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

Mimi laughs. “If it is, it skipped your mother.”

“And me?”

Mimi pulls her hands through those silver strands and looks down at her knees. “Now I’m the one to apologize. I made a mistake asking those people to pray for you. I made a bigger mistake not clearing the air afterwards. I should have driven to New Orleans and taken you out for ice cream or something and explained.”

“I saw you all at holidays.”

“But I never told you the truth. And now you’re a SCANC.”

I still can’t get use to this SCANC business and the way she utters the word you’d think it was a bad thing, as in the word’s real definition. I would laugh if it wasn’t so depressing — and I wasn’t talking to the wrong people.

“Can I speak to Lillye?” I ask so quietly I’m not sure Aunt Mimi hears me.

She keeps looking at her lap, straightening the wrinkles from her pants. “Probably not, Hon.”

Of all the horrible, crazy things that happened that day, this piece of news hits the hardest. I want to slip beneath these waters and call it a life. “Why not?”

She looks at me then, her eyes filled with empathy. “Maybe you would have if you hadn’t repressed this gift. But now you only see those who have died by water.”

The bathroom becomes a blur of Baby Boomer blue and pink. I can’t speak for the blockage in my throat. I feel Mimi’s hand again on my arm. “Maybe in time,” she says. “Maybe you can develop your broader talents once again.”

I can’t control my emotions at this point so Mimi whispers something about checking on the vegetable soup on the stove and leaves me to finish my bath. By the time the tears abate enough for me to wash my hair, the water’s freezing cold.

I finish my hair, dry off and get dressed in a daze, then meet Mimi in the kitchen. It smells heavenly but I’m not hungry and she appears disappointed when I tell her.

“I called the airport and have you on an early flight so it’s probably best that you get some sleep.”

I do as I’m told, Mimi tucking me into bed and kissing me sweetly on my forehead. Again, such a simple gesture, but it provides comfort of which I haven’t felt in a very long time. I want to thank her but that apple lodged in my throat won’t budge. Mimi understands, pats me on the shoulder, turns off the light and closes the door. Thinking of Grandma Willow and how she made us all kneel at our bedside and say prayers before we went to bed, I thank God or whoever is out there for my Aunt Mimi, my angel in a thunderstorm.

The smell of bacon wakens me but it’s still dark outside. I glance at the clock and it’s four a.m. I remember Mimi saying something about an early flight so I pull on clothes that aren’t too bad smelling — I’ve run out of clean ones — and head to the pork source. Mimi acknowledges me with a nod of the head as she’s busy cooking up eggs, then we eat in silence, neither of us much of a morning person. Then quietly we pack up the car in darkness and head up Interstate 65.

“I have questions,” I venture.

Mimi gulps down coffee from a thermos. “Let’s hear them.”

“Do I have to solve every mystery that presents itself?”

“No,” she answers emphatically. “You wouldn’t have a life if you did.”

“So how do I turn it off?”

“There are ways of blocking the incoming messages. You have to tell them to stop or to go away.”

That doesn’t seem possible to me and I tell her so. After a few pieces of advice, including repeating how Carmine snapped his fingers in the New Orleans airport on the way to Eureka Springs, she concludes with, “I’ll help you with it.”

“Will I see everyone who died by drowning?” I think of New Orleans and all the people who died there, realizing it’s a good thing I don’t live there anymore.

“Only those who are stuck on this plane for some reason.”

“Like in the movies, people who were murdered or committed suicide.”

She grimaces. “That’s too simplistic and Hollywood loves to play up the dramatics. It’s more complicated than that. I’ll help you with that as well.”

“Can you talk to anyone who’s passed?” The biggest question of all and it emerges like a whisper.

She glances over at me but I only spot the whites of her eyes in the darkness. “Not always.”

We ride in silence for several minutes and then Aunt Mimi shifts in her seat and begins humming and shaking her head. “What is it?” I ask her.

