Ghost Town

by Cherie Claire

  So, this lovely family left the poor girl waiting, I surmised. Still, I can’t let it go that Abigail is speaking to me because of the train accident.

  “There was a train derailment in Blue Moon, and I think Abigail might have been on that train.”

  “Oh no,” Celeste says in that tone that old people get when you’re wrong, which rubbed me raw then and does so now just thinking about it. “She went home with the Pinckley family that day. She ran away twice, both times east towards New Orleans, and the Pinckleys almost sent her back to the New York Sisters. It’s all in the files.”

  One thing’s for sure, my research showed that the train crossing Blue Moon Bayou back in 1934, which hit a rogue animal and derailed, was heading west.

  “Do you think Abigail might have jumped on this train, deciding to go west that night, and not towards New Orleans?” I had asked Celeste.

  “Honey, she wasn’t on the train. They found her body in the bayou, next to the canoe she stole from the Pinckleys. She was running away again, and in the same fashion. Usually, she paddled the bayou into Lafayette and then jumped a train to New Orleans. On the night of her death, she must have been hit by something coming off the train derailment and drowned in the bayou.”

  “Or she was on that train and was killed in the derailment.”

  I had shouted that last part and the kind volunteer admonished me and quickly hung up. I felt bad for being so rude but she didn’t know what she was talking about. That suffocating pain I felt during the phone call changes to anger once again. It’s all so confusing and so wrong.

  This time, I yell at the dick speeding past, “Up yours, jerk!”

  I get on to Canal and head toward the lakefront and a series of New Orleans neighborhoods that popped up in the nineteen-thirties and forties when wetlands around Lake Pontchartrain were turned into subdivisions and dredged lake mud used as filler. And yes, we know, we shouldn’t have done that considering this area of the city flooded extensively. Funny how the world loves to point fingers after a disaster.

  Lake Vista, however, differs from the larger Lakeview District Area in that it was a planned community, a “superblock” design popular in the early twentieth century aimed at emphasizing pedestrian sidewalks — what a concept! My mother’s World War II-era house, for instance, faces the interior sidewalks and not the street.

  Ironically, most of Lake Vista didn’t flood like the rest of the lakefront, even though it’s closest to Lake Pontchartrain than most houses. The lake seawall and the higher elevation of the man-made land saved the historic subdivision. My mother’s one of the lucky few, but don’t ever tell her that. A tree damaged the game room of the house, and even though she had the roof repaired quickly and moved back in, she had to endure driving “miles” into Jefferson Parish for groceries and other basic needs. Like ten miles, max.

  One thing I’ve learned from surviving disasters, everyone has a story and once one gets started — particularly if there’s alcohol involved — a competition arises as to who suffered the most. I’ve known people who have lost loved ones, not to mention my two-day vacation on the rooftop, but talk to my mother and you’d swear she had it worst.

  I pull up to my childhood house and notice Portia and Aunt Mimi are already here. I enter through the back door — remember the front faces the pedestrian thoroughfare — and announce my presence. There’s no response.

  I head to the kitchen where three adult women gaggle like geese, all holding wine glasses and ignoring the small child running circles beneath their feet. Aunt Mimi spots me first, places her glass down and pulls me into a tight hug. She smells of old-fashioned roses, like always, and her embrace is tight and comforting. I could settle right here and never leave.

  She pulls back and takes me in. “Are you eating?”

  “A bit too much if you ask me,” my mother says, glass still perched high in her hand. “She goes on those press trips where they feed them constantly.”

  I ignore my mom and smile at Aunt Mimi. “I’m a writer and the food’s free. I mean, come on.”

  I want to add that I’m starving, having skipped breakfast (there’s nothing in the fridge and I was too cheap to stop on the way) but I don’t want to hear more about my weight. I glance over at Portia, who’s definitely a bit wide in the middle, and nod hello.

  “It’s about time you got here,” she says.

  So, I’m fat and I’m late. Nice to see you, too, family.

