Unfinished Business; An Angela Panther Novel
Chapter One
Chapter
One
The air in the room felt frigid and
sent an icy chill deep into my bones. Searching for comfort, I lay on the
rented hospice bed, closed my eyes, and snuggled under Ma’s floral print quilt.
I breathed in her scent, a mixture of Dove soap, Calvin Klein Eternity perfume
and stale cigarettes. The stench of death lingered in the air, trying hard to
take over my senses, but I refused to let it in. Death may have taken my
mother, but not her smell. Not yet.
“You little thief, I know what you
did now.”
I opened my eyes and searched the
room, but other than my Pit Bull, Greyhound mix Gracie, and me, it was empty.
Gracie sensed my ever so slight movement, and laid her head back down. I saw my
breath, which wouldn’t have been a big deal except it was May, in Georgia. I
closed my eyes again.
“I know you can hear me, Angela.
Don’t you ignore me.”
I opened my eyes again. “Ma?”
Floating next to the bed, in the
same blue nightgown she had on when she died, was my mother, or more likely,
some grief induced image of her.
“Ma?" I laughed out loud. “What
am I saying? It’s not you. You’re dead.’
The grief induced image spoke. “Of
course I’m dead, Angela, but I told you if I could, I’d come back. And I can
so, tada, here I am.”
The image floated up in the air,
twirled around in a few circles and floated back down.
I closed my eyes and shook my
head, trying to right my brain or maybe shake loose the crazy, but it was
pointless because when I opened my eyes again, the talking image of my mother
was still there.
“Oh good grief, stop it. It’s not
your head messing with you, Angela. It’s me, your Ma. Now sit up and listen to
me. This is important.”
As children we’re conditioned to respond to
our parents when they speak to us. We forget it as teenagers, but somewhere
between twenty and the birth of our first child, we start acknowledging them
again, maybe even believing some of what they tell us. Apparently it was no
different when you imagined their ghost speaking to you, too. Crazy maybe, but
no different.
I rubbed my eyes. “This is a
dream, so I might as well go with it."
I sat up, straightened my back, plastered a
big ol’ smile on my face, because it was a dream and I could be happy the
day my mom died, in a dream and said, “Hi Ma, how are you?”
“You ate my damn Hershey
bars."
“Hershey bars? I dream about my dead mother
and she talks about Hershey bars. What is that?”
“Don’t you act like you don’t know what I’m
talking about, Angela."
“But I don’t know what you’re
talking about, Ma.” I shook my head again and thought for sure I was bonkers,
talking to an imaginary Ma.
“Oh for the love of God, Angela, my
Hershey bars. The ones I hid in the back of my closet.”
Oh. Those Hershey bars, from like,
twenty years ago, at least. The ones I did eat.
“How do you know it was me that ate
your Hershey bars? That was over twenty years ago.”
The apparition smirked. “I don’t
know how I know, actually. I just do. I know about all of the stuff you did,
and your brothers too. It’s all in here now.” She pointed to her, slightly
transparent head and smirked.
She floated up to the ceiling, spun
in a circle, and slowly floated back down. “And look, I’m floating. Bet you
wish you could do that, don’t you, Angela? You know, I’d sit but I tried that
before and fell right through to the damn basement. And let me tell you, that
was not fun. It was creepy, and it scared the crap outta me. And oh,
Madone, the dust between your two floors! Good Lord, it was nasty. You need to
clean that. No wonder Emily’s always got a snotty nose. She’s allergic.”
“Emily does not always have a snotty
nose.” She actually did but I wasn't going to let Ma have that one.
The apparition started to say
something, then scrutinized at the bed. “Ah, Madone, that mattress. That was
the most uncomfortable thing I ever slept on, but don’t get me started on that.
That’s a conversation for another time.”
Another time?
“And I hated that chair.” She
pointed to the one next to the bed. “You should have brought my chair up here
instead. I was dying and you wanted me to sit in that chair? What with that
uncomfortable bed and ugly chair, my back was killing me.” She smiled at her
own joke, but I sat there stunned, and watched the apparition’s lips move, my
own mouth gaping, as I tried to get my mind and my eyes to agree on what
floated in front of me.
