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Authors: Karen White
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at the corners of her mouth with one of the linen napkins and stood. “You and I have dealt with evil spirits and vengeful ghosts. Surely we can handle one teenage girl.”
We heard doors open again and the sound of a hair dryer turning on. I quickly walked to the foyer and called up the stairs. Raising my voice, I called out, “The fuses are a little delicate. You might want to turn off the stereo. . . .”
The lights flickered once, then went out completely, along with, fortunately, the noise that had been coming from the stereo. Even though I’d just purchased it for Nola, I had a small spark of hope that it had been ruined beyond repair.
“Shit! What the . . .”
“Nola!” I shouted back. “We have company.”
My mother, to her credit, didn’t flinch. Instead she moved past me and stood on the bottom step. “Nola? Hello. This is Mrs. Middleton, Melanie’s mother. I’m looking forward to meeting you when you’re in a better mood. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself decent and come on down so Melanie can show you how to change a fuse. I have a feeling it will be a skill you’ll come to appreciate.”
With a satisfied smile, she stepped down into the foyer as Mrs. Houlihan stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “Somebody blew a fuse and I lost my power. Do you want me to change it?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ve got it covered.”
“Just make it quick,” the old housekeeper said. “These baked beans won’t bake on their own.”
I faced my mother again, but her attention was focused on something behind me. I turned, too, and saw Nola’s guitar case leaning against the newel post, where I could have sworn it hadn’t been earlier.
“What’s that?”
I spotted the N’awlins sticker on the case, not like I needed further ID. “It used to be Bonnie’s—Nola’s mother—but it’s now Nola’s. Although according to Jack, she won’t play a note.”
Two furrows formed between her eyebrows. “Then what’s it doing here?”
“Nola and I would like to know the same thing. Sometimes she wakes up with it in her bed; other times it just appears at random locations throughout the house, as if it wants to be seen.”
“Maybe Bonnie is trying to tell you something.”
“Could be,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “I haven’t tried to contact her so I’m not sure, but it seems likely.” Unlike my mother, I preferred to let sleeping spirits lie. I wasn’t one to jostle them awake and ask them to move to the light already. I’d spent a childhood being ridiculed for my particular “gift” and an adulthood trying to hide it. And at the age of thirty-nine, I saw no reason to change my MO. Changing it just made life messy.
My mother’s eyes were understanding as she met mine. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
I sighed. “About her mother possibly still being here or my ability to have a conversation with her?” I shook my head. “I don’t think she’s ready to hear either. She already has trust issues, and I can’t see her believing anything else I say if I started out with, ‘Hi, Nola. I see dead people.’”
“You’re probably right, but eventually you’re going to have to tell her. And you’ll have to find a way to talk with Bonnie—or whoever it is—to figure out why she’s still here.” She took a step closer to the guitar case. “I could place my hands on it if you think it would help.”
I gripped her forearm, holding her back. My mother had the ability to communicate with spirits by touching objects associated with them, sometimes with disastrous results. I liked to think of it as only a last-ditch measure. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Bonnie could just be hanging around to make sure Nola gets settled. Why don’t we wait and see?”
She gave me her knowing look, the look mothers most likely acquire during the birthing process, and I tried very hard not to squirm in my Valentino heels.
“After the barbecue tonight, I’m
We heard doors open again and the sound of a hair dryer turning on. I quickly walked to the foyer and called up the stairs. Raising my voice, I called out, “The fuses are a little delicate. You might want to turn off the stereo. . . .”
The lights flickered once, then went out completely, along with, fortunately, the noise that had been coming from the stereo. Even though I’d just purchased it for Nola, I had a small spark of hope that it had been ruined beyond repair.
“Shit! What the . . .”
“Nola!” I shouted back. “We have company.”
My mother, to her credit, didn’t flinch. Instead she moved past me and stood on the bottom step. “Nola? Hello. This is Mrs. Middleton, Melanie’s mother. I’m looking forward to meeting you when you’re in a better mood. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself decent and come on down so Melanie can show you how to change a fuse. I have a feeling it will be a skill you’ll come to appreciate.”
With a satisfied smile, she stepped down into the foyer as Mrs. Houlihan stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “Somebody blew a fuse and I lost my power. Do you want me to change it?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ve got it covered.”
“Just make it quick,” the old housekeeper said. “These baked beans won’t bake on their own.”
I faced my mother again, but her attention was focused on something behind me. I turned, too, and saw Nola’s guitar case leaning against the newel post, where I could have sworn it hadn’t been earlier.
“What’s that?”
I spotted the N’awlins sticker on the case, not like I needed further ID. “It used to be Bonnie’s—Nola’s mother—but it’s now Nola’s. Although according to Jack, she won’t play a note.”
Two furrows formed between her eyebrows. “Then what’s it doing here?”
“Nola and I would like to know the same thing. Sometimes she wakes up with it in her bed; other times it just appears at random locations throughout the house, as if it wants to be seen.”
“Maybe Bonnie is trying to tell you something.”
“Could be,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “I haven’t tried to contact her so I’m not sure, but it seems likely.” Unlike my mother, I preferred to let sleeping spirits lie. I wasn’t one to jostle them awake and ask them to move to the light already. I’d spent a childhood being ridiculed for my particular “gift” and an adulthood trying to hide it. And at the age of thirty-nine, I saw no reason to change my MO. Changing it just made life messy.
My mother’s eyes were understanding as she met mine. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
I sighed. “About her mother possibly still being here or my ability to have a conversation with her?” I shook my head. “I don’t think she’s ready to hear either. She already has trust issues, and I can’t see her believing anything else I say if I started out with, ‘Hi, Nola. I see dead people.’”
“You’re probably right, but eventually you’re going to have to tell her. And you’ll have to find a way to talk with Bonnie—or whoever it is—to figure out why she’s still here.” She took a step closer to the guitar case. “I could place my hands on it if you think it would help.”
I gripped her forearm, holding her back. My mother had the ability to communicate with spirits by touching objects associated with them, sometimes with disastrous results. I liked to think of it as only a last-ditch measure. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Bonnie could just be hanging around to make sure Nola gets settled. Why don’t we wait and see?”
She gave me her knowing look, the look mothers most likely acquire during the birthing process, and I tried very hard not to squirm in my Valentino heels.
“After the barbecue tonight, I’m
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