CHAPTER THREE
Just like the baby growing inside me, I too began to grow in ways I couldn’t imagine. Once my life began AB – After Barry – I began to realize that maybe I had settled in life. At first, I felt like someone had just pushed the handle and was happily flushing me down the drain. Instead of feeling pregna
nt, I felt fat and undesirable.
Barry had constantly pointed out to me that I didn’t dress right. I didn’t have that casual chic look that would be so needed in his future life. He wanted that look of natural beauty that only money could buy. I felt uncomfortable out on business dinners with Barry, his partner and various clients. If he felt I had made some sort of social blunder, you could bet he would certainly rerun the whole conversation from the evening when we returned home. My hair is chestnut brown and to my shoulders now, but back then at his request, I had dyed my hair blonde. He thought blonde women were sexier, somehow. The world is full of blonde women who aren’t, and I joined them for a short while. Nothing I did, nothing I said, nothing at all seemed to be up to his standards. When the prenatal test predicted we might not have a picture-perfect baby on the way, it was just too much for him. I had fallen short. I was not worthy. He had at first been worried the baby wouldn’t be a boy, so the idea of a disabilit
y was earth-shattering for him.
After my husband left, I found out he hadn’t been too adept at facing the truth in other ways, as well. He had sweetly left me a shoebox full of bills hidden on the top shelf of his closet. We were young, and I was dumb, thinking that four lousy commission checks paid enough salary to support us with a home and fairly new car, which he took with him. He was kind enough to leave me with his old clunker, a Chevy station wagon. Not only were we behind on the bills for the prenatal care at the doctor’s office, but he had also made some terrible investments at the advice of his partner, Canfield. Our finances were a ticking time bomb, which exploded the day after he left. The bank started calling me about repossessing the car. The mortgage company wanted to know where my payment was for the last three months. I was deep in debt, and all I had was a lousy job at the movie theater to pay it all off. Barry was not even close to the man I thought he was
.
When Zach arrived, I faced raising him as a single parent. I had not planned to share too much about Barry with Zach. It just seemed cruel, and the kids at school probably took care of that for me. Nevertheless, he grew up harboring some fantasy that his dad was lost or hurt but would show up as a hero, just like the last pag
e of a superhero graphic novel.
A month after Barry’s exit, I attended Lamaze classes with my Aunt Maggie instead of my husband. It was then I began to feel stirrings. It wasn’t the baby causing all of this ruckus, although he did pitch in a healthy, happy kick now and again. My stirrings were anger. I went home and grabbed those golf clubs out of the front hall closet where they had waited patiently since that eventful night. I lifted the heavy fake leather bag and almost fell back with the counter weight of the baby I was carrying. I lugged the bag and clubs out to the trash can. He would have screamed if he had seen me. He would have been sure to tell me just how much those stupid iron sticks cost him. I figured they had cost me a whole lot more. Maybe I didn’t want to work in a theater taking tickets for the rest of my life, so I could pay off the lifestyle he thought he should have. Maybe I wanted to pursue something that was not in his plans. I wanted to pursue something of my own. I had to find a way
to support myself and my child.
I was now going to be a single parent, and working at the theater was not going to cut it. I wanted to take control of the chaos I found myself in and needed to
come up with my own life plan.
In college, I majored in English. I could easily be a teacher if I went back for my teaching certificate. The idea of teaching had never appealed to me. I liked to write, but I didn’t picture myself a novelist, and I wouldn’t be putting out any bodice-rippers with my experiences in that area. So there I was with a degree I didn’t know how to use and a pile of bills in so great a number that I could
repaper the kitchen with them.
One thing about me that seemed useless at the time was my collection. I didn’t collect dolls or antiques. I didn’t collect first editions or Depression glass. I collected advice. Need to get that nasty ring out of your tub? Need to get lipstick out of your collar? I knew how. It was all in my collection. I had categorized and alphabetized it by the time I was twelve and had added to it steadily, year after year. It probably had to do with my not having a mother around. I was a kid trying to have a normal home, even though my dad was a full-time policeman. I started with an old notebook, where I had painstakingly written down hundreds of household hints in my childhood handwriting. I picked them up from everywhere. I found them in old cookbooks, I heard them from people I knew, and I read all of the hints columns in the newspaper. Eventually I start
ed recording them on my laptop.
As I sat one night, trying not to answer the phone because I was sure it was one of the many bill collectors with my number, I had an epiphany. What if I turned those household hints into a blog? What if I made my extensive database of knowledge an ongoing source of inspiration for others? I created my blog that night and waited for the hits. Thinking of other ways to make money with my collection, I approached the town paper, The Pecan Bayou Gazette, and they agreed to pay me a small amount for a weekly column. They also wanted to include my blog on their website.
