Ghost Trippin' Read online

  “He wasn’t involved in a drug deal,” I insisted.

  Portia wasn’t convinced. In all honesty, after the morning’s breakfast conversation, I’m not so sure either.

  We enter the house that’s part of the World Birding Center and TB immediately starts asking questions about the architecture, the birds we’ll see here, the nature trails. The woman behind the counter obliges but Portia steps in between them.

  “Later,” she says to TB. To the woman Portia asks about past birding conventions or groups that would have visited about the time Dad visited McAllen.

  “Let me get the program manager,” the nice woman says and makes a call.

  “We’re not here for fun,” I whisper to TB.

  “I’m collecting data,” he says with a serious face.

  My first inclination is to doubt him; my husband’s the kind of guy who’d see a merry-go-round at a funeral and want a ride. But TB’s not the impulsive, crazy guy I met at LSU or the silly dad who always made Lillye laugh by acting the clown. He’s grown up these past few years, no doubt due to Lillye’s death and that bitch of a storm that took everything we had.

  Or maybe I just don’t care anymore. Love does that to you.

  I snake an arm through his elbow and tilt my head toward the big picture window. Outside are hummingbirds swirling around a feeder and a large strange-looking bird walking along the ground where oranges have been placed. Stinky would love this place. Good thing we left him at home.

  “Cool,” TB whispers in awe.

  The counter woman notices us staring and says, “Chachalacas.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Pardon?”

  “That’s the bird’s name.”

  I’ll never remember that, I think, but TB looks like he’s recording the data in his brain.

  The program manager, a woman named Sandy Colfax — yes, like the baseball player and yes, I read it off her name tag — enters the shop and holds out a hand, introduces herself. Portia explains why we’re here and Sandy invites us inside and we head toward her office, where she said she will check the files.

  “What a beautiful home,” Aunt Mimi says. “And massive.”

  “Ten thousand square feet,” Sandy replies proudly. “Is one of the largest adobe structures in Texas. Used to be the home of Jason Matthews, a publisher, poet, and screenwriter. He entertained Hollywood stars here in his day.”

  “Hollywood stars came to McAllen?” Portia asks incredulously, but thankfully Sandy doesn’t hear her.

  “How’d it become a birding center.” TB sends me a smile since he said it right.

  “The city of McAllen purchased it at auction,” Sandy begins, “and turned the twenty acres of Tamaulipan Thornforest around the house into a bird sanctuary. We have hiking trails throughout the property with feeders and water sources and are one of nine

  World Birding Centers in Texas, all located in the Lower Rio Grande Valley.”

  “What’s the big deal about this area that you have so many of those things?” Portia asks.

  Sandy pauses outside her office. “Two migratory paths converge here at the tip of Texas, a bottleneck of sorts for the birds migrating north and south each year. Right now, they’re heading south or have already done so. In the spring, these traveling species head north again, then turn east and west through the land mass between oceans, many heading your way into Louisiana. It’s an ideal site for birders and possibly the best viewing in North America.”

  Portia looks lost, so I add, “There are more than five hundred bird species that fly through here.” I’ve heard all this from Dad on numerous occasions; McAllen was always on his bucket list.

  Sandy nods. “More than half of the birds in the United States have been seen right here in the Rio Grande Valley. More than two hundred have been spotted at Quinta Mazatlan.”

  She pronounces the property Keen-ta Mas-al-tan and we all say “Ah” at the same time.

  We enter her office and Sandy sits at a computer, looking up biology events around the time of Dad’s disappearance.

  “There was one in August of 2005.”

  TB and I both stiffen. We know that month well.

  “August 25-27, 2005, to be exact.”

  Katrina was crossing Florida when Dad got on a plane and headed here. By that Saturday he would have woken up to the news that she had grown large enough to fill the Gulf of Mexico and turn into a category five monster. While he hung out in McAllen and chased birds, TB and I axed our way out of the attic and spent two days on the roof waiting for rescue.

  I hear Aunt Mimi asking questions, but I want out of here. I stumble into the hallway and head down the museum-like rooms with their exquisite architecture and artwork, its beauty angering me. How could a man desert his family at the worst time of their lives? For birds?

  I push open a door and emerge on to a patio with pool, no doubt visited by this poet’s famous Hollywood friends. For some reason, that pisses me off as well. I head toward the back where a hiking trail disappears into some woods. I find a bench, glad to see that no one’s around, fall on to the seat and hold the sides for support, attempt to resume a steady breath.

  After a few minutes of quiet, a symphony begins. At first, it’s a lone bird in the tree to my right, calling out some mournful tale. Then a pair answers to my left. A cardinal flits by singing chee-chit-chit-chit while doves coo to my back. There’s a feeder nearby dripping water and as I sit quietly, several colorful birds fly in, including two hummingbirds that appear at odds with one another.

  As I’m watching the birds visit the feeding station, a vibrant yellow, black and white butterfly circles my bench.

  I remember reading how ancestors visit as butterflies, but I thought the idea absurd. Of course, that was before I started talking to dead wet people, learned my husband had angelic powers, and my aunt was a witch. The butterfly keeps circling, as if it wants my attention, and when I finally look up and follow its path, it heads off toward the woods where the most brilliant bird sits, watching me.

