A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  I sit up eagerly, which makes my head pound but I don’t care. These are the best words I’ve heard someone speak in days. If they were food, I would be devouring them like dessert.

  “I can’t believe you saw her,” I manage without choking up. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I lean back in my chair and exhale again, wishing I had taken that Tylenol before Peter was rushed out the room.

  “Was she a schoolgirl? Dressed in schoolgirl clothes?”

  Charlene nods. “With a gash across her forehead, much like yours only in the front.”

  “She acted like she didn’t know she was dead. Unless, of course, she’s a live girl and lives down there.”

  Charlene smiles at this and I relax slightly. I’m amazed to find my muscles taut and achy.

  “I shone my light at her and she screamed,” Charlene explains. “I was like you, frightened and started backing up the trail to get away. But she disappeared as fast as she came.”

  “You saw her vanish?” Oh please, oh please. I so want this crazy girl to be a typical apparition so there’s no question I haven’t lost my mind.

  “Poof!” Charlene says with animation.

  My shoulders drop with relief and my head even feels better. Charlene isn’t as relieved as I am. She’s obviously disturbed to find a dead schoolgirl in her cave.

  “Okay, so we both saw a ghost but who is she?” Charlene asks.

  I think back on Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi and their cave in Alabama and all the soft, comforting hands reaching out to me in the dark. My logical journalist brain wants to dissect all this, providing hard facts to explain the phenomenon but that won’t do. There are no hard facts to prove the deceased walk the earth. Instead, I’m convinced the answers lie in the emotions, because as clearly as I saw the blond schoolgirl holding her head as blood trickled through her fingers, I knew she was dazed and unaware of her death.

  Besides, I’m a fan of the ghost reality shows on TV and swear that ghosts have unfinished business. Or they are confused as to why they died, somehow missed the bus to the otherworld.

  “I think she doesn’t know she’s dead,” I deduce. “She could have been here on a field trip with her school, got lost, hit her head and died in there and no one was able to find her.”

  Charlene nods in agreement. “That would make sense. And no one thought to go down that path because she might have done what you did, leave the group without anyone noticing.”

  I feel guilty, like a naughty child. “Sorry.”

  Charlene tilts her head and smiles. “No, don’t be. I find Civil War shit boring too.”

  This makes us both laugh, which cuts the tension. But in a flash I remember something.

  “I believe she was murdered.”

  The blood leaves Charlene’s face and I wonder if she owns a psychic nature as well, for she understands me, maybe hoped for the best but silently knew the worst. “I think so, too.”

  I sit up more, pounding now back full force and I grimace.

  “Shall I get Peter?” Charlene asks.

  “Not yet, because you might want to call the police and have them search the cave for bones and I want to give you one last thought.”

  Charlene leans in closer, as if the walls have ears.

  “The last thing I remember before I blacked out was blood in her lap.”

  Charlene shudders as if goosebumps have taken over her body, an intense skittering over her skin. Suddenly, I feel them too and shiver as well.

  The door opens and Peter sticks his head inside, which makes Charlene rise and ask for a blanket. “I think our patient is a bit cold,” she tells him.

  Peter leaves to retrieve one from the EMT van but Winnie is Johnny on the spot, entering the room and gazing around to see what she might have missed. “What’s going on?”

  Charlene doesn’t know what to say, to explain how our little tête-a-tête involved ghosts. I stand and pretend I’m feeling like a million dollars, heading for the door and hopefully a hot bath at the hotel in Eureka Springs.

  “We were discussing how that path I stumbled upon was not for public use and how Charlene and Bud are putting up barriers this week to keep people out. I assured her I wasn’t going to write about my misbehavior.”

  Winnie senses I am lying — that mother thing again — but she nods. “You really need to do something about that,” she tells Charlene.

  “Don’t be hard on her,” I add. “It was all my fault. I never stayed in line in school and I never did what I was told.”

  Winnie gives me a look that says I know something more is happening here. As I pass her on the way out the door, she whispers, “You’re going to tell me everything in the van.”

