Ghost Trippin' Page 3

  Tabitha beams and throws up her hands. “I couldn’t help it. I know it’s too early for Carnival and my friends at church are going to give me grief about that, but I couldn’t wait.”

  “Early is an understatement,” Jerry says without looking our way. “Mardi Gras doesn’t happen until late February.”

  “But not the ball and the other parties,” Tabitha shouts back, and once again I feel her disappointment.

  “Come on,” she says and heads down the hall to what I assume is her bedroom.

  They say LSU chose its school colors of purple and gold because it was Carnival time, but it seems only natural that Louisiana’s main university would replicate its most popular holiday. I can’t help myself. I lean across the sectional and whisper in Jerry’s ears, “Love all that purple and gold in your living room. Really beats out this nasty crimson.”

  He turns and looks at me for the first time, his Bama countenance unsettled, particularly since his team is losing. “There’s also green on that tree.”

  I smile smugly. “Great score.” Then I head down the hall before he retorts.

  But the joy of ribbing a Bama fan quickly evaporates as I realize I’m heading to a Carnival luncheon with my talkative cousin when I should be searching out my dad and getting answers. I make a few comments to that effect, mention my lack of clothes and needing a bath, but that only makes Tabitha more determined.

  “By the time we leave, you won’t recognize yourself,” she declares.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I utter to myself.

  After an hour of soaking in a bathtub — that part I enjoyed — then layers of makeup and trying on frilly clothes, all of which fit too snugly, Tabitha approves of her subject. I squeeze into her too-small shoes trying not to groan and gaze into the mirror. Mrs. America, here I come.

  “We need to puff up that hair,” Tabitha says, slipping on her dress. “Give it some curl and hairspray.”

  “Nope. I’m done.” And with those words I head for the living room. Some things I will not endure. Big hair is one of them.

  “Second quarter,” Jerry says, pulling a beer from the fridge. “Tied game.”

  I want to spit something sly back at him but I know better. By the end of the day, powerhouse Bama is likely to win. Better to keep my LSU mouth shut.

  Tabitha emerges smelling of perfume and hair spray and looking like Shelby on her wedding day in Steel Magnolias; she loves that film, which is why her daughter carries the name. In fact, all her kids are named after favorite movie characters, including the youngest, Atticus, Cus for short.

  We pile in her Mercedes and head north toward Butler, the largest town in the county but that isn’t saying much. To my surprise, the roads are well paved.

  “We have a lot of pull around here,” Tabitha says proudly. “You’d know that if you visited more often. Jerry complained about the road to our place and it was fixed within the year. You came up the old way. Hardly anyone uses those roads anymore.”

  We pull up to a restaurant with a parking lot full of cars and Tabitha greets the other women with ease and style. I stumble along in my too-tight shoes, while Tabitha introduces me as her “high falutin cousin from that big city of New Orleans.” Most of her friends adore my hometown and tell me so, but Tabitha only shakes her head.

  “New Orleans doesn’t have anything we don’t have,” she says, and all the women politely smile.

  Naturally, Tabitha’s at the head table and insists I join her there, although doing so means having to bring in an extra chair and squeezing those already seated.

  “I’m fine sitting anywhere,” I say. “Please don’t bother.”

  Before she can argue I slip away, find a nice empty chair at a table closest to the exit. I look at the front door longingly, wishing there was some way to escape.

  The luncheon is painless enough, and my table partners seemed friendly, although I get the feeling I’m seated at the reject table. The rest of the room is full of skinny, well-dressed ladies with expensive jewelry but this lot looks more like me on a normal day.

  “That’s wonderful that you came all this way to support your cousin,” a chubby one with a mole on her neck says.

  I nod, feeling incredibly guilty because I had completely forgot about the crowning.

  “She must really appreciate you being here with all that’s happening at her house,” thick glasses with a bad haircut adds.

  I think of my father roaming through Grandma Willow’s house all this time. Does Tabitha know?

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  The elderly woman with dangling fruit from her earlobes leans forward and whispers, “That man they dragged out of their pond.”

  I had completely forgotten about the dead man found on their property. I glance over at Tabitha and she’s glowing like a lightbulb.

  “I doubt it was someone she knew,” I say. “Have they identified him yet?”

  “I think they’re doing a DNA test or looking at his teeth,” the woman to my right says while enjoying her roll dripping with butter.

  “Y’all watch too much CSI,” fruit ears mutters.

  There’s a long Jesus prayer, then lunch, then the current krewe president relates organizational news before introducing Tabitha and placing the queen’s tiara on her head.

  “Our honorable krewe takes its name from the beautiful goddess of wells and springs,” the krewe president announces proudly, spreading her hands like she’s performing a melodrama. “Like the springs that run through our region, we are the life force of Carnival.”

  A bit over the top but Tabitha squeals, which makes fruit ears wince, but most of the audience is hooting and hollering and you’d think we’d just crowned Queen Elizabeth. In truth, I think the English would find this display of emotion vulgar. Maybe that’s why we broke away from England, to move away from that stiff social structure. But wait, then why are we playing royalty?