  I sense my father next to me and turn to find him sitting at the edge of the bench.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks me.

  “Don’t you see him?”

  He shakes his head. “I can only see you.”

  I’m supposed to be angry at this man but it feels like it did when I was young and we spotted a rare bird together.

  “I’m in South Texas and this bird’s lime green with a beautiful blue head but there’s a black semi-circle around his face.”

  Dad smiles broadly. “A green jay. He’s the official bird of the town of McAllen.”

  The bird edges closer and lets out a raspy “Eh-Eh-Eh” and I laugh.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Dad shakes his head again and I feel sad that wherever he is, he’s missing this.

  Still….

  “Why did you come here, Dad?” I ask, the pain leaking through my words. “Why did you come to McAllen.”

  He frowns and looks down at his lap. “I wanted to be strong for you all, Sweetpea. I really did.”

  “Mom evacuated to Alabama, Portia went to Houston and Sebastian to Atlanta. TB and I rode it out. It took us weeks to get back home and then we had to rebuild….”

  “I know.” He whispers those words and I remember what Mimi said about bringing pain with you to the other side. My father’s in agony, wherever he is. “Your mom insisted I leave, said Katrina was going to Florida and I would be no help anyway.”

  In all honesty, she was right. Dad always took to drink when the going got tough. But still, this was no ordinary storm and to not come back after New Orleans flooded?

  “I lost everything.” I say it with force but it comes out almost like a whisper. I never cared about the house and my belongings inside; it’s all stuff that in the grand scheme of things doesn’t really matter. But for an agonizing week I thought I had lost my baby’s photos, an album I covered in plastic and placed high in a closet. I never expected the levees to bre
ak and flood our house, so I feared the only thing I owned linking me to my child was gone. But by some miracle they survived.

  “I’m sorry, Sweetpea.” He starts to fade and I hear a beeping sound in the background. John looks my way and smiles sadly. “I didn’t want to leave. More importantly, I never expected to stay away.”

  I hear my name being called but I don’t answer. I’m trying desperately to make sense of it all. The green jay calls out one last time, still watching me intently, then flies away.

  And Dad disappears.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and find Aunt Mimi coming around to sit next to me.

  “You okay?”

  “I saw Dad again.”

  Aunt Mimi frowns, and I wonder if she’s picking him up as well. “What did he say?”

  “He feels bad about leaving.”

  Mimi runs a hand through her long gray hair and sighs. “We need answers, Vi. He was here all right, at a convention of biologists, although it only lasted two days. What did he do while he was here and where did he go after that?”

  A chachalaca emerges into the clearing, spots us, and moves away into the bush.

  “Let’s go check out the other birding spots,” I say.

  We drive to the Edinburg Scenic Wetlands which is humming with birds, butterflies, and waterfowl. When you’re surrounded by such wildlife, you get how people become fanatics for birds. We enter through a nature center and ask for the director, and grill her about the convention years ago, show her a photo of Dad.

  She’s only been here eighteen months so it’s pointless but she passes the photo to others. No one recognizes Dad. We walk the grounds looking for — what, we don’t know — then pile back into the car and head to the Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park.

  Once again, we begin at the Visitor’s Center where the administrative offices are located. Portia begins her speech to the teenager at the counter and when an official-looking man appears, she and Portia head to his office while TB and I stare at the butterfly gardens and hummingbird feeders surrounding the building. The teen hands us a brochure that explains the seven hundred and sixty-acre park that abuts seventeen hundred acres of a U.S. Fish and Wildlife tract. According to the materials we’re handed, more than three hundred and twenty-five bird species have been spotted here. My dad must have gone crazy.

  Portia and Mimi return to the lobby shaking their heads.

  “The convention came here,” Mimi says, “but no one remembers your dad specifically.”

  “Let’s look around,” Portia says and even though we doubt we’ll find anything that solves this mystery, we follow her out the door.

  We start down a trail that leads past feeders with several green jays. One of the park rangers is addressing a growing crowd, claiming the other birds present are Couch’s kingbird, Altamira oriole, a clay-colored thrush, three crested caracaras, and an eastern screech owl sleeping inside a nearby dead tree. Portia rolls her eyes and Mimi seems more interested in a plant, but TB and I take turns borrowing the ranger’s binoculars to check out the owl.

  I’m about to hand the glasses back to the ranger when there’s movement in the woods to my far right. Father always instructed me to follow the sounds of nature, however slight, because you never know what will turn up. I turn ever so slowly and bring the binoculars to my eyes. The movement is faint but I see the bushes shuffle so I stand still and wait.

  Dark Eyes appears instantly and her presence makes me gasp. She’s wearing the same clothes and looking forlorn, just as she had the night before at the pool. She’s standing in the woods starring straight at me through the glass and repeating the same haunting words over and over.

  “What’s wrong,” I hear TB say behind me, because now I’m shaking.

  I let the binoculars drop but there’s no one in the woods. Elena has vanished.