“Ah, Madone. Stop looking at me like
that, Angela Frances Palanca. You act like you’ve never seen a ghost.”
“Ma, I haven’t ever seen a
ghost, and my name is Angela Panther, not Palanca. You know that.” My mother
always called me Angela Palanca, and it drove both my father and me batty. She
said I was the closest thing to a true Italian she could create, and felt I
deserved the honor of an Italian last name. She never liked Richter, my maiden
name, because she said it was too damned German.
“And that recliner of yours was
falling apart. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself in it. Besides, it was ugly,
and I was sort of embarrassed to put it in the dining room.” I shook my head
again. “And you’re not real, you’re in my head. I watched them take your body
away, and I know for a fact you weren’t breathing, because I checked.”
Realizing that I was actually
having a discussion with someone who could not possibly be real, I pinched
myself to wake up from what was clearly some kind of whacked-out dream.
“Stop that, you know you bruise
easily. You don’t want to look like a battered wife at my funeral, do you?”
Funeral? I had no intention of talking about
my mother’s funeral with a figment of my imagination. I sat for a minute,
speechless, which for me was a huge challenge.
“They almost dropped you on the
driveway, you know.” I giggled, and then realized what I was doing, and
immediately felt guilty, for a second.
Ma scrunched her eyebrows and
frowned. “I know. I saw that. You’d think they’d be more careful with my body,
what with you standing there and all. There you were, my daughter, watching
them take away my lifeless, battered body, and I almost went flying off that
cart. I wanted to give them a what for, and believe me, I tried, but I felt
strange, all dizzy and lightheaded. Sort of like that time I had those lemon
drop drinks at your brother’s wedding. You know, the ones in those little
glasses? Ah, that was a fun night. I haven’t danced like that in years. I could
have done without the throwing up the next day, though, that’s for sure.”
Lifeless, battered body? What a dramatic apparition I’d
imagined.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes and
considered pinching myself again, but decided the figment was right, I didn’t
want to be all bruised for the funeral.
There I sat, in the middle of the
night, feeling wide awake, but clearly dreaming. I considered telling her
to stay on topic, seeing as dreams didn't last very long, and maybe my
subconscious needed my dream to process her death but I didn't. “This is just a
dream." I tried to convince myself the apparition wasn’t real.
She threw her hands up in the air.
“Again with the dreaming. It’s not a dream, Angela. You’re awake, and I’m here,
in the flesh.” She held her transparent hand up and examined it. “Okay, so not
exactly in the flesh, but you know what I mean.”
This wasn’t my mother, I knew this, because my
mother died today, in my house, in this bed, in a dining room turned bedroom. I
was there. I watched it happen. She had lung cancer, or, as she liked to call
it, the big C. And today, as her body slowly shut down, and her mind
floated in and out of consciousness, I talked to her. I told her everything I
lacked the courage to say before, when she could talk back and acknowledge my
fear of losing her. And I kept talking as I watched her chest rise and fall,
slower and slower, until it finally stilled. I talked to her as she died, and
because I still had so much more to say, I kept talking for hours after her
body shut down. I told her how much I loved her, how much she impacted my life.
I told her how much she drove me absolutely crazy, and yet I couldn’t imagine
my life without her.
So this wasn’t Ma, couldn’t possibly
be. “You’re dead.”
The figment of my imagination shook
her head and frowned, then moved closer, and looked me straight in the eye. I
could see through her to the candelabra on the wall. Wow, it was dusty. When
was it last dusted?
“Of course I’m dead, Angela. I’m a
ghost.”
I shook my head, trying hard not to
believe her, but I just didn’t feel like I was sleeping, so God help me, I
did.
My name is Angela Panther and I see
dead people. Well, one dead person, that is, and frankly, one was enough.
###
“Honey, it’s time to wake up.”
My husband, Jake, shook me softly. “We have to go to the funeral home. Come on,
your brothers will be there soon. Wake up.” He shook me a little harder.
I sat up. “Where’s Ma?”
He studied me, his expression a mix of sadness
and compassion. “I know this is hard but it’s going to be okay.” He hugged me
and it felt good, comforting. I let him hold me a little longer, and then I
remembered the night before.
