Here and Again Read online

  “Samuel?” Ginger called.

  The door burst open and Osbee rushed in. “What?” the old woman asked, her eyes wide as she stood barefoot in her white nightdress.

  In the light, Ginger could just make out a shadow of red undergarments through the cotton. She grinned a little. “Uh, bad dream,” Ginger said with a shrug as she endeavored to recover from her own start. “So sorry.”

  “Holy Moses!” Osbee said, grabbing her heart. “That didn’t even sound like you.”

  “It was a really bad dream,” Ginger added, climbing out of bed. “Sorry to wake you. Go on back to bed.”

  Osbee shot her a sideways glance, shaking a little as she turned to go. Before she left, she paused to offer, “We’ll talk tomorrow when you get home.”

  “Yeah. Oh—and Ed Rogers is coming to fix Henry’s Child.”

  Osbee stopped, gazing over her shoulder. “Who?”

  “Ed Rogers. Jesse bought parts for Henry’s Child before he, uh—”

  “Yeah, okay.” Osbee waved to stop the rest of the sentence. “Good thing, ’cause we’ll need that tractor now.”

  “Time to plow,” Ginger said as she followed the old woman into the hall.

  “That’s for sure. Drive safe, daughter.”

  “Always,” Ginger replied. “Love you, Osbee.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Ginger shut the bathroom door, stood still for just a second, and then, faster than Oliver could grab a free cookie, she was dressed and tiptoeing down the stairs. She found Beau sleeping on the couch with Regard resting just above him on the windowsill. Both raised their heads as Ginger entered the living room.

  “Samuel?” she whispered. She stopped to listen. Nothing.

  “Samuel?” Stepping into the kitchen, she turned on the light. There was no sound except the popping of the coffeepot as it finished brewing.

  “Uh, sorry,” she whispered to the empty kitchen. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

  Ginger poured coffee into her traveler’s mug, grabbed her lunch from the refrigerator, slipped into her coat and boots, and quietly stepped out of the house. The yard was darker than the night before even though a sliver of moon hung above. Snow reflects light and as most of it had melted away during the day, the moon had no help brightening the night. Coming around the back of the house, she found a shadow sitting on the front fender of her truck. She halted.

  “Samuel?” she whispered.

  “I did not mean to startle you, Virginia. I was hoping to speak with you and could not determine how best to wake you.”

  “I was awake,” she replied, walking toward the truck.

  “Oh,” Samuel said, standing free of the fender.

  “Why did you yell?” she asked.

  “I cannot be in light.”

  Ginger thought for a moment. She had seen him in the day and opened her mouth to say such.

  “Electric light,” Samuel interrupted. “Electricity hurts me.”

  Ginger shut her mouth, not sure she wanted any further explanation.

  “To be in your house . . . itches a little.”

  “Itches,” she repeated.

  “Yes. I can will myself through your doors and windows, but not through the walls, as there is electricity there.”

  She nodded as if to indicate she understood. She had, of course, no true comprehension of what he was talking about but it seemed the polite thing to do. What were manners when dealing with a ghost?

  “Um, is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No. But it is why I could not help you with the sick boy on the road.”

  “Ah.” Ginger smiled. “You couldn’t get in my truck.”

  “It is full of electricity. And light hurts. Bright light hurts greatly.”

  “But not the sun,” Ginger stated.

  “No. Nor moonshine.” Samuel pointed up at the moon, which smiled down at them like the Cheshire cat.

  She nodded again and lightly danced from one foot to the other. It was cold. “I, uh, have to go to work.”

  “I know. I— Would you mind if I rode with you?”

  Ginger cocked her head. “I thought yo—”

  “I can sit back here,” Samuel said, walking back to the bed of the truck. “And this window opens, yes?”

  He pointed to the little sliding window in the back of the cab. Oliver called it “Beau’s window.”

  “It won’t hurt?”

  “It’ll itch a little, I think. But we can talk. Would you mind, Virginia?”

