Chapter 16
Luke
Monday mornings are a time for most adults to commute to work or, for those blessed to telework like me, it’s a time to put on a pot of coffee and crack open our laptops from the comfort of home—unless you’re the boss, like me, then you get to make up your own rules. That means when I let Korg out for his morning pee and find the lawn soaked with dew, a layer of fog gently blanketing the street, and a temperature that doesn’t make me feel like fried bacon, it’s time for some yard work.
I start with the rock beds out front. They’re dirtied up with grass clippings, dead leaves, and sticks from previous bush trimmings. Luckily, I have just the thing: a three-hundred-dollar 51cc Husqvarna backpack blower that I bought yesterday at Lowes.
Fine. The leaf blower is the real reason I’m in the mood for yard work. This thing’s a beast, a hairdryer on a heavy dose of steroids. It’s powerful. It’s loud. Especially at nine thirty in the morning. Ed might send me a letter of noncompliance in the mail, but at least my landscaping beds will be free of debris.
After blowing leaves from the river rock, I turn the high-powered current of air on Korg and part his hair every which way. He thinks he’s at the doggie spa, which he loves because of all the cooing and doting.
Ten minutes is about all I can take. I tuck the blower safely in my shed and pull out my leather gardening gloves and a spade.
My garden is in better shape than it was a few weeks ago, but it could still use some work. I contemplate the square of weeds for a moment and decide it’s time to employ heavy machinery. I’ll focus on the thorny bushes today, get rid of those, and then rent a cultivator to uproot the more benign weeds. Then, I’ll throw down a thick blanket of annual rye to choke out any weeds that dare to germinate. I’m not a farmer, but according to an article on Google, it should work.
I throw on my gloves and make quick work of the smaller sticker bushes, tossing them to the side to discard later. My previous experience with these nasty little buggers taught me that the larger ones have big roots. This time, I’m prepared with my spade to dig deep and loosen the surrounding soil. Unless I want thorns in my zucchini next year, I need to pull out the entire tap root.
Speaking of thorns in my side, Macy called me last night asking for more money. This time it’s her transmission. I get that an old Ford Focus can’t last forever, but five thousand dollars for parts and labor? Really?
“That’s the cost of a new car,” I blurted into the phone.
“A new car costs five times that.”
“I meant a used car.”
Can you hear a shrug? Because I’m pretty sure I heard her shrug.
Here’s where I could have cut it off. I could have said, “Look, Macy. This is starting to feel a little weird. Um, Gabe isn’t my son, and why am I still giving you money when you cheated on me and had a baby with another man?”
In hindsight, I should have ignored Macy all those years ago when she offered to buy me another mint julep.
We were at the SkyBar at the Waldorf Astoria in Las Vegas. I was hiding from my roomie, Jen Potts. Technically, Jen was my date. Girlfriend, I guess. We flew into Las Vegas for the weekend. Seemed like a good idea until I had to share a room with her and discovered she snored. Loudly.
On our previous dates, I’d left her apartment to the nasal tune of, “Stay the night this time, Boo Boo. I need to spoon.” Why I thought she’d make a good traveling companion is beyond me. I was trying to get back into the dating scene, still not over Cassie. Not thinking straight at all.
That night Jen decided to paint her toenails while watching Love Island and humming the Wii theme song, all while wearing a red negligee that I suppose was meant to put me in the mood. I’d hardly slept the night before, so the only thing it made me want to do was scream. I decided to head up to the bar instead.
I ordered myself a mint julep and stirred it with my mini straw, trying to think of ways I could head back to L.A. without Jen noticing. My sullenness attracted Macy’s attention. She was there for a bachelorette party. The wife-to-be was loaded, had paid their way, and showered them with expensive drinks and plenty of gambling money. Her friends had gone to their rooms to pass out, while Macy stayed to hit on me.
Macy and I sat at the bar all night and talked. Deep stuff, like our bucket lists, our wildest dreams, our past relationship failures. It was the first time I’d really connected with a woman since Cassie. I convinced myself we had something.
When I got back to the hotel room, I was frank with Jen. I told her I hated being called “Boo Boo,” I wasn’t a fan of video games, especially not the Wii, and therefore we needed to break up.
Back in L.A., Macy and I started spending all our free time together. We had our first fight only five days into the relationship. That night we made up in the bedroom. It was powerful. The cycle of fighting and making up.
