A Ghost for a Clue Page 6

  “What do you think it really was?”

  “I have no idea. That’s why I want to study it.”

  “Provided nobody laughs?”

  She flashed a flicker of a frown. “Provided nobody whom I respect laughs.”

  I swallowed, wishing I could rewind the last couple of minutes and start over.

  The waitperson arrived and set down our orders. We both went silent.

  “Enjoy your meal, sir. Madam.” As soon as the waitperson left, her silence lifted.

  “I don’t know what to do, Bram. I’d hate to let go of this once-in-a-lifetime chance . . . but pursuing it means risking my entire career over something many clearly find preposterous.”

  You can just leave it all and come with me. I took a sip of wine. It was the only way I could plug up my mouth about Pangaea, having lost the opening to bring it up.

  That crinkle remained on her forehead, making the wine lose its bouquet and finish.

  My comfort zone was when I was solving problems. Figuring out puzzles. Calculating equations. But I didn’t have a clue what to do about this. “There’s over a dozen explanations out there for what people mistake for ghosts. I’m sure one of them—”

  “You think I haven’t checked all those out already? I have. Both Starr and I have, and there’s still no explaining it.”

  “Speaking of Starr . . .” Surely, two biologists’ heads were clearer than one. “. . . what does she think about all this?”

  “She’s a widow, so she’s drawn to this on a very personal level. And I’m surprised you’re not. I mean, what if . . .” She paused.

  “What if what?”

  She brushed the hair off her brow. “Aren’t you even considering that it might be your friend?”

  “Franco?” The memory of Sienna and her tears of glee flooded my mind with embarrassment all over again. “Only if he were still alive and playing a joke on me.”

  Torula lowered her gaze and picked at her food.

  Sienna’s response, tactless as it had been, was a much-deserved reminder of how foolish it was to believe in an afterlife. I’d had my heart and spirit broken by that delusion long ago, and it wouldn’t do Torula any good to go there too.

  “Look,” I said. “I know you’re curious, but it’s not worth it. Like you said, it’s putting your reputation on the line.” Something no scientist—or anyone, for that matter—could afford to lose.

  “But if it leads to something useful, it’s a chance to make a difference in the world. You know, a chance for . . . greatness.” She shrugged. “How often does an introverted botanist get that?”

  She made it sound like an ambition, but I saw nothing lofty about it. “Exactly how does studying ghosts benefit the botanical community?”

  “It doesn’t. So it could mean a new branch of science.”

  I almost choked on my tenderloin. “Occult science? That’s quite an oxymoron there.” I eased dinner down with more wine.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, let me speak in a language you’d understand.”

  “What language is that?”

  “Robots.”

  “What’s that got to do with—”

  “If you ever came across a dead Optimus Crime, wouldn’t you want to know what happened to his data after he ran out of batteries?”

  As extensive as Torula’s vocabulary was compared to mine, robot-speak was still my territory. “Autobots don’t run on batteries, Spore. They have the AllSpark. And his name’s Optimus Prime, not Crime.” I shook my head. “Obviously, you think what you’re considering is bordering on criminal.”

  “Isn’t it more of a crime to walk away when given a chance to learn something valuable?”

  “Valuable . . . how exactly?”

  She leaned forward in her seat, unknowingly offering me a better view of her cleavage, and I averted my gaze. “People everywhere are trying to communicate with ghosts because they want to talk with their dearly departed or simply because they want a good scare. But what if ghosts are a sign that we don’t just switch off and disappear after death? And that there is no paradise waiting, and we need to fend for ourselves right here?”

  I flicked some sugar crystals from a saucer to distract myself and said nothing.

  “You’re trying not to laugh again.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then why can’t you look me in the eye?”

  “Because I’m trying not to look down your blouse!” I said, looking right where I said I was trying not to.

  “Great.” She huffed in irritation and gruffly picked up her knife. “I tell you my plans, and the first thing you do is tell me to forget them.”

