. It’s on top of the pile in the box.”

  He pulls an envelope out of his breast pocket and throws it on the bed.

  “My hotel bill.”

  With that final comment, my ex-husband is out the door and out of my life for the time being. I pick up the envelope and find three one hundred dollar bills inside, no doubt his hotel allowance for the week. I fall on to the bed, my energy retreating and my head pounding and I hear a squeak from beneath me. When I turn to look, Stinky emerges with sleepy eyes. I pull my adopted cat on to my lap and hug him tight, which makes my tears fall in torrents.

  “How’s that Dr. Vincent?” I yell to the heavens. “Enough emotional release for you?”

  I’m feeling off balance when morning comes but before I can wallow in my sorrows Jacob emails me with an urgent request. Would I drive over to Biloxi on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and review a hotel there. Still reeling from my anger from the night before, I’m not feeling my usual passive self when it comes to asking for money. I demand extra for the last-minute assignment and Jacob reluctantly gives it to me, plus a small pittance for mileage. That was easy, I surmise, so I add that the reviews require way more time than they insinuated in the training sessions and since he loved my review on the Memphis hotel, I think I should be paid more going forward. To my surprise, he agrees to that as well.

  I flip my phone closed, thinking that maybe there’s something to being a demanding jerk, after all.

  I look through my emails to see if TB had written — he almost always sends an apology after we’ve fought — but there’s nothing there. I know deep down I should be the one writing him but I bristle that he’s not reached out and close my laptop and start packing.

  The three-hour drive to Biloxi is uneventful, the sky devoid of clouds, and unbearably hot. I left Stinky in my apartment with ample amounts of food and a light on but he was not pleased.

  “You’d rather be on the streets hungry?” I ask him and am greeted with a view of his rear end. Sometimes I think that cat really does understand me.

  Funny, I think as I pull into the hotel’s parking lot, I miss that cat, have gotten used to having him around. I wonder if I can bring him along next time and see how the hotel deals with pets.

  I check in with my pink polka dot suitcase and ask the desk clerk about their pet policy. I’m told they don’t accept pets but she gives me three names of hotels in the area that do. I make a mental note to include her helpfulness in my review.

  My room is on the third floor, I’m told, so I head for the elevators. As the doors open, who’s staring back at me but Mr. Eric J. Faust.

  “Well, lookie here.”

  I can’t help myself, as much as I despise this man it’s good to see a familiar face, especially in the low mood I’m in. “Hey yourself, Asshole.”

  He laughs and links elbows with me, pulls me in the direction of the beach-side bar. “Let’s catch up, Angel,” producing my nickname like they do in Cajun Country, where they use Angelle (On-gel) as a given name.

  My suitcase bounces along behind me. “I need to drop this off.”

  “Later.”

  And in a heartbeat we’re sitting in bar stools ordering margaritas and gazing out on the Gulf of Mexico lying placid before us in the sweltering heat.

  “What on earth do people see in this place?” Eric asks, looking at the shrimp boats motoring in with their catch. “Hot, humid, and the water’s not that pretty. And all there is to do is visit casinos.”

  The drinks arrive and I throw down a twenty. I’m flush now that T
B has shared his hotel allowance and it feels good to finally have money to spend, although how I got it brings me no joy. I push the guilt away and tell Eric the next round’s on him.

  “Good girl,” he answers. “You’re getting the picture.”

  “And the water looks that way because we’re close to the Mississippi River. If you get out a ways it’s gorgeous.”

  “But, we’re not out a ways.”

  Biloxi is like a second home to me, a place to escape to when New Orleans summers become unbearably stifling. There’s not much of a change in climate here, but a breeze blows in occasionally and there’s the water to enjoy. Before the storm battered the Mississippi coast, there were rows and rows of historic homes and massive live oak trees, not to mention great seafood and amusement parks. The city’s struggling to rebound after Katrina and I’m sure the recession hasn’t helped. I don’t want to hear Eric bad-talk my coast but I don’t feel up to defending it, either, so I change the subject, making sure the bartender and other staff aren’t present.

  “So, are we going to be doing these reviews together?”

  Eric takes a large gulp from his drink. “Needs more tequila. And probably not. Even though we’re both working the Deep South, I was supposed to be paired with those banking girls but I heard they quit.”

  “Already?”

  He smirks. “You didn’t think former Goldman Sachs employees would do all this work for so little pay, did you?”

  Makes sense. I’m used to traveling, know what to look for, and writing comes second nature. Since I spent time in the newsroom, it’s easy for me to turn around copy fast.

  “By the way,” I tell him, “I asked for a raise and got it.”

  “All right, Angelle.” He raises his glass and we toast. “I knew I’d like you.”

  I’m still not convinced I like him but he’s fun and that goes a long way for me right now. Not to mention he’s charming as hell.

  “Wait, how did you know they quit? Or were from Goldman Sachs.”

  He smirks beneath the rim of the glass. “I slept with one of the company secretaries a while back and she gave me the password to the system. I know you worked for the New Orleans Post, lost your job and home in Katrina, and now freelance travel for some silly magazine called Mais Yeah!, among others.”