Give Up the Ghost Read online

  “You can reach your precious daughter. You must learn how. We can reach those who have left us but who are not in our,” and he used his fingers to signify air-quotes, “‘specific communication.’”

  I can’t help it. I still wonder if that’s true, even though I’ve I learned who Dwayne Garrett really is.

  We touch down into Chattanooga and I exhale, more loudly than I mean to; the guy to my right gives me a funny look. I’m okay, will face my fears without trepidation, but when I exit the security area and spot TB’s blonde head above the crowd, I rush into his arms and hold him as if the world’s about to end. He returns the affection, happy to see me as well, but when I linger, my head listing on his shoulder, I feel him tense. Finally, he pulls me away and studies me hard.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My sweet husband may be clueless at times but he always knows when I’m troubled.

  I swallow hard, try to keep the tears from creeping through. “I think I saw Dwayne in the Atlanta Airport.”

  TB’s gaze intensifies and he says nothing. My husband’s usually all laughs and giggles, unconditional love and happiness, but right now he’s clearly worried. He nods silently, then wraps an arm about my shoulders and we turn toward the exit.

  “Let’s talk about it in the car.”

  My first thought is how odd for TB to be so stoic, but then he’s likely taking it in. We knew the man might come for us, but we figured we’d be safe living on a houseboat in the middle of rural middle Tennessee. And yes, that’s rather naïve of us, although I do share a bed with a man who can make heavenly light fly out of his fingertips.

  TB carries DNA from ancient times when angels assumed God wouldn’t mind if they co-mingled with humans. God took offense and put a stop to their fun, but there are people who walk the earth carrying angelic genetics. Called “descendants” and resembling angel ancestors, people like my husband have special powers. Ones they keep adamantly secret. If I hadn’t met Dwayne and discovered he was a descendant of Lucifer, I’d never have known that my dear sweet TB carried on the line of Archangel Michael. Or that anyone did, for that matter.

  I slip my arm through his elbow. “Glad I have a dragon slayer in my corner,” I whisper, making a reference to Michael fighting the evils of Hell.

  TB cringes, hates when I make comments like that. Yes, he carries some seriously strong angel DNA — from both his parents, — enough to save my butt when it needed saving, but he doesn’t like using his powers. Or letting anyone know. And it’s some serious shit. My sweet husband prefers sensing and then saving kids from falling off playground slides or telling runaways to avoid the bus station. He’s a gentle soul so those bursts of protective white light or whatever he’s capable of doing come only in extreme situations. Like last November when he stopped an armed robbery in a Texas convenience store when we had an envie — that’s Cajun for desire — for late-night ice cream.

  We climb into TB’s pickup that’s at least fifteen years old and I notice a bag on my seat.

  “My class starts at one-thirty so I hope you don’t mind, picked up fast food on the way here.”

  My heart drops because I really wanted to spend the day with him. He looks over and senses my disappointment.

  “I can skip class.”

  I smile and try to look sincere. “Don’t be silly. It’s archival research, your favorite class.”

  His face lights up and it warms my heart. “Yeah, we’re discussing the Library of Congress today.”

  When I met TB at LSU all he cared about was football games and imbibing jungle juice. As a journalism student with my head deeply entrenched in facts, TB was the last man I imagined myself marrying, although the sex and crazy dance contests we entered kept me dating the man. We made the best of things when Lillye arrived, then parted ways after Katrina. In those three years since, we’ve experienced a planetary shift. Now, he’s excited about the Dewey Decimal System and I’m madly in love.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, but his smile fades and I know he doesn’t believe me.

  As I enjoy my spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s, I explain seeing Gorton in Wisconsin and his grave message, then spotting Dwayne among the crowds in Atlanta and the mystery military woman who saved me. TB digests the news and nods. Finally, he says, “We need to call Clayton.”

