“Loretta”—that’s Mom’s name—but it was at a much lower volume and a lower tone as well. I couldn’t make out any other words, but one thing was absolutely unmistakable: It was a male voice.
I’ll admit it—at this point, curiosity had overtaken any good judgment I might have otherwise exhibited under other circumstances. I leaned toward the bedroom door, careful not to creak a floorboard or actually come into contact with the door itself.
“All right, then,” Mom said, apparently having defused whatever situation she’d been in. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t make it too early; I want to sleep in.”
I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been for the bedroom door to then open abruptly and for Mom to be staring me in the chin (she’s shorter than I am).
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “How dare you listen in on a private conversation?”
Everything about this situation was bizarre. Usually, my mother would rather sew her own lips shut than suggest I ever did anything less than wonderful. It would have been more typical of her to compliment me on my stealth skills than berate me for being as rude as I honestly had been.
But the fact is, she wasn’t acting like herself, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why just at the moment. That was bothering me, because I could feel that there was something very personal and painful at the core of this episode, but I couldn’t place it.
“I wasn’t listening in,” I lied. “I thought you were calling me.” I tried to look around her. “Who were you talking to?”
“I was on the phone,” she answered far too quickly. “To my friend Marsha.”
“You don’t have a phone in the bedroom,” I reminded her.
“My cell phone,” she said.
It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have heard a voice over a cell phone from outside the door, but why quibble? It was important not to call Mom out on her obvious evasions, though, because I knew that would just make her clam up more.
“Okay,” I said. “I guess we’d better get those groceries put away, and then I should get going before it starts to snow.” The snow wasn’t forecast to start for some hours, but I had the uncomfortable feeling—which I’d never had before—that Mom wanted me to go.
“I don’t need help with the groceries,” Mom said, again too fast and too curt. “You go ahead. I don’t want to worry about you on the roads.”
So I did. I made sure Mom agreed to call me if she needed anything in the oncoming snowstorm and got into my trusty (and rusty) Volvo wagon. I was on the cell phone to my best friend, Jeannie, before I made it out of Mom’s development. (This is the place to note that I was using an earpiece, because New Jersey has laws prohibiting one from holding a cell phone to one’s ear while driving, and
everybody
in the state obeys that one. Okay. Maybe not
everybody
.)
“My mother’s acting strange,” I told Jeannie.
“She’s not acting,” Jeannie answered. “I love your mother, but she really
is
strange. She thinks she can talk to ghosts.”
I couldn’t really defend Mom there. Jeannie, you see, doesn’t believe in ghosts. She doesn’t believe in them despite having seen things happen that could not be explained in any way other than to assume that there is at least one being present who is not visible. She doesn’t believe in ghosts even though I’ve told her they were there, and she doesn’t believe in them despite the fact that her husband, Tony, does, and has sort of communicated with them himself. It’s a long story. I’d learned over the past fifteen months (since I started spotting spooks) that there are some people who simply aren’t going to believe in things they can’t see, even when those things were directly in front of their eyes. Jeannie could be the queen of those people.
“Well,” I said, sidestepping the whole ghost issue, “that’s not the strange part.” I told Jeannie what had happened (pretending
I’ll admit it—at this point, curiosity had overtaken any good judgment I might have otherwise exhibited under other circumstances. I leaned toward the bedroom door, careful not to creak a floorboard or actually come into contact with the door itself.
“All right, then,” Mom said, apparently having defused whatever situation she’d been in. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t make it too early; I want to sleep in.”
I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been for the bedroom door to then open abruptly and for Mom to be staring me in the chin (she’s shorter than I am).
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “How dare you listen in on a private conversation?”
Everything about this situation was bizarre. Usually, my mother would rather sew her own lips shut than suggest I ever did anything less than wonderful. It would have been more typical of her to compliment me on my stealth skills than berate me for being as rude as I honestly had been.
But the fact is, she wasn’t acting like herself, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why just at the moment. That was bothering me, because I could feel that there was something very personal and painful at the core of this episode, but I couldn’t place it.
“I wasn’t listening in,” I lied. “I thought you were calling me.” I tried to look around her. “Who were you talking to?”
“I was on the phone,” she answered far too quickly. “To my friend Marsha.”
“You don’t have a phone in the bedroom,” I reminded her.
“My cell phone,” she said.
It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have heard a voice over a cell phone from outside the door, but why quibble? It was important not to call Mom out on her obvious evasions, though, because I knew that would just make her clam up more.
“Okay,” I said. “I guess we’d better get those groceries put away, and then I should get going before it starts to snow.” The snow wasn’t forecast to start for some hours, but I had the uncomfortable feeling—which I’d never had before—that Mom wanted me to go.
“I don’t need help with the groceries,” Mom said, again too fast and too curt. “You go ahead. I don’t want to worry about you on the roads.”
So I did. I made sure Mom agreed to call me if she needed anything in the oncoming snowstorm and got into my trusty (and rusty) Volvo wagon. I was on the cell phone to my best friend, Jeannie, before I made it out of Mom’s development. (This is the place to note that I was using an earpiece, because New Jersey has laws prohibiting one from holding a cell phone to one’s ear while driving, and
everybody
in the state obeys that one. Okay. Maybe not
everybody
.)
“My mother’s acting strange,” I told Jeannie.
“She’s not acting,” Jeannie answered. “I love your mother, but she really
is
strange. She thinks she can talk to ghosts.”
I couldn’t really defend Mom there. Jeannie, you see, doesn’t believe in ghosts. She doesn’t believe in them despite having seen things happen that could not be explained in any way other than to assume that there is at least one being present who is not visible. She doesn’t believe in ghosts even though I’ve told her they were there, and she doesn’t believe in them despite the fact that her husband, Tony, does, and has sort of communicated with them himself. It’s a long story. I’d learned over the past fifteen months (since I started spotting spooks) that there are some people who simply aren’t going to believe in things they can’t see, even when those things were directly in front of their eyes. Jeannie could be the queen of those people.
“Well,” I said, sidestepping the whole ghost issue, “that’s not the strange part.” I told Jeannie what had happened (pretending
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