  “Not at all. Mmm. There’ll be headlights on the freeway.”

  “I think I can duck. If I dissipate, though, I’ll only end up back in your orchard.”

  Reticently, Ginger shuffled to the driver’s side. “You dissipated when I turned on my light,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  As she opened the door, Samuel, who was climbing into the bed, coughed loudly and held his hand over his nose. “What is that smell?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “Jacob Esch hurled in my truck,” Ginger replied, turning on the truck. She then reached back and opened Beau’s window.

  “Who is Jacob Esch and what is ‘hurled’?” Samuel said as he lifted himself into the truck bed.

  “The Amish kid you found in the ditch. And ‘hurled’ means he threw up.”

  Ginger shut her door, turned her lights on, and began to back down the drive. There was Samuel, a ghost, sitting with his head in Beau’s window. She shivered a little and so turned instead to her side windows to back down the gravel drive.

  “Amish. So they yet live?”

  “Yep. You had Amish back the—” Her sentence stopped with the truck. What were ghostly manners?

  “Back then,” Samuel finished her sentence. “We did.”

  Ginger put the truck in drive and slowly made her way down the road.

  “Where are you from?” Ginger asked.

  “I have said, Virginia Moon. Laurel Creek.”

  “There were Amish in Laurel Creek?”

  “No. My best friends had a friend who was from Pennsylvania. An Amish on rumspringa.”

  “I see.”

  Ginger came to the spot where she’d fallen near the fence—where Bea saw Samuel standing as she rode away in the bus. Samuel had not said anything and she looked in her rearview mirror to see if he was still there. He was, his eyes lifted to the sky.

  “Light hurts, Virginia Moon. I can smell and see and hear. But I cannot touch or taste. I am left here in the world, but am not of it. That is how the Amish say they live.”

  “How’s that?” Ginger turned right.

  “They are in the world, not of it. But truly, they are of it. They can feel the sun and the wind. They can feel the warmth of soup on a cold night and taste the salt of its broth. They can work all day beneath heaven and feel the aches of their muscles. They can touch hair, feel breath, taste lips.”

  How long had it been since she’d tasted Jesse’s lips? She felt an ache in the center of her body as a car came toward the truck and she could see Samuel disappear from her rearview mirror.

  The car passed. Darkness grew. Had he dissipated? “Samuel?” she called quietly.

  “I am here, looking up at a Virginia moon.”

  She smiled and leaned forward to see it, too.

  “To farm beneath a Virginia moon,” he said.

  “Hard to farm in the dark, I reckon, Samuel,” she said with a giggle.

  “The orange one that rises on the harvest. Huge and round on the horizon. No sound but insects, the click of horse hooves, and the scour of the plow.”

  Ginger imagined the quiet of plowing so. “I love that moon,” she said. “I like it when it’s warm on those evenings.”

  “Mmm. A ginger moon,” he whispered.

  Ginger g
iggled.

  “What’s funny?” Samuel asked.

  “I was thinking about my name.”

  He popped up in her rearview mirror. “I love your name,” he said.

  She smiled to his reflection. “My mother always wanted to name her daughter Virginia after her grandmother. My father wanted to name his child ‘Moon.’ You know my dad? The one you want to meet?”

  Samuel nodded, staring at her intently.

  Ginger sighed, thinking about her father. Step into the light. What if it hurts? “Yeah—Virginia Moon. My hair is strawberry blond, so my parents call me Ginger Moon.”

  They had reached Highway 81 and Samuel lay down, saying, “But your hair is dark.”

  “Mood hair,” she replied, accelerating.

  “What?”

  “My hair changes with my mood. Like a mood ring.” She laughed.

  “What’s a mood ring?”

  Ginger stopped laughing with a little cough. That joke didn’t translate. There must not have been mood rings back then. “It’s a little ring with something inside the glass stone that changes color with the heat of your body. Supposedly, different colors mean you’re feeling this way or that. Doesn’t really work or anything. It’s just a—thing. It was popular a while ago.”

