ANOTHER one!
I TOLD you all I would eventually get an update up. And I seem to have gotten over my sixth-chapter-writers-block, So THANK THE FRIGGING LORD.
And it helps that my family has suddenly brought satellite rugby. Which means there's ALWAYS a game on during Top Model and Ghost Whisperer. Speaking of which, did you know that the main character in Ghost Whisperer's name is Melinda? And she talks to ghosts. Seriously. I found this out yesterday. Is Melinda such a paranormal name? I might be on to something here.
Anyway. Thankyous. I have LOTS of them. So if you didn't review, scroll down. And I hope you feel VERY guilty whilst scrolling. VERY, VERY guilty.
> > >
Amattsonperdue: I REALLY appreciated your criticism. It really helps me to get an HONEST review. Like, I can berate my story all I like, and yet, I'm still not sure if I'm just being overly critical or I just put the LOO in Deluded. I'm too close; you have a better perspective than me. THANK YOU. And CARRY ON.
Ooh I'm so glad! Her Royal Highness diamond, as a first fic, I could have easily scared you off. I'm told I do that to people occasionally. STAND BY!
Yeah. I like the number two, Kates Master2 and I'm glad I made the list. And as for Mel knowing so much, it's just because of, you know, television and movies. Like, I don't talk to the dead, and I know about exorcisms and stuff via television and movies. Ha, and the Internet . . . LOL! But if you think I still need to tone it down a little, let me know.
You're a nice person Catty Rose. I am flattered beyond imagination. I loved the orange cardigan too. I was cracking up. And blowing Daffy? Well my new saxophones name is Tatiana. Dude, that's worse.
Your flatter me aD3liN3. When I read your review I was all, "Oh My-God! She likes my writing. How super!" But that may have been because I have been watching WAY too many cheesy teen movies. Thank you for the feedback, and as for Melinda and Nick, I'm still not certain what's happening to them. I know they seem perfect, but there's something to be said for the nice guy. Who maybe just hasn't appeared yet.
Callin got it right in one. My story really is very Mediatory, isn't it? Giggle That's what I was aiming for Callin. Thank you for reviewing. BIG hug!
Table sex. Well Char, This is my story. And as flimsy and hollow as it might be, THERE JUST HAD TO BE A SCENE WHERE SUZE AND JESSE WERE CAUGHT HAVING SEX ON THE TABLE. It's like an unwritten law or something.
Am I harsh tweedledee11 Answer: God Yes. Well In real life if I killed of people at this alarming rate, I would be in jail. Or – more likely – an asylum. In stories, I can kill whomever I like. Well, Sort of. I get the feeling I would be at the receiving end of a lot of bad will if I killed off Father Dominic. So just as a small spoiler FATHER DOMINIC WILL LIVE ON! Just like Elvis. Stay away from the fridges Father D.
Mary, WHY THE HELL DO YOU HAVE RABID GERBILS? And I thought the monkeys were bad. Giggle . I'm going to have to quote my kindergarten teacher. "Keep all hands feet and objects TO YOURSELF." This was usually directed at me. Snort. AND OBJECTS INCLUDE GERBILS MARY. And MONKEYS. And any other creepy rabid beings you may have. You can keep the worms and Squirrel's however. Thank you for the Review, you're so nice to me. PATHOLOGICAL LIARS UNITE! I got some hilarious groupie images of Father Dom too. And my regards to: Pancake, Googoo, Larry, armadillo, Tom, and ye-who-yeilds-the-mighty-spaghetti'o's-container.
Thank you Ravens-my-life I love that I know I will usually get a review from you or Mary. Does happy Dance. You are so nice to me.
Missy Mee: Thank you. Thank you, thank you. YES. I have an update! I know. I myself am surprised. Yes, True friend was ever the cheerful bedtime tale, no? But it's OK. I just have an over active imagination. Hee.
THANK YOU ALL!
And I need caffeine.
> > >
Disclaimer: Go ahead. Sue me. You'll probably get about three bucks for your troubles.
Chapter Seven:
Cest la Vie.
"Hello? . . . Umm, Sure, she's right here. . . It's for you." Alanna said, passing me the receiver.
"Thanks," I said puzzled. "Hello?"
I was at Alanna's. Obviously. That's why she answered the phone. And why her ring tone was Disney's 'Beauty and the Beast.'
I had plans to be here, and just because an ex boyfriend of mine had been—well I had plans! PLANS! And until this freaking ghost rears his stupid head, there's nothing I can do.
Nothing.
"Melinda?" Dads voice said; sounding strained. "Finally. What's the point in having a portable phone if you never have it turned ON?"
"Oh yeah, I have a, um, a reason for that—"
So I don't have an excuse. But at least my ring tone isn't BEAUTY AND THE BEAST! It's the Sugarbabes. Red Dress. Love that song.
"Save it." he said, "Could you head down to the hospital now please?"
"How come? Are you working late?"
"Er . . .No, Not exactly, Now don't panic—" I immediately started to panic, "—but your mothers been admitted."
"WHAT? Why?" I said jumping up, unseating Alanna's Tabby. Which made for a rather unhappy cat, but who cared. My MOTHER was in the HOSPITAL.
"She – she tripped and fell out the window."
"Well, is she OK?"
"Not exactly. She's broken her Collarbone."
"WHAT?"
"She should be OK," he assured me.
"She fell out the window." I repeated.