  We met FBI Agent Clayton Ginsburg last fall in Galveston when TB and I, along with my Aunt Mimi and my sister Portia, discovered a mystery while searching for my father who had disappeared years ago. After the mystery was solved, Clayton had given me his card and told me he was available, should I need him.

  He’s also open to the paranormal, another plus, although explaining the angel thing might be a hard sell.

  “I’ll call him when we get home,” I say between shoveling French fries into my mouth. It’s closing in on noon, after all.

  “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  The fry gets stuck in my throat. A “no” comes out hollow and weak. Maybe today I can find a GYN.

  I’m not sure TB believes me for he sends me a furrowed brow. I quickly look back to the meal in my lap.

  It’s a good hour to Emma’s Cove, the tiny community where our houseboat is moored on an equally small lake that empties into the Tennessee River. We ended up here when searching for accommodations in nearby Lightning Bug, a town with a funny name where the university is located. It was a sports weekend when we moved to Tennessee and all the hotels were full, including the small motel in Emma’s Cove. The nice motel owner — I say nice because she was then — offered us a night on the houseboat next door, one that was for sale, fully furnished, and available for rent. We ended up buying the boat.

  Speak of the devil; I see Maribelle raking leaves in front of the motel as we drive up, talking animatedly to someone on her cell. Like a good Southerner, I wave. And like everyone else in this town, she ignores me, bending her head as if she hadn’t seen my hospitality. But, I know she did.

  “Weird.”

  “What?”

  I’ve explained to TB how all the women in Emma’s Cove — I have yet to meet a male resident — have been cold and unfriendly. My journalist’s curiosity made me ask a lot of questions about the history of the town, who Emma was and that kind of thing, but I’m also used to knowing the life stories of my postal worker, the grocery store clerk and the person standing next to me at the bus stop. In South Louisiana, everyone talks to everyone and after a while they invite you home to dinner. Not here.

  Lightning Bug remains the exception. The town’s postal clerk hails from Knoxville but she went to LSU because her mother was from Baton Rouge, the grocery clerk laughs at my choice of pumpernickel bread, and I met the nicest woman at the bus stop who referred me to the perfect hair dresser.

  Remember how I said TB is clueless sometimes? He hasn’t noticed a thing about Emma’s Cove. I guess that’s how we’ll become the perfect travel writing slash ghost-solving team. I’m highly perceptive and he’s great in a library.

  TB grabs my bags and we head inside but while I fall on the couch TB stands in the middle of the living room looking uncomfortable.

  “Go,” I tell him. “Class starts in thirty.”

  He keeps looking around as if expecting to find Dwayne lurking in some dark corner. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  I stand and give him a giant hug, rising on my toes to make sure my chin clears his shoulder. I adore this tall lean man with strong arms developed from years in construction. When he holds me tight, the world disappears. Finally, I let him go, feeling the cold air of the unheated houseboat drift between us. I fold my arms across my chest and try to appear confident.

  “I’ll be fine. Now, go.”

  TB kisses me soundly and I imagine good things to come later that night.

  “Call Clayton,” he says and heads out the door. “And lock everything behind me.”

  He pauses at the threshold, considering something. Finally, he turns and he’s as serious as a preacher
on Sunday.

  “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, stay put until I get home.”

  I sigh. Heavily. I’m a travel writer so you know staying put is not in my vocabulary.

  “TB, I’m not going to avoid life because that man may or may not be in the world.”

  “You saw him, Vi.”

  “I think I did.”

  Now that time has passed, I’m not certain. The airport was so crowded and there’s that pregnancy thing. Or maybe I’m just kidding myself so TB won’t worry and I can get to the grocery store. Usually, when I’m on a press trip TB eats everything in the house and for some reason — ahem — fails to find time to visit the grocery.

  He’s standing sentinel at the door, hands firmly planted on his hips, gazing at me like a puppy who might lose his ball. I love this man so much and I tell him so, rise up on my toes once more to kiss him, then turn him around and push him outside. He pivots on the boat’s deck, takes one last look at me.

