Chance of a Ghost Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mom talking to someone from behind her bedroom door.
    Now that was odd, though not completely unheard of, considering that Mom can see and speak to ghosts. In the interest of full disclosure, I can see ghosts, too, and so can my ten-year-old daughter Melissa. But I’m far behind both Liss and Mom in ability and can’t see nearly as many spirits roaming the streets as they can. I’m still trying to decide whether that’s a good or a bad thing.
    So Mom’s talking to someone when I was pretty sure there wasn’t anyone else (breathing) in the house wasn’t necessarily the strangest thing that could happen. But when I started to make out the words (okay, so I’m an eavesdropper—like you wouldn’t listen in if you heard your mother talking to a dead person?), the conversation itself was considerably more disturbing than I’d anticipated.
    “Well, I can’t right now!” Mom was insisting, her voice raised in what sounded like annoyance and frustration. “Honestly, you’re like an impatient teenager!”
    I hadn’t heard my mother use that tone in a very long time. At least five years, probably longer. Not since…
    Wait a minute.
    I listened a moment longer, and heard Mom say, “I know it’s Tuesday—I just forgot! Now if you’ll just—”
    I couldn’t hear well enough from the kitchen, so I crept into the hallway and started toward Mom’s bedroom door. I knew that technically I was infringing on her privacy—okay, maybe not just technically—but there was a familiar ring to this kind of argument, however one-sided, that bore further investigation.
    Besides, I figured, I am a fledgling private investigator. If I couldn’t practice spying on my own mother, who could I spy on?
    “I understand that you’re disappointed,” Mom said, a little more calmly. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow? It’s supposed to snow, and it’s not like you have a lot you need to do….”
    Now that I was closer, I could just make out another voice responding, “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 bedroomdoor 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