A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) 📖

And yet something inside urged me to go look. I left the car and gingerly made my way through the yard, trying not to breathe the mildew stench passing over me in a cloud like the smell of a paper factory you pass on the interstate. The ground cracked beneath my feet as if the grass has been sprinkled with water before a freeze, only the air hung dank and hot around me; it’s October in South Louisiana, after all. With the dawn approaching I could see where I was stepping, helpful after three weeks of flood waters covered everything and left behind all sorts of creepy items and critters. It seemed like forever until I made it to the door, which TB had proped open with one of our waterlogged chairs. With a closer look I could see it was part of my mother’s dinette set given as a wedding present, antiques that could easily be saved. I wanted to yell how stupid that action was, but I was too busy sidestepping a dead rat.

“It’s not so bad,” TB yelled from the kitchen area, as the image of the house came into closer focus.

Not so bad? The moldy watermark — or bathtub ring as our local newspaper columnist liked to call it — made a nice wall accent, about a foot or two below the ceiling. For a moment, before logic kicked in, I thought it was wallpaper, the kind Maw Maws prefer, with the tiny little rose pattern. The entertainment center we bought at Walmart consisting of that lovely particle board had literally melted with the TV lying cracked in the middle of the puddle. TB’s Lazy-Boy was a soggy monstrosity spewing forth an ungodly smell and the pine floors, the only positive aspect of this trashy house TB’s family had given us when we married, was buckled in several places.

“You need to see upstairs,” TB said, pulling something black and nasty from the bottom of the kitchen sink. “I think we can save our clothes.”

The image of wearing anything belonging to this house pushed me over the edge and I barfed on a pile of roof shingles, all the while wondering how the hell they made it into my living room. The heaving was harsh and relentless and I couldn’t catch my breath in between, making me believe that I had escaped death in Katrina only to perish anyway in this moldy house I despised.

I felt TB’s arms around my shoulders pushing me out the door, and even though the stench greeted me at the threshold, the air felt lighter and I got control of myself. He continued leading me to the car, where he opened the door and forced me to sit down. For a moment, before my mind interceded, I took comfort in my husband’s embrace.

TB placed something in my hands but said nothing, just turned and walked back toward the house. When I gazed into my lap I discovered Lillye’s angelic face staring back. Somehow the plastic I had wrapped them in, the proximity in the closet, it all helped to keep them safe. Somehow, Katrina, that bitch, never found my baby’s photos.

I closed the door so no one would hear me — as if! — and I started a crying jag that lasted until TB returned and we crossed the Mississippi River Bridge outside of Baton Rouge. When I finally got a handle on my sanity, before we made it back to Lafayette, I decided there was only one recourse left to me. I’d leave New Orleans. I’d divorce my husband. And my crazy family could go to hell.

I feel a gentle touch on my elbow and open my eyes to find TB stroking my hair. I realize I’ve been sitting in now cold water, lost in the old familiar grief. There’s a martini perched on the edge of the pedestal sink and once TB acknowledges I am conscious of him being there, he brings it to me.

“Henry had it brought up. I didn’t order it, I swear.”

I sit up and grab a nearby towel. “It’s fine,” I whisper, gratefully taking the drink and practically gulping it down.

“Do you want me to leave?” TB asks, and I’m not sure if he means my side at the tub or Eureka Springs. I still long for peace, quiet and solitude, but how can I send the man I was married to for years, of which I shared the most precious child in the world, back into that hell hole?

I shake my head and TB looks only slightly relieved. He still wants so much more than I’m able to give.

“I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t eat anything and I’ll go home in the morning.”

“Henry wants you to join us for dinner.”

I should have said I wanted him to join us as well, but the truth remains, I don’t. Guilt returns and tears are poised, ready to pour out like marathon runners.

“Okay,” TB says softly. “I’ll take a shower when you’re finished.”

I touch the top of my head that is still caked in blood. “I’ll only be a minute. Need to wash my hair.”

TB silently and sadly leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I quickly shampoo my hair, feeling better despite the anchor attached to my heart, and step out of the tub. I grab the lush bathrobe on the back of the door and slip inside its comfort, but the ever-present pain won’t let me relax.

It was like this when Lillye died, the endless crying, the dark hole of depression. I could never understand how human beings don’t dehydrate from the amount of water we exude through grief.

I gasp for breath, then exhale, ready to steady my emotions and face the world when I see her in the mirror, faintly, the line of her figure like a shadow marked by a Sharpie. She wears the schoolgirl outfit of the blond in the cave, but her hair combed back into a bun is a muddy red, the unfashionable color, not the one everyone emulates through Clairol. She stares at me sadly through pin-prick eyes above an unremarkable nose. Plain Jane is what comes to me in a flash. And although this apparition, if that’s what I’m seeing, isn’t offering emotion of any kind, I feel her pain. Loneliness, heartbreak and something much more acute.

The loss of a child.