Disclaimer: The characters from the Ghost and Mrs. Muir belong to 20th Century Fox and David Gerber Productions. I make no money off of this work of fiction, but do get a great deal of satisfaction.
The episodes referred to are Vanessa, which aired Oct. 26, 1968 Madame Candidate, Oct. 23, 1969 and Not So Desperate Hours, Oct. 30, 1969
Inspiration came fromGoodnight, Nobody by Jennifer Weiner, although this story and her wonderful book aren't anything alike. (Don't ask, it just inspired!)
October 31, 1969
It's chilly this evening as I walk along the beach, taking a few much needed minutes alone. It's hard to remember, watching the gulls as they fly in their raucous patterns across the sky, the waves coming in and out regular as time, the sun dipping down into the water below, that yesterday I wasn't sure if I would be alive today.
We take time, days, even our lives, so much for granted. We assume that because we've been getting up and going to bed for 30, 20, 10 years--that we will continue in that pattern until God calls us home. We don't always realize that sometimes he calls when we aren't expecting it. I've come to the conclusion that we think we will tell Him, when it's time. And it doesn't always work that way.
I lost my husband two years ago next month. He was 35, handsome and blond, strong, funny, warm and intelligent. We had met 10 years before, the moment I first looked into his eyes one that had changed my life forever. We married shortly afterwards, had our first child a year and 7 months later and our second, two years after that. We had a nice home, two cars, and a dog. We took vacations to Cape Cod in the summer, left the children with a sitter on Friday nights and entertained every other Sunday evening. We had many of the same friends, my parents adored him and his parents approved of me. (I found out later that liking and approving are very different things) He worked hard, never wanting anyone to say 'Oh, he only got the job, because he's the boss's son.' He was there one day and gone the next--all in a space between waking up and going to bed. 12 hours was all it took.
I moved my brood, the following year to a small home by the sea. I loved Gull Cottage from the pictures, even more when I actually saw it. The first time I gazed upon the dear, lovely little house, I knew that I had found my true home. I pushed aside the fear that I wouldn't be able to provide for us, or that my housekeeper, whom I loved like a mother/sister/aunt/friend would leave us to go back to her home, and determined to start over.
The landlord, who came to greet us that first day, said the house was haunted. I didn't believe him of course. I was an intelligent, well-educated woman of the 20th century--I knew better than that. Ghosts only existed in Dickens's novels or in the mind of Edgar Allen Poe (two great writers, I reminded myself) Ghosts made great Saturday morning cartoon fare for my children to waste their brains on, and were the easiest costume on Halloween to come up with.
I tricked myself into not being afraid by talking to the ghost, I knew wasn't there. The house was old, had bad electrical wiring and a storm was brewing outside. I was smart enough I thought to make up a convincing story to myself, when I discovered it wasn't raining in the town below us. I grabbed a candle and went to confront the ghost, or actually the portrait of the builder of my new home--a picture so magnificent I felt he followed me around the room.
I told myself I was tired, that in the morning I wouldn't remember any of this. I had just moved from my hometown of 32 years to a new place and had risked a lot to do so. There really wasn't a ghost standing in MY living room telling me he wanted us to go and leave him in peace. I tried not to cry, I hate tears, they make me feel so useless. I won't bore you with the details but that night was one of the wildest of my life. And in the end I found the deep and peaceful sleep that had eluded me for the last two years I felt safe, secure, and watched over once again.
Its no picnic having your own Halloween ghost every day of the year, let me tell you. Whoever said that a spirit was nothing more than vapor, or a puff of smoke that would disappear at the slightest contact, has never met Captain Gregg. I have never in my life met anyone so opinionated, egoistical, chauvinistic, or well meaning as this wonderful man. I say man because I think of him as one. He is not a cold spot in the room or a drop of dust on the stair, he is fire and light, a presence that will not be ignored. He fills a room with his very being and I wonder what it must have been like to be with him when he was living, if seeing him now can fill one with such awe and respect.
He is a great growler, much like a spoiled child, whining at the drop of a hat. But he is kind and gentle and while he makes you feel protected and cared for, you know that more than anything, he needs to be protected and cared for as well. Often when he is in the middle of one of his rants, I see the little boy peaking through, the small child who wants to please, who is eager for your kind smile, to hear 'the words'.
I can't say those words out loud, but they are there. It's not that I can't ever say them, I am a very affectionate and loving person, but right now, I can't. There is too much here, too much to consider, too much to think about.
I know he cares for me he shows it every day. I recently let a group of the women talk me into running for city council. It was a task I had no desire for, but felt that perhaps it might wake up the town, to let them see that they could have something better than the same old thing every year. Voting in this town had taken on more of a primogeniture stance and I wanted to do my part in changing that. He railed at me, pleaded with me and tried to stop me with ghostly persuasion. But in the end, when it came down to it, he said he didn't understand, but if it was what I wanted, he would help me.
I envy the women who knew him in his lifetime. I often wonder if they realized when he held their hand or danced with them safe in his arms, how very lucky there were. I crave his touch--there I said it. It's a matter I try not to think about, but it springs to mind so often now, I can't refuse it. Shortly after we moved here, a young girl came looking for some love letters she said her great-great grandmother had written the Captain. He was engaged to the ancestor he told me, and I remember the fire of jealousy that had flared up inside of me. Not because he had written her beautiful words or because she had agreed to be his wife, but because she had been able to touch him--to hold his hand, to stroke his cheek, to tie his tie, sooth his brow, throw her arms around his shoulders, kiss him goodnight, goodbye or just because. She hadn't realized what a wonderful ability she had had because it was commonplace, everyday.
