Page 56 of The Guests on South Battery
I squinted to read the small, typed print, amazed as I usually was how newspapers could condense stories of giant proportions into a small square of text. I read it twice, just to make sure I was reading it correctly. I met Jack’s gaze. “Anna killed herself. How horrible.”
“She hanged herself in her daughter’s attic bedroom,” Jack added.
My eyes widened as I remembered the horrible presence in the house, the push and pull of two warring entities, and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just discovered the identity of at least one of them.
“She must have been so distraught over Hasell’s death,” I said. “But if she’s the very unhappy ghost we’ve sensed in the house, we need to find out why, and why she’s still here.” I frowned. “Unfortunately, when only a dead person knows the answer, there’s only one way to find out what that is.”
CHAPTER 19
Ihuffed next to Sophie as we walked along one of the paths at Cannon Park, its asphalt edge bordered by an outrageously colorful flower bed full of plantings my dad would lust over but I couldn’t name. I pushed the jogging stroller with the twins, and Sophie carried Blue Skye in a carrier not unlike the one Rebecca used for her dog, Pucci.
Cannon Park was near Ashley Hall on Rutledge, so I’d suggested meeting Sophie after carpool drop-off to catch up. I missed seeing her as often as I had when we were both single and before children and spouses had taken up most of our lives. Not that I wanted her to read my tarot cards or tell me again why old windows were far superior to what was being made today, but I missed her company. There was something to be said for a friend who told you the truth about everything, even when you didn’t want to hear it. Even if that friend dressed like aSesame Streetcharacter, and had suggested underwater birthing as a viable alternative to a normal hospital birth.
“Why are you walking so fast?” I panted, struggling to keep up.
“Why are you struggling? I thought you’d been walking with your mother, and you have a jogging stroller. I assumed that you could keep up.” She began pumping her arms and walking even faster.
“No fair—I’ve got two and you’ve only got the one. And besides, Jayne uses the jogging stroller just about every day, so I pretty much consider it hers now.”
She sent me an odd look but kept up her grueling pace without comment.
We had reached the tall, stately columns and front steps of the former museum building that had burned in 1981, leaving only the columns, all in a perfect semicircle, as a reminder of what had once stood there.
“Do you smell fire?” I asked, putting my hand over my nose because of the choking fumes.
“No,” Sophie said matter-of-factly. “You say that every time we’re here. You’re just smelling a fire that’s more than thirty years old.”
I brightened. “But Icansmell it! That’s good to know. My psychic abilities seem to be fading in and out on me these days, for no apparent reason. There are times, like right now, when they’re as strong as ever, and then other times when I’m completely blocked out.”
“That is weird. I’d say it was hormones, but when you were pregnant it went away completely and didn’t come and go.”
“Maybe it’s postpartum hormones.”
Sophie finally slowed down so she could look at me. “Seriously? It’s been almost a year. They should have settled down by now and your mind and body gone back to the way they were.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Some people take longer than others to bounce back.” I took a quick bite of my slightly squished doughnut from Ruth’s Bakery that I’d smuggled into the house. I’d bought a dozen when Ruth was visiting her sister for a couple of days and I’d taken advantage of her substitute. I’d kept them hidden in the back of the freezer, constantly checking to make sure Mrs. Houlihan hadn’t rearranged anything and discovered my stash, smuggling one in the waistband of my yoga pants whenever I left the house to exercise. I didn’t want to pass out because I didn’t have the sustaining fuel I needed.
“Yes, but I’d guess that had more to do with bad habits than hormones.”
I looked through the space between the columns, seeing the specter of a giant whale skeleton floating from an invisible ceiling. “Sophie, do you see...?”
“No, I don’t see the whale skeleton, either. It was moved to the new museum location before the fire. It’s not here anymore.”
“But I do see it,” I said with a relieved smile. “And that’s good. At least until I’m looking into a mirror and see somebody behind me. Then I might change my mind again.”
Baby Skye began kicking her legs and grunting, her feet as usual clad in tiny Birkenstocks, bouncing up and down as we passed the playground. Sophie stopped and took the baby from her carrier so she could hold her and look at the baby face-to-face. “Use your hands, Blue Skye. Use your hands to tell Mommy what you want.”
The baby stopped bouncing and stared solemnly into her mother’s face. And then, as if she’d actually understood what Sophie had said, Blue Skye opened and closed her fists, thrusting them in the direction of the playground.
“You want to go on the swings?”
Blue Skye made the same motion with her hands.
“Do you mind if we stop?” Sophie asked. “She loves it when I push her on the swing.”
“Um, sure,” I said. “And what was that?”
“It’s baby sign language. It’s a way for babies to communicate without crying. I highly recommend it.”
