A Greyhound of a Girl (13 page)

“Did you laugh in the milking parlor once?” asked Scarlett.

“Oh, I laughed in that parlor a lot more than once,” said Tansey. “Many's the time I laughed in the milking parlor.”

“After you died,” said Scarlett. “Long after. When I was a little girl.”

“No.”

“My mother thought she heard someone else laughing one day, besides us.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“It might have been you.”

“It might.”

She sighed. “I died young, but I've an old one's memory. I recall some things precisely, and other important things are gone. I might have played hurling for Wexford, for all I know.”

“You didn't.”

“I'm not surprised. Your granddad did.”

“I know.”

Tansey looked at Mary.

“I'd love to talk to Emer,” she said. “I want to tell her there's nothing to worry about. Dying's not so bad. Especially when you're old. And she's had a great life, after all. Lovely daughter, and grandchildren.”

Scarlett was crying now.

“I'm sorry, dear,” said Tansey.

“No,” said Scarlett. “It's fine. She always spoke about you when I was growing up. Even though she couldn't remember much. I think it would be great if you met her. Although, it's all a bit strange.”

“Yep,” said Mary. “It's definitely weird. I'm not being cheeky.”

“Just because you say you're not being cheeky doesn't mean you aren't,” said Scarlett.

“But I'm not,” said Mary. “It
is
weird. It's
so
weird. How many other ghosts do you, like, know?”

Scarlett shrugged. “I don't know,” she said.

“Now I'm scared,” said Mary.

“Only one,” said Tansey. “You know only the one, and that's me.”

“Why can you not come into the hospital?”

“I'm not good under the lightbulbs, you see,” said Tansey. “You saw that yourself. I
fade
. It wouldn't be fair. Sure, people in hospitals are frightened enough already without ghosts marching up the corridors. But there's one thing—”

“What?”

“If the ghost holds a child's hand—”

She looked at Mary.

“I'm not a child,” said Mary.

“Yes, you are!” said her mother.

“I'm not,” said Mary. “You said so.”

“When?!”

“Yesterday,” said Mary. “When I said I didn't want to clean my room. You said I had to because, and I quote,
You're not a little girl anymore
.”

“That's right!” said Scarlett. “You're not a little girl! But you
are
a child!”

“Why am I?” said Mary. “Because you say so?”

“Yes!”

“Ahem.”

It was Tansey. “Now, ladies,” she said. “Ghosts don't usually have to imitate a cough, to get attention.”

“I'm not a child,” Mary whispered.

“Yes, you are!” her mother whispered back.

“Not!”

“Ah, stop that, the pair of you,” said Tansey. “And listen to me now.”

“Sorry.”

“If the ghost holds the hand of a child,” said Tansey, “as they walk into a building—”

“Like a hospital.”

“Exactly,” said Tansey. “The ghost becomes more solid. But only if she's holding the hand of a child.”

“How does it work?” asked Mary.

“I don't know,” said Tansey.

“Did you ever try it?”

“No.”

“How did you find out about it, then?”

“I just seem to know,” said Tansey.

“And you're sure it'll work?”

“I'm not, no.”

“I'm not convinced,” said Mary. “It sounds a bit, like, superstitious.”

“I'm a ghost,” said Tansey. “And I'm probably,
like
, a bit of a superstition. But I'm here, all the same.”

“Okay.”

“Will we try it, so?”

“Okay.”

Scarlett shouted at the kitchen ceiling.

“Boys?!”

They heard a noise from upstairs.

“I think one of them said ‘What,'” said Mary.

“We're going back to the hospital!” shouted Scarlett. “Your dad will be home soon!”

They heard another noise.

“I think one of them said ‘Okay,'” said Mary.

he didn't want to sleep.

“I'm alive.”

Her eyes would close. She couldn't help it. She just couldn't keep her eyes open.

I'm alive
.

t was after eight o'clock, and dark. Mary and Tansey sat in the back of the car, outside the house and under one of the trees.

“Don't forget your seat belt,” said Mary.

“What's a seat belt?” Tansey asked.

Mary showed her the belt, and how to put it on.

“Now,” Tansey asked, “does a ghost really need a seat belt?”

But she clicked the belt buckle into place. Mary watched, half expecting the belt to go right through Tansey's body. But it didn't. It went across her chest and lap.

“You're kind of solid already,” she said.