We bonded like Gorilla Glue on...well...anything. Imagine gluing your thumb to your pointer finger with some strong GG. That’s what it was like. Me and Macy. Stuck together with water-activated polyurethane, impossible to tear apart without deadly chemicals and a fair amount of pain. If it sounds unhealthy, that’s because it was.
For nine months I thought I was going to be a dad. Nine months of shopping for baby clothes and toys and furniture. Nine months of decorating and planning and picking out names and facing my fears about being a parent. Nine months of settling in, deciding, yeah, I can do this, I can be a dad. And then seeing the baby, bloody and fresh out of the womb, my child. I shed tears.
And then Macy said he might not be mine. I don’t know why she waited until the child was in my arms. To amplify the cruelty? I thought I might die under the crushing weight of my shock, disappointment, outrage. Sorrow.
I handed her the baby, collapsed into the stiff recliner next to her bed and cradled my head in my hands. I knew what this was. Karma. Me reaping what I’d sown. The weight of my past indiscretions with women, from flirting when I was supposed to be committed, to outright cheating, I felt it all. I deserved it. What I put into the world I’d gotten back ten-fold. I wasn’t a dad. I was just a guy nobody needed, with a string of failed relationships behind me. Maybe that’s why I agreed to help Macy, despite what she’d done to me. She needed my money. At least someone needed me for something.
But I’ve healed. I’ve changed. I’ve moved on. Now, I need her to stop calling me, stop depending on me, stop asking me for money. It’s all gotten too...unhealthy. That’s why when she asked me for five grand last night, I said, “I guess.”
Well done, self. Well done.
I need to think this through, that’s what I need to do. I need to develop a clear exit plan, a foolproof evacuation of my Benjamins from her pockets.
I continue systematically clearing the garden, removing thorny plant after thorny plant while I plan my escape from Macy. Soon, I’m left with a big bad beast that’s managed to grow to thigh height and is in the process of going to seed. Its thorns are the length of two thumbnails. Impalement would cause serious blood leakage and anguish. The sucker has to go. I dig around the root, discouraged to find it goes deeper than I imagined.
Korg comes over and takes a sniff. I wish he’d lend his paws to the effort, but he only digs when I tell him not to, and always in the middle of the yard. Luckily, the exposed root doesn’t have thorns, so I grab on tight and pull. I put my weight into it, wiggling the plant side to side to loosen more dirt. With one final heave, something lets go. The momentum from my own strength sends me tumbling onto my back, ginormous weed in hand like it’s a prized state fair entry.
Korg makes quick work of my face, licking my forehead and then my cheeks, and then giving me mouth-to-mouth.
“Korg! No!” I roll over to my side and wipe my lips with the back of my hand. Gritty dirt smudges my face. I probably look like a coal miner. But my prize distracts me. The entire weed, tap root and all, along with a generous clod of dirt, hangs loosely in my hand.
I had no idea dirt could be so rewarding. Mom never let me play in it growing up. Something about microbes and tapeworms and ants. She let cans of potatoes sit on the shelf for ten years past their expiration dates, but if I came in with dirt under my fingernails after frolicking at the park, it was straight to the sink with soap and a brush.
I stand and throw the big bad beast onto my pile of extracted sticker bushes and anchor my hands on my hips while surveying my work. Loose piles of black dirt dot the garden everywhere, full of microbes and nutrients that will feed the seeds I’ll eventually throw down, turning each little promise into a budding plant with the help of some rain and a bit of luck. Fresh starts, every one of them.
This is much better than sitting in front of my laptop for virtual meeting after virtual meeting.
Satisfied with my work, I return the spade and gloves to the shed and call Korg to my side. Together we head into the kitchen. I pour him a fresh bowl of cold water and then I go up to shower. I’m in my birthday suit when my phone buzzes.
I see Cassie’s name and fumble for my phone and a towel. Something about naked-texting feels inappropriate. With towel cinched around my waist, I swipe up and read Cassie’s text.
We hit 5K today, her text reads.
I drop the lid on the toilet and perch on my porcelain throne. Dull, white tiles frame the bathroom. The dingy, mildewed grout begs me to put it out of its misery with a sledgehammer. I’m too busy marveling over Cassie’s text to pay attention.
This is the first time she’s texted me for reasons other than logistics. Clearly, she wants me to celebrate with her, so I type, carefully, That’s cool. I stare at my response for a moment and decide it’s stupid. I decide to use my big words instead: That’s fabulous.
That’s no good either. So, I decide on: Seriously?
It’s a question which should prompt her to text back.
Yep, Cassie texts. Sorry. We might have to livestream more dates. Instagram loved your octopus.
Our octopus, I correct.