When Daniel Gregg died, he too left this world in an unexpected time. He was 45, strong, handsome, comfortably set, content with his life, happy to be in home among his things, dreaming of what might still be. He said the day of his death has been a very nice one, a brisk wind blowing in from the north. He had spent the day, going over the books from his final voyage, had taken his adopted cousin for a meal and had promised the man's young daughter he would dance with her at the Thanksgiving Festival the next week. "She was 10." he told me "and I loved her like a daughter." I wish this man could have had many daughters!
He too was here one day and gone the next all in the space of waking and sleeping. 12 hours that we take for granted, even fear and wish would never come, gone in a space of time.
Yesterday after the children went to school a man came to the house and quietly and efficiently, took my housekeeper and I his prisoner. He had two men with him, convicts escaped from a near by prison, on their way to a new life. I still marvel at just how calm I was, thankful I didn't scream or do anything stupid. The whole day actually came out sounding like a bad situation comedy on television, an episode of Dick Van Dyke gone wrong--with me and Martha trying to smuggle out notes of help, Ed Peavey walking into the whole mess unknowingly , Martha trying to capture them with the use of sleeping pills.
I asked Captain Gregg for help, and was angry when he wouldn't. I had conveniently forgotten that less than an hour before I had told him, I no longer needed his ghostly interference and could take care of everything myself. I felt resentment building up in me towards him, wondering why he was so lax with our protection.
The man had a gun! The fact that he thought he was Humphrey Bogart or that he and his comrades didn't seem smart enough to open a jar of pickles, let alone escape from prison didn't help in the least. That seemed to make it even more so in my mind, that he wouldn't hesitate to use that gun if he found it necessary. I comforted myself by thinking that he wouldn't shoot women. I reasoned that even though he was a crook, he had a sense of decency. I'm very glad I didn't have to find out if that were true. While I was ranting and cursing Captain Gregg for not coming to my rescue he was doing just that. Unbeknown to me he had removed the bullets from the gun and was keeping a close watch over "Duke", the ringleader. I realize know that he would not let anything that was in his power to stop, hurt me.
In a few minutes I'll turn in my walking and head back towards the house. It's Halloween and my children are excited about the upcoming night of fun and candy and dress up. Right now and probably for the next few days, I am a hero to them. Captain Gregg did his best to give Claymore credit for catching the criminals but it was me my children saw as they came in the door, standing over the men, safely under a fishing net and for them I am the "man" of the hour.
My daughter paid me the ultimate compliment this morning when she asked if she could be me for Halloween instead of her planned costume, because I was very cool and groovy! I couldn't explain to her the tears that started to fall as I hugged her close and told her that I was deeply touched, but that Martha had spent quite a while working on her outfit and I had promised to take pictures since my housekeeper was going to a party with Ed Peavey in Castine for the evening.
I love my children so much. Candy came along almost two years into my marriage and I had had doubts that I would ever actually become pregnant. Bobby had told me that it didn't matter to him if we ever became parents. It wouldn't make us any less a family. He said that we could adopt or lavish our attention on his sister's children or our many honorary nieces and nephews. But I remember the look of pride on his face when he held his daughter and then his son, and I knew it meant a lot to him to have children of his own.
Yesterday as I was trying to remain calm and not think about what would happen if Duke should suddenly go crazy and decide to use the gun he held so proudly, I realized I've never updated my will. I need to call my family lawyer and have that done immediately. I don't have much to give my children but I want them to have what I can provide. And I want them to know if I am taken from this world before them that will be loved and cared for and safe.
I'm coming upon my home now and I smile at the jack-o-lanterns beaming from the front porch. Captain Gregg had been helping the kids with them, when I left, insisting he had the matter well in hand. He is coming out of the door and my heart skips a beat as I see him, standing so proud and tall, here in his home. I realize now this is his, always his, the house he defends even past death. And I thank him for allowing me and my family to share it with him. He smiles when he sees me and once again I want to reach out and touch him, take his hands and thank him for watching out after my children, for me, for Martha.
"Children." he calls inside and my two come stumbling down the steps--Candy in her saloon girl costume, Jonathan dressed as a cowboy and I smile. "You guys look wonderful." I run up and hug them, kissing each one on top of the heads so as not to mess their makeup and they giggle and say thank you.
"Are you going to get dressed up Mom?" Candy asks me and I shake my head. "I think I'll just go as Mom if you don't mind." looking down at my slacks and sand covered shoes, my old jacket tightly zipped against the air, my hair wind-swept around my head. And I look up to see the Captain smiling at me, the look in eyes clearly telling me, he thinks I'm beautiful, even dressed like this. I blush and swallow the lump in my throat and hope he doesn't notice. He does.
I'm not a modest person per se, I don't really have trouble changing in front of other women and I rarely get embarrassed when it comes to delicate things. But I should have known that first night when I turned a bright shade of red from his statement that the bedroom was ours, I would be blushing often from now on. Seems there is a bit of the old fashioned girl in me after all.
"Heck no, Mom." my son is saying and I almost miss it. "You should go as yourself so that everyone will know we have the hero with us."
I glance at my watch and see that's it 7:00 and the darkness is starting to fall over us. "Ready then, Freddy?" I ask and my kids roll their eyes at my outdated expression. "Alright, I'll go get my keys."
"Will you come with us, Captain Gregg?" the kids are asking and I feel my heart lurch once more, hoping he will say yes and knowing he won't. Not yet.
"I'm sure the Capitan has things he needs to do." I tell them.
"As a matter of fact, I have made plans." he says, his eyes flashing up an "I'm sorry, but I'm not ready yet." and I nod my understanding.
"But I will be here when you get home." he tells them directly and then once more looks at me and I know he is telling me as well.
There is someone at home, waiting for me.