The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella] (7 page)

We fly high over Radisson, looking down at the city as it awakens on Christmas Eve morning. The traffic lights flash yellow in the early morning hour. The pace is slow and appreciative; no one rushing to get to work or check their e-mail. Carolers stand on the front steps of the Episcopal and Methodist churches in a bit of a merriment throw-down, trading songs of celebration. I see Kaitlin amongst those at Christ the Redeemer Holy Episcopal Church. She’s in her element, singing her heart out. I do notice that the hem of her dress appears frayed. Did I not do a good sewing job? I totally suck. But Kaitlin doesn’t seem to care. She’s the most brilliantly happy I’ve ever seen her. My chest pounds with pride at her accomplishment of starring in the Christmas pageant tonight. I really shouldn’t have been such a tart about supporting her and helping with her dress.

Celia and I continue along, peeking in on the merchants on the Square opening for last minute shoppers. The flower shop with its yards and yards of greenery, red bows, and fully bloomed poinsettias. The coffee shop with its freshly brewed pots of caffeine to fuel the townspeople. The grocery store with its last-minute food items, baked goods, and various proteins that will soon be roasted, baked, deep-friend, and served to family and friends.

Though I mostly despise the crass commercialism of the holiday season, I see a deeper need for it all of a sudden. These merchants provide a service to the families gathering together for their yearly celebration. There’s nothing wrong with a sale here, a special there. It’s all good.

Time speeds before us as the people of Radisson move about in fast-forward motion like ants in a farm. Children saying their prayers and getting tucked in early in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. Parents with glasses reading instructional manuals on how to put together those bikes, Barbie houses, and set up Xbox systems and other electronics.

Across town, though, my psychic senses pick up the cry of a family in need. One not so fortunate this holiday season.

Suzanne Pilfer is sitting down at the dining room table with her daughter, Chandra, and grandson, Max, who’ve come to Radisson from Stone Mountain. Max… the one I had the premonition about. My bottom lip juts out, as I remember the tarot card reading. I should have told Miss Suzanne what I saw. A head’s up on a possibility of what might happen.

“Let’s go see her, then, shall we?” Celia mentions.

And like that… we’re instantly in the modest home of Radisson’s most dedicated postal worker, Suzanne Pilfer.

I stand by and listen as Suzanne and her daughter speak softly, their heads bent together, while Max watches one of those predictable Disney Channel programs in the background.

“I can’t tell him, Mother,” Chandra says. “It’ll break his heart.”

Suzanne reaches across the table and pats her daughter’s hand. “Those bastards. Laying you off right before Christmas. They didn’t even give you severance?”

Chandra shakes her head. “I was counting on that promised Christmas bonus to get Max the dirt bike he wants. I was going to go to Mega-Mart and get it off layaway where it’s been since August.” She plunges her hands into her thick hair and lets out a guttural moan. “How did it come to this? Stephen hasn’t paid child support in eight months and now this.”

“It’ll be okay, sweetie,” Suzanne tells her. “I don’t have much, but I have some savings. I was going to use it to pay off some medical bills, but it’s more important that my grandson be taken care of. I’ll go down to the bank and get the cash out so we can get Max his present.”

“I won’t let you do that, Mother.” Chandra heaves a sigh and reaches for a Kleenex. “This is my mess. My responsibility.”

“But I’m your mother,” Suzanne says.

“And I’m his,” her daughter responds.

My heart hurts watching this, remembering the tarot cards showing me that the bike and an injury from it cause Max’s meningitis. I nudge Celia with my shoulder. “He shouldn’t get that bike. Is there something else we can help get them as a present?”

Celia blinks hard several times. “I’m a ghost, Kendall. I can’t do things like that right now. Besides, this might not even happen. Just listen.”

“Ugh!” Now I stab my hands into my hair. “What about that torch? Is it magical or anything?”

She screws up her mouth. “I have no clue.”

Frustrated, I begin to pace. “Suzanne is the nicest person and works so hard taking care of everyone in town. Can’t we rally people to help them?”

Celia adjusts her hair wreath. “I thought you didn’t care about the holidays. Didn’t you just want to wake up and have it be the middle of January? Now you’re concerned about the plight of one Radisson family?”