  My insides twisted into a knot, and I kicked myself in the arse for doing to Torula what she’d never done to me. But she was in the same place I’d been just a few days ago, thinking the supernatural possible only because she hadn’t found the likelier explanation . . . yet.

  We both silently went to work on our food, and as I went through the motions of enjoying dinner, I pondered what I could possibly say to undo the ill effects of a chuckle.

  The waitperson came by and asked, “Would you like some carpe diem, bro?”

  I gawked at him. “What did you say?” I could have sworn I’d turned deathly white.

  “None for me, thank you,” Torula said. “But I’m sure he’d love some.”

  “Some what?” I asked, still gawking.

  “Coffee, sir,” the waitperson said.

  “That’s . . .” I looked at Torula. “. . . what he really said?”

  She nodded and tilted her head, looking puzzled.

  Was my subconscious trying to tell me what to do next that I was starting to hear voices?

  I glanced around, looking for someone with vivid green hair but found no sign of Sienna. With a slow, suspicious nod, I said, “Yeah, sure. But . . .” I squinted at the waitperson. “I’m going to be really pissed if you come back with a half-empty mug.”

  The man nodded and trembled up a smile as he walked away.

  Torula wiped her lips, almost done with her dinner, and here I was, still reluctant to broach the very things I’d come to talk about—as though they were cards I was holding close to my chest and couldn’t lay down on the table.

  Dr. Grant’s piercing gaze loomed inside my head. Is it because you refuse to take no for an answer? Or because you’re used to getting what you want?

  I took a deep breath and leaned forward in my seat. “I’m at a crossroads.”

  She didn’t even glance up from her plate. “About what?”

  “I’d like to get your opinion on . . . my ‘place of residence,’ so to speak.”

  She froze, holding up a piece of prawn skewered on her fork. “You’ve accepted the offer, haven’t you?”

  “I’m not leaving NASA.”

  She put her fork down and frowned. “So they’re posting you abroad? I didn’t know NASA did that.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Is it Asia? Europe? The Middle East? Far is far. What difference does it make?”

  “Believe me; you have no idea how ‘far’ far can get.”

  Her shoulders tensed up.

  “You’re upset,” I said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? Sixteen years, you never even came for a visit. And the minute you do, it’s to say goodbye. Again.”

  My mouth hung open. If I said come with me, she’d ask where. If I said outer space, she’d ask how far. If I told the truth, she’d . . .

  “All right, never mind.” She crossed her arms. “If you’re leaving, I don’t want to hear about it. We can just end the night.”

  “What? Wait. It’s just that—” I can’t risk you saying no. “Can we just spend some time together first? Get close again?”

  “Get close. Before you move even farther away?”

  Shite. I knew it was too soon to lay those cards down. “Look, I’m asking you to just be with me for a while.”

  “Just be with you?”
<
br />   “Yeah,” I said, and having to ask her that suddenly lifted blinders from my eyes, making me see how foolish I’d been all these years—for not finding more time to be with her.

  I glanced to my side as the waitperson laid my steaming cup of coffee next to me. It was filled to the brim.

  9

  Just Be With Me

  (Torula)

  I emerged breathless from sleep, Bram’s comforting presence on top of me. He seemed so light, like a soothing blanket. Protective and warm. Through barely opened eyelids, I caught a blurry glimpse of his naked shoulder and his long, wavy hair.

  My breath caught. Bram didn’t have long hair!

  Suddenly, my mind was wide awake. Bram and I had parted ways at the restaurant. I tried to move but couldn’t. I struggled to speak, but my voice stayed locked inside my throat, my jaws clamped tight.

  The sensation of a stranger’s warmth on top of me grew stronger. I was alert yet trapped inside a dream. I strained to see from the corner of my eyes, but all I could catch was his dark hair, his face burrowed next to my shoulder.

  “Just be with me,” he whispered, sounding so much like Bram.