Cassie: smiley emoji>
What did they think of your red slimy worm?I prod, trying to keep the conversation going.
Cassie: barfing emoji>
I scroll up a few lines and consider Cassie’s comment about more livestreaming. I hope she doesn’t mean our “date” later this week, which we haven’t officially marked on our calendars. I decide to take a chance.
We need to keep our research session between you and me, tho, no prying eyes. If they want to learn about my haunted house, they’ll have to pay for the tour.
When I’m done writing, I reread it and hit send.
Dots loop across my phone for a good minute.
Definitely, she finally responds.
Why did it take her so long to type one word? It’s a strong word though, decisive, firm. No livestream. We both agree.
I’ll make time on Friday, she texts.
You can make time?? What kind of sorcery is that? Does it require a cauldron of rare forest herbs?
Cassie: laughing emoji>
Eye of salamander and heart of crickets, she adds.
Crickets have hearts?
Sure. They must, she answers.
I bet they’re tiny.
Bigger than a gnat’s heart.
Me: mind-blown emoji>
Dot, dot, dot. Dot, dot, dot.
I guess it’s still my turn. Well, I would like to order four hours, please, with ketchup and mustard.
Four?Cassie quickly responds.
Too little?
It depends on how much you annoy me.
I smile at my phone. A joking Cassie is a happy Cassie. And that’s all I want.
I’ll only be a little annoying, I type back.
Cassie: Then we’ll see how it goes. My place at six? I will require food.
I as well.
Excellent,Cassie responds. We’ll DoorDash.
Fancy, I text.
I know how to please my guests. Don’t take that the wrong way.
I know what you meant. Hey, keep me posted on the stats.
Will do,Cassie replies.
No more dots. We end it there. I release my towel and jump into the shower to wash away the dirt.
Friday can’t come soon enough.
On Wednesday, it occurs to me that I need to go above and beyond. Cassie swoons over history. It’s one of her love languages.
I find the number for the Charleston Historical Foundation and dial them up. No one answers, so I leave a message telling them I’m interested in learning more about the history of the houses along my street and asking how I might go about it. Then, I head to my office and scroll through my emails.
At twelve thirty the doorbell rings. Korg goes into watchdog mode and barks until I tell him to simmer down, it’s just the UPS guy. His ears perk up at “UPS.” He knows it means treats. As expected, two dog bones rest on my package. I grab the box from the front porch, toss the bones to Korg, and meander back to my office.
I haven’t put in an Amazon order, which means the package must be work-related. I’m right. It’s full of man-soap—Squatch’s on one side and IronForge’s on the other. I spend the next fifteen minutes doing the sniff test and decide I’m sufficiently impressed with IronForge’s offerings. The scents are sharper, bolder, less I spent a week in the woods and more I mold metal with my bare hands.
I pull up to my laptop, prepared to give a report to my partners when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so I use my work voice.
It’s the lady from the Charleston Historical Foundation. She informs me that they have an archive and I’m welcome to look through it whenever I have the time, but she’ll have to let me into the office because they’re all volunteers, and they can’t afford to pay a secretary, and nobody has a key but her because people can’t be trusted these days. I tell her I’m free now. She ums and hms for a moment before agreeing to meet me there in half an hour.
Since her office is less than five minutes away, I kill time by slapping ham and cheese between two slices of whole wheat toast. I grab a handful of pretzels before sitting down to enjoy my culinary artistry.
I’m not sure what to look for in the archive. Hopefully, tidbits of Charleston’s history along with nuggets from Benton Street’s past jump out at me and say Cassie would find this endlessly fascinating. She has a particular affinity for historical structures—who built them, who resided in them, what happened there. She also knows her history better than anyone I’ve ever met.
When we went to the Chicago History Museum, she shared random facts like she worked for the museum. In the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 exhibit, she schooled me on the details.
“You’re not even reading the placards,” I said. “How do you know all this?”
“I wrote a paper about it for my senior year American History class.”
By five o’clock our feet felt like ground sausage and our legs screamed for recliners and glasses of painkilling Pinot Noir. The city was blustery that day with low, moisture-laden clouds that couldn’t decide whether to spit rain or snow—a typical Chicagoan December. We’d headed up from Charleston to spend the weekend before Christmas with my parents. Part of my Christmas gift to Cassie had been touring Chicago’s best historical museums with her. Part two would come later.
