“I sense potential in you,” she said. “A lot of potential.”
“But you’re dead.”
“I’ve never been more alive, child.”
“I need to sit down,” I said. “Wait. I need more wine.”
I got the wine, aware that she was watching me carefully, aware that I was already getting used to the light buzzing of static electricity on my skin.
Soon, I was back on the couch, sitting opposite a ghost who was still standing in my living room. Still drifting and floating and staring at me.
“You are dead, right?” I asked. I’d never sounded crazier in my life.
“I passed on a number of years ago, yes.”
“So, how...how are you here now?”
I knew something of ghosts, thanks to all those damn ghost documentaries I’d seen. Ghosts needed to draw on energy to materialize. The buzzing...
“You’re drawing on my energy,” I said.
And now, for the first time, she smiled. Also, for the first time, I saw some color appear on her lips. Faint red lips. I knew what this meant. She was getting stronger, filling out, so to speak. From me.
Which could explain why I was feeling tired.
“Yes, dear. I am drawing on you.”
Two things occurred to me: one, did she have a right to draw on my energy without asking? And two, had she just read my mind?
“The answer to both is yes, dear,” said the old woman in my living room.
“I’m going to need more wine—”
“Not now, child. I need you fully here, fully aware.”
“This isn’t happening—”
“It is, dear. Stop doubting yourself, or doubting the state of your mental health. Spirits are real. They’re all around you. Every day. I’m real. I’m here now, before you. You know this to be true.”
“Okay, fine. I see you. I hear you. But that doesn’t make this right. Or wrong. You’re a ghost...and you just read my mind.”
“I prefer the term spirit.”
I nearly laughed. “Was I not being politically correct?”
The spirit’s facial expressions didn’t alter. I wondered if they could change. Perhaps that was asking too much of her etheric body to perform the more subtle movements.
“You were not being spiritually correct, dear,” she said, correcting me. “Ghosts are those who have not moved on, those who are stuck on this plane, those who are afraid. Those who are, in general, new souls.”
“So, what does that make you?” I asked.
“A very old soul, child, and so are you.”
As she spoke, another flash of recognition came over me. Yes, I knew her, but not from the car wash. Not even from this life. In fact, I was suddenly certain I knew the old woman very well from another place and time.
I said, “Hello, Millicent.”
Lord, help me.
Chapter Fourteen
I wanted more wine—a lot more wine, in fact—but, after using the bathroom, I resisted the urge to hang a left into the kitchen and, instead, hung a right back into the living room.
Gone was my hope that the old woman would be gone. I was happy that she had not followed me into the bathroom. I just knew she was still in the house because my skin was still buzzing away, still tingling, still doing its groovy thing to alert me that here be ghosts.
And, truth be known, the old lady was right. I did want to remember this. All of it, and I needed to know that what I was seeing was real, and not some alcohol-induced hallucination. If, of course, there was such a thing, which I doubted.
Most important, I wanted to remember, and, yes, I needed my head to be very clear.
She was still there, of course, hovering, watching, waiting. I was briefly tempted to pull out my phone and take a picture of her, or, even better, to film her. But that would have been stupid. The moment I reached for the phone, I suspected she would disappear, and perhaps never reappear again. I didn’t want that. Not now. Not before I knew what the hell was going on, and what she wanted with me.
“You’re wondering why I’m here, Allison?” she said as I sat back down on the couch before her.
“The thought crossed my mind. Which you would know, since you can read my thoughts. And since when could spirits read thoughts, anyway?”
She did not answer at first. She continued standing there, floating, her hands clasped together below her waist. For the first time, I noticed she wore a wedding ring.
After a moment, Millicent said, “You gave me permission, dear. Long ago, in another place and time.”
“Convenient,” I said. “But what if I don’t want you in my head?”
“Then ask me to leave.”
I drummed my fingers on the couch arm. The couch arm was cushioned, so the drumming was mostly muted. “Why are you here?”
“We have unfinished business, dear.”
“Who are you? Who are you really?”
“I am many things, honey. I have been many people. As have you, but one thing has remained constant.”
She didn’t have to explain further, I felt it. I knew it. The electrical tingling morphed into real goose flesh. I shivered. “Friends,” I said. “We’ve always been friends.”
“We’ve been more than friends, dear. We’ve been sisters and daughters and mothers. And, a few times, brothers. Except we didn’t like being brothers very much. Boys aren’t quite as evolved, you see.”
As I stared at her, the words soul mate appeared in my thoughts. I suspected Millicent had placed it there.
“Soul mates?” I repeated.
“In a way, yes, although many incorrectly infer that the word applies to a single soul. In fact, you have many soul mates.”
“And you are one of them?”
“Yes, dear. A very special one. Myself, and one other.”
“One other? A man?”
“Not in this life, no.”
“Another woman?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I can’t buy a break. Who is she?”
“You’ve met her, dear.”
I knew exactly who she talking about. My latest friend. My freaky new friend, in fact. Made sense. Samantha Moon and I had hit it off immediately. From the get-go, she’d felt like the sister I’d never had, even as she drank from me.
I focused on the spirit before me. “Were we, um, ever lovers?”
She shook her head and smiled. I might have actually blushed. That was a new one: blushing while talking to a ghost. “No, dear. Never lovers. Friends and siblings. There is, let’s say, another soul group that’s reserved for our physical intimacy.”