“No,” I told him, pulled away, and
rubbed the sleep fog from my eyes. “Ma. She was here. Last night. I know she’s
dead, but she was here. I saw her.” I grabbed his shoulders, trying to show him
how serious I was and whispered, “She told me she’s a ghost.”
His eyes widened and all of the
sadness and compassion flew right out the dining room window. Jake was a
fantabulous husband, and supported me in ways that often tried his patience,
but to see the gray area of what he considered to be only black and white was
asking too much. Fantabulous and all, he had his limits.
“Ang, it wasn’t Fran. It was a
dream. I’ve read that kind of stuff happens. People dream about the person who
died and think it’s real.” He made a small attempt at comforting coos, but they
just sounded like our cat before she died.
I pushed away from him and got up.
“Stop it. You sound like a sick cat, and I need coffee.” My mind barely worked
without a good night’s sleep, but without coffee, even the simplest
conversations were practically impossible. Besides, it wasn’t the time to get
into a debate about the hereafter. I walked to the kitchen to pour myself a cup
of coffee and said a silent thank you to Jake for making a pot. I would have
said it out loud but I was a little miffed at him for discounting my ghostly
experience.
Jake was kind enough to get our two
kids, Emily and Josh, off to school while I slept. I felt a sense of relief for
not having to deal with them and then felt a little guilty for that. They left
me a handmade card near the coffeepot knowing I’d be sure to see it there. It
had red hearts and sad faces drawn all over the front, most likely by Josh,
because he drew eyes with eyelashes. The inside of it read, “We’re sorry for
your loss. We loved Grandma and miss her.”
They weren’t here last night. I knew
it was Ma’s last day, and Jake and I didn’t want them to see her die, so we
made arrangements for them to spend the evening with friends. Jake picked them
up after the funeral home took Ma. I lacked the energy and courage to talk to
them, so Jake asked them to give me some alone time.
The card was sweet, and I got a lump
in my throat just reading it even though I was sure they’d never work for
Hallmark.
“What time is it?” I asked, and then
checked the clock. “It’s ten a.m. What the – we have to be at the funeral home
at eleven fifteen.” I finished pouring my coffee, took a huge gulp, and cursed
myself as it burned my throat, then rushed upstairs to get ready.
We arrived at the funeral home just
before eleven fifteen. My long, blond hair was pulled into a ponytail since I
didn’t have time to style it. I didn’t have on an ounce of makeup and was
dressed like a typical soccer mom heading to a yoga class. Normally I wouldn’t
go to an appointment like that but considering the fact that my mother just
died, I didn’t really give a crap.
We walked in through the front doors
into a sitting area I’m sure was meant to seem comforting and inviting but
instead felt like a grandparents’ family room, old fashioned and overstuffed.
The couch was a ridiculously huge, twenty years outdated, 1980s floral print of
mauve and gray, flanked with humongous pillows in matching solid colors. There
were two matching and equally uncomfortable looking chairs and ugly, ornate
tables that didn’t match, intermixed with the seating. A few magazines and
tissue boxes sat on the tables. I grabbed a couple tissues just in case I
needed them later. Overhead, soft music played, and I was sure they thought it
made someone in my position feel better, but mostly it was just annoying.
Carnations in various colors sat in
vases on stands around the lobby, attacking my nasal passages like an old woman
drenched in White Diamonds perfume. Almost instantly I had a sensory overload
headache. The entire room smacked of old people, but I guess it should since it
was really mostly old people who died. Jake crinkled his nose at the smells,
too. We both moved quickly as we followed the signs to the assistant funeral
director’s office, almost like we were running from a skunk. I silenced my cell
phone, knowing my best friend, Mel, would probably text. I’d talked to her just
after Ma passed but not since. I was sure she’d check on me sooner rather than
later.
Before Ma died, we talked about what
she wanted, and I promised her I’d honor her requests. They were simple. She
wanted to be cremated and buried with my grandparents in Chicago. Since we
lived in the suburbs of Atlanta, we’d have her body cremated here but her
memorial and burial would be handled separately.
My brothers, John and Paul, were
already in the assistant director’s office. There was a spread of coffee and
its fixings set out on the conference table, and I made a beeline for it. I’d
have an IV of caffeine inserted into my wrist if it were socially acceptable.