"Well, not the window exactly . . .But . . . Some French doors."
French Doors? What French doors? We don't have any—The ones in my room.
And it hit me. No, it really hit me. None of this little tapping business, but so hard I almost fell over. Which, probably made me look like I was stoned, but whatever. PRIORITIES you know?
"Dios, I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Gracias."
I hung up and was straight away bombarded by Alanna. "What's the matter?" She asks frantically.
I can understand why she looked so scared. I jumped into action, hurrying around the room, grabbing, my bag, fumbling in it and turning my phone ON.
"Moms in Hospital." I said shortly. "Can I borrow your car?"
"NO! I mean - yeah, sure you can borrow—YOUR MOM IS IN HOSPITAL?"
"YES!" I shouted at her, my fight to stay calm escaping me, "And now is not the time to have a panic attack! I need you to tell me where your KEYS ARE, NOW!"
She stopped. Closed her eyes. And told me the keys were in the pocket of her blue wrap. "But I'm coming with you." She said, her eyes flying open.
"WHATEVER! But can you MOVE IT?"
She hurried up the stairs and came back with her keys. "I think I'd better drive."
I didn't deny it. Even when she is hysterical, Alanna is still a way better driver than me. Dad is constantly reminding me that I'm not driving a formula one race. So perhaps Alanna was safer, but I'm god damn faster! I've watched faster SNAILS, I swear to the goddess.
"GO!" I urged.
At least I have somewhere to start. I thought as I buckled myself in. Even though that isn't much comfort. I would never forgive myself if Mom were hurt. Like, REALLY BADLY HURT. How could he do this though? If he wanted to mentally hurt ME, he couldn't have done a finer job, but involving other people just to hurt ME?
I don't know, maybe I was being vain in thinking this was all because of me.
Maybe this was all a coincidence; maybe Mom really did trip out the window.
I just doubt it somehow. My mom can do some stupid things, and have some really terrible plans, but she's not stupid.
I mean, in my room I have these huge great French doors, they're panelled, and they're really pretty and all, but I suppose they are a little dangerous, that's why they're always locked, with the key hidden high up behind the curtains. And then there's a BALCONY out there anyway!
Its reasonably big too, so how could she just 'fall' over that? And what could she possibly trip over that would give her enough momentum to both smash the wood—glass I understand would break quite easily, but on my doors there's more wood than there is glass—and carry her across the balcony and THEN tip her over the safety rails?
Im no scientist, but even I know that just wouldn't work. There's no way she could fall across / through all that.
SO: what could she possibly fall over that would give her enough force for that? IT WOULDN'T WORK.
Excluding, of course, a force that was constantly applied. Eg, a push, or ghostly force.
That would sure do the trick.
So you see, the whole 'accident' theory just doesn't add up. If she's SERIOUSLY hurt— I thought as Alanna rounded a bend with particular vengeance. Unusual for her. But then, She likes my mom.
Everyone likes my mom. She – mom – doesn't even know why. Everyone else does though. I see it. Dad sees it. BRAD – her stepbrother, an individual with intelligence akin to that of a TROLL – even sees it. Perhaps that's why he's so bitter.
Dad said it was just mom's Collarbone that was damaged, but he might have been downplaying things. Parents have a tendency to do that I've noticed. Try to 'protect' you, when all there really doing is making it worse.
We pulled into Carmel hospital; I'd been here before because of Dad and all, but never to see someone who was in here BECAUSE OF ME.
Just F.Y.I, It's a really bad feeling.
"Um, hi, do you know which room Susannah de Silva is in please?" The nurse behind the desk whose nametag read 'SAM.' Looked up at me blankly.
"Susannah. De. SILVA." I growled. Alanna tugged on my arm, trying to get me to be nicer to the nurse.
"OH!" Said the Nurse, perking up. "That's Dr de Silva's – Wife." She said, her cheery tone turning decidedly nasty as she said the word; 'Wife'.
"No, it's his mother." I snapped.
"Really?" she said, brightening.
"NO! Would you just tell me which room she's in please?"
"I'm sorry miss," she began monotonously. "Only direct family members are allowed—"
"Im her DAUGHTER!" I snapped, dangerously close to losing it. HELLO! MOM! IN HOSPITAL!
"Im sorry but only immediately related family are allowed to see Miss de Silva." She smiled toothily. "Its hospital Policy."
"You can take you're policy an—"
It was no good. She just smiled vacantly at me, apparently not comprehending the link between a mother and child.
Apparently I was going to have to clarify. Gently of course. I wouldn't want to scare her.
"A daughter IS an immediate relation!" I bellowed.
"You're her daughter? Well that's different! You must be Melinda."
"YES." I said breathing heavily. "Can you please tell me which room my mother is in?"
"Do you remember me Melinda? You were only this high when we last met—"
"Tell me. Where. My mother is. Or I will have you FIRED." I said in a threatening voice.
"Umm," said the suddenly co-operative nurse, checking the computer. "Room 101."
I turned, heading to room 101. Which was like the recovery block. Thank god. If she were still in the critical rooms, I would probably have hit 'Sam'.
Seriously though, HOW BRIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO BE? As for getting her fired? Dad would be all for giving 'Sam' another chance. Dr Rys though, he might listen to me. He'd even chuck her out under dad's name. Mostly, I think because he has the hots for mom.
It's a twisted, twisted world.