  With all the strength I could muster, I shoved the figure off of me. He became as light as mist, and for a flicker of a moment, I saw his arm swing away as he lifted his embrace. And then he was gone.

  Finally, I was able to move, but for a long while, I sat absolutely still as an overpowering sense of security and warmth wrapped itself around me. Vivid images flashed through my mind. A spray of bright blue forget-me-nots. Eyes that gleamed in fiery gold. Bronze hands slithering across my skin with a frozen touch that burned. A moan. A sigh. A whisper.

  With a steady hand, I turned on my bedside lamp and noted the time. Barely three in the morning.

  I left the comfort of my bed, the cloud of calm drifting away as I walked to the bathroom. Though I splashed cold water on my face, I couldn’t let go of how real the apparition had been. As I looked at my image in the mirror, I asked myself why I wasn’t afraid.

  And that was when fear gripped me.

  I hurried back into my room and turned on a few more reassuring lights. I tossed a change of clothes into a duffel bag and headed for the door. Someone had to explain to me what was happening to my mind.

  10

  Nothing To Worry About

  (Torula)

  I had expected a shocked reaction to my story of a paranormal paramour, but instead, all I got were a few calm nods of comprehension and a cup of hot chocolate in my hands.

  “Classic case of sleep paralysis,” Mom declared. “Nothing to worry about.”

  She’d sat me at her breakfast nook looking out at her herb and flower garden softly lit by lantern lights. Though I’d shown up at her door with barely a warning, she conducted my pre-dawn consultation dressed in a long-and-loose, pale paisley dress, her auburn hair in a braided half ponytail, and eyes alight with analytic interest.

  “You make it sound like it’s perfectly normal,” I said, not quite believing it.

  “It’s common enough for people to have at least one episode in their lives, and it’s not unusual for it to come with surreal hallucinations.”

  I shook my head. “But it wasn’t surreal. It was the opposite. It felt real, and so much like Bram, I was so convinced . . .”

  “That it was your dream come true?” She arched a brow. “It seems your spectral suitor was smart enough to fulfill your Freudian wish to be with Bram. Lucky you.” She tapped my mug with her teaspoon, creating a cheery ding.

  I slid my mug backwards. “Mom, please take this seriously.”

  “I am. It’s a globally-acknowledged form of parasomnia. It used to be called ‘ghost oppression’ in China, the ‘Old Hag’ syndrome in Newfoundland, and in Mexico, it’s referred to as ‘a dead body climbed on top of me’ phenomenon. The exact cause may be difficult to pinpoint. But in your case . . .” She poised her teaspoon to tap my mug into another teasing chime.

  I used my hand to shield my cup and pulled it closer towards me. “Why wasn’t I scared then? Consider those labels other people have given it. Wasn’t my reaction clearly aberrant?”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re right. Yours sounds closer to a nocturnal emission.”

  I gawked at her. “A wet dream? Mom, stop toying with me.”

  She gave a tongue-in-cheek laugh. “Oh, if anyone’s toying with you, it’s obviously the ghost in your bedroom. Rather than give you a sense of foreboding or a spooky feeling like you’re being watched, this one simply charmed your pants off.” She stirred her drink, looking as casual as someone talking about a first date.

  I grimaced at her nonchalance. Did non-psychiatrist mothers also have this habit? That of trivializing matters which made their children anxious to make them believe that everything was fine. Frankly, it only made me more anxious. “Why do you think I’m not responding the way most people would? Can you at least answer me that?”

  Mom laid down her teaspoon and fixed her eyes on me. “You’re embarrassed more than you’re afraid because you found yourself in bed with someone whom everyone would have expected you to shun.”

  Oh, please. I snapped two fingers to take her out of her own disorientation. “We’re not talking about a person, Dr. Triana.”