Actually, forget socially acceptable. I’d do it even if it weren’t. Coffee for
me was like sex to a twenty-year-old man – never too much and never too often.
My oldest brother John lived nearby,
and was with Ma and me when she passed. Paul lived in Indiana and didn’t make
it here in time to say goodbye. I could see the angst and regret on his face. I
said hi, hugged both of them, and turned toward my chair so I wouldn’t cry.
Crying in front of my brothers made me appear weak and I refused to let that
happen.
“Ma wanted to be cremated and buried
with her parents,” I told the assistant funeral director, a short, squat man, with
a bad comb-over and a blue paisley tie that didn’t quite fit over a mid-section
that rivaled Santa’s.
“Yes, your brothers told me,” said
Comb-over. “It is our policy to return the remains to the loved ones for proper
burial if our services are not being used.”
We all nodded in agreement, and then
Paul asked Comb-over if he could see our mother.
Comb-over gave us what must have
been his really sympathetic face. “Oh, no. No. I’m sorry. It is against our
policy to allow family back into the crematorium. You understand.”
Paul nodded his understanding.
Seriously?
“Excuse me. My brother wasn’t able
to see our mom before she died. He lives out of state and couldn’t get here, so
I’m sure you can make an exception. I mean, it is our mother and we are paying you
after all.”
Jake smirked in my direction, liking
my passive aggressive technique, and I gave him a quick smile.
“Well. ” Comb-over back-pedaled. “I’ll see
what I can do.” He then gave us what was obviously his, I am not making
enough money for this job face, excused himself and closed the door behind
him. A chill filled the air, and I hugged my arms to my chest for warmth.
My brother's mouths gaped. “Well,
it’s a stupid rule and someone had to call him on it.”
Paul nodded. “Thanks."
I nodded and then saw my mother
floating behind him, smiling, too. I shook my head to clear the image but it
didn't work. She was still there.
“You’re such a good girl. I knew you loved
your brother."
“Uh, I guess I do.”
Paul tilted his head. “You guess you
do what?”
Well, crap. For a brief second I
considered saying, sorry I was talking to the ghost of our mother, who, by
the way, is floating behind you, but instead went with, “Look behind you,”
as I pointed behind them.
They did. “What?” Paul asked.
Ma winked at me and laughed. They
couldn’t see her.
“Oh, nothing. I thought there was a
spider or something on the wall, sorry.”
Probably it wasn’t a good time to
tell my brothers I could see our dead mother and I wasn’t sure there would ever
be a good time for something of that nature.
Paul started to say something again,
but Comb-over walked back in. The man may have been a fashion nightmare, but
his timing was impeccable. He coughed lightly and straightened his tie. “We
don’t normally allow anyone into the crematorium, but given the circumstances,
we’ll make an exception.”
We. Uh huh. We, as in the big boss,
I bet. I smiled my I won smile and thanked him. Comb-over explained
since our mother was being cremated, they didn’t prepare her body as they would
for a traditional burial. I assumed that meant she’s not made up and nodded my
understanding. He walked over to the closed door behind my brothers and walked
right through my mother.
She shuddered. “Oh, Madone, that was
creepy.”
I concentrated on the wall and
searched for the imaginary spider and tried to ignore her.
Through the doorway I saw my mother
lying on a gurney, the mother that wasn’t floating in the room with me, that
is. My eyes shot back and forth between the horizontal Ma and the floating Ma.
This was all a little confusing. First I had one Ma, and then she died. Now I
had a dead Ma and a ghost Ma. If they both started talking to me, I’d get right
up and drive myself straight to the loony bin. I stood up and shook off the
crazy. “Ah, Paul, you can go first.” He did.
The fact that I took control of the
meeting was not lost on me. As the youngest of the siblings, my brothers always
considered me the baby, never quite aging me past a toddler in their mind so
for them to acquiesce authority in this situation was surprising. I wrote it
off to their shock and grief at losing Ma and expected the newfound respect to
burn out quicker than a birthday candle. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit
to enjoying it just a little.
