Page 31 of Old Flames

The resemblance was striking, but not wholly convincing. She wore a plain cotton dress, no shoes, no earrings, no rings on her fingers. Her brown skin was ashen. Her hair was twisted into two short braids. Her hands were delicate, whereas Ruby, a tailor, had strong, capable hands. And she was young. Jules had never known her mother so young. Ruby Jones was thirty-seven when she died, but here, before her, she couldn’t be more than nineteen. Still, there had to be a time, well before Jules was born, when Ruby, not yet defined by motherhood, had delicate hands and a youthful figure. What of that blank expression? Would her mother ever look at her like that? With frosty curiosity, no warmth? Had she changed that much? She was no longer the girl Ruby had left behind. Did she even recognize Jules as her own?

Who are you?

No one uttered the question, yet it stretched between them, an unnatural river flowing both ways.

A light flickered on in the tower and stole her attention. Jules looked up and, through the shuttered windows, spotted Leo. It shouldn’t have moved her the way it did, Leo in the tower, rummaging around, reading glasses on, brown hair tousled. Seeing him shouldn’t hold her attention, shouldn’t fascinate her like it did. He’d held her hand in the trolley, came searching for her when she was feeling alone, kissed her under a streetlamp. And now he was the light in the darkest night. She watched him grab something off the desk, switch off the light, and leave the tower. By then, she’d snapped out of the trance. One by one, the stars regained their glow. And once again, she was alone in the night.

Jules fled the garden. She raced into the house without a care for squeaky floorboards. She crossed the lobby, past the night clerk dozing in a chair, and rushed up the grand staircase. She knocked on the first door she encountered. No answer. She tested the knob. A hall closet. Next door. She knocked and Leo answered without even a moment’s delay. She took a step back, unsure of what to say or even why she’d come. They faced each other, her breathing erratic, his calm and regular. Finally, he reached out and cupped her face. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong. That’s what she had come to tell him. She wasn’t losing her mind. If anything, she was broadening it, seeing the world as it truly was with all that was seen and unseen. But she couldn’t get the words out fast enough, and then it was too late.

“Is that Jules?” Vicky called out from inside the suite. “Hey! Get in here! Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

With some reluctance, Leo stepped out of the way and let her through. They were all gathered in the seating area, this being the only room that had one. Even Ayesha had joined them in her ruby silk robe and matching headscarf. The topic? The curse of the bar of silver and how it might or might not have caused Dick’s misfortune.

“Why did he pick it up?” Ayesha wondered. “He was warned the thing was cursed.”

“Perhaps because we were chanting Pick it up! Pick it up!” Matty replied.

“You guys play too much,” Ayesha said. “That’s your problem.”

Sebastien agreed with Ayesha. “We should have a bit more respect for the local beliefs.”

“What do you think, Jules?” Vicky asked.

“Um.” She hadn’t thought of Dick at all. “It could be a curse, or karma.”

“Either way, I’ll pray for him,” Ayesha said. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Let’s get some sleep.”

“Hard to imagine a day longer than this one,” Matty said, even as he trailed Ayesha out the door. Sebastien thanked Leo for his hospitality and followed the others. Vicky took Jules by the arm, leaving her no choice but to join the procession.

On her way out, she met Leo’s eyes, saw the disappointment there, and looked away. Her own disappointment flared when the door clicked shut behind her.

“It was definitely the curse,” Vicky whispered, on their way down the stairs. “Think of it. What are the odds?”

“Hmm . . .” Jules assumed the odds of a drunk falling down drunk on a Friday night in a crowded bar were pretty damn high.

“By the way, we called off tonight’s séance,” Vicky said. “But tell us if you see something.”

Jules felt uneasy. Now that the ghost had a face and the face was her mother’s, the idea of summoning spirits lost all appeal. Had they judged the spirit world too harshly? The mundanity of the afterlife with the roaming of the halls, knocking on doors, revisiting old haunts . . . What if they were trying to reach us the only way they knew how?

“Maybe we should leave the ghosts alone,” Jules suggested.

“No way!” Vicky cried. “Matty is right. We have a professional obligation to see this through.”

“What for?” Jules asked, insistent. “And what if we’ve got it wrong?”

They had reached Vicky’s bedroom on the ground floor. She patted the pockets of her pajamas searching for the key. “How so?”

“What if these . . . ghosts . . . aren’t trying to scare us, but connect with us?”

Vicky echoed her question. “What for?”

“Because life doesn’t end, not like we think,” Jules replied, “and people will always yearn for connection. We’re the ones who’ve made it out to be a horror picture. We’ve made careers out of it.”

“Ghosts are not our friends, Jules!”

“Says who?” Jules asked. “We invent the stories and write the books with little to no understanding of life or death or anything in between. What if there’s nothing to be afraid of?”