  I nod, which makes me wince and I see her eyes widen in my peripheral vision. “Stop, Mom. I’m fine. Really. It’s just a headache.”

  “You should go to the hospital,” she says to me as she takes my elbow and helps me outside.

  “No way, no how,” I whisper back. “I’m a Katrina survivor, remember? Bad memories.”

  She lets it rest and I’m thankful for that. Besides, I’m sure it’s just a bad bump to the head and that martini is sounding better and better. If I’m lucky, my hotel room will have an oversized bath with some signature bath products and I can sip my alcohol and slip into heaven.

  As I enter the gift shop I realize my worries about the rest of the group being bored and anxious to get out of there was unfounded. They have been happily exploring the woods and lake, I’m told, or buying stuff in the gift shop.

  It’s then that I remember my angelite stone and slip my hand within my pocket. The cool stone remains and for a second I remember the girl’s face, bloody and frightful but also mad as hell. I pull my hand out of the pocket and the image vanishes, much like it did for Charlene.

  “Why now?” I wonder. “What the hell?”

  I feel a pinch at my elbow. Winnie’s giving me that look again. “Why what?”

  Crap, I said it out loud. “Why on my first trip did I have to do something stupid and get hurt?” I say with the best innocent look I can summon. She doesn’t buy it and I pull away from her grasp, looking instead for Charlene, a friendly face who doesn’t think I’ve gone dancing with the fairies.

  As I expected, Charlene is right behind me, embraces me tightly and whispers in my ear. “I’m so sorry.”

  I enjoy the warm feel of her arms about me, wondering how long it’s been since I’ve been hugged. “Now how would you know the cave was haunted?” I whisper back.

  She still looks scared, as if the journalists visiting her this morning promising to put her on the tourism radar have turned into 60 Minutes.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “The police may straighten this out.”

  Bud joins us, giving me a big hug and I wish I could stay in this sweet little paradise, the crazy dead schoolgirl notwithstanding. Alicia also looks worried, so I figure I should make my speech now.

  “It was all my fault,” I tell the others, although Winnie frowns, arms folded tight across her chest. “I left the group and started playing Indiana Jones and went down this really dangerous trail. Believe me, if anyone remains on the trail they are perfectly safe. I’m just a sucker for adventure.”

  The Moseleys begin a long litany about how they are working hard to bring the cave up to code and how that area is never open when tourists are here, but we were a small group and they didn’t think we would go exploring (Charlene gives me a guilty look for saying that but heck, it’s true). Finally, Stephanie holds up a hand and shakes her head.

  “We’re not going to write about this,” she says which makes both Bud and Charlene exhale, a bit too loudly I might add. “I wasn’t planning on including your attraction until you had it fully functional, since my newsletter caters mostly to families.”

  “This was a sneak peak,” Alicia interjects and I’m amazed to find her
piping in.

  “A beautiful place,” Joe adds. “It’s going to be just lovely when you have it done. Why don’t you let us know when it’s finished and we’ll come back for a visit.”

  Bud looks like he’s won the lottery. “That would be fantastic. We can do that. And we’ll put you up anywhere you like.”

  I give Charlene one last look and we silently speak volumes across the driveway. “Let me know what happens,” I say and she nods.

  We all pile into the van and we’re not halfway down the road when Winnie starts her twenty questions. Only my head is now reminding me bigtime that I slammed it against a wall of rock and even my teeth hurt when I try to speak. I flush down the Tylenol with water Spidey gave me and close my eyes for a few moments of peace, which freaks Winnie out even more. Something about staying awake in case you have a concussion.

  “Don’t you remember Peter telling you all this?”

  I shake my head, and swear there are things rattling around inside. All I remember is the look on that girl’s face when she found blood on her fingers. The more I run that movie inside my head, the more I’m convinced she has no idea she is dead.