"Have a nice day!" she had the nerve to call after me.
"Mom?" I said, knocking on the door of room 101.
"Come in." said Dads voice.
I pushed open he door and walked in. The room was OK for a hospital. It was a single room, pretty big, and not as 'ICK' as it could have been.
Advantage to being married to a Doctor, you get the best rooms.
Bonus.
"Hey Melinda." Mom said from the hospital bed. It was just she and Dad in there, and she didn't look too bad. Except for the giant SLING and all the DRIPS and other paraphernalia. Yeah. Its kind of hard to pretend everything is fine when there is NEEDLES in your MOTHER.
All together now. Say cheese. Yep, we'll send that to Aunty Gertrude.
"In the name of the Kyprioth" I muttered. "This is the last time, de basté redo." Dad didn't scold me. Once again, it was a mark of the situation.
"Hey, I'm OK!" Mom smiled up at me, Alanna having stayed out in the corridor. "An I will swear to whichever god it was that you just cursed, that I am FINE."
"Kyprioth." I muttered shamefacedly. "The trickster."
Fits that the first god I'd call on would be the trickster, right? So typical of me.
"And I'm willing to wager with the Graveyard Hag you didn't fall" I piled on the sarcasm, "Off my balcony."
"Im going to let the bit about the Graveyard Hag slide," Mom said, "Just let me remind you to LEAVE THE GODS ALONE. Gods have twisted senses of humour. You never know what they're going to do, I'M still wanting to know what the hell it was that I did, so as to land me with this shifter crap."
Fair Point. The Graveyard hag might sic her rats on me. And I don't like rats. I don't like them almost as much as they don't like me.
"So." I encouraged. "Balcony . . . fall . . . HOSPITAL . . ." Mom fidgeted slightly. "AND," I added to dad, "What is with that stupid NURSE?"
"Oh. Sam." He explained wearily. "Trainee."
He knew straight away which one I was talking about, which led me to believe I'm not the first to complain. Probably not the hundredth, even. And I doubt I will be the last. Idiotic woman.
"Back to topic. You did not FALL."
I was so sure mom didn't fall that, as I said before, I'd wager with the Graveyard Hag, who ALWAYS cheats, She has weighted die, so she never loses. Oh, and she's a GOD.
Sometimes that can sort of, throw the balance in your favour.
Apart from that I like gods. I don't understand why people just pick one to believe in, and then slander the ones other people pick.
I pick them ALL.
See? That makes me smarter.
"You're not going to be distracted." Dad sighed. "Fine. As you well know, your mother did not fall in the slightest. She was thrown. By a spirit who she was trying to HELP"
It was clear from dad's tone that he wasn't going to let this slide. He definitely felt he owed our ghost a broken collarbone in return. Ditto dad. Ditto. Lets add things up shall we?
First Complaint: He murdered Stacy and made it look like a suicide.
Second: He Murdered Brian and made it look like he died due to some stupid blunder of his own, like he just tripped and broke his neck.
Third: He throws my mother off a balcony so she breaks her collarbone.
Yeah, I definitely DON'T LIKE THIS GUY. I mean to say, WHO THROWS PEOPLES MUMS OFF BALCONIES? WHAT SORT OF HICK MORALITY—Breathe in. Breathe out.
Trust mom to be trying to help him. And he throws her out a window for her troubles. What a—
"Wait. Help? Mom, what were you doing?"
"Your dear mother decided it would be a good idea to—" dad started peevishly. I guessed it was a well-exercised topic. Probably what they were arguing about short of the moment I walked in. "Try and—"
"Oh cut the bullshit Jesse." Mom interrupted. "I found your little ghost Mel. And I told him I would exorcise the shit out of him if he came near my daughter ever again."
"Huh. Way to say it straight up Mom."
"I don't think he liked that much." She winced as she readjusted herself, batting Dad away as he tried to help her. "In fact, I'm sure of it."
"Fuck I hate this guy." I probably should have said it in Spanish, but either way dad would understand whatever profanity I used, so mom might as well be in on it too.
Mom nodded her agreement but dad just managed to choke out a strangled, "Melinda!"
"Va el retén un pollo papa."
"MELINDA!" Dad exclaimed.
"What?" Questioned mom interestedly. "What? What did you tell him to do?"
"I told him to go catch a chicken."
Mom giggled. "Ha. You got told to go catch Poultry by your seventeen-year-old daughter! Hahahaha—"
"Susannah."
"What? I'm just lightening the mood."
See? Mom sees the funny side. Too bad for dad. Hee, I rhyme. Well, not really. And considering mom was the one in the hospital bed, she was looking happier than the grumpy looking dude beside her.
"But wait!" I said, doing my best TV salesman impression. "There's more!"
"Uh Oh" mom said.
"Uh Oh' sums it up nicely. As you might be unaware—" ha. unaware. I bet. I've seen how dad gets when something happens to mom. 'Oh Querida . . .' I bet dad had been way too busy checking if the inside of moms mouth was still functional to worry about murder at their daughters school. Well, that would have been before dad got all chivalrous over the reason mom found herself airborne. "—You were not the only one who met an unfortunate event today."
Sure. 'Unfortunate event.' This could put Lemony Snickett out of business. Poor, poor children: Violet, Klaus and Sunny. Then Melinda, and all her significant others.
Charlie.
Maurice.
Tim.
Allie.
Maude.
Chenaol.
Dwayne.