We took the “L” back to my neighborhood. She snuggled next to my leather coat, her body feeling cozy and warm next to mine. When she thanked me for pretending to be interested in history, I rested my finger beneath her chin, lifted her face toward mine, and relished her deep brown eyes before telling her I wasn’t pretending. Anything she loved, I loved, and then I pressed my lips to hers, immersing myself in her softness for a good thirty seconds.
When we parted, an elderly lady across from us wearing a plastic head wrap and clutching a cane scowled at us. “We’re in public,” she said, grimacing at my hand which had found its way up Cassie’s thigh. Fair enough. I’d forgotten where I was. An easy enough thing to do when I had Cassie tucked under my arm.
I kept her there as we exited the train and walked the six blocks to my childhood home. The clouds had settled on snow, a tiny pellet variety that pelted our cheeks and foreheads. Christmas lights on porches and eaves provided entertainment in the premature darkness.
Back at the house, Mom already had dinner ready. Dad had paused his usual gallivanting to spend time with his son, although I almost wished he was absent. Mom put up with his cheating, but she wasn’t natural about it. In Dad’s presence she stiffened, her voice took on an edge, and she spoke in terse sentences laden with double meanings.
When they’d both mercifully gone to bed, Dad in the downstairs bedroom and Mom in the master suite upstairs, Cassie and I sat in front of a fire in the living room nursing our second glass of Pinot Noir. My feet and legs were sufficiently numb, but the rest of me was as hot as the flames licking the firewood.
“I don’t understand why she stays,” Cassie whispered, as though Mom might be hiding in the woodwork listening in, which was quite possible.
I peered over my shoulder, checked the dining room, and looked for Mom-sized shadows. I was pretty sure we were in the clear.
“It’s complicated,” I answered.
Cassie furrowed her brow.
“She’s lonely. Her parents are gone. Her sister moved to Seattle. She doesn’t get out except to the ladies’ group at the yacht club and she complains that they’re all phonies as soon as she comes home.”
Cassie fingered the long stem of her glass, her pink fingernails glinting in the firelight. She snuggled closer to me, just beneath my arm. I stroked her shoulder as I contemplated the translucent orange and red flames that somehow, in a mysterious act of chemistry, were keeping us warm.
“I still don’t understand why she puts up with his cheating,” Cassie said.
I didn’t have a better answer than I’d already provided, so I continued studying the fire, contemplating the impermanence of each flame as it leaped up only to disappear a millisecond later.
“Why does he cheat?” Cassie asked.
A laugh rumbled from my chest. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
“You must know. You followed in his footsteps.”
My muscles tensed. I looked over at Cassie to find her staring at me, a hardness to her features that conveyed distrust.
“I’m not my dad,” I said.
“But you cheated on your girlfriends.”
I pulled away from Cassie, just enough to turn and give her proper focus.
“My grandpa was MIA when Dad was growing up. He had to fend for himself. Create his own definition of “happy.” But I don’t think he ever found a happiness that satisfied him. He’s still searching. He’ll find it in a woman, and then his happiness grows stale. When it does, he moves on to the next.”
“Is that why you cheated?”
I clenched my jaw. Concern pulled my eyebrows inward. I hated that my past made Cassie distrustful in the present. Worst of all, I didn’t have an answer for her. I could go deep, say, like father like son. Or I could offer the more accurate truth, that I was just a dumb kid. But would either explanation calm her fear that I might cheat again, this time on her?
“I was selfish,” I said. “And insensitive. And mostly just stupid.”
Cassie looked down at her glass, into the depths of her wine. What she saw didn’t satisfy her, because when she looked at me again the vague distrust still hung on her features.
I walked over to the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace and pulled out the book that was hiding her second gift. Cassie eyed me warily as I walked the square box back to the couch.
“What’s this?” she said when I handed it to her.
“The rest of your Christmas gift.”
“Your gift is still under my tree.”
I placed my hand over both of hers, angled my body so our chests were parallel, and then I dipped my head to level my eyes with hers. “I would never cheat on you, Cassie.” Profound silence punctuated my sentence as Cassie blinked under my steady gaze. She took a deep breath. “I want to believe you, but I—”
I tightened my hand around hers. “I love you.”
Her chest collapsed and her cheeks went slack.
It was the first time I’d said those three words.
She looked down at the Oriental rug, studied its intricate pattern. My words had barreled into her, set her off kilter. Not the effect I’d been going for.
“Um.” She slid her hands and the box out of mine. “I guess I should open this?” Her voice sounded distant.
“Cassie.” I cupped both sides of her neck with my hands, my thumbs anchoring her cheeks. “You can trust me.”
A faint smile warmed her face.