“I am,” said Tansey. “That'll be all the spuds I ate when I was a young one. But, d'you know what?” she said, as Scarlett started the car—and the light inside the car went off. “I've never been in a car before.”

“No way,” said Mary.

Tansey was even clearer in the dark. Everything about her looked real and alive.

“It's true,” she said. “There were very few cars back in my day. And they were all black.”

Scarlett turned onto the main road to the hospital. The rush hour was over and there was hardly any traffic.

“We'll be there in no time!” said Scarlett.

“Whatever that means,” said Mary, quietly.

She watched Tansey looking out the car window, at the houses and rows of shops, at the other cars and streetlights.

“It's better than walking,” said Tansey.

“That's what I keep telling Mammy,” said Mary. “But she won't listen to me.”

“Walking is great!” said Scarlett.

“It did me no good,” said Tansey, quietly to Mary.

She sat up straight. “I like this car business,” she said. “It's like being at the films.”

They drove into the hospital car park. Scarlett found an empty space, and parked. She looked back over the car seat at Mary and Tansey.

“So!”

“We're there, are we?” said Tansey.

“We are!”

“Grand.”

They got out of the car.

“So!” said Scarlett, again. She looked nervous.

Mary walked around to the other side of the car and took Tansey's hand in hers.

“It's cold,” she said. “I'm not being cheeky.”

“I know you're not,” said Tansey.

Mary squeezed Tansey's hand, a little bit. “But it's nice,” she said.

“Oh, good.”

“And a bit weird.”

“You're being cheeky now, are you?”

“Yes.”

“We'd better get a move on!” said Scarlett.

Visiting time was nearly over.

“Wait now,” said Tansey.

She let go of Mary's hand and stood under one of the strip lights that lit the car park.

“Can you see me?”

“Hardly,” said Mary.

It was a bit horrible, because Tansey seemed to be disappearing, even breaking up. Mary ran to her and held her hand.

“Good girl yourself,” said Tansey. “Am I any clearer now?” she asked Scarlett.

“I think so!” said Scarlett. “But—I don't know! Maybe I'm just being biased.”

“But can you see me?”

“Well, yes.”

“Will we chance it, so?” Tansey asked Mary.

“Cool,” said Mary. “But what'll happen if it doesn't work?”

“Oh, dozens of people will have heart attacks,” said Tansey. “But, sure, it's a hospital, so they'll be grand. I don't like this car park place at all.”

The car park was an ugly, bare building, with no windows or color.

“How do we get out?” said Tansey.

“There's a lift.”

“A what?”

The lift was broken, so they went down the stairs. Tansey stayed close to the wall, away from the lights. They met no one coming up as they went down to the exit, or on the footpath that led to the front of the hospital.

They stayed on the grass, away from the lamps that dropped big circles of light onto the path. It was busier here. A lot of people were leaving the hospital and coming toward
them. There were groups of sad-looking people, different ages, families, after visiting people they loved and had had to leave inside. There were other people walking alone, their heads down, tired. No one paid much attention to this different family group, daughter, mother and dead great-granny, as they went what seemed the wrong way at this time of night.

“So far, so good!”

But they were coming up to the main entrance. They'd have to step off the grass and walk under the fluorescent light, into the hospital foyer. It was so bright in there, it looked as if the windows had been painted in white gloss paint.

Tansey stopped.

“It'll take more than a child's hand to get me through all this brightness,” she said.

“I'm not a child,” said Mary.

“Right, so,” said Tansey. “Here goes.”

They held hands tight and walked off the grass, toward the people in dressing gowns and slippers who stood or sat in wheelchairs around the entrance, chatting and coughing, sighing and laughing. Tansey's fingers got no warmer in Mary's grip. But Mary stopped noticing, because all she could think of were the people at the entrance, and their
faces. She didn't look at Tansey—she was afraid to. It was really bright here, brighter than a normal day. It was a horrible, headachy light that seemed to burn the colors out of clothes and hair. Everything was gray. Mary began to think that Tansey would get past these people, because everyone looked so gray and ghostlike—when she heard the gasp.

There was a man with no legs, in a wheelchair, sitting away from the light. He was staring at something right beside Mary. His mouth was wide-open. His cigarette was clinging to his lip. He hadn't lit it yet, and the flame from his lighter had started to singe his beard.