Test-drive chapter 1 of "Peace Lilies"

Dear friends — Here’s chapter one of my sweet little ghostly tale, Peace Lilies.

The novella started out as a short story a lot like this chapter. But once I got started with these characters I couldn’t let them go. If you feel the same, please click this link and buy the complete novella from your favorite online store. Or, ask your local bookstore or library to carry Peace Lilies: a Sweet Ghostly Novella.

Happy reading!

Chapter One

Birdie Ebersole came through her front door and stumbled against something bulky in the entryway. She tripped and sprawled onto the living room carpet narrowly avoiding a header with her husband’s old recliner. 

“Ow! What the hell was that?” 

Martin, Birdie’s husband, abandoned the roller suitcases he dragged behind him and bent to help his wife to her feet. 

“Turn the light on, will you?” Birdie directed. “The timer must be screwed up again.” 

She dusted off her purple travel pants and matching jacket, adjusting the sleeves which she wore pushed up almost to her elbows. She was amazed that her body was uninjured, and looked back toward the entryway. “Peace lilies? I hate those damn things. Now I have two of them? Who the hell brought these?” 

“I don’t know, Birdie,” Martin said. 

“If they’re supposed to be a welcome-home present, they can take them back where they got them.” 

Birdie gazed around at the rest of the house. “I see that son of yours did his usual stellar job of looking after the place while we were gone. Two weeks! It looks like it’s been vacant for a month. Look at the pile of junk on the dining room table!” 

Martin ignored the table and wandered absently into the living room. He sat in his recliner relaxing back until the chair swallowed him up. “He’s your son too, Birdie,” his voice sounded from the depths of the upholstery. 

Birdie mumbled as she sorted the mail on the table into piles. “Junk, junk, magazine, junk. Good grief, they’re out early with this fall edition!” She flipped through the magazine glancing at the pictures, and then tossed it aside and looked around the living room. 

Her eyes lit on a pair of marble ginger jars on the mantel above the fireplace. “Those are new.” She started toward them for a closer look when a key scraped in the front door lock. 

Sam walked into the entryway and froze. His eyes locked on Birdie’s, and his jaw dropped nearly to his chest. 

“What the hell are you staring at?” 

“Ma … Ma … Mom?” Sam stuttered, barely breathing. 

“No, Taylor Swift. Of course Mom! We’re home. I told you we’d be home today. Didn’t you notice the suitcases?” She pointed vaguely into the entryway. 

Sam looked at the empty space. His mouth worked up and down, but no sound came out. 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, your father must have rolled them into the bedroom. Martin!” she called. 

“I’m right here Birdie.” His voice echoed from deep in the recliner. 

“And what are those plants doing in my entryway?” She pointed to the two humongous peace lilies. 

Sam stared at her. 

“Was that a hard question? You should know something about them, since you’ve supposedly been looking after the house.” 

Sam swallowed. “I was going to put them out with the trash Friday.” 

“Why wait! Drag those puppies out to the curb.” 

“I – I didn’t want the neighbors to see.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“Because they gave them to us. You. Us.” He swallowed again. 

It was Birdie’s turn to stare. “You really shouldn’t drink in the middle of the week.” 

She looked him up and down. Sam was a fit young man, of medium height and build. He had been a competitive swimmer in college, and his body still bore the hallmarks. He had his father’s dark brown hair, and the same kind eyes. 

“I notice you got a haircut. I told you it would look nice shorter. See? You should listen to me once in a while.” Birdie seemed to remember something. “Did you interview for that job? I had it all set up for you.” 

“I didn’t get that job, Ma. I’m still at the food bank.” 

“Oh, Samuel.” She crossed her arms over her chest and clicked her tongue. “All that education, and can the boy get a real job? Is it so much to ask?” 

“Ma, if you understood how many people we help.” Sam’s voice rose. “It’s over ten percent of the population! Twenty counties!” His voice tapered off. “And you’re not listening.” 

