Everything.
So I just chuckle and murmur, “Yes, I’ve heard there are stories.” And then I spread clotted cream on a scone and change the subject.
Soon we’re talking about teaching, something we have in common. When I discover Freya has a combined degree in English and folklore, I’m overcome with envy.
“I desperately wanted my undergrad in history and folklore, but my mother was horrified enough by the history major. A completely unmarketable field of study.”
“Wasn’t your dad a historian?”
“Yep, still is. So, as much as I wanted to minor in folklore, I agreed to economics instead. Hated it. Only one good thing came of that . . .” I think of Michael and then hurry on with, “Anyway, my dream is to someday go back for a degree in folklore. A couple of Canadian universities offer them.”
“You like folklore, then?” she asks.
I chuckle. “That’s an understatement. My historical era of expertise is Victorian with a particular slant toward women’s roles. Women have always found power in the realm of folklore. Folk magic, charms, witchcraft . . . With the rise of spiritualism, men shouldered them aside, but they were still active participants, equal participants with real power in the movement. It was a way to engage in scientific study and be taken seriously even if it was pseudoscience.” I pause and sigh. “I just switched into Professor Dale mode, didn’t I?”
Freya smiles. “You have a willing pupil here. Lecture away.” She lifts her teacup and says, far too casually, “So you believe spiritualism is a pseudoscience?”
“Er . . . misjudged my audience, did I? Sorry.”
Her smile softens. “That’s quite all right. I’m very fond of lively debate. I just thought it was unusual”—she sips her tea—“coming from one with the Sight.”
I wince. “Aunt Judith told you about the ghosts. It was only one, actually, and even then, it wasn’t real. I had a hypnopompic hallucination. That’s—” I pause, not wanting to presume she doesn’t know what that is.
She nods. “Thinking you wake to see a ghost by your bed, when really, you aren’t awake yet. I’m well aware of the phenomenon, but that doesn’t explain your experience, Bronwyn. You fled from the ghost. You saw it while clearly awake. And Stan . . .” She sips her tea. Then she says, “So you haven’t seen anything since you’ve returned, I presume?”
In my mind, I say no and make some silly quip. What I hear myself say, though, is nothing. Dead and damning silence.
“You have seen something?” Freya presses.
I set down my cup. I want to answer. I want to talk about this to someone exactly like Freya. Kind and open-minded and educated in the subject.
When I still don’t reply, she says, “Whatever you tell me doesn’t go outside this room, Bronwyn. Not even to Del. I might believe in ghosts, but I’m not going to hare off to an online forum and share your story. I don’t think the world needs proof. Either people believe, or they don’t. Trouble only arises when those who see things are convinced they don’t by well-meaning loved ones who persuade them they’ve had a mental breakdown.”
I tense. I can just imagine what passes over my face, as she leans forward, saying, “I’m sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It isn’t. It’s none of my business. I’m the only person your aunt told, and just because she knows I can keep a confidence. She needed to speak to someone about it. She was so angry with your mother, but she couldn’t tell you that and risk your relationship when you’d only just reunited. If it’s any consolation, I talked Judith down when she was in a right fury over it. Your mother didn’t mean any harm. In her world, that explanation made sense.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t normally see ghosts. I never have outside this house.” I force a smile. “God knows, since Michael—my husband—died . . .” I inhale. “I’ve never even seen an eye speck that I could pretend was him.”
I try to say it lightly, but my eyes still fill, and Freya moves beside me, taking my hand.
After a moment, she says softly, “When he passed, were things settled between you?”
“Settled?”
“Was he ready to go? I know it was a brain tumor. I’m presuming you had time. Not enough time, of course. It’s never enough.”
“With the tumor, we knew Michael’s mental capacity could become impaired, so we got our affairs in order, financially and emotionally. I miss him terribly, but there were no loose ends, and I’m grateful for that.”
Freya squeezes my hand, and I relax into my grief, the kind that no longer feels like a stiletto through the heart. It’s a wound that can lie quiet even if it still never fully heals. A wound that I don’t want to heal. Even if I ever fall in love and marry again, I hope that thoughts of Michael will always bring a pang of loss and regret. He deserves that much.
“This is why you won’t see Michael,” Freya says after a few minutes. “He’s at peace. He said what needed to be said. Did what needed to be done. That let him cross over as he should. No matter how much a spirit might want to linger with loved ones, it isn’t healthy for them or us.”
“I . . . I’m not sure that’s the entire answer for me. I really haven’t ever seen anything outside this house. There was the night Uncle Stan—” I swallow. “The night he died. Even that was the only one I ever saw until”—I force the words out—“last night.”
As I tell her about the black-veiled ghost, her eyes widen.
“My gods, lass, I’d have fled, bad hip and all. Why didn’t you come to our house?”
I shrug. “I was fine. It—she—didn’t follow me into my old room.”
“Do you think it was the same ghost you saw the first time? When Stan—”
“I don’t know. I can never remember that ghost. Apparently, I said it was a woman, though, and I think . . . Well, I’ve been trying not to think about it, but yes, it must be the same ghost. Did Aunt Judith ever see anything?”
“She had minor experiences here. Fleeting glimpses. Whispers. A flicker caught in the corner of the eye. A tickle that sets your hairs on end. The smattering of sixth sense we all share, as animals do.” She looks around. “Which reminds me, Del mentioned a kitten?”
“She’s sleeping in the kitchen.”
“Was she there last night? Did she detect anything?”
When I describe Enigma’s response, Freya’s brows lift and she says, “Well, then, I hope you aren’t doubting you saw a ghost.”
“I’m not.”
We munch our way through two biscuits before she says, “May I ask you about the boy? The one you used to see here?”
I sit up so abruptly my chair squeaks, and I’m still collecting myself when Enigma toddles from the kitchen, having woken and realized there’s a party to which she wasn’t invited. Her timing is perfect. I pick her up, and Freya oohs and aahs over her, and Enigma revels in the attention.
“Should I not ask about your imaginary friend?” Freya says as I pass Enigma onto her lap.