Page 3 of A Spell of Midlife Mayhem

I bit back a retort. As usual, he’d come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t get off the sofa and go himself. Instead, he expected me to go. Me, who’d worked all day and still recovering from a major operation that had removed some of my feminine parts.

‘It’ll take you five minutes,’ Terry added, switching on the television. The Chase filled the screen.

‘All right,’ I grumbled, too exhausted to argue with him.

He gave a smug grin. ‘It’s so nice of you, love.’

So nice. That was me. Too damned nice.

I went back out into the cold and returned home with the fish ’n’ chips twenty minutes later. Rain pelted down, drenching the paper wrapping when I scurried from the car to the house. The changeable weather in Christchurch makes the forecasters appear to be geniuses whenever they get it right.

I plonked the hot paper-wrapped bundle of greasy food on the table.

Terry started unwrapping it. ‘Bring the tomato sauce, will you?’

I shuffled into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, wiping my forehead. Water from rain and sweat dripped off me. My legs wobbled. The fridge was too far away.

I’ll be fine in a few weeks. I’ll have my energy back. Then things will change around here.

My vision blurred. I blinked several times to bring everything back into focus.

It didn’t work. On the other side of the kitchen, the door to the back yard fogged up. It swirled. Or it may have been me having another dizzy spell. Ever since my op, they’d been coming and going like the tides on fast forward.

The inside fogginess coalesced into a vague cylindrical shape, like a fuzzy cloud the height of a person. The mistiness dissipated, and an apparition emerged.

I gasped. ‘Mother!’

There was no doubt it was her, the perfect image of her appearance before her sudden death a year ago. Diminutive. Fine white hair. Fit and well. Except, in real life, she hadn’t been well at all. Her body been concocting a lethal heart attack.

Now I allowed myself to slide to the floor, my back against the wall. A chill ran down my spine and into both of my arms. My fingers tingled with static electricity from the shock of my dead mother, or more accurately her ghost, standing before me.

Was I seeing things? Was this part of the post-op brain fog?

I blinked several times, rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, and looked again.

Nope. The apparition was still there. Was it truly the ghost of my mother?

Unless I’d gone crazy from exhaustion, it was the only logical explanation.

Her mouth opened in a round shape as if she were about to speak, but no sound came forth.

Could ghosts speak? What a question. A minute ago, the idea that ghosts existed seemed preposterous. Now the ghost of my mother was visiting, ready to chatter on like old times.

‘Mother, what is it?’ I croaked. In real life, she’d talked incessantly. Why was she so quiet in ghostly form? I took the initiative. ‘Why are you here?’

She gestured, the loose sleeves of her wispy top wafting as if in a soft breeze, then shook her head, frowning.

‘Um... do you have a message for me?’ Isn’t that what you’re supposed to ask a spirit? Did she know what was going on in my life? Could she even hear me?

My ghostly mother nodded. She tried to speak again, but once more no words came forth.

‘Mime it.’ From the floor, I mimed the action of miming so she would get the idea. It was ridiculous, but she seemed to hear and understand me, no problem. Yet she couldn’t speak herself.

The ghost pointed at me, and my heart almost stopped.

‘Are... are you here to tell me I’m about to die?’ I choked out the words.

She shook her head, and I exhaled with relief. She spread her arms wide and glanced up.

---