  Aunt Mimi seems to sense my feelings for she asks me if I want something to drink and how about a deviled egg. Gawd love her, as we say in New Orleans.

  “I’d love a beer and a deviled egg,” I say and smile.

  “You can get it yourself,” Portia adds.

  Now, I’m labeled lazy.

  I send Portia a scathing look and am about to retort when Sebastian waltzes in and pokes me from behind. “Hey brat.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  I miss my twin so much it hurts. The fact that he doesn’t miss me as much tears my heart to shreds. I don’t know when he drifted off and left me behind but it’s been years since we confided in each other or had a real sibling talk. I’m hoping today might change that.

  Aunt Mimi hands me an egg, sprinkled on top with paprika. I’m so hungry I pop the whole thing in my mouth which makes Mimi laugh. “You are hungry.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I mutter.

  She then pops open a beer, pours it into a chilled glass, hands it to me, and we clink drinks. I add, “It’s so good to see you.”

  And I mean that with all my heart. My aunt stands among this collection of perfection in faded Levi’s and a peasant top, several hemp bracelets and honest-to-god clip-on earrings that look like blue sunbursts; she was too frightened to have her ears pierced. Top it off with a blue streak running through her gray hair and I’d laugh if it weren’t impolite.

  “If you lived in New Orleans you’d see Mimi more often,” my mother says.

  I shake my head digesting this information. “Uh, Lafayette is closer to Branson than New Orleans.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Portia says. “Mimi flies in.”

  I hate it when Portia acts the smartie, especially when she’s right. I glance over at Sebastian but he’s busy tickling Demi and while my mother stirs something smelling delicious on the stove she strikes up a new conversation with Portia about the lack of beef variety in New Orleans grocery stores. Once again, either I’m in the wrong with this group or I’m out of the loop. I can’t decide if I want to cry or grind my teeth.

  Aunt Mimi comes to the rescue and pulls me into the living room where Reynaldo is playing some baby video game with talking turtles.

  “Turn that down, honey, so Vi and I can talk.”

  Reynaldo groans but he does as he’s told and Aunt Mimi and I settle on the couch.

  “What’s going on?” she says.

  I pull my hand through my hair. “What isn’t?”

  “Start with one thing.”

  I take a long sip from my beer, wishing I had another deviled egg. “The recession, for one. I’m broke, magazines aren’t buying and my car is on its last leg, if cars had legs.”

  “Well, this downturn won’t last forever and I have some money if you need it….”

  I close my eyes because the last person I want to mooch on is Aunt Mimi, or make her feel like she should offer. “It’s okay, Aunt Mimi. Things are picking up. I got a new job reviewing hotels so that should bring in a few dollars.”

  “Seriously, honey, I can help. I have savings.”

  I should shut up and agree, allow her to take the pressure off, but more than my family driving me nuts with their attitude is the feeling that I’m the pauper of the group, not to mention that I have to pay it back and I’m not sure I can.

  I smile and shake it off, like it’s no big deal. “No worries, Mimi. This week I got a job helping people in central Louisiana tackle a ghost problem. They paid me in advance so things are looking up.”

  “What’s
the job.”

  Mimi is the only family member who knows about my SCANC abilities. Right after I discovered I could see ghosts who have died by water, and learned from Carmine why, I found out that Mimi was also psychic and a descendent in a long line of Alabama mediums. She helped me through that disastrous first month when everything came down on a press trip to Arkansas.

  “There’s this place called Fontus Springs that’s besieged with ghosts,” I explain. “They don’t know why but since Easter a host of them starting coming out around sunset. Old residents of the town, like a former mayor and a Confederate soldier.”

  Mimi leans back on the couch and frowns, studying this phenomenon. “That’s odd.”

  “I’ll say. But here’s the interesting part. I saw them. All of them. As in people who did not die by water.”

  She appears not to have heard that last part. “There’s a lot of them?”

