Once Upon Another Time (7 page)

“What?”  Laura’s
eyes narrowed as she thrust her head forward.  “How did you know I was--um--what
I’m trying to say is that I never said that.”

“You most
certainly did!  Saying it under your breath didn’t keep me from hearing--”

“What are you
talking about?”

Dammit!
  There
had to be a trick to this mind reading stuff, but until I figured it out, I
thought it best that I look directly at the person to make sure their lips are
moving during a conversation. 

“Oh for heaven’s
sake,” I said.  “It’s not as if I can’t read your mind after all these years. 
That
is
what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”  I turned an ear toward her.

Laura shook her
head and waved her hand dismissively.  “Never mind, just listen.  I worry about
you.  It’s like you destroy every relationship you have.  Like Jack, you’ll
probably never go out with him again.  And you know why, because no one
measures up.  You stopped dating Greg because you didn’t like his wardrobe
and--”

“Oh, come on,
Laura.  The shiny black faux-leather jumpsuit?  The long yellow scarf?” 

“How about Dan?  You
said he was too hairy and--”

 “The man had a
braided chest!”

 “Michael?”   

“Peanut toes.”

“Alex?”

“Ex-priest, need I
say more?”  I said, returning the boring volley.

“Thomas?”

I paused.  “Hmm,
are you familiar with Greek Mythology the Sphinx in particular?”

Laura gave me a
curious look.

“All right, I’ll
tell you.  The Sphinx is a creature with the body of a lion, the wings of an
eagle and the head and
breasts
of a female.”

“Here we go!” 
Laura said, throwing her hands in the air.  “Have you ever wondered if the problem
was you?”

Sticks and
stones and all that crap.

“Why can’t you
make an effort to be happy and enjoy life?  Remember, you’re among the
living--Matt is among the dead.”

It felt as if my
best friend had kicked me in the stomach.  And by the look on Laura’s face I
knew she had read the sadden stare in my eyes.

“Honey, I’m
sorry.  That just slipped out the wrong way.  What I meant to say is that Matt
would
want
you to be happy.  You need to loosen up.  If you were half as
good at relationships as you are at being a mother and a lawyer, your life
would be perfect.  Besides, if you were more relaxed it might ease your
neurosis.  It doesn’t work to try and put life into perfectly organized little
compartments trying to control every aspect.” 

I placed my hands
squarely on my hips.  “I am not neurotic,” I said while thinking about the
pigeon poop on the ledge outside my window.  I’d called building maintenance
twice, to get the schedule of the window washers who come twice a year.   

“Come on now be
honest.  You have underwear with the days of the week spelled out on them.  You’re
particular to the point that even the trash in your office wastebasket appears
artfully arranged.  And don’t think I haven’t seen the canned goods in your
kitchen cupboard lined up like little tin soldiers with labels faced forward.  I
could go on but I won’t.”

I gave a
ruminative pause and folded my arms across my chest.

A therapist once
told me my OCD for perfection was overcompensation for something that was
affecting my life that I felt was totally out of my control.  I knew it had to
do with that missing piece in my life, the trauma that occurred that blocked
out my memory of why Matt would have gone jogging in fog, thick as pea soup, not
giving mind to the fact that the edges of the bluffs corrode over time leaving
them soft and dangerous. 

“And your point
is?” I said.

“My point is I
just want you to be happy, and be the person you were before Matt died.”

“With the
exception of my gloominess, as you put it, that kind of thing only happens once
a year.  I happen to think I’m a pretty upbeat person.”

“I’m not talking
about that.  Something up here,” she said tapping her index finger to her
temple, “is off kilter.  I want you to be able to fall in love again.  That’s
what I meant.” 

“Yeah, like that’s
not going to take a miracle.”

“Miracle,” Laura
said, seizing on the word.  “There’s always Jack,” she said in a singsong
voice.

I felt my face
take on a pained look, the furrows between my eyes were practically cramping. 
“I’ll think about it,” I said, just to get her off my back.

“Now that’s what
I’m talking about,” she said.  Her lips transformed into the smile of a
Cheshire cat, as she twisted the band of her Rolex to see the face.  “I have to
go,” she said and sprung to her feet.  “Fendworth has me on a short leash
today.  She reached the door and dramatically whirled around to look back at me,
like she was doing an outtake for Scarlett O’Hara.

