A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

break water will pour into the city and it’s good to have a failsafe.”

A heavy lull descends on the table and where once was laughing, drinking and discussions about beautiful Eureka Springs, suddenly we’re plunged back into flooded New Orleans. You didn’t have to be there to feel that pain. I learned that as soon as I arrived in Lafayette, greeted by residents with tear-streaked faces as we exited the bus, people who could barely look us in the eyes because they watched the horror on TV and somehow blamed themselves for the inability to do something.

My companions tonight sit quietly, transported in time, with that look of stunned disbelief on their faces.

And as suddenly as I’m whisked back to those nightmare days and nights I want to return to enjoying the elegant Crescent Hotel ballroom, where visitors danced to bands playing graceful waltzes. Anything to get out of those waters.

“So tell us about the ghosts,” I offer to Nanette, who appears absolutely shocked I would start talking about something so frivolous.

“How awful for you both,” she says and I realize there are tears in the corners of her eyes.

What’s awful, I think to myself, is having to experience Katrina’s wrath repeatedly. People told me after Lillye’s death that I needed to talk, to express my grief, to share the pain and it would help me heal. How making others cry will ease my load is beyond me. No matter what I said or who I spoke to, the darkness that took the place of my heart when Lillye died never healed. I’m a functioning human being today — with exception of seeing ghosts — and I no longer feel like I’m carrying a ball and chain around my soul, but the pain is acute as the day TB and I placed our baby into the family vault. And yes, I’m still angry that God would inflict a sweet three-year-old child with leukemia and ruin her parents’ lives.

Whatever stitches pulled my broken heart back together, they ripped open in Katrina. How could the Corps of Engineers let eighty percent of our city flood? How could our president move in slow motion to come to our aid and why is recovery happening at a snail’s pace? I’m burying my child all over again.

Sue me if I don’t want to talk about it.

“I heard this was a popular place for dances,” I continue, trying to keep the catch out of my voice but it’s there, I can feel it. “It’s a lovely space.”

The waiter arrives to announce tonight’s dinner and while he explains the choices of soups and entrees, I feel everyone’s eyes upon me, as if waiting for me to spring two heads. I glance over at TB and he offers a sad smile. Amazingly enough, I smile gently back. No matter our differences, why we married in the first place or how we are two different planets in opposite orbits, we shared something special and something horrific, events that will bind us for eternity.

“I want to know about the ghosts too,” says Carmine, sending me a sly look that no one notices, and for once I love this guy.

Nanette recovers after a long sip of wine and starts with the Victorian era. “We have so many ghosts in this hotel, we have tours every night.”

“Awesome,” TB says, and I wonder if he will think our bathroom girl is that terrific when she hovers over him in the middle of the night.

“The Crescent was built at great expense and using Ozark stone since the town kept having these deliberating fires,” Nanette begins. “The owner brought over stonemasons from Ireland to construct it. One of them was a young man named Michael.”

I notice Carmine bristle at the news.

“The story has it Michael fell to his death and now haunts Room 218, although he’s a friendly ghost, nothing too scary. Moves things around, pokes people.”

“I think Richard’s in Room 218,” Winnie says, and we all laugh.

“Actually, Richard’s across the hall from me,” I say.

“Where are you?” Nanette asks.

“Room 420.”

“Oh, that’s another ghost and another story.”

Everyone giggles and murmurs at the table, excited and maybe scared at what Nanette will tell us next. My heart sinks.

“In this ballroom,” Nanette continues, “people have seen Victorian-dressed visitors dancing. We also had a TV crew doing a ghost segment here and they experienced weird things going on.”

Joe sits up straighter in his chair. “Wait, didn’t Ghost Hunters do an episode on this hotel, something about a morgue.”

I get one of those shivers that runs down the back of your spine. My grandmother used to call it a skunk running over your grave. Nanette laughs, which makes me shiver again. Winnie sends me a look she probably gives her children, right before she inflicts a sweater on them.

“Ghost Hunters did come here to do a taping,” she says. “They caught a full body apparition on their infrared camera. They later called it the ‘Holy Grail’ of evidence.”