  Did I mention I’m ADHD? My mind can travel the world, buy groceries, and do taxes while carrying on a conversation. Which is why while I’m watching my cousin be crowned Queen Conventina XIV, I also catch Jerry slipping into the restaurant lobby. He tilts his chin up so I rise and head his way.

  “What’s up?”

  “Bama beat LSU.”

  I laugh. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

  He hands me a little beige purse. “Queeny forgot this. I have to go pick up your aunt in Mobile so pass this on, will you?”

  “Aunt Mimi’s coming here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My Aunt Mimi?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He pulls his keys out of his jean pocket. “Maybe because we share the pond with her, the one that had a dead body floating in it and the police want to know if she can ID the guy.”

  I’m stumped because on one hand I’m dying to see my aunt and tell her everything that has happened in the last few days. On the other hand, I’m furious with her for letting my father stay at her place without telling me or anyone else in the family.

  “Let me pick her up.”

  Jerry looks up startled, but I see the glint in his eyes. “It’s in Mobile.”

  “Yeah, know the place. Drove from there yesterday.”

  A grin emerges. Jerry’s thrilled he doesn’t have to drive the hour or so to get there, not to mention having to talk to someone. “Okay,” he says, and hands me the keys.

  That smile won’t last long, I surmise. “You have to stay here and bring Tabitha home.”

  Sure enough, Jerry takes one look at the room full of women and acts like a deer in the crosshairs. I hand him the purse and pat him on the back. “See the lady wearing the bananas on her ears? That’s your table.”

  Before he can change his mind, I rush out the door.

  And that’s how my New Age aunt found me, standing at the baggage claim in my pastel floral dress, borrowed pearls and way too much makeup, twisting like a go-go dancer to relieve the
pain in my feet. She’s dressed in her usual baggy linen pants, Birkenstock sandals, and oversized top accented by dangling lotus earrings and several necklaces, all made from organic material, no doubt. Her hair has turned completely gray but she doesn’t care, wears it natural and long even though my mother insists women her age should do neither.

  “This is a surprise. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  She reaches for a hug and I step back to avoid her arms and immediately feel remorse. I adore my aunt, but her betrayal about my father has cut me to the core.

  “I see we have some talking to do.”

  I cross my arms. “You bet we do.”

  She grabs her bag covered in political bumper sticks, none of which are likely to match Alabama’s conservative nature. “I’m a bit peeved at you as well.”

  I uncross my arms. “Me?”

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  I shake my head. “My father’s living at the homestead and you’re wondering about my phone?”

  Aunt Mimi stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind, then pulls her bag over a shoulder. “We have an hour’s drive and apparently lots to talk about.”

  We remain silent all the way to Jerry’s fancy, extra-large pickup truck, placing Mimi’s bag in what these people call a back seat; not my idea of wheels. After we pole-vault into our seats we head out. Once we hit the interstate and head north, Mimi sighs.

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone and what are you doing in Alabama?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much to tell and yet I’m exhausted from thinking of it all. I only want to listen to the rhythmic sounds of the wheels on the highway and forget that I almost lost my life and saw my absent father.

  “Vi?”

  I sigh, knowing I must tell her everything.

  “You might remember that I told you about Dwayne Garrett in Natchez,” I begin. “He was a journalist on my press trip down the Natchez Trace.”

  I pause because I usually must explain press trips to people. I’m a travel writer and tourism folks invite us to their towns or regions to show us what they offer. It’s all on their dime and most of it is fun stuff, but it’s not a vacation and requires tremendous skill on our end. The Natchez Trace press jaunt was such a trip.

  “And?” Mimi counters, so I keep going.

  “He said he could help me evolve my SCANC specification so that I could reach other people on the other side.”

  I cringe because that had been the major contention between TB and me, the reason TB isn’t speaking to me now.

  “I shouldn’t have, but I believed that he could help me speak to….”

  I can’t bear to finish that sentence. I had called Mimi in the middle of my press trip last week and told her all this but I figured she might need a recap. And Mimi knows well who I want to speak to on the other side.

  “I remember well,” she says, clearly impatient. “What happened?”

  I breathe in and out again, trying to dispel the tightness in my chest.

  “He wanted me to cross over two apparitions I was channeling, so he could access their souls. Apparently, he’s been doing this for decades and it’s kept him alive.”

  Mimi turns sullen, stares out the window at the flat Alabama landscape.

  “Needless to say, I didn’t do it and I almost got killed. TB saved me and another journalist.”

  “Is this other journalist named Carmine?” she asks without looking back.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  She turns then, her eyes steel and her mouth pursed as if she’s trying not to get angry. “Because Carmine and TB have been calling me nonstop wondering where you are and why you’re not answering your phone. They’re worried sick because they said you took off from New Orleans without a word to anyone.”

  Her voice gets louder with each word which makes me angry.

  “Did TB tell you how he saved me?” I practically shout.

