Lingering

This story is by Darla Clement and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I’m sitting in the back seat of Mom’s 1964 Chevy Impala as the haunting lyrics of Skeeter Davis’ The End of the World float through the car. Mom pulls into a grass driveway by a crossroad. “This is not what your dad wanted for us,” she sighs, “but it is all I can afford right now. It’s better than the apartment at the bar.” Even I, at the age of 8, know that she is weary. Sheryl is the oldest, at 16, and Nancy is 10.

“I miss Dad,” Sheryl says in a monotone voice, “he would love this place.”

“What?” asks Mom. Sheryl looks down.

The house sits on a hill next to an ancient cemetery.  It resembles a lone tooth dislodged by the graveyard, spirits searching for escape. I lean against Nancy, and Nancy shivers.

Mom saunters to the house with heavy feet and slack arms. Sheryl burrows her brow. I walk behind them when a tiding of magpies greets me. Their warbles soar through the air, chirping and calling. I walk into their flurry. They dart up and down and circle me, their feathers pumping through my heart. I reach my hands high to touch them but can’t. I giggle.

“What are all those magpies doing?!!” asks Nancy.

“I learned about them in school.  Magpies are sacred messengers. They help lost souls find their way,” said Sheryl, “there must be a soul trapped in the graveyard.”

“Shush,” says Mom, “you kids get in the house and take a look.” I rub my arms before taking a tentative step toward the house. Sheryl blinks before leading the way into a wood-paneled living room. The house seems to inhale as we enter. It is quiet as a shadow. I let out a shaky laugh that no one seems to hear.

Our couch sits on the wall, and the TV is underneath the picture window. Heavy-laden boxes from the Silver Dollar Bar where Mom works scatter the floor. Our clothes and household items labeled “Jim Beam” and “Coors Lite.”

Nancy pulls a sweater from the box. “It’s cold in here.” She runs her fingers along the dusty mantlepiece, leaving trails in the thick layer of grime. The floorboards creak as we explore the house.  It has a dining room and a worn kitchen with cabinet doors that hang like men from a noose.

“You’ll have to sleep in the laundry room,” Mom says in false brightness. We’ll add another bedroom later.”

“I’ll clean the kitchen,” Sheryl says to comfort Mom, “then I’ll unpack the kitchen.”

“Good, I’m going outside,” Nancy says and heads to the back door.  I follow. Nancy stops at the steps. I bump into her. She ignores me likes she doesn’t see me.

Fog rambles over the cemetery, leaving us with glimpses of forgotten graves. The stones look like the dead’s bony fingers reaching from below the earth toward the sky. A tingle runs down my spine at a slight movement between the monuments. Nancy frowns. She murmurs, “It must be the fog.”

A tall man appears in a black robe and glides between the tombs. He fits with the stones like he was born from them or they from him. He has no face, but he reminds me of someone. I look down. My unease lifts, and I gravitate toward him, but he disappears.

“I need to get going. I wish I could stay,” says Mom. She grabs her purse and drives to the Silver Dollar Bar. Sheryl, Nancy, and I watch from the picture window as her car rambles past the junction.

“Crossroads are a place where we meet spirits,” Sheryl chants, transfixed.

The house calms and suppresses itself into the darkness. We cannot rest in the noiseless home. We are accustomedto jukebox tunes of Sugar Sugar and Honky Tonk Women from the bar playing at night.

I dream of Dad. He is teaching me chopsticks on the piano when Sheryl jolts me awake. Her breaths are bursting from her, and her voice is shrill: “Wake up. Wake up!”

“What is it?” asks Nancy.

“I hear piano music!”

“You were dreaming.”

My heart pounds as I remember there is no piano in the house. I sink into the bed. I hug Nancy’s feet to my chest before sleep claims me.

I am jerked awake at Nancy’s sharp command. “STOP IT!” she says.

“What is it?” a groggy Sheryl asks.

“Someone is playing with my feet.” I look around the room, and only the scent of Gain detergent greets me. We cling to each other and gasp as a rattle comes from the front door. It is Mom returning from the bar. She yawns at Sheryl’s claim, “It’s scary here.”

She scoffs, “That’s the house mouse.”

“I heard a piano,” she cries.

“Shush,” Mom says, her eyes glassy. She stands with a slight wobble. “I’m headed to bed.”

Mom’s words offer little comfort once we return to the laundry room of forgotten items. We lie awake looking at the ceiling. The moon’s rays filter through the window. Shadows sway along the white walls, dancing ghosts waiting for a home.

Sheryl breaks the silence, “I know what to do! She wants us to hear her.”

“Who?” Nancy wonders.

“The spirit. She needs our help,” Sheryl says, “she is trapped.” I grab Sheryl’s arm. She shudders.

“Hmmmm,” mutters Nancy.

“It was as if the magpies were talking to me this morning.  I understood their chirps. They said that the man in the graveyard is sad. He is searching for his daughter.”

“You talk to magpies now?”

“No. But I could this morning. I don’t know why, but I could.”

Sheryl said, “They told me to release her and showed me how to do it. That’s why we’re here.” She leaps to a stand.

“Please don’t, Sheryl,” I beg, “what if it makes it worse.”

“How can you do that?” Nancy asks as she jams her hands in her armpits.

“We talk to her. I’ve done it before when I asked Darla not to leave me.”

“I miss her,” said Nancy; she touches Sheryl’s arm.

“Me too. She was our baby sister. But something is helping me.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, “I know what to say,” she whispers.

I furrow my brows, “Hey! I’m not a ghost.  I’m right here!”

“I hear you. I love you. What do you want from us?”

Her words are faint, the room tilts. I hold my breath. Nancy looks around and behind.

“Hold my hand,” Sheryl announces.

I wet my lips and take her hand. Nancy takes mine. Sheryl takes another breath. “I hear you. We hear you.” She repeats the words. The house lets out a long sigh and relaxes. I cringe as magpies chirp by our window. They dart in a frenzy. Air moves around me. I cannot breathe. The house sweeps me through the living room, past the dining room, into the kitchen, unaware of the walls.

Forgotten memories rush to me. I suddenly recall Sheryl sobbing, “Don’t leave me.” I stayed by her side when it was my time to go despite Dad’s urging to leave.

“Did it work?” wonders Nancy.

“I dunno,” answers Sheryl.

I’m no longer in the room, but I can hear them. The magpies calm their song. The man in black floats to me. I look up and see his face. He is my father. His mouth holds a tiny smile. But a wealth of emotion resides inside that slight curve of a lip. He takes my hand.

Peace fills my chest, and I disperse it into the house.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says. The magpies helped me. They told me to wait at the graveyard.” The magpies guide us to the crossroads.

“No, wait. I can’t leave my sisters,” I pull against him.

“You’ve lingered long enough. It is not good for them. Come, I have much to show you.” We disappear as we walk. I discover that the crossroad is a portal between two worlds. I can watch over my sisters and Mom and stay with Dad.

Little by little, Mom spends less time at the bar. Her tired look fades, and her funny demeanor returns. She is no longer a ghost of herself. The cabinet doors are fixed. She plants petunias in the front yard. She watches Sheryl and Nancy play Monopoly underneath the picture window. “To you my love,” she says taking a sip of coffee from Dad’s favorite white mug.

I sit next to Nancy and hum as she rolls the dice. They no longer flinch at my touch. Nancy leans toward me and stills as if she can hear me. I call to her and Sheryl. Nancy looks around. Sheryl tilts her head.

“Thank you for releasing me. Dad wants to be with you, but he has peace. I see you. I love you. Dad says, ‘I love you.’ We’re happy, and we want you to be happy, too.”