She lets out a huge sigh and for a weird moment I think she’s mad at me. “She was only five, Viola. Hard for a child to communicate at that age. All I’m getting are images.”

I’m starved for anything of my child so I sit up straight and grab Mimi’s arm in excitement. “What is she doing?”

“She’s in a store of some sort. I see rocks everywhere, maybe because you love stones so much?”

A burst of happiness rushes through me like I haven’t felt since college. It’s difficult for me to speak, let alone breathe. “What else?”

Mimi looks at me briefly and smiles. “She’s happy, Vi. She’s dancing and laughing. She’s at peace and wants you to know that.”

I should be crying at this point but I’m too filled with joy. “Can you tell her I miss her?”

Mimi’s smile broadens. “She knows that. But she keeps pointing to the stones, baby blues ones.”

“My angelite?”

Suddenly, Mimi covers her mouth with her hand and I see tears well up in her eyes. “Oh my goodness. She’s with my mom.”

Part of me wants the focus back on my child but I’m thrilled that Aunt Mimi got something out of this “reading” as well. It’s also comforting to know my baby girl is with family. Still, I long for more.

Finally, Aunt Mimi straightens and wipes the tears away and my heart sinks knowing that this brief foray into heaven is over. “They’re good,” Mimi says, smiling. “They’re both so good.”

If only I could say the same for me, I think, as I stare off into the bleak, dark highway as my old friend, that familiar heartache, returns. We pull up to the airport and Mimi pulls my luggage out of the trunk and gives me a hug that knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s awesome.

“You write to me,” she tells me sternly when she finally lets me go. “And you call me anytime you have a question or need something.”

“Yes ma’am.”

We stand there awkwardly looking at each other, waiting for one of us to move away. “Okay then,” Mimi says, but she hugs me once more and whispers in my ear while she does it. “Just remember, Pudding, that those who have passed are there to help us, too. It’s not all you helping the departed. All you have to do is ask and they will come to your aid.”

She pulls away and I nod, message received. I grab my silly polka dot suitcase and laptop and head toward the ticket agent, when Mimi calls out my name. “If we knew about all the people who are on the other side looking out for us,” she shouts outs, “we would never be scared.”

I wave goodbye and we both head off in different directions.

After the flight to Memphis where I slept most of the way, I caught the ten o’clock to New Orleans and was feeling renewed and recharged by my visit to Aunt Mimi’s until the pilot called for the final descent into the Crescent City. Looking down on the massive Lake Pontchartrain whose waters knew my home intimately and the endless blue tarps covering rooftops, my heart plummets. I have no home. I have no job. My marriage is over and my career dead before it even began. This afternoon, I must endure supper with my crazy ass family and hope my mother doesn’t ride me too hard on coming back to New Orleans where too many dead by water walk the earth.

And then there’s the opera singer. I look for her when I exit the plane but the airport’s rowdy for a Friday and the crowds no doubt keep ghosts at bay (I’m assuming). I find my car after walking up and down aisles for fifteen minutes, all the while scaring tourists and couples with children with my cussing and ranting. The Interstate’s clogged with traffic, mostly displaced New Orleanians arriving home from Baton Rouge and other cities they now live or work in and the usual hordes of tourists wanting to eat, play and let loose despite that a hurricane once ploughed through. After an hour of more foul language, I drive up to my mom’s house with its spanking new roof and landscaping. You would never know that Katrina hit this house, I think, as I grab my purse and brace myself.

“I’m home,” I announce as I walk through the front door and my mom appears at the kitchen threshold, wiping her hands on a dishrag. She’s not happy to see me, although with all those phone calls and bugging the shit out of me to move home, you’d think she would be.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

I plop my purse on the couch and give her a kiss on one cheek. “Wow, Mom, I would expect something more original for a Shakespeare professor.”

“And I would expect my daughter to care what happens to her mother.” She huffs and disappears into the kitchen and I, like the obedient daughter I used to be, follow her to get the verbal thrashing over with. My mom’s dressed in a blue