“Because they don’t deserve to not have a Christmas or to lose Max!” I find that I’m in Celia’s face, so I back down. “I’m sorry. It’s just not fair.”

“Not much in life
is
fair, Kendall. You of all people should know that.”

I bite my bottom lip. “I suppose so. What can I do to help them, though?”

Celia shrugs and gnaws at a hangnail on her right hand. “Just remember what’s going on here. Remember those around you who aren’t so fortunate, you know? You inherited all this money from your birth father’s estate. I’m not saying you have to spend every penny, but instead of wallowing around in the self-pity of calculus, physics, and other scholarly challenges, coupled with all the attention Kaitlin is getting, along with Loreen and Mass’s wedding… well, it’s simple.”

Celia stops talking and stuffs her hands in the pocket of her velvet robe.

“What’s simple?” I need her to completely spell it out for me.

Her eyes darken and she towers over me, with a booming voice like thunder. “Get the hell over yourself!”

I recoil in utter dread that soon subsides to hysterical laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Celia says. “I’m supposed to scare the crap out of you.”

I shake my head. “You do, sort of… I mean, you don’t really. It’s you, Cel. In a green bathrobe, you know? But I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

Celia waggles her torch at me. “The point is, there are people here on this earth, right here in Radisson who watch everything. They see you grow, develop, and mature. They know what kind of person you’re going to turn out to be when you get older. They know who hates. Who envies. Who has ill-will, and precious pride. We have to learn from them, take care of them, and let them see that mankind isn’t all about greed and selfishness.

“I’m volunteering at the church to help feed people,” I note.

The ghost acknowledges me with a head nod. “That’s a good start. You’re doing it, though, out of duty. Do it because it’s who you are. What you
have
to do.”

She’s right. I’m going to be more philanthropic here in town. Not so much tossing around my trust fund money—that’s mostly earmarked for my college education—but I can give back more of myself. I can step up to do more at church, at school, with Loreen… everywhere.

“You need to see something else,” Celia says. “Grab the robe again.”

I clutch the fabric and we’re off again. Swooshing through time and space as if it’s nothing at all. We speed past the shoreline of Georgia, then Florida, heading farther south into the Caribbean and over the azure waters filled with tropical fish and precious coral. The ghost sets us down gently in the middle of a village hanging on the edge of the water. Sail boats, fishing vessels, and charters line the docks with offers for deep sea adventures for tourists. The sky overhead is the most brilliant blue I’ve seen since first gazing into the eyes of my former boyfriend—now Celia’s boyfriend—Jason Tillson. A nearby open market bustles with Caribbean folk buying all sorts of assorted foods and supplies this sunny morning.

Celia breaths in deeply, absorbing the surroundings. “It’s spectacular here.”

I close my eyes and let the warmth of the sun bathe over me. “It really is.” Then I add, “Where are we exactly?”

She turns her bold gaze on me. “Belize.”

My mouth flattens. “So we’re checking up on Patrick, huh? Mr. Dive Boy who wanted to be a hundred feet down in the ocean instead of spending Christmas with me. Where are we going to find him? Sitting poolside? Floating in the water? Having grilled shrimp and lobster instead of a big Christmas turkey?”

Anger seethes through me for some stupid reason. Patrick has every right to spend his holiday any way he wants to. I guess I just thought it would have been more special if we’d been together—if he’d been my date to Loreen and Mass’s wedding instead of diving with his dad.

“‘There is nothing either good, or bad, but thinking makes it so,’” Celia says to me.

I lighten up for a sec. “Wow, even as the Ghost of Christmas Present, you still quote Shakespeare to me. Hamlet, Act Two, Scene Two.”

“Excellent,” Celia says. “But do you know what it means?”

I pause for a moment, knowing where she’s heading with this lesson. “Our mind usually takes over and decides whether something is good or bad, judging when we probably shouldn’t. In reality, there is no good or bad.”

Celia waves her torch at me, the flames dancing dangerously close to my face. “The Bard would be very proud of you, Kendall. Now, let’s go…
not
judge.”

Rapidly, we find ourselves in an expansive green field. Horses graze nearby and there are two cows checking out our every move. Up ahead, I see a house that’s deep into construction. It looks as if the roof was ripped away by a storm or something. However, a crew of three guys is climbing down a ladder, sweaty from the work they’ve been doing to repair the damage. I squint to see who they are, but we’re too far away.