“I’m not pressuring you to say it back,” I added. “I just wanted you to know how I feel about you. About us.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
I dropped my hands and scooted closer to her until our knees were in a line. She set the box on her lap and began tearing at the childlike Santa Claus paper, the best wrapping paper I could find in Mom’s hoarder stash. When she opened it, the diamond-studded cross sparkled in the firelight.
Cassie gasped. “Is this real?”
I chuckled. “Yes. It’s really a cross necklace.”
“The diamonds. Are they real?”
“Of course.”
Cassie gingerly lifted the necklace and studied the glittering pendant. “You didn’t have to do this, Luke.”
“I know. I wanted to.”
She rested the pendant in her hand, her head shaking. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I fingered the chain where the two ends met, and then lifted the necklace from Cassie’s hand and undid the clasp. “May I?”
She nodded. I pulled the chain around her neck, my arms encircling her, my body leaned toward hers, and blindly found both sides of the clasp, anchoring them together. Then, I carefully freed her hair and traced the chain with my finger until it touched the cross.
She reached for the necklace but caught my hand instead. “It’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” I whispered. I drew my hand up her neck, onto her cheek, gently tilted her head, and leaned in for a deep kiss. Her hands found my chest, the top button of my shirt coming easily undone. We descended onto the cushions, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.
As my hand discovered the skin beneath her shirt, Cassie pulled away. “I’m afraid your mom is watching,” she whispered.
I caught her lips again, smiling as I enjoyed the closeness. “She probably is,” I murmured.
“Also.” Cassie reared back, compressing the upholstery foam beneath her head. “I love you too.”
Fireworks lit my chest and their spray descended through my arms and legs. We gazed at each other nose to nose, the smile on my face so big I could have aced any clown audition. Cassie giggled.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered.
She agreed and we tiptoed up the creaking stairs, carrying our desire with us into the guest bedroom, taming it just enough to not wake up the house.
The trip to the Charleston Historical Foundation yields some positive results. I return home with several photocopies of old newspaper articles, five pages of notes, and a new appreciation for the neighborhood I decided to call home.
It’s too late to get any more work done—so I tell myself—which means I have the rest of the night to fashion the bits and pieces of history I collected into a cohesive speech, something Cassie’s tour guide might recite to start the tour.
Sometime around ten o’clock, Mom raps on my office door. She needs to borrow dish soap. I tell her it will cost her a dollar, and she scoffs at me. She waves her hand in front of her nose and tells me Korg stinks before closing the door and leaving me in peace.
At midnight, I take my last drink of La Croix and nudge a sleeping Korg with my toe. Korg lifts his head groggily, blinks fresh tears into his eyes, and stands.
I let Korg out to do his business, and then we both head to my bedroom. I expect a relaxing night of sleep, but I wake up three hours later in a full sweat to the sound of disembodied moans. He/she/it has been quiet for several days. That or I’ve been sleeping through the otherworldly noises.
Korg whines and tries to climb on top of me. His paws stab my gut like five-inch heels on a six-foot model.
“Korg. No. You’re going to send me to the ER.”
I sit up and offer him reassuring pets while the creepy moaning continues. I thought dogs were supposed to look after humans, not the other way around.
“At least the demon cat didn’t decide to break through the gates of hell tonight too,” I say to the top of Korg’s head.
And just like that, I jinx myself. I hear a sharp utterance of the feline variety, the tone both mournful and territorial, low at the start, rounding off at the top, and back down.
I refuse to throw on a pair of flannel pajama pants just to wander around the perimeter of my house waving a flashlight. Been there, done that.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say to my dog, hopeful that I won’t be able to hear the underworld from the guest room in the far corner of the house. I’m right and the two of us soon fall back to sleep.
The next morning, I’m determined to get to the bottom of Moany Marony. I pull the business card off my bulletin board in the pantry—the one belonging to the guy who sold me this house. The number on the card goes to his secretary. When she asks if the matter is urgent, I tell her yes, I have a haunting and I need to know if the ghost is friendly or out to steal my soul. She sounds adequately concerned, so I tell her my story and my relation to her boss.
“I’m not sure I should do this,” she whispers into the phone, “but I don’t think he’ll mind.”
“I don’t want you to get fired,” I say.
“Oh,” she laughs. “If I get fired it won’t be for giving you his wife’s number.”
I don’t ask her what she’d have to do to get the ax, even though I am a little curious. I just take down his wife’s number and promptly call her after I hang up with the secretary.