“You have to
admit, Jack is
cute
,” she said with a giggle, and slipped out the door.

Laura was right.  I
had allowed Matt's death to define me and my life.  I never looked at losing
Matt as a difficult challenge in my life to overcome, but as the obstacle in my
life that was forever holding me back from being the person I used to be.  It
had made me broken, which separated my life into “before Matt died” and “after
Matt died.”  But seeing Matt’s ghost was majorly messing with my mind.  I knew
if I could figure out a way to talk to him, it could solve everything. 

“Aubrey, goodnight, see you
tomorrow,” Laura said, as she poked her head in the doorway of my office.

“Yes, tomorrow,” I
said as I glanced up at her. 

With the exception
of a luncheon engagement and an hour in court that afternoon, I had spent a
good part of the day thinking about Matt.  Periodically, I had wandered back to
the boardroom feeling as if I’d misplaced an appendage.  Each time I entered
the boardroom I’d whisper into the air, “Matt if you’re here, give me a sign.”

I had wondered if
Matt was as desperate for communication as I was.  I opened my desk drawer,
pulled out a book I’d recently purchased and placed it on my desk.  It was a
research book on ghosts.  I opened it to read the paragraph I’d bookmarked.

Ghosts want
what everybody wants--to be heard.  Everybody wants to tell their side of the
story.  Ghosts stay, or get stuck because of this powerful need.  Listen to me,
they say.  This is what really happened.  Listen to me.  This is my house. 
Listen to me.  I mattered to somebody, once.  Listen to me.  I'm frightened. 
Listen to me.  I am so sorry.

That got me
wondering.  How does a spirit manage to manifest itself in the first place?  Do
some spirits have more oomph or skill it takes to appear as a full apparition
as opposed to a ball of mist or an outline?  Are some ghosts just really,
really better at it than others?  Has Matt been honing his skills all these
years?  Is that what took him so long?

My phone vibrated,
crawling across my desk.  It was a text message from my mother.

Nicholas said 2
remind u 2 stop at the store 4 cereal.  R u still picking him up at 6:30?

The woman didn't
know how to program TiVo, but she had the texting skills of a teenager,
surprising for someone who still maintained some of her flower child ways. 
Petite with silky long black hair and bearing a strong resemblance to Cher, my
mother still preached holistic dieting, awareness of the universe, the power of
crystals, and the twelve steps to somewhere to reach something with twin flames
and angels.

If I wanted, I
could ask her about ghosts.  My parents believed in anything and everything
having to do with spirits and parallel universes, while I’d spent half my
lifetime disputing their beliefs. 

For the second
time, my phone had an incoming text.  It was a picture message from Laura, depicting
her beaming face sipping a martini. 
Just met up with David.  Join us 4 a
little bubbly.  Max is here 2.  Wink, wink.  LOL!

The last time I
saw Max was in October.  He had one too many drinks and tried to get me to go
to the Halloween store to try on a naughty nurse’s outfit. 

I sent my mother a
text letting her know I was on my way to the grocery store.

* * * *

“Mom, when people
die they go to heaven like my dad, right?” 

Picking the comic
book up off the floor, I turned to study Nicholas as he sat cross-legged on his
twin-sized bed, framed by walls of skylark blue and tan.  With jutting knees
and tousled sandy hair shooting out beneath his Yankee’s baseball cap, he
stared curiously at the dead chameleon in the palm of his hand.

“Um, yes, when
good
people like your dad die, they go to heaven.”  I placed the comic book on top
of the dresser next to a small empty cage with a hamster wheel.  Nicholas
insisted the chameleon would want to play on the bright blue plastic wheel.

“But you told me
when Greenleaf died he went to heaven, too.”  He wrinkled his nose as he stared
up at me beneath the peak of his cap. 

“Well, I guess
what I didn’t explain is that Greenleaf had gone to
animal
heaven.”  Removing
Nicholas’s baseball cap, I placed it on the night table, and sat down beside
him.

“But Mom, how can
Greenleaf be in heaven when he’s still right here?”  Nicholas adjusted his
pillow to make more room for me.  “And if my Dad went to heaven, how can he be
buried in the ground at the cemetery?  Can they be in two places at the same
time?” 