  “Aren’t we? Supposing ghosts truly are the residual consciousness of people who’ve passed away, then they’d probably be like disoriented humans. Feeling lost and helpless and reaching out to anyone who could see or hear them.” She paused and let her gaze wander out the window towards the early morning magic of her garden, the sky warming up with a glow of the palest peach. “I imagine that’s what I would have done had my near-death experience lasted longer than it did. That would have been dreadful, wouldn’t it? If my sisters screamed each time I tried to communicate. Or worse, if they didn’t even sense a thing no matter what I tried to do.” She brought her attention back to me. “Admittedly, instinct always cautions us against the unknown. But then again, what hazardous things are ghosts known to do?”

  “In a nutshell?” I clutched my hot mug of chocolate, Mom’s standard balm for my childhood fear of the dark. “They scare you to death.”

  She waved a hand flippantly. “Most people are simply ghostist, primed and conditioned by everything from the internet to Hollywood to Stephen King. You felt no reason to be afraid because your ghost, obviously, is much, much friendlier than Casper.” Mom quirked her brow.

  Her arguments could have made sense, but only if one anthropomorphized these “things.” And given that I’d mistaken that thing in my bed for Bram, it could’ve passed the Duck Test. If it sounds like a duck, looks like a duck . . .

  Mom’s gaze shifted to my hands clasping the mug close to my chest. “You’re clinging to that cup as if you’re about to fall off a cliff. You’re teetering on the edge of believing.”

  I put the hot chocolate on the table and crossed my arms. “For all you know, it’s genetic. Both Truth and I see something.” I tilted my head. “Have you ever experienced hallucinations you haven’t told me about?”

  “I’ve never hallucinated a thing in my life,” she declared with a raise of her chin. “Nor have I ever seen anything remotely like a ghost. Though one thing’s for sure, I came very close to becoming one.”

  I groaned. “Can’t you just say it’s some form of psychosis? Or anything else that makes more sense.”

  If there was a regal way to roll one’s eyes, Mom had perfected it. “Why come asking for my opinion, then reject everything I say?”

  “Because none of your answers are scientific!”

  “Of course, they are,” she said. “Though spelled a bit differently.”

  “What?”

  “P-S-I. Psientific.”

  I winced. “Great. So what we’ve been discussing here was purely psi-ence fiction. I think I’ll just spend the rest of my morning reading Isaac Asimov. I’m bound to learn something more useful there.” I picked up my mug and headed for a comforta
ble couch. “It’s just impossible, Mom. I can’t imagine how someone dead and buried could leave behind a living mind.”

  “Funny,” she said, following me to the living room. “That’s what Creationists say about Darwin’s theory. They can’t imagine how some lifeless clump of atoms eventually became a human called Adam.”

  I chuckled as I plopped down on the couch. “Who knows? Maybe one of these days, S-C-I science will learn how to explain it better.”

  “Well, you’re in a very rare position to find the real and better explanation for ghosts. So drink up and get to work. Stop delaying the advancement of science—and psience—by hanging around here.” She strode off and left me with my thoughts and my beverage.

  I gazed out through sliding glass doors at her patio garden, dewdrops now glistening in the early morning light, and pondered the possibility—or rather, impossibility—of conscious, incorporeal life. Should Starr and I continue with our attempts to explain what it was we saw? I imagined presenting our findings to a roomful of peers who would collectively get up and exit, leaving behind a peanut gallery of hecklers shouting, “Didn’t anyone tell you? Botanists don’t dig six feet under!”

  What the foxtrot. I can’t do this. It would only take me from being the peculiar nerd who talked to plants to being the peculiar scientist who wanted to talk to ghosts. There was just no making sense of it. Life simply can’t be experienced by the dead.

  My iHub rang, and at the sight of Bram’s name, the unsettling sensations from last night’s dream swept through me again.

  “Hello?” I said tentatively.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Last night?” You weren’t really in my bed, were you?

  “I laughed at your story. About the ghost. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Oh, that. Forget about it.”