She shook her head and turned toward the living room again. “So what’s with the big ginger jars? Is that a gift from the neighbors too? I never thought about ginger jars on the mantle, but they look pretty good. I bet those things weigh a ton.” She walked closer to get a better look. 

Sam took a step into the living room and shouted, “Ma!” 

Birdie jumped with a shriek. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“They – they’re not ginger jars. They’re urns.” He stared at her with wide, soulful eyes. 

She blinked back at him, then continued toward the fireplace. “Jars, urns, who the hell cares?” 

She tilted her head back to look through the bottom of her bifocals, and leaned in closer to read a brass label on the jar on the right. “Martin E. Ebersole. What is this, like a trophy or something?” She mumbled as she continued reading, and then stopped. 

“Oh, no. Martin?” Birdie began to shake. 

“I’m right here Birdie.” His voice echoed again from the recliner. 

Sam stared at the carpet, his arms hanging at his sides. Birdie moved stiffly to the other urn and tilted her head back to read the label. “Brenda J. Ebersole … Is this some kind of joke or something? Because it’s not funny! Who would do something like this? With dates and everything. Is this a Halloween prank or something?” 

“I wish it were a joke,” Sam said to the carpet. 

Birdie’s voice quavered. “Oh, I have to sit down.” She stumbled to the dining room table and dropped into one of the chairs, shoving junk mail out of her way. “Come and sit with your mother and tell me how this happened. Are you dead too? Is that why you got a haircut? Did the undertaker do that to you?” 

“No, Ma, I got a haircut for the funeral. It’s been three weeks ago now. It’s growing out, but … I did it for you.” 

He fiddled nervously with a stack of flyers on the table, and took a deep breath. “If you want to know, the bus you and Dad were on went into the river when the Midway Bridge collapsed.” 

“I always said that bridge wasn’t safe,” Martin said from his recliner. 

“Someone shot a video from the east bank as it happened.” Sam shuddered. “I’ve watched it a million times. It was all in the news. Everyone onboard was swept away and drowned.” A tear slid down his face. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. 

“Drowned.” Birdie looked past him, gazing out the window. Splashes of vivid blue shone between the branches of the trees, but fall was coming on fast and the leaves had started turning amber and crimson. The wind tugged some of them free, and they twirled to the ground. 

“I don’t remember.” Birdie paused. “I remember the trip was good. Your father and I, we had a nice time, a lot of laughs. And those bus seats were comfortable! I must have been asleep.” 

She reached out and patted her son’s hand. “And you’re not dead, so there’s still hope. There are other jobs. I’m sure if I talk to your uncle …” 

“Ma! Don’t talk to anybody about jobs for me, okay? For one thing, you’re dead! You’ll give someone a heart attack. And for another thing, I’m happy where I am. I’m paying my bills; it’s all good. You don’t have to worry about me. Don’t you start with the tears! I’ve had enough of tears lately.” He picked up a flyer and twisted it in his hands. 

Birdie sniffed and cast a resentful glance at Sam. “How can a mother stop worrying about her only son? How? I only want to see you settled.” 

“I’m settled! I have a nice apartment, a pickup truck, friends.” 

“Pfft! Such friends!” 

“And we’re doing important work at the food bank.” 

“Food bank! You should be at a real bank, with your education. Then maybe you’d earn enough to pay off those college loans. Have you thought about that Mr. Smarty-Pants? Do you have that figured out?” 

Sam stared at his hands as he twisted the flyer into a tight tube. 

“Let me see that.” Birdie snatched the paper and read it, then looked at the stack of identical flyers on the table. She raised her hands with a cry of disbelief. “You’re selling my house!” 

“What did you expect me to do with it? Turn it into a museum and sell tickets?” 

“This is a beautiful house! It’s a wonderful neighborhood. You used to love it here. It’s a great place to raise kids.” 

“I don’t have kids,” Sam reminded her. 

Birdie narrowed her eyes at him. “I wonder how long I can haunt you.” 

And please leave a rating or review wherever you share information about books! xoxo