A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📕

Before I can fully digest that thought and filter it through a colander of grace and kindness I blurt out, “What were we thinking?”

If I had slapped TB hard across the face I couldn’t have done more damage. I instantly regret my words as his smile falters but the deed is done. TB looks down at the floor and takes a deep breath, letting it out in a loud rush while shaking his head. “I should have known better. I should have known you’d do this.”

I open my mouth to offer damage control but my head’s cloudy and I’m too exhausted to figure out the right words. Instead, I lean forward, holding up my head with my hand and rubbing my forehead to try to think clearer. “TB, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

TB grins sadly. “I get it, Vi. You’re sorry you ever met me, sorry we got married, sorry you had to put up with me all these years. But hey, what’s a good roll in the sack every once and a while.”

I look up which makes my eyes ache. “That’s not what I meant and that’s not what happened.” Truth is, I have no idea what happened.

He holds his hands up, looking like Bill Clinton being asked about Monica Lewinski. “Moment of passion. Big mistake. No worries.”

TB turns and heads back into the bathroom, slamming the door in his wake. I can hear him packing up his toiletries through the closed door. Why must I always say the first thing that pops into my head? I throw my legs over the bed and, still holding on to my throbbing head, manage to walk to the closet and pull out the last of my clean clothes, basically a comfortable shirt and cardigan sweater and a pair of jeans I’ve worn three days but still look decent. While I pull these clothes out of the suitcase, items that feel like they’re made of iron, TB emerges from the bathroom, throwing his toiletries and clothes into his backpack.

“TB, please don’t go.” This is what my mind is instructing me to say but the words fail to come. Instead, I turn to watch the man of which I’ve spent the last eight years of my life pack up what little belongings he now possesses and waltz back into a nightmare. I’m engulfed in shame but I do nothing.

Fully dressed and packed, TB hauls the backpack on to his shoulder and hands me a set of papers. “This is what I found on the orphan girls. They started the program because the ladies social club in town wanted to do something good for the po’ folks in the area. First, they brought in two sisters from an orphanage in Harrison, wherever that is. The following year it was a girl from Little Rock.”

I can’t stand this. I don’t want to be married to this man any longer but the pain staring back at me is more than I can bear. “TB, I really didn’t mean….”

TB thrusts more pages at me, which land on top of the pile of clothes in my arms. “These are pages from the yearbook and their names are beneath the photos so that may help you and the police identify those bones. All three of them were here one year and gone the next.”

“TB, please.”

“The librarian and I did searches through census records and city directories and we couldn’t find these girls anywhere.” He’s rushing through all this as if he has a train to catch. “She was going to call the Little Rock Diocese this morning to see if they have any information, too.”

“You don’t have to go.”

He hands me a business card, places it on top of the pile. “That’s her name and number. Clarice Williams. When you talk to her, be sure and thank her for all her help. She’s been tremendous.”

“Yes, she has,” although I’m not referring to the librarian.

TB gives me one last look, as if maybe he catches my meaning, but then he opens the door. “Goodbye Vi.” And with those last words, my husband disappears through the crocked door.

I feel like a heel, on top of aching from lack of sleep and being tormented by several ghosts on my first travel press trip that was supposed to change my career and my life. I angrily throw my pile on to the mussed bed and those three faces I spotted at the lake stare back at me, as if to confirm that yes, Viola Valentine, you are the biggest bitch on the planet right now.

“No help from you,” I shout back.

I stumble into the bathroom for a shower, checking the time because I’m due downstairs for breakfast at eight and it’s now twenty after seven. I start the water and gather my shampoo and conditioner when I spot a piece of clothing on the floor. It’s TB’s old T-shirt, the one he got at the turn of the century when everyone thought the world’s computers would fail. He bought it on the streets of New Orleans when we took Lillye, then just a baby, to watch the midnight fireworks over the river. I pick it up and gaze at its message — “I caught the Y2K Millennium bug” — remembering what a great night that was. I inhale its scent, recalling, too, those moments when I enjoyed being TB’s wife, the manly scent of him after work, his expert lovemaking and watching him with Lillye, such an amazing father. Even though I’m raked with guilt and shame, was that enough? Was Lillye the mortar that kept us together? Or am I the biggest fool that ever lived?