  “I must have seen five at least. They walked past like zombies. Definitely not intellectual hauntings, but there was this other apparition closer to home….”

  “How long did the vision last?”

  I exhale. “I don’t know, just a few seconds. I was standing in a resident’s yard and they appeared out of the woods, walked across her lawn and disappeared.”

  “Was this near the springs?”

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  “That might be why you’re seeing them.”

  I shrug. “Everyone’s seeing them.”

  “That might be it, too.”

  I sigh way too heavily this time and Mimi places a soft hand on my forearm. “What is it?”

  I want to tell her I’m evolving, but I sense she will disagree. Still, I can’t believe this is happening for no reason. “I think I can finally see those who have not died by water.”

  Mimi doesn’t remove her hand. Instead, she squeezes my arm. “Darling, I told you that’s unlikely.”

  I rise from the couch abruptly and it startles Mimi and, to my surprise, the comatose two-year-old at the video console. I should take note of this and calm down, but my blood is already racing to my head.

  “Why can’t anyone believe that I’m evolving? Why is it so difficult for anyone to think that I might have the capabilities to see beyond my talent?”

  Mimi reaches for me but I step backwards.

  “I may be the dumb one in this family but perhaps I’m good at this. Maybe I can break out of my SCANCness.”

  Aunt Mimi rises and places both hands on my shoulders and it’s then I can feel my heart beating rapidly. For a moment, I’m not even sure what happened.

  “Sit down, sweetheart,” she whispers soothingly.

  I do as I’m told but I can still feel the thumping in my chest, as if someone took over my body and raised my blood pressure with a wrench. I want to apologize. I should apologize. But I’m too busy focusing on how I’m seeing these people, know I can finally reach Lillye, and no one will believe me.

  “What else happened?” she asks, slipping an arm around my shoulders and hugging me tight.

  “There’s a girl who hangs out at this bayou near my house,” I begin, this time softly. “She said she died in a train derailment.”

  I explain how I met Abigail Earhart, our conversations by the bayou, and how she mentioned the train twice. I relay what Annie told me about the Orphan Train and the photo she had of the derailment, leaving out the information Celeste related over the phone. All the while, Mimi slips her arm free of my shoulders, leans back on the couch, and now it’s her turn to run fingers through her hair.

  “You see, I think I’m developing my talents,” I finish.

  Mimi sends me a look and I can’t decipher if it’s understanding or sympathy. “Be careful, Vi. I want this to be true but you do realize both of these incidents are near water.”

  I sit up straight. “Yeah, I’m aware of that but I’ve been reading a lot about water mythology and science and it might be because water is a great conduit for energy. There’s this Japanese guy named Masaru Emoto who believes that human consciousness can change the molecules of water. What if my desires and hopes of being with Lillye have stretched my abilities?”

  Mimi takes a long drink from her wine glass and ponders this. “Perhaps.”

  I then go into a long discourse about Emoto’s experiments and how people thinking of different things produced unique molecules in the water. It occurs to me during this long discourse that TB introduced me to this guy, left me a copy of Emoto’s The Hidden Messages in Water on my desk after he had spent the night in the potting shed. I pause in my explanation, realizing that I should have invited my ex-husband to this lunch. Mimi would have loved to have seen TB, and vice versa, and I’m grossly insensitive for omitting him.

  “Well, he’s the one who won’t return my phone calls.”

  Mimi pauses in her drinking and looks at me. “What?”

  Damn, I said that out loud. “Nothing.”

  Now, she’s looking at me with concern and I wonder — for not the first time, let me tell you — if I’m finally losing it. I’m expecting that the next thing out of Mimi’s mouth is for me to reconnect with the psychologist.

  “You might want to call that Orphan Train Museum in Opelousas,” she says instead, thank goodness. “Ask them if the train in Blue Moon Bayou was one of theirs.”

  I wince. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t an Orphan Train but Abigail ran away a lot and she did that night.”

  “Was she on the train or on the bayou?”

