AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Either way, it’s safe to say he’s probably too old for me. But he doesn’t look or act old, and most importantly, he doesn’tfeelold. He feels constrained. Like he’s not operating at his full strength. He reminds me of my mom when she started losing weight and napping more than usual, but she could still go about her day. Will doesn’tlooksick. But looks can be deceiving.
As for me, I feel healthier every day.
Ever since I got here, I’ve had more energy than I know what to do with. Not to mention those little warnings, the whispers that tell me when I’m about to spill or drop things. I’ve managed to catch falling wineglasses at work because a little voice in my head told me they were about to tip over.
But the biggest and most recent development has to be the ghosts I’ve seen in the daytime.
I saw the first one outside my window yesterday morning.
He looked like a younger version of my grandpa, standing in the grass, smiling up at me. I blinked and he vanished, leaving behind the scent of lilacs I’ve come to associate with dreaming.
Next, came the horses. I was reading in the conservatory on my afternoon off and noticed them through the French doors, grazing among the vine rows. The growers worked through and around them. I had to pinch myself to make sure I hadn’t drifted off in the middle of a boring scene.
This is how it must’ve been for my mother, never knowing who or what she’d see when she walked into a room. She called it the bleeding effect, the leaching of the spirit realm into our own. After seventeen years of being blind to it all, why am I suddenly conscious of the bleed-through?
I catch sight of another ghost just as I’m leaving for work the next morning.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen the woman in the white dress in my dreams, and having never gotten a good look at her face, I’m not immediately certain it’s her. She stands on the second-floor landing, gazing down at me with sadness in her eyes. She looks familiar, like a distant relation of mine. Though how far back, I’m not sure.
I apologize to Keema for running late. She tells me not to worry about it. I tie my apron on and gather the supplies I’ll need for the first round of tastings into my wooden basket, then head out to the garden patio where I’ll be assisting the sommelier.
I’m in the process of laying out Red Cliff napkins and coasters when I hear her singing.
My breath catches. I stop and listen to my mother’s favorite song of all time. “Landslide,” by Fleetwood Mac. She sang it to me when I was little, and continued singing it as I got older, whenever I was sad or sick or heartbroken.
Slowly, I turn from the table toward the garden path.
My mother sits on the stone lip of a raised bed, looking healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her hair is loose and wild, and there’s color in her cheeks. She spins a hibiscus flower between her fingers, singing to it like she used to sing to me.
I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle a sob.
Will wasn’t lying. She really is here.
I’m dying to run to her, to throw my arms around her, but I don’t want to startle or cause her to disappear. She might not know who I am.Please, God, let her remember me...
Cautiously, I make my way over to her.
“Mom?” I say softly.
She glances up. For a second, I’m afraid she doesn’t recognize me, and my heart cracks like ice over a pond. Then she smiles.
“Hi, baby.” She has a dreamy glint in her eye, but she’s clearly happy to see me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m having tea with your grandmother. She should be here any minute.”
My grandmother died a long time ago, but my grandpa spoke about her with such vigor and affection that I feel like I really knew her. The thought of my mom getting to meet her own mother makes my heart ache in the best of ways.
More than anything, I wish I could throw my arms around my mother. But I don’t want to surprise her if she expects to be able to hold me, and then our hands pass straight through each other.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m feeling great, sweetheart. How are you?” She studies me for a moment. “You look strong.”
I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m about to shatter into a thousand pieces. Reminding myself to breathe, I fight to stay composed, but a few tears make it past my defenses.
“I miss you,” I say. “I feel like I’m all by myself out here.”