I walked out of that newspaper office and gave my waiting Aunt Maggie a hug. I had wanted to go to my interview alone, but I was due any day, and she hovered over me constantly.
“Well Betsy, sunshine or shadows?” Aunt Maggie said. This was a little game we had played since I was a child.
“Sunshine, Aunt Maggie!” She reached out to hug me, and just as I embraced her, I felt a sharp pang in my side. Zachary had decided this would be a fine a day to enter the world. Fourteen hours later, Dr. Mac delivered him. From that da
y on, things got better for me.
Eventually my blog and column following increased, and I found myself making a small income from it. The day a local book publisher called me and asked if I would compile some of my work, I knew we would be okay. I quit the theater the day I received my first book advance. I lined up all my bills in a notebook and created a payment schedule. I paid off one bill and then put that m
oney on the balance of another.
The best part about my job as a columnist – by now known as “The Happy Hinter” – was that I was able to do most of my work from my house. Maybe it was just easier to hide out in my house. And, well, there was always the outside chance Barry would return. I would hate to miss him. I now had everything I had before in my life, except a pile of debt and a hyper-critical husband. Yes, sometimes it was a little lonely, but the peace of knowing it was all behind me was immeasurable. I found the idea of dating extremely frightening. I had so misjudged Barry, and I wasn’t sure if I knew how to recognize an honest, responsible, kind man. My father was a man like that. They just didn’t seem to make them like that in my generation. So here I was, seven years later, The Happy Hinter, popular blogger, columnist and author. No one needed to know the happy part hadn’t al
ways applied to my actual life.
*****
Today I was driving to Benny’s Barbecue, a lovely little restaurant about a block off Main Street. Benny was Zach’s Scout leader and the owner of the barbecue. Benny had read my weekly column in the Pecan Bayou Gazette and asked me to do what he called an “efficiency evaluation” of his business. I hadn’t ever thought about doing this kind of thing, but I was more than willing to give it a try. I had done some research and had a few ideas to present to him. Frankly, for all of the time he had spent being a fill-in Scout dad with my son, if he had asked for a kidney, I probably woul
d have told him to pick a side.
As I pulled into a slanted parking space in front of the barbecue, I watched Benny, who was standing on a ladder and hanging a skeleton in the window with a sign that said, “Yum! I need some BBQ!” He had a smiling pig painted on the door, and bright pots of flowers hung on the front porch of the building. There were also a couple of rocking chairs tourists would sit in during wildflower season, but now they were empty. Anyone wanting to sit
outside in this heat was crazy.
I rolled mentally through the suggestions I had for him. I had planned to suggest that Benny switch from plastic cups to glass, which would not only save on the environment but in the pocketbook. He could also soak the dishes first in tubs of water to save on hot water costs. I decided to tackle the menu as well to see if Benny could add some side dishes to several meals in o
rder to cut down on food waste.
The bell on the door jangled when I entered, and I smelled the oh-so-pleasant aroma of meat simmering in barbecue sauc
e. Who could resist this place?
“Hi, Betsy,” Benny said as he wobbled down the ladder. “I really appreciate your coming in this morning.” Benny’s restaurant was one of the busiest in town. He juggled running his business with taking care of his wife with a baby on the way, as well as two rambunctious boys. His family was also pretty active in the Afri
can Methodist Episcopal Church.
“Thanks for giving me the chance to return the favor for all you do for Zach.” I took out a clipboard and pen and began to walk around the restaurant. There was plenty of sun streaming in through the side windows, and I made a note that energy could be saved by rolling down the blinds in the afternoon. Looking around, I spied a framed picture near the register. Benny was standing with another man who looked vaguely familiar. They were cutting a red ribbon in front of Benny’s restaurant. Wh
ere had I seen that guy before?
“Is that the day you opened up?
”
Benny was returning to the room after putting away the ladder. “Well, sort of. It’s the day we reopened after some financing. Seems like a lo
ng time ago now.” He faded off.
As we toured the restaurant, I wrote down a few more ideas. His wife, Celia, came out from the back dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt with a spotless white apron protecting her clothing. She was holding her back as women who were nine months pregnant were prone to do. She looked tired as she wiped down the already impeccably clean
tables.
“Hey, Betsy.” She looked pleased to see me, and then her gaze drifted to her husband. “Lunch crowd
’s due soon,” she reminded him.
“Yes. Well, before we get to working here, don’t forget to have Zach at the campout around noon on Halloween. Has he found
a camper-friendly costume yet?”
