a modest dark dress, the same dress Elizabeth had helped Marlene pick out for her mother to be buried in. Her hair was as Emma remembered it before Kitty had suffered her stroke, soft and white and pulled back at her nape. The only thing missing was Kitty's knitting. Kitty's hands had always been busy with one thing or another, but in the last decade her primary industry had been knitting. And Kitty had been an exquisite knitter.
Thinking it simply a mirage, a trick played on her by her mind after a day of remembering Kitty and her long life, Emma approached the chair, expecting the image of Kitty to disappear as reality took the place of fancy. Instead, the image turned its head slightly, knowingly, like a wise bird, and smiled at her. Emma jumped back, away from the chair, nearly stumbling over her suitcase in the process.
"Yes, dear girl, it's really me," the image of her aunt said, her voice sounding like the voices Emma had heard that day in the car, whispery, with no more volume than a gentle breeze, yet audible to Emma just the same.
Dashing for the bedroom door, Emma jerked it open just as she heard a second voice. It was similar in tone, yet distinct from Kitty's.
"Told you she was a fraidy cat."
Emma spun around and studied the room she was about to flee. The image of her aunt was still sitting in the rocking chair, the head turned toward her, studying her, with an encouraging smile. It was the second image, the new presence, that caused Emma to gasp.
Sitting on the bed was another filmy apparition, this one of a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing-a simple, long-sleeved blouse and long, full skirt reminiscent of pioneer garb. Her build was small, even diminutive, but there was nothing frail about it. Her hair was pulled tight against her head with a braid circling her crown like a halo. Her face was lined and weathered. From her direction came the faint odor of apple pie. Both images were as colorless as steam, defined only by shades of gray and white.
The new apparition squinted at Emma, scowled, then addressed Kitty. "I'm not convinced, Kitty. Maybe I should wait another generation." She jerked a thumb in Emma's direction. "Doesn't this one have a girl?"
Not exactly pleased at being talked about like she wasn't there, especially by things that were not supposed to be there themselves, Emma became truly alarmed upon hearing a reference to her daughter.
"Kelly? What about Kelly?"
"Now hush, Ish. You're scaring Emma."
Ish? Emma's confused mind rooted around and didn't want to believe what was becoming obvious, if unbelievable. With wide eyes, she looked from one misty image to the other.
"You're ghosts?" Emma's voice trembled as she spoke the words.
The woman in old-time dress scoffed and addressed Kitty again. "Not very smart, is she?"
"Ish, behave yourself," admonished Kitty. "She's in shock. I'm telling you, our Emma's the one you want."
Emma pointed a manicured accusing finger at the image perched on the bed. "You're Granny Apples, aren't you? You're the one who tried to contact me at Milo's. The one who stalked my mother years ago."
"Ish didn't stalk anyone, Emma. She was looking for help." "
I helped your ma, but she didn't help me none."
"My mother had just lost a child. She was devastated." Emma turned her faced upward to address the ceiling. "I can't believe I'm speaking to something that doesn't exist."
"If Kitty and I ain't real, then why are you talking to us?"
Emma looked at Ish. Her filmy face was pinched with defiance and, Emma thought, disappointment.
Was she crazy? Was she imagining these images? Maybe she was asleep and dreaming. Her aunt Kitty was dead. She'd seen her with her own eyes in the casket the night before at the funeral home. And Ish Reynolds, Granny Apples, was dead, too-had been for a very long time. Her tired mind and exhausted body were playing tricks on her. It was that simple. Had to be that simple. Anything else was impossible, something usually reserved
Thinking it simply a mirage, a trick played on her by her mind after a day of remembering Kitty and her long life, Emma approached the chair, expecting the image of Kitty to disappear as reality took the place of fancy. Instead, the image turned its head slightly, knowingly, like a wise bird, and smiled at her. Emma jumped back, away from the chair, nearly stumbling over her suitcase in the process.
"Yes, dear girl, it's really me," the image of her aunt said, her voice sounding like the voices Emma had heard that day in the car, whispery, with no more volume than a gentle breeze, yet audible to Emma just the same.
Dashing for the bedroom door, Emma jerked it open just as she heard a second voice. It was similar in tone, yet distinct from Kitty's.
"Told you she was a fraidy cat."
Emma spun around and studied the room she was about to flee. The image of her aunt was still sitting in the rocking chair, the head turned toward her, studying her, with an encouraging smile. It was the second image, the new presence, that caused Emma to gasp.
Sitting on the bed was another filmy apparition, this one of a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing-a simple, long-sleeved blouse and long, full skirt reminiscent of pioneer garb. Her build was small, even diminutive, but there was nothing frail about it. Her hair was pulled tight against her head with a braid circling her crown like a halo. Her face was lined and weathered. From her direction came the faint odor of apple pie. Both images were as colorless as steam, defined only by shades of gray and white.
The new apparition squinted at Emma, scowled, then addressed Kitty. "I'm not convinced, Kitty. Maybe I should wait another generation." She jerked a thumb in Emma's direction. "Doesn't this one have a girl?"
Not exactly pleased at being talked about like she wasn't there, especially by things that were not supposed to be there themselves, Emma became truly alarmed upon hearing a reference to her daughter.
"Kelly? What about Kelly?"
"Now hush, Ish. You're scaring Emma."
Ish? Emma's confused mind rooted around and didn't want to believe what was becoming obvious, if unbelievable. With wide eyes, she looked from one misty image to the other.
"You're ghosts?" Emma's voice trembled as she spoke the words.
The woman in old-time dress scoffed and addressed Kitty again. "Not very smart, is she?"
"Ish, behave yourself," admonished Kitty. "She's in shock. I'm telling you, our Emma's the one you want."
Emma pointed a manicured accusing finger at the image perched on the bed. "You're Granny Apples, aren't you? You're the one who tried to contact me at Milo's. The one who stalked my mother years ago."
"Ish didn't stalk anyone, Emma. She was looking for help." "
I helped your ma, but she didn't help me none."
"My mother had just lost a child. She was devastated." Emma turned her faced upward to address the ceiling. "I can't believe I'm speaking to something that doesn't exist."
"If Kitty and I ain't real, then why are you talking to us?"
Emma looked at Ish. Her filmy face was pinched with defiance and, Emma thought, disappointment.
Was she crazy? Was she imagining these images? Maybe she was asleep and dreaming. Her aunt Kitty was dead. She'd seen her with her own eyes in the casket the night before at the funeral home. And Ish Reynolds, Granny Apples, was dead, too-had been for a very long time. Her tired mind and exhausted body were playing tricks on her. It was that simple. Had to be that simple. Anything else was impossible, something usually reserved
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