“This is Janice,” a voice says on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Janice. This is Luke. Luke Curtis. I bought your home on Benton Street.”
“Yes! Luke.” The higher timbre of her voice denotes recognition. “I remember you from the closing. Are you enjoying the house?”
I fold my arms and lean back in my office chair. “Yeah, yeah. Mostly.”
“Oh no.”
I clear my throat. “There is one little thing—”
“Betsy.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Betsy’s stirring up mischief, isn’t she?”
“Um.”
“Let me guess. You hear noises at night. Your cabinet door opens by itself.”
I cover my eyes with my free hand. “You knew your house was haunted and you sold it to me anyway?”
“It’s an old house. It goes with the territory.”
“Could you have mentioned it on Zillow?”
“Would you have bought the house?”
I give my eyes a rub and lean over, resting my elbows on my knees. “Maybe?”
“Betsy is harmless. She’s just looking for Joey.”
“Who’s Joey? Is he squatting here too?”
“Her husband Joey. They were an elderly couple. Joey had cancer and was put on hospice. Betsy was his caregiver until she fell down the stairs and snapped her neck.”
I nearly choke on my spit. After a few coughs, I manage to blurt out, “Snapped?”
“I suppose I could’ve said that more gently. She broke her neck and died instantly.”
I try to digest what I’ve just heard. A grandma with a wobbly neck is wandering my halls. That’s. Just. Awesome. I frown at my carpet. “How do you know this?” I ask.
“We brought in paranormal investigators from New York City. Really sweet couple. He puts on a blindfold and noise-canceling headphones while she asks the dead questions. They speak to him, and he relays the message.”
I shudder at the word “dead.”
“Betsy was very talkative. She said she needed to get Joey his medicine. Kept repeating it over and over.”
“Did she tell you how she died?”
“No. She doesn’t know she’s dead. When we bought the house, the real estate agent disclosed that one of the former owners had died and he told us the manner of her death.”
“And you bought the house anyway?”
“We didn’t know she was still hanging around at that point.”
“Any idea how I might get her to not hang around? She’s disrupting my sleep and reducing my dog to a pile of pudding.”
“The paranormal investigators told her Joey passed peacefully in his sleep, hoping it would satisfy her and help her make the final journey to death, but Betsy is a stubborn woman.”
“Great.”
“She’s not a bad tenant though. She doesn’t clog the toilets or flood the laundry room or leave her dirty dishes around.”
“She doesn’t pay rent either,” I say.
“No, but she’ll mostly leave you alone.”
“What about the cat? Did it break its neck too?”
“Um,” Janice fumbles. “I don’t know anything about a cat.”
“I keep hearing the unholy meows of a disembodied cat.”
“Oh...” Janet pauses. “...dear.”
I don’t like the sound of that. I wait for her to continue.
“We did have a cat that passed away in the house. The vet said it was probably a heart defect. But we never heard Lou Lou’s ghost.”
“Let me guess. She was a beloved cat, attached to your ankle. And now that you’re gone, she misses you.”
“I can’t confirm that. I certainly hope Lou Lou isn’t hanging around. I assumed she crossed the rainbow bridge to be with my dog, Charlie.”
“I think she descended into the crawl space to hang out with the ghosts of a thousand dead spiders.”
“I can give you the name of the paranormal investigators if you’d like.”
The ghost of a dead cat freaks me out a lot less than Betsy moaning about Joey and his pain meds. But a ghost is a ghost, and it still gives me the creeps.
“No. That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just... Call a priest.”
Janice gasps. “Betsy doesn’t need to be exorcised. She just needs to be understood.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, my jaw tense. I wonder if I can claim Betsy as a dependent on my taxes. “Anyway, thanks for the info. At least I know I’m not crazy.”
“Not at all. If you have any more questions about the house, let me know. We left our gardening tools in the shed for you. We don’t need them here at the condo.”
“I found them. Thanks.”
“We miss that old house. Take good care of her.”
“Of course.” I don’t mention that in two weeks contractors are going to take sledgehammers to the entire kitchen. I wonder how Betsy will feel when I toss Joey’s medicine cabinet into a dumpster. Hopefully she doesn’t go around knocking over my lamps and Funko Pops.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up. Korg is snoring in the corner, blissfully unaware that we’re living with a poltergeist.
The only positive I see here is that my house just became a stop on Cassie’s ghost tour. I’m sure that will make her happy. And if she’s happy, well, then I’m happy to take one for the team.
I guess.
Hopefully Betsy and Lou Lou are happy too, so I can get some sleep tonight.