Melissa.
Stella.
Jordan.
I could go on.
But instead of listing all my schizophrenic alter egos, I could try easing poor mom and dad's minds. Dad looked tense enough already.
And mom had bypassed her usual creamy completion to head for a more . . . pasty shade.
"You remember Brian?" I asked.
"That the dude who, is, umm, Batting for the other team?" Mom questioned delicately.
"Yep."
'Wait one moment. That the one that was so cruel as to end thing with you at Stacy's funeral?" Dads said disdainfully. As if to say 'He's not worth it . . .' without, you know, the extra serving of corn.
Because NOBODY like corn. ESPECIALLY not creamed. EWW.
"Err, essentially, yes." I said with a nod.
"What's wrong with him? Oh My. He's got a boyfriend hasn't he? And the new boyfriend isn't even hotter than you. I knew it. Its OK babe—"
Trust Mom to guess such a thing. Too bad she's right. She just has to get to the bit about his murder. Then she'll be all caught up.
"—WHAT an ass. There will be others hon. I mean, look at you. Of COURSE there will be others—"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence ma, but No. That's not it."
She has to say that. She's my mom. And she's a pretty nice person. Its not like she's going to say 'OH MY GOD? THAT CAN'T BE MY DAUGHTER! GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT! WHAT AN EYESORE!'
She's not like that.
"Then what it?" she says, sounding more than a little apprehensive.
"Well I mean, Gary ISN'T hotter than me, Like, he REALLY isn't hotter than me, and that's just ouch, and I mean to say, an orange cardigan? What the hell? But whatever, I mean—" Rambling? Not I. "—yeah, that hurts and all, but you know, beauty is only skin deep, and its what's on the inside that really matters—"
"Melinda."
"But the first thing you notice on a person IS the outsides, I mean, if it was the insides you saw first, everyone would be like, 'EWWW!' because who wants to greet a bunch of blood and guts? That would be scary. And—"
"Melinda."
"I know I should be worrying about things more important that how good looking Gary is, Especially considering the outcome of TODAY and all, And I'm over it. I swear, I'm over it now. Im cool. Im cool. Im good. Anyway. What did you say?"
"WHAT OUTCOME?" Dad practically bellowed.
Well, I suppose its fair enough. Talk about a stressful day. And Dads usually the calm one, telling mom and me what to do, and he's always, like, there for us you know? Which is—
Wait. Question. Answer it.
"There was a murder at the mission today." Ha ha. What a catch phrase. 'Murder at the Mission!' Better yet, 'Murder at the Catholic School.' That would be a great movie title. No, it really would. I could star, and, who could be in my movie? Oh! What about that really hot guy I saw on America's next top Model? He was—
Oh My God. I'm rambling in my head. Is that even medically possible? Maybe I'm just like that chick in that movie, 'Obsessed.' With Jenna Elfman. Or whatever her name was. Hey. ELF. I wish I had a last name that cool. But NO, I get de Silva. SIMON, de Silva. Well that's not cool. In fact—
I suddenly tuned in to the multitude of questions being fired at me. Owing, no doubt, to their definite increase in volume.
"MURDER!" screeched mom. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, MURDER?"
Whoa. I may be more of a potty mouth than mom, but when she does start cursing her pretty head off, she goes all the way. If you're going to say it, might as well scream it.
"I mean, as in the loss of a life on a intentional basis, by another being. 'Being' is the operative word, a ghost is still a being right? I mean, technically, they still 'Be' so—I mean, Yes, Someone was murdered. Brian was, by, if I'm not mistaken, the same ghost who is responsible for your collarbone."
Silence.
Now, in households such as mine, you know this is not a good thing.
"Say Something."
Mom shook her head, as to clear it, and asked for details. I admire her guts. "Well, I found him, and he was, sort of – totally and utterly dead. Owing to a broken neck. And the bastard was clever enough to make it look like it was Brian's own fault, like he tripped or something."
Mom threw her sheets off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and grabbed my arm in a grip that HURT. "But you know it's not your fault right? I mean, you know that you aren't responsible? I mean, just because—"
"That will do Susannah." Dad said firmly. And only he can get away with telling mom to shut up. Anyone other guy who tried it would end up on their knees clutching their groin. Well, dad and a select few. Even my mom falls short of assaulting Father D.
"Melinda, you didn't see anything? Hear anything out of the ordinary?"
"Well," I said slowly. "No. No, not really. OH, except it was, well, it was just after Brian and I hade made up."
Dad's eyes sort of bugged. "Nombre de Dios."
"Wait! Not like that!"
EWWW! Losing your virginity to a gay guy. No thank you.
"I mean, Brian is DEFINITELY gay. DEFINITELY. What I meant was, I met his new boyfriend, Brian was really nice, he apologised and everything was rosy again. Well, until I found him sprawled in the flower bed with his neck twisted at an angle . . . at an angle . . . "
I couldn't finish. I mean, it's all very well come across Blasé, but given the present circumstances . . .
Instead I studied my shoes.
Same Black heels that I used to poke Brian . . .
It was suddenly all I could do to keep my lunch down.
Dad cursed angrily at the bland white wall. Any other time I might have asked what the wall had had ever done to him.
Not today. Fancy. I didn't even know that one.
Must remember to bring that one up at a later date.