  “You change your hair with your mood?” Samuel asked.

  Ginger shook her head. This wasn’t working. “Just a joke, Samuel.”

  “Your hair changes as a joke?”

  “No. The mood thing—that’s a joke. The hair color—the mood ring.” For the love of Pete.

  “Why do you change your hair?”

  She rolled her eyes. Could she switch subjects politely? “I don’t know. To change something. To see something new.”

  “Is that why you drive so far to work?”

  Ginger thought. “I don’t think I do those two things for the same reason.”

  “We passed a hospital on our way, Virginia. It is closer to home.”

  “I know.”

  The cab of the truck fell silent. Cars passed on the left and Ginger wondered if ever anyone would believe she had a ghost riding with her. Until this morning, Samuel could be explained away logically. Now he was her companion on her travels. Was she calling him, keeping him with her? He had said as much.

  “When my husband was alive, I was more. I was greater than I am now.”

  “You are the same person.”

  “No—not the same. I never used to question if I was pretty because he thought me so. And smart—he thought me so. It’s like I am myself and I have respect for myself, but with him I was more myself. And he was more himself with me. Now I am just myself. I was more because he thought me so.”

  Ginger switched into the left lane. A BMW had been going too slow for her. This made no sense.

  “Look—I was born a traveler. I had a wanderlust to see the world. To be of it and in it. To walk on as it rolls endlessly beneath my feet and be dusty and sore from the road. But with him, I didn’t need to go anywhere to do that. Every day was something new. Another day to figure stuff out with him. We weren’t done with anything. We weren’t even sure we were done having kids.”

  She returned to the right lane.

  “But now, here I am. No more kids. I didn’t even get a choice in that. I don’t even know who I am anymore or what I want or what I like. How can I raise children and do them any justice? This wasn’t our plan. We were together in this. We were greater. I want him back. I want to see him and tell him he is more—more than anything else in the world.”

  Ginger broke off, her voice cracking. Flipping on her blinker, she turned the endless loop off 81 and onto the road that climbed into the Blue Ridge. She wept as the truck wound through Harrisonburg and crawled up the hill. The sky was clear, the air cold. She said nothing for miles as she struggled to stop crying. She came to the spot where Jacob Esch had lain drunk in the ditch and she wiped her stinging eyes.

  “Are you still there?” she asked as her voice steadied.

  Samuel slid up into Beau’s window.

  “I called to him, Samuel. That day in the snow. And you came. An answer to my prayer.”

  “I . . . am an answer to your prayer, Virginia Moon?”

  “As sure as I’m sitting in this smelly truck.” She sniffled, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “I have never been an answer to a prayer. I have been prayed over. I must confess, I was hardly an obedient son. I perpetually spilled things I shouldn’t have touched or broke things I shouldn’t have played with or rode away to a far, distant place on a horse that was not our own. Many a time have I heard the prayer ‘Lord, give me patience with this boy’ as the switch hit my backside. Never would my father believe I would be the answer to anyone’s prayer.”

  Ginger looked up at the rearview mirror. Samuel’s face was shadowed by the light of her dashboard and he was smiling in the darkness of the empty road.

  “Well, maybe, Samuel, one day I’ll meet your father and set him straight.”

  “Will you?” He chuckled.

  “Yes.”

  “And what will you say to him?”

  “I will say that in the darkest day I have ever lived, your son came as an answer to my prayer. And I know now—I know, Samuel—my husband rode the Elysian Fields home and is watching over me. Watching over our children.”

  She put on her blinker and pulled into the hospital parking lot, which held more than ten vehicles. In her three shifts at Franklin, the parking lot had never had so many cars when she arrived. It was a busy night at the hospital. The truck crawled closer to the lights.

  “Better go now, Samuel. This is no moonshine and I would never wish you to hurt on account of me.”