  Winnie keeps talking, mostly small talk about her son’s football team and the trouble goats get into while we drive into Eureka Springs. Even Stephanie and Joe get into the act, rambling on about their last trip to Europe and what they had to eat on a barge ride through the Loire Valley. I’m about to scream that I’m in no danger of falling asleep unless they keep talking when we make the turn off the main highway, heading into town, and I’m anxious to see what this eclectic mountain town, founded on a series of medicinal springs, looks like.

  A native of flatlands, I’m surprised at the twisting, winding roads that make up the town, the houses rising above us since placed on a mountainside, and how quickly we roll through the quaint downtown and are now at the Crescent Hotel. Perched high above Eureka Springs, the historic Victorian offers a stunning view of the Ozarks, the Catholic Church below and a giant Jesus statue in the distance.

  “Jesus!” I shout, and the van’s occupants immediately think I’m in pain, offering all kinds of support. “No, Jesus,” I repeat, pointing off in the distance. We turn a corner and the hotel is now blocking the view so all they see is my finger pointing to the giant crescent moon gracing the hotel’s portico.

  “You need to rest,” Winnie insists.

  “I need a drink,” I reply.

  Alicia parks the van, unloads our bags and relays instruction as we head toward the historic hotel built in 1886. We have a couple of hours before drinks with the mayor and then dinner in the Crystal Ballroom. She suggests a dip in the pool if we’re brave enough since there is a chill in the late spring air, a walk through the woodsy grounds, maybe a drink in the bar. I’m envisioning a hot bath, deep shampoo to get the blood out of my scalp and relaxing in a plush bathrobe. If I can figure out a way to get a martini in this picture, even better. This fantasy becomes so real I’m beginning to tingle all over.

  Winnie, bless her heart, nabs my hotel key and we head upstairs in a tiny, slow elevator to the fourth floor. We roll our suitcases to Room 420, where she leaves me, insisting to come inside and help me unpack, undress, do whatever, but I wave her away. There’s a bathtub on the other side of this door, I know it, and quiet time in hot water is all I require. I will quickly take some photographs of the room to use in my story, then unload my suitcase since we’ll be in Eureka Springs for three days. Once I’m settled, it’s just me and that bathtub.

  Winnie finally gives in, offers help one last time and makes her way to her room down the long hall that looks like something out of a Victorian novel.

  Finally, I think, peace and quiet, relaxation time. What I’ve been dreaming of for weeks. My potting shed, despite allowing me to follow my bliss, lacks any semblance of a decent bathroom, including a tub. Instead, I’m forced to take showers in an ancient stall surrounded by old faux marble slabs and rusty fixtures where brown water emerges before coming clean.

  As I use the old key to open the door — the kind they used before those little plastic things that turn lights from red to green — I hear movement inside my room. I figure it’s the maid, but my usual calm demeanor escapes me and I’m ready to push this person out, no matter the condition of the room.

  Instead, the person opens the door for me, and it’s not the maid. My key still hanging lifeless in my hand, I gaze up to find my goofy ex-husband staring down, a stupid grin playing his face.

  “Hey babe,” he says. “Surprise.”

  Chapter Six

  My ex-husband stands in the doorway, clueless as usual. He thinks I’m happy to see him when I’m ready to strangle him until his tongue turns purple.

  “What are you doing here?” I practically shout.

  “I thought it would be a nice surprise.” He pulls open the door wide. “Wait until you see the room. It’s really cool.”

  TB grabs my pokka dot suitcase and throws it on the bed, wrinkling the bedspread in the process. Now that I get a good look at it, the bed’s totally disturbed as if someone has been stretched out on it all afternoon. Seeing that the TV is on some basketball game, I know who the culprit is.

  I look around and he’s obviously enjoyed a nice meal via room service. The tray containing an empty plate, utensils and those tiny little condiments I love to bring home is spread out across the bureau and two beer bottles are lying on the floor by the nightstand. His backpack has vomited clothes all over the floor. I peek into the old-fashioned bathroom with its giant tub and pedestal sink and see bath products open and scattered about.

