Spooky Little Girl (23 page)

Nola looked at it for several seconds. Then she turned back the protective plastic sheeting and promptly tore every photo from the adhesive page. She did this on the next page and the page after that. She threw the old, now curled photos next to her on the couch, and Lucy watched as they grew into a pile, then eventually tipped over and scattered over the cushion.

Nola was ripping Lucy out of her own photo album, scene by scene, smile by smile. Nola didn’t particularly seem to enjoy doing it, but did it methodically and mechanically without any feelings attached, kind of like shredding a personal letter that was not addressed to you.

“What the hell is she doing?” Lucy asked angrily. “Why take all of the photos out of my album when she clearly went to the scrapbooking store and could have bought her own album?”

Naunie was quiet for a moment and simply shook her head.

“It’s not about creating something new for her,” she finally said. “It’s about elimination and inserting herself where you once were.”

The sound of a truck door slamming interrupted the ripping sound as Nola stopped mid-tug on one of the photos of Lucy and Tulip sitting alongside a brook. It took only a second for Nola to slam the book shut, shove it into her bag with all of her supplies, and then grab the handfuls of photos and ram them into the small
drawer of the side table. She closed it at the precise moment Martin opened the door and took a step into the house.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” Nola said immediately, turning around with a charming smile on her face. “I’m making a big surprise for you!”

Lucy looked at the man that she had lived with for several years, the man whose quirks she knew, the man who had torn her out of his life without explanation, the man who did not know she had been dead, cremated, and sitting in an urn almost since the last time he’d seen her.

“That’s nice,” he said with a small reciprocating smile, and headed off toward the kitchen. Nola dutifully followed.

What was he doing here? Lucy wondered. What was he doing in this?
This is not like you
, she wanted to scream at him.
She is not like you. What happened to you, Martin? What is wrong with you?

It had been a day of wonder, Lucy thought as she leaned against the wall and looked at her grandmother, neither of them needing to say anything, until Naunie thought differently.

“Lucy, I don’t know if you can see it,” she said, crossing her arms and nodding in the direction of the kitchen. “But your mission is pretty clear to me. I know that man wrecked your life and tore it apart like a rabid dog, but it’s her you’ve got to get rid of.”

Nola was planning on enjoying her day off.

Lucy could tell by the way Nola carefully set up her operation on the coffee table: First, she had her stack of chronologically arranged photos placed precisely in the most strategic spot, next to the tape, her sticker embellishments, and her scrapbooking flair. Next to that grouping was the set of remote controls for both the television and her recorder, which held the viewing pleasure that was a foundation for every Saturday. And last, but not least, was a space for her lunch, which consisted of a giant hero sandwich that looked like a conglomeration of every type of processed meat and cheese known to the free world, and which had taken her more than twenty minutes to construct. For side dishes, she had a perfectly sliced pickle spear and a tub of store-bought potato salad, and for dessert, she had decided on just one maple-frosted donut.

Nola loved Saturdays. She
loved
them. They were the only day she had completely and entirely to herself, with no one to demand
anything from her or spoil her solitude. Martin worked every Saturday, as it was the busiest shopping day of the week and he needed to be available should a cabbage or eggplant avalanche suddenly strike the store and trap the elderly. Saturdays were all hers to relax, indulge, and pamper herself. And she was about to do just that. She had brought her lunch in and set it on the coffee table in its designated spot, when the doorbell rang.

She sighed heavily, shook her head, and slapped her palms on the tops of her thighs to truly demonstrate her disgust at having to get up and bother herself. She shuffled to the door, hoping that in the four drags of the feet it took her, the interloper would have thought better of being such a nuisance and would have simply vanished. But he had not. When Nola opened the door, there stood the mailman, his knees quivering with every breath, his arms outstretched with a medium-size package.

“You need to sign for this,” he said. A bead of perspiration ran down the left side of his face in a mad dash. Nola took the pen he had positioned in his left hand, took the delivery slip from his right, and signed by the
x
.

“Thank you,” she said, and took the package from him.

“If you have the other slip filled out, I can take that back,” he informed her.

Nola shook her head. “What slip?”