“Uh, we’re working on it.”
“Okay. Just no scary-killer-in-the-
woods kind of thing,” he added.
“When’s the baby due, Celia?”
She stood up from the table she was wiping and stretched. “Soon, I hope. Doctor Green says two more weeks. The way I feel today, it’s
going to be a long two weeks.”
“You can say that again.” It was out of Benny’s mouth before he could take it back. That was then the rag Celia was ho
lding slapped flat on his head.
“You better watch out. I just may have it sooner if only to get you to be quiet,” she said. “Look at me, Betsy. I feel like an elephant. Everything on me has swollen up this time, even my fingers.” She held up her hands, showing a line where her wedding ring probably rested up until about a month a
go. She had even outgrown that.
Benny grabbed her by the waist, “I love you no matter what state you’re in.” Then he gave her a quick but tender kiss. It was embarrassing to be standing there seeing two people so obviously in love, and yet it was wonderful. Pregnancy sure was different for them tha
n it had been for me and Barry.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Watch out, Betsy, some of these old floorboards may be treacherous.” I followed Aunt Maggie through the rooms full of cracked plaster, floor debris and the ever-present graffiti sprayed on the walls of th
e former tuberculosis hospital.
Aunt Maggie was a tiny woman at four-foot-eight, and the world often towered above her. Her height was the only part of her that was small. She had the strongest will
and the biggest heart in Texas.
“This is going to be great when we film here on Halloween, the scariest night of the year. I’m so glad you decided to help us out and took a few hours away from your tip-writin’ column. The Pecan Bayou Texas Paranormal Society thanks you, and if we find a ghost – boy howdy – I th
ank you.”
“Well, I can spa
re a few hours here and there.”
“So, wh
at are you writin’ about now? “
“Um, I’m working on my pre-Thanksgiving columns. Hey, I have a question for you. What would you say is the best way to get
red wine out of a tablecloth?”
“You know, Aunt Ida had
an unusual way of doing that.”
“You mean the one that used to bring the chocolate pecan pie when she came to Thanksgiving?” I had not seen Great Aunt Ida much since she moved to the
retirement center near Austin.
“That’s the one. She used to put her tablecloth over a bowl with the wine stain in the middle of it. Then she would pour salt on the stain, and then pour boiling water over into the bowl. Darnedest thing. T
ook it right out.” Maggie said.
For our other-worldly walk-through today, Aunt Maggie dressed for the occasion with a black cap on her head adorned with glow-in-the-dark letters that
read “Paranormal Investigator.”
“You like it?” she asked, noticing my gaze. “I ordered one for everyone on the crew and a few extras. I thought we ought to look official, bein’ on TV and all.” My aunt’s honey-colored bouffant hairdo was all crammed up in the cap with spra
yed curls poking out in places.
“Can’t wait to wear mine.” I was not someone who looked terrific in a ball cap. At least that was what Barry had said. Funny how after all these year
s I still felt rejected by him.
Maggie crunched around on the fallen trash in the main hallway. As we came to the end of the hallway, her voice lowered slightly. “This up here was what they called the ‘dead tunnel.’ I saw it in the blueprints Howard had.” Howard was the head of Aunt Maggie’s paranormal group. Even though sometimes he looked like a person mental health officials might be interested in observing, he was extremely intelligent and had a doctorate in paranormal psychology. I didn’t even know a person could get a degree in ghost hunting, but Howa
rd had achieved this greatness.
Maggie continued her story. “It was the tunnel they used to wheel the bodies to the morgue. That way the patients wouldn’t see someone had died.” I never was one to get too frightened by horror movies, but coming into this part of the hospital certainly had me qualifying for an official case of the heebie-jeebies. The dead tunnel was windowless and grimy, and I felt as if we were walking
into a mineshaft, not a morgue.
“So here we are.” Aunt Maggie’s voice took on a softer tone as if we had just entered a funeral home. “Looks a little longer
than it did in the blueprints.”
We stepped gingerly through the open door with a sign hanging askew that read, “Hospital Personnel O
nly: No One Beyond This Point.”
Unless you’re dead, I thought. Then you are welcome
to come on in and sit a spell.
“Aunt Maggie, we can still go get Howard. He’s
roaming around somewhere here.”
“What are we? Chickens? We can do this, Betsy.” With that, she shined her red plastic heavy-duty flashlight down the tunnel. The tunnel seemed to go on and on, leading into absolute darkness. A million things could be down that hall. They could have stuffed it all with furniture or antiquated medical equipment that we would banging into at any moment, and that was my rational expectation. I wasn’t even acknowledging my irrational side. My aunt’s calling me a chicken did not quite raise my confidence and charge me up abou
t getting down the dead tunnel.
