My heart went out to Savannah. I recognized this kind of pain, recognized the signs of it, of wanting to hang on to every little piece of someone who was never coming back. In my mind, in my heart, our house looked like Savannah’s room—
memories and pictures of Izzy everywhere. The reality of it, however, was a whole different story.
My family acknowledged neither the one-time presence of Izzy nor the loss of her. Her bedroom, which Mom kept exactly as Izzy had left it, was the only outward indication or reminder that she’d ever been a member of our family. Other than that, there was no evidence that Izzy had ever existed. No random pictures or scattered memorabilia. But inside, deep down in the places that hurt the worst, the places that missed her the most, there was no escaping the pain of it. That’s something that would never go away, no matter how much we tried to hide it.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
At Savannah’s question, I turned to look at her. She was perched on the end of her bed, her legs drawn up beneath her, staring blankly at the wall in front of her.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. Why?”
Savannah hesitated for only a second before she answered. “Since the accident, I’ve seen her.”
“Seen who?”
“My mother.”
I looked back at the pictures. There were several things I wanted to say, but how to say them delicately was beyond me.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Your mother, um, passed away, right?”
“Yeah. She drowned a little over four years ago.”
I nodded. That’s what I thought. “And you’ve been seeing her?”
Savannah nodded. “I know. It’s crazy, right?”
I said nothing, but I was thinking that it pretty much was.
“It’s her, though. I know it. It even smells like her, like roses.”
“Do- do you think you might be imagining it?”
“No,” she replied emphatically. “I can see her perfectly, like crystal clear. I can see her just like I could if I had my sight back. That clearly.”
“Does she ever, uh, speak or anything?”
Savannah’s expression fell a bit. “No. Not yet. When she comes back, I’m going to talk to her, see if she’ll tell me what she’s doing here.”
“What does she look like? I mean, can you tell that she’s…”
“That she drowned?” Savannah supplied. “No. She looks just like she always did. She hasn’t changed one bit.” Her tone was almost wistful and I felt sorry for her.
During those days when I thought Bo was gone, I imagined that I smelled him everywhere. The mind can play cruel tricks on you when you want something so badly.
I looked back to the shelves of pictures. Not knowing what else to say and becoming more and more uncomfortable with the silence, I picked an image to ask about.
“So, did you actually win this talent contest?”
“Which one?”
“The ‘Tweens That Rock’ one.”
Savannah smiled, her easy smile, the one that said we were moving on from the subject of her ghostly mother. “Of course I did. How could you question my ability to rock a stadium, even at age nine?”
I laughed and purposefully steered the conversation into happier, less creepy waters.
CHAPTER THREE
When I got to the house, Mom was home, which was truly bizarre.
Trepidation tickled my spine. The last time she’d been home when I’d gotten there was when Lars had exchanged blood with her and made her a totally different person for a day or two. Not that she was a bad person during that time. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded having that woman around more often, just not like that, not under those circumstances.
In some ways, Mom was very predictable. Monday through Thursday, she went straight to O’Mally’s after work and didn’t usually get in until after 10:00.
Sometimes it would be really late, like midnight or so. Apparently it was a time consuming process, getting your drink on; that’s why she got a jump on it at, like, 5:15.
For dealing with life after the death of a child, memory eradication via vodka was Mom’s coping skill of choice. I would’ve liked to stage an intervention long ago, but I couldn’t do that by myself and Dad was no help. Since Izzy’s death, he’d never disembarked the denial train. I doubted he even admitted to himself that Mom was a drunk. He just avoided it, like he did most things in life. He traveled all week long and we played at being the perfect family on the weekends. End of story.
The front door was unlocked and I walked in cautiously. From the kitchen, I could hear the clank of spoon against pot and I was immediately suspicious. Mom didn’t cook unless Dad was home and she was in her pretender mode.
“Ridley? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Come in here. I’ve got some good news for you.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
Setting my duffel in the floor, I walked into the kitchen, bracing myself for what I might find. Turns out, it wasn’t all that bad. Well, maybe I should say it wasn’t all that unusual. Mom was stirring a sauce pan. She was making herself an enormous hot toddy. She liked them when she felt a cold coming on.
“Are you sick?”
On cue, Mom sniffled. “I think I’m getting a cold. I have a tickle in the back of my throat and my nose has run all day. I thought I’d nip it in the bud.”
I loved her rationale for drinking. According to Mom, drinking alcohol, which has been scientifically proven to actually lower the immune system, is the answer to warding off a cold. Of course, I had to give her credit. She was rarely ever sick, unless it was Smirnoff-induced. I didn’t think many germs could live in a pure grain environment, which is what undoubtedly flowed through her veins.
“Have you eaten? Do you want me to fix us some supper?”
“That’s sweet, honey, but I think I’ll drink this and go to bed early.”
“Okay.” I was turning to walk to my room when I remembered what she’d originally said. “What was the news?”
“What?” Mom swung around to look at me, clearly puzzled. “Oh, right.
One of my clients is the new Professor of Mythology at USC. His name is Sebastian Aiello— Doctor Sebastian Aiello—and he’s looking for a sitter for his daughter. Just for the occasional evening and maybe some weekend work until the holidays. He asked if you’d be interested.”
“Since when do I babysit?”