The frequency of the word: 'Cogida' was enough for me to get the gist however. I think mom did too. She's no fool, She's knows enough Spanish to be able to tell the curses from the fluffy stuff. And its not like dad mentions the words Querida and Cogida in the same sentence. And I really DO NOT want to think about the bedroom exceptions.
Moving on.
"Please Jesse." Said mom. "Do you want me to resort to French? Because as you well know, my better phrases are French—"
Must. Get. Bedroom. Thoughts. Out. Of. Head.
See? I knew walking in on them would have serious repercussions. Its all their fault I could be considered unbalanced. Although. The seeing dead people thing could have something to do with that.
Sure. I get the good genes appearance wise. But when you look BEYOND the shell, you get a REALLY fucked up mental psyche.
Delicious.
I tuned to hear some of dads threats. "My wife . . . my daughter . . . Le Matare el Asno-de-gato." Dad said furiously, moving his hand from moms shoulder to his keys, on the table beside him, like he was actually going to go and break said jackasses neck.
"Cant you stick to ONE LANGUAGE?" Mom demanded. She gets titchy at times like these. I have to say, I can see where she's coming from.
"He said he was going to kill the jackass." I translated tonelessly.
"That wouldn't help Jesse. Swearing at ghosts and threatening to take their lives won't work."
"Yes, because you've tried that and know ALL the repercussions right Querida?" dad said sarcastically.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Mom said loftily, shifting to grab the water pitcher. Probably so the movement would mask her scarlet cheeks.
"Sure you don't. R.L.S Angels at all Susannah?"
"Umm, No . . ."
"Mom, please hold. I really don't want to hear it. The fact of the matter is, I'm helpless. I truly am. I talked to father Dominic today and I know, that since this ghost has singled me out, there not much I can do about it. And I really, really HATE that, its just, its just so . . . "
Then I was crying into dad's shoulder.
Great.
Mom twisted my hair out of harms way and stroked my back in a reassuring sort of way.
Im definitely thankful for the hair touch, Good thing mom has my priorities covered.
And yet I'm crying again. The second time in one day. I had a certifiable excuse last time; my ex boyfriend was lying dead in my schools flower garden. This time I'm just being FEEBLE.
Im not usually this pathetic, I swear to . . . to Kyprioth, or the Hag, or, or APHRODITE for freaks sake, I don't know what's come over me.
Maybe I'm cracking up.
Maybe I really have lost my Marbles.
Poor Toodles. I hear ya pal. I've lost my marbles too. But yours were literal marbles. Mine were Figurative, so that's one up for you.
And now I'm talking to a fictional character. In my head. So I'm not even technically talking to Toodles.
So I'm NOT talking to a fictional character inside my head, but yet I AM talking to a fictional character inside my head.
I think I know have a headache. Either that or I'm a head case. If I were you, I know which my money would be on.
"It is OK Mel. It really is." Said mom comfortingly. "See? Im OK, your OK, Brian, well, Brian's Not exactly OK but—"
Did I mention that my mom is really bad at comforting people?
"Susannah. Hush." Dad said. "Melinda, listen to me. Listen to me." He said, lifting my head up so I had no choice but to look him in the eye.
Which was . . . Rather unnerving. Dad's eyes are such a shade of brown that you actually can't tell where the pupil ends and the iris begins . . . unnerving sums it up really.
"I know things are difficult sweetie." He continued, "I know. But have you heard this saying? 'People are like teabags. You never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water.'"
I looked up at him, my expression being that of, 'who are you, crazy man? You can let go of me now . . .'
"Don't give me that look Melinda. I know this is horrible. But you can do it. I have complete and utter faith in your ability to pull through. You're not being a 'wuss'. You're showing emotion. Which is NOT," he shot a nasty look at mom, "A weakness. It's strength. It's heart. Its faith, its belief, and its something you have in abundance. Any one else would be running away now. Whereas you will fight on. Just like someone else I know." This time, when he looked at mom, I saw the true love in eyes.
Huh. He really loved her.
I mean, I knew THAT, Duh, that's they're always getting it on, even at the weirdest times. Need I mention the time when we were visiting Uncle Jake and Aunty Imajane? Their SIX-YEAR-OLD daughter found mom and dad in the hall closet.
But this is different.
And the look on dads face was mirrored perfectly by the look on moms. Minus the razor stubble. Of course.
True love. They were Soul mates. Made for each other, joined in a way other than just sex. Like there was a cord, linking their hearts together.
I don't know, maybe I'm just delusional, but for a minute, I could have sworn I saw that cord. Shining, shimmering, connecting moms heart to dads. It was something so pure, so beautiful.
"Thanks dad. And, uh, thanks Mom." I said, as I shook my head to rid myself of the image of the silver cord. When I looked again, it was gone. "For, you know, getting yourself pitched over a balcony in an effort to protect me."
"I knew you'd see it my way." Mom said with a happy go lucky grin, one that didn't quite distract from her beautiful green eyes that were, oddly enough, filled with tears.
I knew I'd hit on a 'Moment' then. My mother doesn't cry. Oh sure, she will when she, like, stubs her toe, or is watching a really soppy movie, where the child star with the adorable blonde hair and blue eyes meets a tragic death, but you know. She's human.
Although, when she caught my five-year-old-self emptying all her nail polish onto her pillow, it was safe to say I had my doubts.
But that's beside the point. So is the fact that I thought it would be a good idea to paint her pillow with nail polish.
"I love you guys. How long until you're healed mom?"