  I stand and begin pacing, ignoring her last question. “Why else would I see this girl, if I’m not evolving?”

  Mimi places her glass on to the coffee table, grabs my hand to stop my pacing and looks me dead in the eyes. This must be the stare she gives her nursing home residents when they haven’t taken their meds.

  “Vi, you’re a journalist. You live on facts. Get the facts and try to figure this out logically.”

  I offer up a snide grin. “Logically about ghosts?”

  “Believe it or not, sweetie, there is logic to the magic side of the universe. Didn’t Mr. Emoto discover that?”

  I’m about to retort when Portia appears. “Lunch is ready, but we could use some help, Vi. Or are you going to lounge around all day?”

  I place my glass of beer too hard on the coffee table and Reynaldo jumps again. “Sorry, Portia. I forgot I’m the fat lazy one.”

  I head to the kitchen where I nab whatever dish is sitting out and haul it to the dining room. It’s quiet behind me, no doubt because I rarely talk back to any of these crazy people. My mom is already in the dining room putting out a platter of roast beef that smells heavenly and she sends me a worried glance. I plop my dish down a bit too hard and tomato gravy spills out the side on to grandma Valentine’s lace tablecloth.

  “Great, now I’m the fat lazy one who’s also a klutz.”

  I don’t wait for a rebuttal, head back to the kitchen for a dishtowel and cleaner, passing Mimi and Portia picking up their own dishes to bring to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Portia raising her eyebrows to my mom, which makes me grind my teeth.

  By the time I clean the stain from the tablecloth, all the food had been brought in, and we all sit down with one empty seat at the table’s head. I start to inquire who we’re saving the place setting for when my oblivious twin — who never helped do anything to set the table, I might add, no doubt because of the anatomy piece between his leg — starts rattling on about his great job in the wilds of South Carolina. He bagged a boar this week, he tells us, who almost ripped up his leg, he got that close.

  “Why would you want to hunt something that could kill you?” I ask.

  “Why not?”

  “Hunting is stupid.” I reach for the butter beans and ham. “Go to the grocery store, for god’s sakes.”

  “The boars are taking over the woods, Vi. We keep the numbers in check by hunting.”

  “Right. That’s what people say about
deer.”

  “And you disagree?”

  I pause with my ham piece on a fork. “All I know is there used to be deer on the side of the interstate when I drove back and forth to Lafayette.” I turn and give Portia a look. “Yes, I travel repeatedly to New Orleans to visit you all, in case you missed that.”

  She gives me the evil eye.

  “And now, I hardly see them.” I shove that ham into my mouth and do notice the irony of the action.

  Sebastian shrugs. “I don’t know anything about the stupid deer, Vi. I’m just explaining about the boar I took down last week.”

  “‘Took down,’” I repeat. “That’s lovely.”

  “We ate the damn thing.”

  My mother raises a hand to create peace between us but Portia will have none of that. “You like what’s on your plate, Vi?” she asks me with a smirk. “The pig that was raised inhumanely and killed with a ton of other animals in a horrible stockyard?”

  I look down at my plate full of meat. One of these days, I have vowed, I was going to turn to vegetarianism but I never had the courage to do so in a state where practically every dish has some animal in it. Still, I hate when she’s right. Against my better judgment and proper etiquette, and despite that it makes me ill to do so thinking of said stockyard, I smile smugly at Portia and shove the ham slice into my mouth and groan with pleasure.

  “What is the matter with you?” my mother asks, clearly shocked at my actions.

  “What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I walk into this house and have a decent conversation with you people?”

  “You people?” I hear Sebastian say, but my mother retorts, “I think the person with the problem right now is you, Vi.”

  I throw my fork down, which clangs against my plate loudly and I cringe. I can’t even be defiant right.

  “I’m the problem?” I ask anyway. “I’m not here five minutes and you all have pointed out every fault I could possibly have.”

  “Maybe if you got here on time,” Portia inserts, “we wouldn’t label you late. As for being fat and lazy….”