The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 9

 

Finse and Jonsey's Night of Fireflies
by Sonja van der Wijk

Day 9 – Not Ghosts

People are surprisingly confident about ghosts. Some believe they're restless souls needing pass to the other side. Others insist they're nothing more than wishful thinking from the living who miss their loved ones. Dr. Calico Verde says a ghost is a consciousness that has lost its future. Personally, I've found certainty to be one of the least useful tools in an investigator's kit. Ghosts, if they exist at all, should know they're dead.

Whatever was happening on Laurel Lane didn't fit that description.

Harold Whitcomb still worried about trimming his hedges. Ben still challenged Tommy to bicycle races. A little girl still wished for a puppy every evening before blowing out six birthday candles. None of them behaved like people trapped between worlds. They behaved like people who still belonged to one. Just not this one.

Saturday morning, I arranged my notes on a whiteboard like cops do on detective shows. Cliché, I know, but some cases demanded more real estate than office furniture could reasonably provide.

On one sheet I wrote Ghosts. On another I wrote Memories. Then I began sorting.

Ghosts communicate. Harold asked for the date. Ben introduced himself. The birthday party ignored me completely.

Ghosts possess continuity. Harold seemed capable of conversation. The arguing couple repeated the same disagreement every evening. The trumpet player never finished his song.

Ghosts react. Some did. Some didn't.

The pattern wasn't random. It was layered. As though Laurel Lane wasn't haunted by people.

It was haunted by significance.

I drove to Dr. Verde's office just after lunch, bringing two cups of coffee with me. She was reorganizing her books. Again.

"I thought they were alphabetical," I said, setting her coffee on the desk.

"They were. Now, they're chronological."

"By publication date?"

She looked genuinely horrified. "By emotional usefulness."

I decided not to ask.

I spread my notes out on her coffee table. She sat across from me and listened while I laid out my theory, licking her lithe lips after each sip of coffee. Only Dr. Calico Verde could make contemplation sexy.

"I don't think they're ghosts. I think they're moments."

Calico leaned back.

"Go on."

"Harold isn't haunting his house." I pointed to my notes. "The moment he's preserving isn't mowing the lawn."

"What is it?"

"Coming home." I could feel my voice raising "The birthday party isn't about turning six. It's about being loved. Ben’s bicycle race, friendship."

"What about the argument in the garage?" She set her cup down and tapped that particular note card.

I thought about it. "The instant before two lives permanently changed."

Calico smiled. "You're getting warmer."

She walked to one of the bookshelves and removed a heavy volume bound in dark green cloth. The title had long since faded. She opened it to a page marked with a pressed maple leaf.

"'Emotion,'" she read, "'is the solvent that allows memory to soak into places.'"

"Who wrote that?" I tried to hide the fact that I thought the sentiment sounded hokey. After all, it could one of her colleagues. Or, worse, her.

"No one important,” she said.

"You own books by no one important?"

"Some of my favorite authors have remained blissfully anonymous." She closed the book and turned to me. "Think about your own childhood home."

"I'd rather not."

"Humor me."

I sighed. "I remember the hallway."

"The wallpaper?"

"No. The smell after my mother baked bread."

“Exactly," she said with a warm smile that could convince to do her bidding.

I nodded slowly. "Emotion preserves memory."

"It does more than preserve it." She tapped the book against her palm. "It anchors it."

That evening I returned to Laurel Lane with an experiment in mind. The birthday party. For three nights it had unfolded exactly the same way. The little girl laughed. Everyone sang. She made her wish and blew out the candles.

If these were merely recordings, nothing I did should matter.

The fireflies emerged, accompanied by the usual softening of the neighborhood. The folding table appeared beneath the backyard lights. Children laughed. Paper plates changed hands. Someone carried out the cake. The little girl closed her eyes. Everyone leaned forward to sing. I stepped through the open gate without anyone noticing. The birthday candles flickered as I inched toward the edge of the yard. The girl took a deep breath. Then I spoke.

"Happy birthday." Quietly. Not loud enough to interrupt. The singing faltered—shifted, like a record skipping half a beat. The little girl opened her eyes and looked directly at me.

For one impossible second, confusion crossed her face. She glanced toward the adults. None of them reacted. She looked back at me.

"You forgot your hat," she said.

I instinctively reached for my head. She was right. I left it on Calico Verde’s coffee table.

The girl returned to her cake and blew out the candles. Streetlights flickered. The yard dissolved into empty grass.

My heart pounded inside my chest as I stood alone beneath the fading twilight trying to understand what had just happened. The little girl hadn't repeated something.

She'd responded but we didn’t interact. Not really. It was as though the memory had bent just enough to accommodate my presence.

A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Behind me, someone laughed. Farther down the block, Harold Whitcomb was probably still wondering what day it was. Nothing on Laurel Lane was replaying itself exactly. It only looked that way until someone touched it. Then I noticed something about the birthday cake. Every night before, it had been white.

Tonight the frosting had been blue. I would have sworn to it. Each night prior, the replay of Emily's sixth birthday featured a white cake.

I drove straight to Eleanor Whitcomb's house. She answered before I reached the porch.

"You saw it,” she said.

"I think I changed something."

She studied my face for a long moment.

Then quietly asked, "What if it changed you?"

I had no answer.

Because somewhere inside Laurel Lane, a memory had remembered me differently.

*****

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!