"Well, the doctor said about 6 months, maybe more, but with my added shifter healiness—Is that even a word? Huh, cool, I made a new word. Healiness. Anyway. With my added shifter healiness it could be anything from a few months to a few weeks to a few days. Hours might be pushing it."
"Susannah. You can't just make a new word." Dad said. "Words aren't made. They GROW."
"Im going to ignore that, and ask more about your—our shifter powers." I say.
"We-ell, I don't know MUCH, you'd have to ask P—No one" she broke off, glancing at dad, who'd stopped idly twiddling his wife's hair. "No-one. But I do know that our healing abilities is a result of our Shaman ancestors."
Hey cool. I have ancestors. SPECIAL ones with fancy names. YES, I know what a shaman is. I READ. Same way I knew of exorcisms and stuff. READING.
"I also know we can go back in time and . . . well, that's pretty much it really. OH, and we can visit the shadowland as we please, WITHOUT exorcising ourselves. Huh, wish a certain someone had been a LITTLE quicker with that particular tidbit."
"Well, duh, I knew about the whole time thinge-me-bob—" I winked at dad in my best stage manner, "—But what's the shadowland? I've read about it, but you know, Writers and Movie directors tend to take a certain amount of liberties with certain truths. Like the Sixth Sense. Little Haley Joel Osmand could be forgiven for being a little skittish if ghosts REALLY walked about with axes still stuck in their heads."
"Exactly." Beamed mom, "That's more or less what I thought when I saw the movie." Dad made no response except to stare moodily at moms reading monitor, which was assuring us that mom WAS in fact, still breathing.
"And the shadowland is like the dead people waiting room. Ghosts will open the door, and whatever is on the other side is there fate. Heaven . . .Hell . . . Their next life as a poodle . . ."
I allowed my self a brief moment to think of Brian as a Poodle, Or maybe a Chihuahua. HA HAH, Brian's going to be Paris's next Tinkerbell!
Moment over. But it's a moment I will cherish. The images that accompanied it will certainly live on.
"Nice touch mom."
"Yeah. I thought you might get some interesting visuals. I certainly got some crackers of Sister Ernie. Wait. She still kicking isn't she? Darn."
I love my mom.
"OK. I love you both, and I'm going to for coffee. You want?"
"Yes!" Cried mom desperately.
Well hello. Guess the day had been a strain. Gee, can't imagine why. Not like she got tipped off a balcony or anything.
"No." Said dad forcefully. "No Coffee. It might interfere with your system."
"Je-eessee." Mom whined. "Come ON! Show compassion!"
'No Susannah." Dad said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "You must do what the doctor orders."
"You're not my doctor. For obvious reasons."
"Im not budging Querida. Flutter your eyelashes all you want."
"Am I going to have to resort to my French, darling?" she paused dramatically, then quoted; "Voulez-Vous coucher avec moi?"
Dad flushed horribly, leading me to believe this wasn't the first time she'd tried this tactic on him.
I rolled my eyes, heading for the door, whishing that they'd pick a language I don't speak. Bulgarian maybe. Or Finnish. Or Pakistani! I'm not picky.
Dad thought I was out of earshot when he replied, "I seem to have forgotten what comes next, Querida," he said as he leaned low over her bed. "You might have to . . . remind me."
I slammed the door, practically running down the corridor, dragging a startled Alanna along with me.
Parents in love. What could be more disturbing?
77777777777777777777777
"You're messing with me." Squealed Alanna delightedly. "You are messing with me."
"I kid not dear friend." I retorted, winking.
"Oooohhhh!" Alanna shrieked, clapping her hands together.
"Hey. Take it easy. Decibel range you know?" I jibed good-naturedly.
We were settled in the hospital café, me with coffee, BLACK, of course. - Makes it stronger - and Alanna with Hot Chocolate that had chocolate flakes and marshmallows. I use past tense because I had, of course, already filched all her marshmallows.
"He likes me? Really? NO. No, he cant, I mean – I thought he was hot on YOU. I'm not you. I'm nothing like you. You're, you're so wild and independent, Your BRAVE and strong, your not afraid to do you're own thing—"
"Thank you. I . . . think."
Ok. I have been labelled 'wild.' Meh. Have been called worse. Alanna just puts all the things in a nice light. For instance: 'Bitch' and 'headstrong' should definitely be on that list of hers.
"No matter what anyone else thinks—"
'Kay. She's not done.
"And you're so beautiful, I mean, did he take a blow to the head or something? I look nothing like you—"
"ALANNA. Shut up."
"But—"
"No. Listen to me. Sure, you're nothing like me. You have TACT, your care about people, your KIND and sensitive. YES!" I said as she made signs of interrupting. "You may be nothing like me, but what makes you thinks that's a bad thing? Daniel needs someone like you more than he needs someone like me. Someone 'Wild' as you put it."
She flushed and tried to hide it by lifting her freshened mug to her lips and taking a huge gulp. Scalding her throat im sure, but she gave no sign. See? She IS brave and strong and all that baloney. She just proved it by swallowing hot coffee.
Yes. That is a sign of bravery. Swallowing scalding hot chocolate. Didn't you know?
"There are different variations of bravery and strength Alanna. You just have unique versions. AND you're very beautiful."
She is too. Petite and blonde, with an innocent, pretty face and defined features. Instead of my 'IN YOUR FACE!' looks. I envy her, I really do. She has no idea just how gorgeous she is.