“The change of address form I gave to that girl the other day,” he replied.

Nola shook her head again quickly. “You must be mistaken,” she said immediately. “Wrong house. I’m the only woman here.”

“The other woman,” the mailman said emphatically. “The
other
one. She never changed her address. The girl on whose mail is written ‘Whereabouts Unknown’ when you consistently give it back to me.”

“What?” Nola said, starting to get irritated. This nonsense was taking a serious bite out of her glorious alone time. “I’m pretty sure you have the wrong house, but fine, fine, whatever. Thank you.”

Nola had nearly succeeded in closing the door all the way when the mailman suddenly blurted out, “LUCY! That’s her name! I gave it to Lucy!”

The closing door came to an abrupt halt and quickly opened again.

“Did you say Lucy?” Nola asked slowly and with clarity.

The mailman nodded. “Cute girl, curly hair, cowboy boots,” he said. “Younger than you.”

“We’re the same age,” she corrected him with a glare.

“No, this girl’s younger,” he insisted. “You know, the one who lived here before you.”

“Same age,”
Nola repeated through clenched teeth. “Are you sure it was her? She was here? She was at the door when you got here?”

“Oh, no,” he answered. “She was inside. Right behind where you are now.”

He pointed past Nola to the middle of the living room, exactly where Lucy had been standing. “Right there,” he added.

Nola looked at him for several seconds without saying anything.

“You are saying she was inside this house,” she clarified. “Lucy was inside my house.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “She wouldn’t come to the door, so I put the form through the mail slot with the other mail. It was the day you got the photographs processed by Walmart.”

“Nice of you to notice,” Nola said, flashing a fake smile. “Thank you for the package.”

“Tell her to return it as soon as she can,” the mailman said quickly.

“To return what?” Nola asked, now visibly agitated.

“The change of address form,” he reminded her. “It’s been a year now that I’ve been carrying around unnecessary mail for her. Unless she’s back here now.”

“No,” Nola said firmly. “She’s not. I can guarantee that.”

With that, Nola slammed the door shut and stood there for what seemed like a year.

“Idiot needs water and to lower his body temperature or he’s going to have more heatstroke-induced hallucinations,” Nola mumbled to herself. “Because she is definitely not back here.”

“That’s what you think,” Naunie said from the doorway to the hallway, where she had watched the whole thing. “What a fat blue snitch in kneesocks. I have a thing or two up my sleeve for him.”

Nola returned to the couch with her package and put it aside. Then she picked up the photo album and with a new ferocity went to work tearing out the rest of the photos while Lucy and Naunie watched her, unable to do anything.

When she was done and had removed every photo, Nola took the bunch of them and marched into Martin’s hobby room to deposit them in her weapon of choice—the shredder. She fed the pictures in by twos and threes, which took a considerable amount of time, since she had a whole album’s worth of pictures to destroy, but that was all right. It was all the time Naunie needed to offer Nola’s masterpiece of a sandwich to one very lazy, but deserving, dog, who—perhaps wisely—refused it.

Sandwich in ghost hand, Naunie panicked as she quickly panned the room for a place to hide Nola’s grub.

“She shredded every picture of me in that book,” Lucy complained to Naunie, not believing what she was seeing. “Well, she can destroy whatever she wants. I am still very much a presence in this house. She cannot eradicate me. I am not polio!”

“Damn right you aren’t,” her grandmother agreed. She finally
spotted the perfect place and rushed to the front door to shove the sandwich right through the mail slot.

When Nola was satisfied that she had shredded Lucy to bits and then had taken the colored shards of smiles, eyes, and assorted backgrounds to the garbage tote to remove the evidence, she was finally ready for the candy center of her day. She turned on the television to watch the stockpile of shows she had recorded throughout the week. She settled in, clicked the remote to turn the TV on, and clicked again to get to the menu to see delightful shows she had waiting for her.

“Wait. That’s not right,” she said aloud.