Joe smiles broadly remembering the episode, excited, no doubt, to be in the spot where the famous taping occurred. Stephanie is not as convinced. “Full body apparition?”

To my surprise, Carmine springs to life. “There’s new technology used to capture ghosts on camera and in recordings and the TAPS guys, the ones who made the show, used an infrared camera that picks up energy we don’t see with our eyes.”

Joe nods. “They picked up what looked like a man in a uniform with a cap on his head.”

“Where was this?” Stephanie asks, squirming in her seat while her husband’s eyes widen.

Nanette then relates the dark history of the hotel, when Dr. Norman Baker purchased the deteriorating building to use as a cancer hospital. Only Baker wasn’t curing cancer.

The Muscatine, Iowa, native made a fortune in the 1920s broadcasting ads for his mail order products, claiming his natural remedies would cure what ailed people as opposed to what he considered the corrupt American Medical Association. Rural residents hearing his program ate it up. The AMA, however, was none too pleased and began fighting back.

In 1929, Baker started making claims that aluminum caused cancer. With the help from Dr. Charles Ozias who operated a cancer sanitarium, Baker developed a “cure” made from glycerin, carbolic acid and alcohol mixed with tea brewed from watermelon seed, brown corn silk and clover leaves. He used this non-surgical treatment in his Baker Institute, going so far as to open a skull of an eighty-six-year-old cancer patient in front of a live audience, pouring the concoction over his brain to remove a tumor. The crowd went wild with excitement and Baker grew even more rich.

The cancer patient later died, however.

The AMA continued the fight and the Federal Radio Commission revoked his license in 1931. When a warrant was issued against him for practicing medicine without a license, Baker fled to Mexico.

But that didn’t stop the flim-flam man. He built an even larger radio station and broadcasted his propaganda into America, plus created another cancer hospital. Then he returned to Iowa, faced trial, served a one-day sentence and later ran for the Iowa state senate.

At this information, we all react.

“He ran for office?” Joe asks, amazed.

“Are you sure he wasn’t from Louisiana?” I ask and my table colleagues laugh.

“He was a bold man,” Nanette continues. “He spent years convincing thousands the government was a hoax and if you have a loved one suffering from cancer, you’ll try anything.”

“How did he get here?” Stephanie asks.

Nanette recounts how Baker purchased the hotel that was lingering unused in hard times, renaming it the Baker Hospital and offering the same cure. For two years, he made another fortune until the feds caught him for mail fraud.

“Apparently, he was having patients sign letters stating they were feeling wonderful and that the cure was working,” Nanette explains. “And he would mail them to their loved ones even if they were actually dying.”

Stephanie grimaces. “I’m afraid to ask what the morgue reference was.”

We all stop eating. “It was in the basement, the place where they took patients who passed away,” Nanette answers.

Suddenly, the table is abuzz with lots of questions but Nanette holds up a hand. “You all are going to be treated to the ghost tour tomorrow night, so you’ll get to visit all these places then.”

Dessert arrives and a lull settles. We shift to small talk and suddenly it’s time to call it a night. The hour is relatively young but my head is still spinning so I’m more than ready to crawl into some heavenly sheets, even if I must share them with TB. We move into the lush lobby where Nanette gives us a nightcap story of the ghost cat. Apparently, the beloved hotel cat passed away and refuses to leave as well. We all laugh as if it’s some great joke, all except Carmine, who keeps staring off to a corner of the lobby. We all share good-nights, then the group splits up. Richard takes the stairs (of course he announces this so we’ll all be impressed with his vigor and stamina), Stephanie and Joe move to the back porch to enjoy the rocking chairs and night air and Winnie follows TB and me to the fourth floor. Carmine and Irene are staying at the Basin Hotel in town, so they take off with Henry. Alicia and Carrie hang back in a huddle, discussing plans for tomorrow, heads intent on their blackberries.

“That was interesting,” Winnie says to us in the elevator.

“What was?”

“The ghosts.”

A shiver skitters across the hairs of my skin.

“Are you cold?” she asks, giving me the once-over.

“No, Mom.”

Winnie turns to TB who is focused on digging something out of his teeth with a toothpick. “Watch her!”

TB