"Anyway. Back to." she said, possibly unnerved by just how deep I was digging into her psyche. "I do hope he like me, but what about you? I cant just—"
"You're not."
"Yes I am—"
"No you're not."
"Are you sure? I mean—"
"One hundred percent."
"Really? I mean, really, Really—"
"YES."
"Umm, OK."
"Ok?"
"OK."
"You'll go for it?"
"I'll go for it."
"YAY!"
"Yay." She said with a sweet smile.
Daniel won't stand a chance. Look at those lashes.
She's SUCH a honey.
"Good girl. So we must make plans—OH MY GOD!"
"WHAT?" demanded Alanna. She had jumped horribly when I yelled. "What? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost! Wait . . ."
Huh, yes, well, as a technicality . . .
"Oh, er, its nothing, I just, um, remembered I haven't . . . powdered my nose!"
"What?"
Okay, next time I have to think of a better lie. Backtrack Melinda, BACKTRACK!
"HA, just kidding hon. what I meant was I have to go . . . buy mom some flowers."
"But you brought her that souvenir pin that said 'Carmel Hospital. California.' What do you—Oh." She said with a wink. "Oh."
I don't like that tone . . .
"OK. Have fun fixing you're makeup for Nick."
"Er . . . Come again?"
She gestured behind me where I saw a suspiciously familiar brown leather jacket disappearing up the hospital stairs.
Ah.
"OH, yes, um, sure, that's it Alanna. I have to go and. . . Er, I just have to go."
The truth was, I hadn't spotted Nick at all. By the way, what's he doing here? Hope his daddy's in a coma . . . though I mustn't get my hopes up.
Truthfully I had seen a ghost.
Ironic huh?
No.
Well, yeah, but pretty shitty irony really.
Now, I was covered on Alanna's behalf, because, well, OTHER than the fact that she already knew about my little ability, she thought I was off to fluff up my hair so I looked nice when I ran into Nick.
And I'm not prepared to exactly crush her perfect little world, so t'was all good really.
I wonder what it would be like, exactly, to live in Alanna's world? Fluffy, frilly and pink I bet.
I followed the tell tale glow through the corridors. This couldn't be Stacy's ghost. Well, not unless Stacy's murderer was about seven, and died whilst wearing green overalls and red suspenders, with a plastic spade sticking out his back pocket.
But hey, this is the 21st century.
"HEY!" I hissed, "HEY! Dude! Helooooooo? Ghost? Oh glowing one!"
The little boy turned around to reveal a snub nose and freckles.
And I knew it wasn't our murderer. Murderers don't have snub noses and freckles. They just DON'T ok?
Then he spun back around and continued on his merry way.
"Oh my goodness. OK." I said, hurrying after him and tapping him on the shoulder.
So I suppose most normal people would have found their hands sinking straight through the cute – he's cute ok? – Boy's shoulder.
But no. Seeing as I am a FREAK of nature, I cannot only communicate and see ghosts, but I can TOUCH them as well.
Not like that, dirty person. That would be PAEDOPHILIA! And that my friend is frowned upon. Besides, making out with a ghost is just . . . weird.
My mom is the exception. Why? Because she's my mom. Automatic disqualification. And, if dad really loved her that much . . .
I don't know. Their case is just . . . different.
The little boy looked up at me with saucer eyes.
"Are you . . . talking at me?"
"Yes." Short and sweet . . .
"Oh." Shorter still. " . . . Why?"
I don't think 'because I can' would have been a very satisfactory answer. "Because I want to . . . Be your friend."
Well, I can have ghost friends if I want to! Jeez Louise.
"Oh." He said, apparently thinking it through. "OK." He said brightly.
"OK?" I said cheerfully. "Shake on it then." I stuck my hand out, and he spat on his, the shook mine.
"You didn't spit." He accused me. "It doesn't count if you don't spit."
"Dude . . . why don't we just imagine I spat, and well consider it a closed deal."
He thought about it. "Ok."
"OK?"
"OK!" he said, sounding so excited, I felt so sorry for him being dead. For a dead dude, he sure was pretty alive . . .
If that made ANY sense at all, let me know.
"So what's your name?"
"Robert. But you can call me bobby." He said with a wide grin.
That's an honour right? Yes. It is.
"OK. My name's Melinda, but you can call me Mel." It was a mark of how much I liked the kid. Usually no one but mom is allowed to call me Mel. And Mom is only allowed because she doest like to waste time chewing out long words. If she shortens my name, she can get a few more words in before she has to draw breath for the next sentence.
"Melly?"
"No."
"Please? Pretty, pretty PLEASE? With TWO cherries?" OH god. Little kids just have the puppy dog look down don't they?
If I tried that I'd just look stupid.
"Fine. Melly." I snapped.
"Yay." He said happily, unfazed.
A nurse came out of the elevator and gave me a weird look. Bobby started to wave, and then stopped. "I forgot." He said, not sounding sad at all. Some one, no names Stacy, could take some lessons off this one. "She can't see me anymore. She's mommy's friend." He said by way of explanation. He carried on down the corridor, very purposeful for some one who has no real matter.
"Umm, where are we anyway?" I asked slightly tentatively.
"Mommy's just down here."
Ah. That told me a lot more than Bobby would ever know. Maybe he had a message for his mom? Maybe he was supposed to give her back her change that he accidentally on purpose kept when she gave him money for a jumbo bag of M&M's?