My head buzzes and I catch movement in the mirror. Sure enough, Lori is there, her eyes sad and pleading but I’m not in the mood. “What do you want?”

She reacts to my harsh tone but says nothing, glances down at the bathtub and holds her arms in that baby-cuddling fashion. My head hurts and I’m oh so incredibly tired. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it and we can all move on.”

Lori still says nothing but this time she points to the bathtub. This is new.

“Did you die here?”

She nods and finally, we’re getting somewhere. It makes sense, too, since I never could figure out why I could see a ghost who committed suicide by throwing herself off a balcony, being that I’m a water SCANC and all. “Did you drown?”

She places her hands around her neck.

“Did someone strangle you?”

That’s not it; she looks at me frustrated.

“I’m tired, Lori.” I don’t want to play this game right now, but then that avalanche of energy I felt in the dream returns. Someone or some force is urging me to feel what she’s saying. I try to focus on strangulation. What does one feel like when they’re being strangled? Lack of air. But in a bathtub? “Did someone hold you down under the water?”

She nods and I sense she’s fading. It’s dark in the bathroom because of one small window and the fact that it’s pouring outside but her image isn’t stable, like a lightbulb buzzing in and out. Once more she cradles her arms like she’s holding a baby.

“I don’t get it. A baby?” A wave of exhaustion rolls over me and I rub my eyes to clear my head but in those brief seconds Lori disappears. I feel like I’m taking tiny steps in a reality I can’t comprehend and the frustration of it exhausts me even more, not to mention the grief that continually emerges thinking of my own loss.

I plop down on the toilet, still holding TB’s shirt in my hands and try to make sense of it all. Is the baby Lori’s referring to my Lillye? Is Lillye on the other side waiting for me to contact her? Could this ghost and those I sense in the ether show me the way to my daughter? Oh, how that would be such a sweet ending to this insanity of seeing ghosts. Hell, this nightmare of life as I now know it.

I pull TB’s shirt to my face again and wish I hadn’t sent my husband away. For the first time since Lillye’s death, I want to discuss this with him, knowing he’s the only person who would understand, would listen to my crazy ghost stories and not judge, offer some answers.

My phone buzzes and from the irritating vibration I know it’s my mother. I let it go, sitting on the john of my tiny Victorian bathroom clutching my soon-to-be ex-husband’s T-shirt, crying my eyes out. But it’s so like my mother, stops and starts, stops and then starts again, so that no matter if you’re hanging upside down from a tree like the damn Tarot Hanged Man, you must pause in your dying to give that woman attention. Finally, I can’t take it anymore, grab the phone and push talk while wiping the tears and snot off my face with my other hand and practically yell, “What?”

“So nice to talk to you too, darling.” Of course, it’s my mother. And like usual, she doesn’t inquire as to my fragile state of mind, just starts rattling on about her insensitive daughter who never calls her back, even though she’s lost her job, her house is a mess from the storm of the century (wasn’t flooded, mind you) and she must revert to calling constantly to talk to the inconsiderate child. And, as always, I’m sitting there with tear streaks on my cheeks, wondering how a woman can be so clueless.

After a long tirade, I stand, glance at myself in the mirror and start wiping off the trails of grief and pain; I need to be downstairs in ten minutes. I place the phone on the pedestal sink while she complains incessantly and try to tame my unruly hair that’s a mess because I insisted on making love to my ex-husband the night before. I then attempt a spit bath in the sink because I haven’t the time for a full shower and I’m aggravated because I could use that delicious stream of hot water pouring over my body right now. All the while, my mother never stops talking.

“Viola, are you listening to me?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, begins telling me about an apartment her friend from Tulane has for rent, some efficiency in Metairie I could have if I must