  “Very well. I will be home when you return,” he said quietly, and as Ginger turned into a parking space far from the emergency room door, she gazed over her shoulder to find Samuel gone.

  Chapter 14

  Peas in a Pod

  Ginger walked into a full ER.

  There were six people seated in the waiting area. A man of indeterminate age leaned forward, holding his stomach as a woman about Ginger’s age rubbed his back. There was a young girl around fifteen years old with hives sitting with a woman who looked to be her mother. Both the girl and her mother were texting and didn’t look up. Seated very near the door was a middle-aged man staring at the TV on the far wall. Finally, Ginger spotted the young man who had come in with the two-year-old bronchitis two nights before. He coughed miserably, forcing a smile as Ginger stepped around the triage desk.

  There she found Margery T., RN, pulling a cuff from the arm of an old woman who was seated in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs with a rag held to her eye by her frail, shaking hand. The old woman grinned up at Ginger. Nurse Margery did not. Peering toward the back rooms, Ginger could see both Janet and Debbie, the acute care LVNs, buzzing around the hall.

  “Okay, Mrs. Kimber,” Nurse Margery said. “All done. Janet?”

  Janet walked briskly to triage.

  “Please take Mrs. Kimber into room two.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Janet replied and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

  “AGA,” Margery said. “Acute Gravity Attack.”

  “Ah.”

  “Her Yorkie got under her feet,” Nurse Margery added. “Her son out there brought the dog in against his will because his mother was quite agitated. She was more worried about it than herself.”

  “The dog okay?”

  “Don’t know. Looked chipper so I touched its paws and ribs and nodded to Mrs. Kimber. She seemed satisfied.” Margery stood. “The choly is next,” she said.

  Dropping her purse in the drawer, Ginger looked at the list of names on the entrance sheet. Mr. Russell, cholecystitis, an inflamed gallbladder, was next. Ginger poked her head around the wall of the triage desk.
/>   “Mr. Russell?”

  The man holding his gut lifted his bottom from the seat but could not straighten up beyond ninety degrees. As he shuffled slowly over, he was held across the back by the woman who was with him.

  “He’s in terrible pain,” she said. “It happens every time he eats pizza.”

  “Yes. Have a seat, Mr. Russell.”

  For two hours, Ginger sat at triage as Nurse Margery aided Dr. Patterson in the back. Mrs. Kimber was sent home with her son, who turned the TV off as he left. Lauren O’Brian, who had the hives, was given a shot of prednisone and released with a prescription for the same. Todd Parker had bronchitis. After receiving antibiotics, he walked out as a twenty-five-year-old expectant mother, Ruth Agee, and her husband walked in with breakthrough bleeding.

  So it went, one after another—a true full-moon night in Franklin District Community Hospital. At six thirty-two a.m., an hour after Nurse Margery finally left, Ginger stood at triage completing the discharge of Mr. Russell and his wife.

  “No more pizza,” she said.

  Mrs. Russell shook her head and as Mr. Russell signed the release Ginger heard the ER doors open. They closed as she checked to make sure there were, in Mr. Russell’s instructions, clear directions to go see the nearest GI physician. It was there in black and white, just as it had been for three months’ worth of prior ER visits. As she handed Mrs. Russell the papers, she heard breathing on the opposite side of the triage wall. It was loud and heavy and scary, as if Darth Vader had entered the emergency room. The Russells looked at Ginger with concern. She looked at them, listening intently. Finally, she smiled a half smile and then asked, “Mr. Wolfe?”

  A throaty guffaw was the only response.

  “Good night, Mr. Russell,” Ginger said as she helped the man to his feet. He no longer stood at a right angle to the floor. He could lift himself to forty-five degrees. Following the Russells around the triage desk, she found the waiting room empty except for Jack Wolfe, who stood as pale as the fluorescent lights above him.

  “Been eating chocolate bars, I reckon,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, for his breath was too labored. Instead, he smiled weakly as Ginger took him by his arm.