What? It could happen.
Then I noticed that we were in what I refer to as the Deathbed Dally. The place where they put all those who are close to croaking. Dad doesn't know that I figured out what this particular wing was for. Hello, the patients themselves don't know what wing this is.
I've never told dad my nickname for this area. He might have a heart attack.
"Mommy's here. Come and meet my mommy." He said, not having to bother with doors.
I stood outside, knowing that he'd come back to get me, and that then I'd get him to tell me if his mom was in a state for visitors.
See?
I'm no blonde.
Sorry to all my blonde friends.
Im no Silly Billy.
He did exactly what I thought. When I opened the door I saw a pretty sort of woman; well she would have been pretty if she weren't as pasty white with her black hair plastered to her head.
She looked tentatively at me as I stepped through.
"Can I help you?" she asked in a tired voice.
Whoa. This woman was sick. Like, really, sick. I had no idea what was wrong with her, but it wasn't a cold, that's for sure.
"Umm, I'm a … er, a friend of you're sons'. He told me . . . if anything happened to him, I was to visit you."
Ha, NICE. Impromptu too.
"My only Son has been dead for over 8 years now."
Ok. Maybe not so nice.
"Umm, I was away? Visiting my . . . Grannie. In Florida. Yep. Florida. Sand, sun, and uh, sand. Yeah. So, um, how are you doing?"
"Three guesses. I'll give you a hint. Two words. First is 'Nearly' second is 'dead.'"
OK then.
I had respect for her though. She wasn't bullshitting around with denial.
"You're not here because you knew my son when he was living, did you." Her tone was more confirming that accusatory. Well, it was tired and worn out sounding too. But I'm not actually talking about that.
"What makes you say that?" I wasn't worried. My lies weren't great. But she really had nothing to suspect me of talking to the dead.
"My aunty was one." she gave me the shadow of a nod.
"One of what?" I asked, suddenly a little more nervous.
"You. One of you. She claimed to be able to see ghosts, and they locked her up. I saw one throw something at her though. It was a vase. And there's no way the wind could have blown it at her." She coughed, a horrible, rasping, echoing sound. "You don't have to deny it." She said hollowly. "Its not like I'd call the media, even if I was going to make a full recovery. Which I . . . wont."
OK.
What could you say to that? No, really, WHAT COULD I SAY? So I said the first thing that came into my head.
" . . . Um . . ."
Oh great. Now there's an award winning speech. No, great work Melinda, I chided myself. That was really heartening. The poor woman must feel so much better NOW.
"Its fine," she rasped. "What – what does my son have, have to say?"
I can't say 'I don't know.' Nor can I give her some crap about him owing her money.
"I, um . . . " Ok. How else can I say 'I don't know,' without actually saying: 'I don't know.' "I'm not exactly sure. He's here now. Do you – I mean, do you know why he hasn't, er, passed on?"
She groaned softly. "He's still here? Well have you asked him why he's still here?"
. . . No?
Should I have? I mean, I didn't expect him to know . . .
"Im waiting for mommy." Bobby said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Daddy told me to look after Mommy, and I can't do that if I'm with the angels. So when mommy goes to God, I go with her, and I can hold her hand, so she won't get a-scared."
I was incredibly moved.
"He says," I said to the woman, not taking my eyes off Bobby, "He says he's waiting for you. So when you go to God, you wont be scared." I said in a choked voice. I turned to her, and saw that her eyes were closed, and her chest wasn't rising of falling.
Something started a high-pitched beep.
I turned to Bobby, and saw he was fading. He waved to me and blew me a kiss. "I have mommy!' he said, "You don't have to worry, I'll look after her!"
And he was gone. Just like that.
I would have loved to stay and commemorate, but with this beeping stuff, it wouldn't be long before someone appeared and started asking me awkward questions. I threw open the door and hurtled down the corridor, just making it to the corner when I heard them.
That was so . . . sweet.
And I am so stupid.
I thought as I made my way back up to mom. Well, not the part where the lady died – I didn't even get her name! Or why she was sick! But I doubt she would have wanted to hear questions from me.
Im glad I relayed the message in time.
'Ask the ghost.'
Why didn't I ask the ghost? God, my first real meditation and I fuck it up.
Typical.
Just one last question. Why can't all ghosts be like Bobby? Know exactly why they're here, and be as cute as hell. Or, heaven, I'm sure. There's no place for Bobby or his 'mommy' in hell.
And the fact that he wasn't trying to kill me, or anyone close to me probably had something to do with my adoration.
SOMEONE could use some tips from a seven year old.
Yes I am talking to you, nameless one that murdered Stacy and Brian and threw my Mom out a window.
And while I'm at it:
You. Are. An. ASSHOLE.
I rounded it off with some Spanish.
And called it a day.
> > >
Tada! Now, you're all bright people. If you click the purple button, I'm sure you can work out what comes next.
I want to know what you're opinions would be on a title change. I may just be fickle, but I don't like the title of this story anymore. "The Daughter Of." Just sounds raw, and try-hard.
Oh, great. Now I've put ideas in all of your heads about my try-hard titling abilities.
I REALLY need this caffeine.
Much Love:
The-Mariah-who-is-going-to-raid-the-fridge-and-will-probably-do-somethig-drastic-if-she-dosen't-find-diet-coke.