  “Go,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

  Yeah, right, I think to myself. Since Katrina I have been threatened by city mayors afraid of scandal, oil executives polluting a Louisiana lake, and a relative of Lucifer pursuing me, not to mention the cops who aren’t too keen on female ghost sleuths investigating old murders. But I smile as if I have no cares in the world and TB sighs and heads off.

  Once back inside — and you know I double lock that door — I do as I’m told, call my favorite FBI agent (only one I know) but Clayton’s on the road. The man answering the phone assures me he will pass on the message.

  I shower and change clothes, feel immensely better for it. My confidence returns and I refuse to let fear keep me holed up in my houseboat. Besides, it’s the middle of the day and I have pepper spray in my purse.

  Stinky, my orange and white cat who I swear has psychic powers, sends out a pleading meow, so I pause, plop on the sofa beside him and offer a quick massage. The sun’s starting to move toward the winter horizon, sending droplets of light upon the lake. Everything outside my living room window sparkles with hope.

  It’s so beautiful here, so peaceful and quiet. I wake up every morning and enjoy coffee on the deck, listen to the loons and other waterfowl calling out to each other. So far, the winter’s been much colder than Louisiana, so I’m fairly certain summer will be milder and delightful, something I’ve never had back home in humid swampland.

  “I love it here,” I whisper to Stinky who winks. “You too?”

  He closes his eyes and tilts his head, telling me to stop talking and scratch the ears. I do as I’m instructed but I need to think about getting answers.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “Mommy needs to find a doctor.”

  We sold my Honda when we moved to Tennessee and because I’ve been traveling extensively since arriving at our new home, we haven’t had a chance to purchase a new car. Everything in Emma’s Cove is walkable and there’s a bus heading into Lightning Bug three times a day, so if I need to visit the grocery store in town I either grab the bus or ride in with TB.

  Today, I head to the library, a small building that used to be a store of some sort when the town experienced better days — at least that’s what my intuition tells me; my Internet research into the history of the town revealed nothing. The library sits next to a roadside diner that serves up the best biscuits and gravy. Then there’s a small auxiliary post office and a couple of abandoned buildings, one with enormous charm that I would love to renovate, if that was my thing (It’s not but I imagine it is while watching the home shows on HGTV). The motel and my houseboat round out the town. I know other residents live somewhere surrounding the hamlet but since no one talks to me I’ve yet to be invited close enough to spot them through the thick woods.

  There’s an empty field behind the library, a stretch of green space that rolls down to the water’s edge. I say green space but it’s more like brown. Nothing grows on a large swath of land, not even kudzu, trees, and all forms of shrubbery exploding on the periphery. I pause at the library’s front door, taking it in, when Maribelle nearly knocks me over exiting the library.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, her head down.

  “Wait!” I grab her elbow to keep her from fleeing. “Can I ask you something?” She looks at my hand on her elbow so I pull it away. “I need a reference to a female doctor.”

  Her gaze meets mine in a look that says, “Are you kidding me?” She frowns and waltzes away, angrily answering a call on her cell.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say to her back.

  I sigh and head inside, hoping the librarian might be more helpful. She’s not.

  “We don’t offer referrals, try the Internet,” she says and heads toward the back.

  At this point, I give up. The two o’clock bus is expected so I catch it and head towards friendly town. As always, the nice bus driver welcomes me onboard and off we go. Just for kicks, I ask her if she can recommend an OB-GYN.

  “I can but my doctor’s over in Cleveland, my home town, and that’s in Tennessee, not Ohio.” The bus driver sends me a bright smile. She knows I’m from Louisiana and clueless about my new state. “I’ve been going to her for years so I drive over when I need to.”

  “I’m from Jackson,” a woman two rows back says with a heavy Southern accent. “And that’s in Tennessee, not Mississippi.”

  There’s only three of us on the bus and we’re smiling at each other like old friends. This is what I’m talking about!