  It’s everything I can do not to scream. “Damn it, TB. I have to shoot this room.”

  Again, lights on, no one’s there. “Huh?”

  “This isn’t a vacation, you idiot. I’m here doing a story for the magazine. And these people who pay for all this do it for me, not you!”

  TB tilts his head like a puppy, his oversized brown eyes glazed with confusion. “It’s a hotel room, Vi. How does me being here cost them anything?”

  I shake my head in amazement. “Who paid for the room service?”

  He gazes at the mess he’s made, mouth open. “Isn’t that part of the free room?”

  All I can utter at this point is some loud animalistic noise, which, coupled with the head injury, causes me to see white spots floating across the ceiling.

  “I thought this would be a nice romantic chance for us to reconnect,” TB insists.

  I turn, mouth agape, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. I speak softly as much to contain my anger as to make this child understand. “We’re separated, remember? That means you and me, different places. No more marriage.”

  TB looks away dejected, digging his hands deep within his torn and worn Levys. “So says you.”

  “So says the court,” I remind him. “It’s official. I left you. We’re divorcing. End of story.”

  I look around at the mess he’s made, realizing that a photo is now impossible. I’ll have to wait until he leaves and the maid cleans up the room, which means I must move all my stuff into the closet and not be able to spread out like TB has already done. I rub my eyes and groan, not because it’s that big of a deal that I haven’t shot a ready-made room and gotten it out of the way, but because I so wanted to slip into this delicious Victorian room, enjoy a bath and be alone for two hours. The last person I wanted to see was my ex-husband.

  “You’re mad at me?”

  Can this day get any worse? “Ya think?”

  “I thought it would be a nice surprise,” he says defensively, as if I’m being the jerk.

  “Yeah, great surprise.”

  “What’s the big deal? You get all this for free.”

  At this, I’m now incensed beyond any rational limits and I know that if the conversation continues I will murder this man. I get right up into his face to make sure he understands every word I’m about to say.

  “This is a press trip,” I say thro
ugh clenched teeth slowly and succinctly so he doesn’t miss a thing. “They pay for everything for me so that I will write about it. It’s not a vacation. Why would they pay for you to eat their food when you’re not writing about it? What did you think you would do all day and night while I’m out running around covering Eureka Springs? Because I’m here doing a story!”

  At this point my voice has reached shouting level and I’m suddenly reminded of my headache, which has increased tenfold and rising. I touch the back of my head where the dried blood clot remains. “I need a bath,” is all I can manage.

  TB starts to speak but I throw up an angry finger in his face. He attempts it again, but I give him the evil eye. “Don’t,” I manage to whisper. Anything louder coming out of my mouth and my head will blow for sure.

  I try to exhale, to resume a steady breath so I won’t pass out on the floor, and it’s then that TB notices my injury. “Vi, what happened?” he says, sounding genuinely concerned, which brings back the guilt that’s been my companion for the past three years. I know this man loves me, and I’m sorry for it, but this marriage is not to be. Died a long time ago, buried the day Lillye was laid to rest. If he had any sense in that pea brain of his he would have figured it out and moved on. Or better yet, admit that he doesn’t love me either.

  I can’t go there now. The room begins to spin and I desperately need to crawl into a dark hole and find my balance.

  “Where is my suitcase?” I mutter and like a puppy dog TB retrieves it, holding it in front of us as I’m supposed to gratefully take it from his arms. And do what, I wonder. When did I find this man attractive, I think before I haul the heavy suitcase into my arms, throwing it back on the bed.

  “I got this,” I mutter, pulling out my ditty bag and heading for the bathroom.

  I’m not two steps from heaven when there’s a knock on the door.

  “If it’s maid service, tell them to come back,” I say.

  “It’s probably your tour guide.”

  This stops me cold. “Who?”

  “Henry something.”

  I spin around, the fuze lit and the spark speeding along the cord, ready to blow my brains apart. “Henry knows you’re here?”