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

A geology lesson in third grade started my rock fascination. When my crazy Uncle Jake who lived in northern Alabama found out, he decided I needed to know where “rocks grew.” In all honesty, it was a chance for he and my Aunt Mimi to get me away from “Sin City,” my hometown of New Orleans where not only care forgot but Christian living as well. Or so they thought. I explained that everyone I knew attended church, but Uncle Jake muttered something about idol worship and the Pope.

My family didn’t attend church. My parents were liberal college professors who claimed religion was a crutch for the ignorant. The fact that she and Aunt Mimi are related baffles the mind.

Days in Wedowee, Alabama, were filled with saying prayers, grace and thanking the Lord for every little thing, even Uncle Jake catching that seven-pound bass in the Fayette County Lake. I didn’t mind because in between church youth meetings and Sunday service, I got to visit the stalactites and stalagmites of nearby DeSoto Caverns, where Aunt Mimi ran the gift shop.

One day, Uncle Jake took me on the tour.

“The best part is coming,” Uncle Jake said in his funny accent, making me wonder for the umpteenth time how Aunt Mimi married a man so distant from my sophisticated mother, a Shakespearean studies professor who spoke like the people on the news and sometimes, when extolling the comedic complexities of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, for instance, would actually sound British.

“How could it get any better?” I asked Uncle Jake, gripping the piece of quartz I had purchased in the gift store, a lovely stone that had beckoned to me the moment I had walked into the establishment. Glistening and smooth, the stone burned warmly in my palm.

“Just you watch,” Uncle Jake whispered.

And then they turned off the lights.

It was darker than any night I could remember, so black nothing anywhere was visible. I waved my hand in front of my face to make sure. Zip.

“There is absolutely no light in this cave,” the tour guide informed us. “People who have lost their way in here many years ago were known to go crazy after just a few hours.”

I could certainly see why. The darkness seeps into your brain, snuffing out whatever light existed in your consciousness.

It freaked out the other tourists, but I loved it. The darkness covered me like a blanket and vibrations of humanity appeared everywhere, charged by the humming of my crystal. I couldn’t see, but rather felt the presence of others, comforting souls who seemed to float by, touching the top of my head like a loving parent. When the lights came back on, the humming stopped.

I later told Uncle Jake of my experience which initiated intense prayer sessions with everyone they knew, arriving at the house to lay hands on me and “wash the demons away.” There was nothing comforting about their clammy hands on my head, nor peaceful with their talk of the devil and “evil lurking in an innocent child.” My crystal disappeared as well — no doubt Uncle Jake or Aunt Mimi hid it or brought it back to the cave.

I couldn’t return to New Orleans fast enough. I called my mother to fetch me days earlier than planned. She acted put out because of her summer school schedule, but she arrived anyway, explaining to Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi that she needed me at home.

Aunt Mimi suspected, and as my mother was putting the car in reverse to back out of the driveway, came running over to the passenger’s side, placing something cool in my palm. “So you’ll remember us fondly,” she said, looking sad as she released the stone.

I cried all the way home. The church people had freaked me out but Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi were the first concerted attention I had received from family. They loved me despite my lack of intellect (unlike my sister’s high IQ) and sophistication (unlike my brother’s beauty and suaveness), and I more then likely hurt their feelings. Plus, I desperately wanted to return to that cave.

They never had children, lived out their lives in northern Alabama which meant I never saw them again; my parents certainly didn’t want to visit. When Uncle Jake died, we didn’t go to the funeral and later Aunt Mimi checked herself into a nursing home somewhere near Branson, her favorite vacation spot. She resides there to this day. I really need to visit.

I thought of them both the first night after the storm, after hours of blistering heat on the roof and no rescue, when darkness so intense fell upon us and TB curled into a ball and cried himself to sleep. I embraced the blackness that night, seduced by a night filled with stars and the quiet lapping of the water against the side of the house.

I hear that sound again and wake with a start. I’ve been dreaming about water again. Even though in my dreams the floodwaters stretch out for miles, smooth as a sheet of glass, peaceful and calm, I awake sweating.

I check my cell phone. Five minutes to six. Crap. When did I fall asleep?

I throw on fresh clothes, checking them to make sure the Goodwill smell has been washed off, and attempt to tame my wild curls that inflate like a balloon when it’s humid. The Ozark mountain air must be helping for my waves of hair appear almost normal. I quickly add some eye shadow and mascara to accent my deep brown eyes my mother claims are too small and apply a touch of powder to cheeks my mother labels pastey. I give myself a harsh look, reminding myself that I’m not that bad looking. Since Katrina I’ve lost weight and can now fit into a size ten, first time since high school, and I still have my tan. I almost hear my mother responding, so I grab my cute new hippie purse I found at Salvation Army and rush down to the lobby.

This time, I avoid looking at the pool.

Irene is there waiting, talking to a tall, thin woman in jeans and a top reminiscent of the seventies with long brown hair captured in back by a multi-colored clip that matches her shirt. She notices me and smiles and I instantly warm.

“You must be Viola,” she says with a Southern accent, pronouncing my name like the instrument. “I’m Winnie Calder.”

“Yes, I am.” I offer my hand. “But it’s Vi-o-la.”

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