“Can’t you just snap us over there?” I ask the ghost.

Celia lifts her shoulders. “The walking will do us good.”

I roll my eyes. “Honestly.”

By the time we get to the house, I see a plethora of building materials spread around. A sign to the right reads, “A Project of Habitat for Humanity.”

“How awesome,” I say. “These people are getting their home rebuilt. Was there a hurricane or something?”

Celia nods her head. “A tropical storm skirted the island not too long ago. We never really heard about it on the news at home because it didn’t happen to us, you know? That whole ‘out of sight, out of mind’ sort of thing.”

A black couple pulls up in a Toyota truck, bringing with them a box that’s so heavy both of them have to carry it.

“We’re here!” they shout.

I hear whoops and hollers from within. I follow along quietly—not like they can hear me—into the house. The windows are open, allowing the cool breeze to blow through the structure. Construction rules the inside, as well, but I notice the small kitchen is intact. On the other side of it is a door to the back porch where I see people gathered. A huge picnic table is covered with a smooth cloth and the newly arrived couple speaks furiously in Spanish as they dole out the bounty.

Not quite like the banquet table in my closet, but there are fresh bananas, papayas, a bushel of steamed shrimp, several thick, freshly caught fish—probably snapper or jacks—and something that looks like sugar cane.

“Joseph, you be outdoin’ yourself,” an older lady sings. “You come help us in the kitchen while Beatrice cooks them fish.”

The grill must have already been fired up because I can smell the charring of the fresh seafood as it sizzles away.

“I hope y’all like mashed potatoes,” I hear a familiar voice call out.

I freeze for a moment, not believing my own ears.

Then another voice I know says, “My boy makes
the
best mashed potatoes. Lots of salt and butter is his secret.”

The older woman cackles and smacks the white man playfully on his shoulder.

Is that… Patrick’s dad?

The mashed potato maker spins around, in search of said salt, and my mouth falls open.

“Patrick!”

“He can’t hear you,” Celia scolds.

“I don’t care!” I rush forward into the festive kitchen. “Patrick! What are you doing here? I thought you were diving?” Yet, he’s…cooking? I had no idea he could cook. Or build anything, for that matter.

Celia touches me delicately on the shoulder. “Like I said, he doesn’t see or hear you.”

I stretch my arms out, fingering the tool belt that hangs from his slender waist. His gray and white camouflage shorts are filthy dirty and his black T-shirt is torn in the back. Caught on a nail earlier. “We’re connected psychically. How did I not know he was doing this?”

Ghostly Celia screws up her face. “Because you were wallowing in your own self-pity to really care?”

I spin to her. “Hey! That’s not fair.” Her eyes bore into me. “Okay, so it’s sort of fair.”

Patrick moves around this lady’s kitchen, preparing the potatoes while Beatrice and Joseph cook the fish outside. Patrick’s dad hauls in a large cooler full of soda, water, iced tea, and fruit punch as their hostess fusses about.

“They lost everything,” Celia tells me. “Their roof was ripped off, most of their personal items and memorabilia were blown away, and their son, Edgar, died.”

Hand to my heart, I let my eyes flutter closed. I can see Edgar—nineteen—a strong guy who worked on a dive boat taking tourists out to the Blue Hole, as he tried to batten things down in the storm. The hood of his truck ripped off in the vicious, swirling winds, and knocked him in the head, killing him instantly. The father—I’m picking up that his name is George—was grieve-stricken and hospitalized afterwards for heart problems. The mother—Joyce—contacted Habitat for Humanity for help.

And they sent Patrick and his dad.

“He’s not down here just Jolly Rogering around. He’s here to make a difference. He’s
helping
people.”

Celia puts her finger to her nose and points at me. “Give that girl a blue ribbon.”

I’m not sure if I could possibly love him more than I do right now, knowing he sacrificed his own Christmas to help others. I want to go to him, hug him, kiss him, hold his face in my hands and peer into those Hershey Eyes that I adore so much. Tell him what a bitch I’ve been. Let him know I’m sorry for the pity party. That I’m wicked proud of him for who he is and what he does.