We all said our goodbyes to my
mother. I couldn’t hear their private whispered words, but I could hear Ma
responding. Not the Ma lying on the gurney, the ghost one. As I said, it was
confusing. Like the loud Italian woman she was in life, her raspy, I’ve had
one thousand too many cigarettes, voice enveloped the room, for me at
least, since apparently I was the only one who could hear her. “Oh Pauly, it’s
okay. I’m not mad that you weren’t here. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”
I always knew he was her favorite.
Paul and I haven’t always had the
smoothest of relationships. In fact, as a child he wanted me dead. No, really.
He tried so hard to make it happen he actually pushed me in front of slow
moving cars three times. I was lucky to suffer only emotional, not physical,
damage. Attempted murders aside, my heart ached for him now. The guilt of not
being there when Ma passed would haunt him forever, though I couldn’t help but
wonder if that was easier than being haunted by her ghost.
###
An hour later, the four of us sat
with coffee in hand, at Starbucks. Coffee made everything seem better, if only
a little. Before we left the funeral home, Paul asked Comb-over to let us know
when Ma’s body was cremated. I preferred not to know, but everyone handles
death differently and Paul needed what he needed so I didn’t argue. Admittedly,
backing away from an argument with Paul was a new thing for me. Ma’s death had
really messed with my brain.
We were discussing the arrangements
of her burial when I got the call. Comb-over told me they’d started, and as I
nodded to Jake and my brothers, a heavy sadness filled the air.
I disconnected from the call and
stayed on task. “Okay. When should we go to Chicago?”
“That’s a good question,” John, the
over thinker of us siblings, said. “I’ll call the cemetery later today and find
out if we can bury Mom with Grandma and Grandpa. If they won’t let us, we’ll
have to figure out what else to do. I was thinking maybe we could each take a
portion of her remains and do something with our kids to honor her.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. That was not
going to happen. I promised Ma I’d do this for her and I’ll be damned if I
didn’t do it right. Especially since she was haunting me. There was no way I
would to spend the rest of my waking days with the ghost of my mother pissed
off because we didn’t honor her final wish. No way.
“It’s okay,” I blurted out before
Paul agreed with John. “Ma was worried about the same thing, so we called the
cemetery a few weeks ago and found out that it’s fine.” I took a quick breath
and hoped God wouldn’t strike me dead for lying.
“They told me that as long as we’re
not getting a stone, the plots are ours to do with as we please. Except for
digging up our grandparents, that is.” I checked the sky, but still no
lightning. Phew.
My brothers nodded. “Okay.”
Dodged that bullet. What’s wrong
with a few little lies? This was what Ma wanted and eventually I’d tell them
the truth, once she was buried and we were on our way home. Or maybe next year.
What’s the saying? Ask for forgiveness, not permission. That’s what I’d do, eventually.
I offered to make the memorial
arrangements even though we all knew they’d have asked me to do it anyway.
I filled them in on my call to our
cousin. “I already called Roxanne, who said she’d make the rounds of calls, and
since the funeral home here said they would put the obituary in the Chicago
papers, that’s covered. Does the weekend after next work? That gives us all
time to plan accordingly.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,
but I’ll have to check with Elizabeth and see what her schedule is,” John said.
Jake nodded in agreement with his
eyes still glued to the screen of his iPhone.
Paul nodded too. “Let’s go through
all of our pictures of Mom. I can make a video with music, and we can show it
at her memorial.”
We all agreed that was a great idea
and made plans to confirm the date over email by tonight. My brothers left Jake
and me there to share our addiction to the warm, smooth taste of coffee. We got
refills before we headed home, too.
The rest of the day I was on
autopilot and truth be told I couldn’t remember much of it. One minute Jake and
I were getting coffee and the next it was after ten p.m. I kissed Jake
goodnight and went upstairs and checked on the kids, who were already
blissfully sound asleep.
“It’s done,” I texted Mel after I
settled under the covers.
“I’m sorry,” she texted back. “Do
you need anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Going to bed. I’m
tired.”
“K. I’m
here if you need me. (HUGS).”
carolynridderaspenson.com;
www.facebook.com/carolynridderaspensonauthor twitter:@awritingwoman; email:
carolynridderaspenson@gmail.com
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