She scrolled through everything that had been recorded, and while all of the shows she had already watched but could not bring herself to delete were still there—along with Martin’s numerous newly recorded fishing shows—all of her new makeover shows were missing. She painstakingly went through all of the “Now Playing” menu, even as far back as the recording of the previous year’s Academy Awards and the red carpet commentary preceding it, but with no success. Every single show she had taped that week—all four of them—was gone.

“Martin’s shows recorded over mine!” she said to herself in a pissy little huff. “I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe it!
I’ve waited all week to watch a woman get ready to go to her high school reunion by having a chin implant and neck liposuction and getting her ears reduced! I’ve been waiting all week! What am I supposed to do now?”

Naunie observed from the other end of the couch and burst out laughing.

“I am so glad we’re haunting in this day and age,” she said. “I could have never accomplished that ten years ago.”

Lucy shook her head and grinned right back.

“Who would have thought the act of pressing a button could be so much fun?” Lucy added. “I would have failed the ‘screwing with the remote control’ section of school if it hadn’t been for my friend Bethanny. I was pretty busy feeling sorry for myself that day and acting like our friend Nola here.”

“The tantrum is going to get better here, just wait and watch,” Naunie said, barely able to contain her excitement.

Nola threw down the remote control, which bounced off the table, hit the floor, and then slid under Martin’s rotting La-Z-Boy recliner, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy staring at the empty spot where her lunch used to be. Ridiculously, she began searching for it, lifting up the photo album, magazines, even her napkin.

“Do you think we’ll ever see them again?” Lucy asked.

“See who?” Naunie replied, her eyes glued on Nola, who was now bent over and looking under the coffee table.

“Friends…,” Lucy added, “from ghost school.”

“Did I eat it?” Lucy heard Nola ask as she hung upside down.

“Oh, I dunno,” Naunie said as she waved Lucy away. “Five bucks says she looks in the cushions. Hee, hee. Watch this.”

While Nola searched under the couch, Naunie grabbed the pickle spear she was hiding behind a pillow and placed it where Nola had placed her sandwich—but on top of the donut.

“Didn’t you make any friends in ghost school?” Lucy asked her grandmother. “I made a good one. I would love to see her again. At least she knew I was dead, right?”

“Oh, my God!” Nola gasped, spotting the pickle lounging on her donut. “Oh, no!”

She looked at the display as if it was a gruesome car accident that she was afraid to approach because the horror was too great.

“You should have put it in the photo album,” Lucy joked.

“I would have needed more of a charge,” Naunie said wistfully.

Nola shook her head angrily and looked over at the slumbering, snoring, drooling Tulip.

“You,” she said simply as she got up, pickle and donut in hand, and stomped to the kitchen. “I will not forget this.”

“Aw, Tulip,” Lucy said as she bent down and rubbed the dog’s belly. “We’ll get a house to fall on that wicked witch, just you wait.”

Tulip woke up and gave Lucy a wide smile as her tongue dropped out of her mouth and laid itself on the floor.

“Watch out, Tulip, I’m going to tickle you!” Lucy warned as she lifted up her dog’s leg and went straight for the armpit. Tulip was panting in the way that dogs laugh, and Lucy was laughing, too. The dog loved the attention, and Lucy loved giving it to her. In the middle of the rampant ticklefest, Lucy suddenly stopped.

She felt something odd on Tulip’s leg, in a spot tucked up under her body. It was a lump, hard and egg-shaped, the size of Lucy’s thumb from the knuckle up. She remembered the flea bite from earlier in the week and returned to that spot with her hands. It hadn’t gone away; it was still there, and it was clear to Lucy that it was not a flea bite after all. There was no scab in the middle, no fleshy swelling around it. While not as large as the other spot, this one felt hard and solid, too. It was bigger than she remembered it being.

Lucy looked at Tulip, and Tulip looked back for several seconds before she laid her head back on the floor and panted. Lucy knew, and Tulip knew, but Lucy wouldn’t allow herself to think it. She stretched an arm over Tulip and the other arm through her front legs, and hugged her softly.

When Martin came home that night, Nola wasted no time notifying him of the tragedy of the day the minute he walked through the front door.

“When you recorded
your
shows, you deleted
my
shows,” she complained. “It would be nice if you could try to figure out how to get them back.”