  “I’m from New Orleans,” I add, “but I lived in Lafayette for the past three years, evacuated there after Hurricane Katrina. Lafayette, like the American Revolutionary patriot, not La Fay-ette like y’all say here.”

  We all laugh, me more than these Tennessee natives, because I still think it’s hilarious that the honorable French Marquis de Lafayette, aide de camp to President George Washington and hero of both the American and French Revolutions, is relegated to some Southern bastardization of his name.

  Two women on the bus scoot over to where I’m sitting.

  “I’ve heard that Doctor Morton Touché in Lightning Bug is really good,” one says.

  Speaking of Frenchmen.

  “He’s won a lot of doctor awards,” the other says.

  “Touché?” I ask. “Like sword fighting in French?”

  They stare at me as if they don’t understand. I forget that when you leave Louisiana the rest of America doesn’t get French, hence La Fay-ette. I try for humor, instead.

  “Kinda funny, though, for a female doctor. If you look at it written, it’s touch-ee.”

  Again, pas compris.

  “Never mind.” I burn his name to memory. “Thank you so much.”

  The smiles return and we chat all the way to Lightning Bug. The driver even pulls up alongside Touch-ee’s office instead of the bus stop, bless her heart. I thank them all and they wave me on.

  When I enter Touch-ee’s office — I really must stop calling him that or it will pop out of my mouth, — the lobby’s full of pregnant patients. Good sign. I ask the woman at the counter for an appointment and she shakes her head.

  “He’s booked up for weeks,” she says.

  I can’t wait that long, I think, not after stalling almost three months.

  “I do have a cancellation for this afternoon, but it’s iffy going forward. He’s very popular and hesitant about taking on new patients.”

  I consider this. I need a doctor to see me through the birth but I also want to interrogate, I mean interview, doctors before deciding. And I really prefer a woman OB. On the other hand, I need to be seen. Like now.

  “That’s fine,” I tell the woman. “I think…,” I almost laugh at this, “…that I’m pregnant so I really need an examination. I’ll take it from there, can always find another doctor.”

  She sends me a puzzled expression. “Dr. Touché is the best in the business. You won’t find anyone better.”

  “Okay.” Not sure
what to make of that.

  I fill out some forms, hand over my insurance card — thank you Uncle Boudreaux — and sit down with a pile of celebrity magazines after my search for good journalism comes up short. It’s difficult to concentrate on Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s hoard of children because a dozen eyes are watching me carefully; the room’s full of taxidermy fish hanging from every spare space. There’s even a threesome — three fish on one board — filling a long narrow wall.

  “I don’t know, you think the good doctor’s a fisherman?” I tell the woman next to me, who smiles politely as if she doesn’t get my sarcasm. It’s okay, not many people do.

  I head back to reading about the Amazon losing its rain forest and how Prince Charles calls for a focus on the problem — thank you Prince Charles — but those fish are creeping me out.

  “Shouldn’t you eat these and not stuff them for the wall?” I ask again. “I know I love a good trout with a meunière sauce.”

  “I don’t know,” my neighbor says with that smile again, shrugging her shoulders and going back to her People magazine.

  Sometimes I really miss the newsroom. Call us what you will, but my journalism friends have a wicked sense of humor. I don’t miss chasing police, sitting through boring municipal meetings, and crushing deadlines in a rush but I long for my buds.

  After about thirty minutes of fish and Amazon, my name is called and I’m ushered into a room and quickly dressed in paper. A nurse asks a million questions, including why haven’t I seen a doctor all this time.

  “I hadn’t realized I might be pregnant,” I lie. “My periods are so erratic.”

  She buys it, but when Doctor Touché arrives, he doesn’t.

  “You can’t not go to a doctor,” he says with a patronizing tone and I immediately dislike this man. He’s large and sports a head full of black hair that doesn’t look real, piercing blue eyes, and super large hands that scare me because I know where they’ll go. He fills up the small room with his presence and if I could crawfish back from him on the patient table, I would.