Things were much
easier when Nicholas was three years old and I first explained, “Daddy’s far
away in heaven.”  Somehow, he had made a connection with his Teletubbies’ video
where they go
far away.
  To him, his dad was hanging out in lands of big
grassy knolls overrun with plump little creatures. 

“Well, actually
Daddy’s body is here on earth, but his spirit is in heaven.  Same with
Greenleaf, his spirit went to heaven.” 

“Is a spirit like
a ghost?”

“Hmm, I suppose.”

“Can you see
ghosts?”  Nicholas’s deep brown eyes widened.

Oh sure, your
father popped up just this morning. 

“Okay Partner,
it’s time for you to go to sleep.”  Slipping out from beside him, I fluffed up
his Spider-Man themed pillow, and placed Greenleaf on the night table.

“But Mom we were
talking about ghosts and--” 

“End of discussion
for tonight.  We’ll talk about it another time,” I said, as I squeezed my palms
against his cheeks, planted a kiss on his forehead, and switched off the
bedside lamp.

I padded downstairs
to the study to catch up on the e-mails from work that I hadn’t had time to
respond to.  As I switched on the desk lamp, Buster startled me.  I wasn’t
expecting to see him camped out on my chair.  His eyes were like half-drawn
window shades, as he stretched out his jungle body.

“Yeah, I know it’s
a rough life but you have to move.”  Lifting him off the chair, I placed him down
on the leather loveseat.

As I sat at my
computer, thoughts of seeing Matt that morning played in my mind like a looped recording. 
I wondered how it was possible.  My eyes traveled from one bookshelf to
another.  Tucked between the multicolored rows of spines were several photographs
that told the story of my life.  Perched on the shelf between To Kill a
Mockingbird and Dating for Dummies, was a silver framed photograph of Matt and
me on our wedding day.  The intense emotion of the love, excitement, and
happiness from that day suddenly came forth in a rush like a flash flood in a
slot canyon.  It felt as if time had rewound.

Matt looked
flawless in a black silk tuxedo and blindingly white shirt.  His shoes polished
and his bow tie perfectly straight under his strong, dimpled chin.  Miniature pink
roses and baby’s breath crowned my head, while my hair fell to my shoulders in loose
spirals over a flowing strapless wedding gown.  I was so nervous.  I kept
twisting a tiny stray piece of green floral tape that wrapped the stems on my wedding
bouquet of pink centered white peonies.  But when I looked into Matt’s eyes, a
great calm washed over me. 

We spoke our vows on
the north gardens of Blithewold Mansion against a spectacular sweeping view of
the Narragansett Bay.  Rows and rows of friends and relatives seated on white
wooden folding chairs with satin bowed backs, cheered and clapped after we were
pronounced husband and wife.      

As I stared at the
photograph, I half expected something to happen, but what, I didn’t know.  I
reached for my briefcase sitting on the floor to the side of my desk.  Next to
the briefcase, a book laid open with pages face down, LOVE SPIRIT shown in neat
gold letters on the gray linen spine. 

I leaned over, slipped
my fingers under the book, and flipped it right side up.  The top corner of the
page was dogeared.  I lifted the flap.  The paragraph on the page spoke about a
woman who owned a house haunted by a beautiful spirit.  The woman considered
the house her special refuge during sadness and struggles and that the spirit
inhabiting the house had helped ease her pain. 

How the book had
found its way to the floor next to my desk, when the wall of built-in shelves
was on the opposite side of the study, I couldn’t imagine.  As I closed the
book and set it on my desk, the familiar soft sound of distant wind chimes
caused my heart to lurch. 

I looked up and
saw tiny sparkles with shimmering bursts of light swirling in the air like
fairy dust, circling the framed wedding picture that rattled and danced on the
bookshelf like a playful marionette. 

A smile crossed my
lips as I stood up and stared in amazement, yet more amazing was my cavalier
attitude about swirling fairy dust appearing out of nowhere and the wedding
picture moving all by itself.  I think I had half expected Matt would be there
in my study, making his presence known.  As I waited in anticipation for him to
materialize, all at once, the sparkles shot out through the open French doors
like the tail of a kite and into the flower garden sprinkling the night like
tiny fireflies.