  I hand the binoculars back to the ranger, then head in her direction, TB asking questions behind me all the way. When we get close to where Dark Eyes was spotted, I stop because I know what I’ll find. I can’t explain how but the sad young woman’s there. The real Elena Gomez. There’s the bone of forearm sticking out of the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Wanda enters the park office shaking her head. “This is becoming a habit.”

  I’m sitting at a table with Portia at my side, not having a clue as to explain what happened. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve discovered bodies before, once in Eureka Springs on a press trip, but I’ve never figured out how to tell the police what I know without telling them what I am. Cops aren’t the biggest fans of mediums.

  Wanda throws her badge, pad, and pen on to the table and sits down. She stares at me, waiting for my explanation.

  “We found a body.” Good thing I’m a writer because my oral skills suck.

  “I got that,” Wanda says. “You mind telling me how you knew that body was there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Portia asks.

  Wanda looks at my sister. “Who’s this?”

  “Portia Elizabeth Turk.” She hands Wanda her card announcing she’s an attorney with Jackson, Weiss and Landry of New Orleans.

  “Do we need a lawyer present?” Wanda asks, her gaze glistening with suspicion.

  “She’s my sister,” I answer.

  Wanda leans back in her chair and places one arm over the back. “That’s convenient.”

  “This is crazy. My sister found a body and you’re acting like she’s a suspect.”

  Wanda and I stare at each other while Portia gives her speech. Wanda’s dissecting me, trying to figure out what I’m about. It feels like the attention of drunk men at parties undressing you with their eyes. I instinctively pull my sweater over my chest and decide to explain everything and let the chips fall where they may.

  “We stopped at the feeding station and the ranger gave me binoculars to check out the owl in the dead tree. I heard something in the woods to my right so I looked in that direction. I headed over there and saw the bone sticking out of the ground. That’s pretty much it.”

  Wanda’s not buying it. “Uh huh.”

  “What else is there?” Portia asks.

  Wanda drops the chair to the floor and it makes a bang that causes Portia and I to jump. “You just happened to be at the convenience store when there’s a robbery involving someone tied to an international drug ring we’re investigating. Then you come here and just happen to see something move in the woods that draws you over there and voila, there’s a dead body.”

  “What on earth are you getting at?” Portia says, her dander up.

  Wanda looks at Portia now. “You’re in town looking for information on your father?”

  Portia doesn’t say anything. If cops remain quiet so you’ll spill your guts, lawyers do the same to protect themselves and their clients.

  “We’re investigating your father, who’s a suspect in the disappearance of a woman and who was thought to have been part of the drug ring.”

  This throws Portia off balance. She looks at me and frowns and for the life of me I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.

  “And it’s likely that the bones you found in the woods are this woman.”

  For a moment, the wind disappears from Wanda’s sails. She swallows hard and regroups. “Why did you go into those woods, Viola? Did your father tell you where the body was? Is that why you’re here? Some form of strange resolution or are you and your family involved in all this?”

  “My father had nothing to do with that body.”

  Inside, I’m wondering.

  “But you just happened to find it.”

  I nod because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  We all stare at each other for what feels like hours until Portia stands. “I need to speak with my sister.”

  Wanda waves a hand. “Go ahead.”

  “Alone.”

  I glance up at Portia, who’s now booming her mommy voice and it feels good. I’m thankful she’s here.

  “Five
minutes,” Wanda says, holding up five fingers menacingly, and leaves the room.

  But when Portia turns to me, she’s anything but helpful. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  This takes me back. “Like what?”

  “Oh my God,” she says and starts pacing the room. “I’m not an idiot, although you and Aunt Mimi likely think I am.”

  I’m still at a loss. “What?”

  She turns and gives me one of her looks. When I was young and doing something stupid, silly or against the rules, Portia would admonish me with that stare. It unnerved me then and it’s ripping me apart now.

  “I knew Grandma Willow,” she begins, which is not what I’m expecting. “I used to go to the homestead during the summer, did you know that?”

  I shake my head.

  “I know what she was. And I know what I don’t have. But you….” She points a finger at me and looks about to cry. “You have whatever runs through this crazy family.”

  I swallow hard because I never thought to tell Portia, never imagined she would understand. Heck, I never thought she knew about the weird family talents.

  I exhale the breath I’ve been holding since Portia began her tirade. “I see ghosts who have died by water.”

  A little of Portia’s hot air balloon deflates. A little. “Aunt Mimi knows?”

  I nod. “She’s the one who explained it to me. It happened after Katrina.”

  Portia’s gaze narrows. “You’ve always talked to dead people. I remember you rambling on about some unseen neighbor and a woman who talked to you in the halls at school.”

  I saw the dead as a youth, people who would talk to me everywhere I went — and not just people who died by water. I was ridiculed by my friends and mom insisted it was my imagination. Now that I think about it, a normal parent would have sent me to a counselor. My mother must have known what I was but she encouraged me to repress my mediumship. If I hadn’t ignored my gift all that time, I may be talking to Lillye now.

  The injustice of my childhood makes me stand and pace. “I’m a SCANC now.”

  “A what?”

  “It stands for specific communication with apparitions, non-entities and the comatose, meaning I only see people who have died by my particular trauma. In this case water. Katrina gave it to me.”