  This hits Mimi like an arrow to the chest. She pales and turns back toward the window.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You know what he is.”

  When Dwayne Garrett held Carmine and I hostage, hoping to pressure us into assisting him in his devious deeds, my sweet, unassuming husband swooped in to save me like an angel from heaven. Or more like an angel descendant. Blinding light poured off him, not to mention the force of energy that knocked Dwayne out and saved my neck. Literally. Dwayne was one moment away from cutting my throat.

  “I’ve always known,” Mimi whispers.

  We’re at the point where we pull on to the two-lane highway heading towards Silas so I exit the interstate and pull off on to the shoulder. I pull the brake up and turn toward Mimi.

  “Would you mind explaining that, please?”

  Now it’s Mimi’s turn to sigh. She looks at me, this time with empathy, and takes my hand.

  “His aura is so bright, Vi, it could light the world.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this. Carmine, who’s a descendant of Gabriel and only deals in messages, told me that angel descendants — those who are the offspring of the original mating of humans and angels centuries ago — can identify each other by their auras. Different colors denote different angel DNA. Archangel Michael’s color is blue, but TB has angelic DNA from both parents which makes him extra powerful, I’ve been told, thus the intense white light.

  Because I’m a mere SCANC and witch, I don’t read auras.

  And yes, this angel stuff has my head spinning.

  I remove my hand from Mimi’s grip, gaze at her sternly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It isn’t my place. It’s TB’s.”

  “Well, he failed to mention it all these years.”

  Mimi reaches for my hand again but I cross my arms against my chest.

  “You know, TB,” she says. “He’s a sweet man who loves unconditionally. It’s not in his nature to go around acting like a superhero.”

  “He’s my husband. I should have known.”

  Mimi nods. “Yes, you should have.”

  “And then there’s the part about me being a witch.” Mimi straightens and blushes. “Apparently, you know about that, too.”

  She opens her mouth to speak but thinks better of it.

  “What else am I missing here?” I shout.

  Mimi pulls a hand through her hair. “Vi, you’ve had so much on your plate. First, you got pregnant and married and then started working at that job you hated. Then Lillye came along and….” Thankfully she doesn’t finish that statement. “I felt that one day, when you were ready, I would tell you.”

  I close my eyes and count to ten, the tightness in my chest about to break me in half. Finally, I release the brake and head down the road. After what feels like an eternity, I ask, “And my dad?”

  Mimi is picking lint off her linen skirt. “What about him?”

  “Really? You’re going to keep that from me, too?”

  Mimi glances over, her eyes large. “I’m not keeping anything from you.”

  “He was at the homestead.”

  I didn’t think her eyes could stretch any larger, but something’s spooking her. “He’s at Grandma Willow’s?”

  “Yes. I spoke to him last night.”

  “At the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was actually there, at the homestead?”

  “Yes, dang it. He was standing in the living room talking to me, said he was worried about me, too.”

  Mimi places a hand on her neck and rubs, her breathing coming in short spurts.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Said you weren’t using the place.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much.” Now my breathing is getting labored. “Mimi, why did you let him stay there without telling us?”

  Mimi turns in her seat so she’s looking straight at me. I alternate matching her gaze with what’s happening on the road and a violent shi
ver runs up my spine.

  “What?”

  “I never gave him permission to stay there,” she says softly. “I haven’t heard from him since before Katrina.”

  The knowledge rushes through me like a tidal wave. My breathing stops, the world blurs, and the road feels like a mirage in front of me.

  “Stop the car,” Mimi orders and I obey, pull over on to the shoulder. She comes around to the driver’s side, opens the door and gently pulls me from the car. Holding my elbow to keep me on my feet she walks me to the passenger side and helps me in, buckles me up. Once she’s taken my place, we’re back on the road.

  I lean my head against the window and watch the placid farms and cows blur past. I feel a hand caressing my hair and Mimi speaking encouraging words but all I can think of is the body in the pond, a man who died from drowning.

  My father’s dead and I’m seeing his ghost.

  Chapter Three

  We pull up to the Silas sheriff’s office and Mimi sets the brake. We stare at the building in front of us, neither moving.

  “Let me go in,” Mimi whispers. “You stay here.”

  I shake my head. “If it’s Dad, I have to identify….” I can’t manage the rest.

  Mimi takes my hand. “I can do that, honey. This is not something you want to see.”

  I laugh sadly at the irony. “I see dead people all the time.”

  “Not like this, sweetie.”

  I know that. I also know this person wasn’t found for days. So, I get where Mimi’s going. Still….

  I open the car door. “I’m next of kin. It should be me.”

  Coroner offices and morgues are nothing like TV and the movies. This one’s in the back of your standard county office building, cheap metal desks on a concrete floor with those ceiling tiles hanging low along with blinking fluorescent lighting. Sonny Ray —it’s on his lanyard — asks our names upon entering and doesn’t seem to mind the atmosphere, but then I assume what’s on the other side of the big metal door is more disturbing. After Mimi states our case, he calls the medical examiner and ushers us to a desk.