I nodded my head dully in agreement as my eyes tried to lock on
to anything solid in the dark.
“You’re making fun of me, I know, but it is true, Betsy. I sense something here. I just hope we can get this on tape when we have a thermal energy camera pointed at it.” According to Howard, a thermal energy camera would capture cold and hot spots that the human eye couldn’t see. We stepped forward, our footfalls now ech
oing against the chilled stone.
As Maggie spoke, I felt a cold breeze hit me. I clenched my bare arms as I felt goose
bumps raise up on my skin. It seemed as if we had phantom air conditioning in this part of the hospital. Down at the end of the blackness I could hear a faint, high, chirping, clicking sound. Somehow I hadn’t imagined a ghost clicking at me. Maybe there were some tap-d
ancing spirits floating around.
“It
has arrived,” Maggie whispered.
“No,” I said trying to squelch the shake that had come into my voice. “A … draft has arrived, that’s a
ll.”
“Think what you want, my dear.”
She angled the wavering beam of light into the black recesses of the tunnel. From the other end of the tunnel, I could hear a distinct rustling sou
nd as something headed our way.
“The apparition is coming near us,” M
aggie sounded delighted.
“What should we do, Aunt Maggie?” I asked, the volume of my voice rising as the rustling became an
increasing cacophony of noise.
Maggie looked down the passage and then yelled, “HOLD YOUR GROUND!” She stood with her hands placed firmly on her rounded hips as the wind started blowing her hat off, releasing the many stuffed strands of hair that had been under it. She looked like Medusa as the glow of her flashlight highlighted the snake
s of hair surrounding her face.
The rustling sound increased. A thousand little clicking noises came at us as a cloud of pulsating blackne
ss came out of the pitch black.
“This is dangerous, Aunt Maggie!” I shouted. “I’m not standing here, and neither are you!” I grabbed Maggie by the shoulders, preparing to lift her off the ground and carry
her out if that was necessary.
“It might be a spirit of the de
ad!” she warbled above the din.
“Or it might be the spirit of something alive.” I turned her around, and we ran as the flashlight beam bobbed against the walls. I could feel something pulling at my hair and reached up to grab it. When I did, I could see the wingspan of a Mexican bat as it flapped out of my grasp. We careened out the door and slammed it behind us. We could hear the thud of a few bats hitting the door and then what sounded like the wings of hundreds of bats flapping as th
ey turned back down the tunnel.
I turned around to see Maggie, leaning against the wall, holding her hat, trying to push the hair out of her face as her breath came out unevenly. “Are you all right?” I asked a
s we both panted at each other.
“Yes, a lit
tle jittery, but I’ll be fine.”
“Maggie? Betsy?” We heard a voice coming toward us from the other end of the hallway. Howard strode toward us. He was in his late 50s with straight silver hair that was a little too long. When the wind caught it, the thin strands would blow in wisps reminding me of puppets on children’s television. He walked up in a flowered Hawaiian shirt, brown co
rduroy shorts and hiking boots.
“I thought I heard a scream. Isn’t that exciting? Quite possibly we are in an area
high with paranormal activity.”
“Before you get too high on anything there, Howard, the scream you heard was of this world, not
the next.”
“You had a sighting then?”
“Not exactly,” I said, as my breathing steadied. “We were down the dead tunnel and got rushed by
probably a hundred or so bats.”
Howard walked over to the door we had just so ceremoniously slammed shut. He nodded his head in the affirmative. “Good to know. I’ll need to make sure the film crew knows about the bats when we attempt filming down the dead tunnel. We’ll be filming at night, and as you know, bats are nocturnal and will probably
be out on their evening hunt.”
I reflected again on the name of the passageway from which I had just escaped. Funny how nobody seems to mention a name like that until you get near the tunnel. After my recent experience with it, I wasn’t so sure ghost hunting was for me. This was the paranormal experience more suited for seasoned investigators who wanted the bejeezus scared out of them. It was not for someone like me, who now totally owned
up to the whole chicken thing.
“Aunt Maggie, I don’t think I can go back down that tunnel again. Is there somewhere we can check out that’s not quite s
o creepy?”
Howard glared. “Being a paranormal investigator is not for the weak of heart. I thought Maggie explained to you that we could be
crossing into worlds unknown.”
Great. First I get rushed by bats, and now a lectur
e from “Dr. Who Took My Brain.”
“You got me, Howard. When it comes to ghost
hunting, I’m just an amateur.”
“Come on, Howard. Give the kid a break. It is creepy down that dead tunnel. I think we need a bigger team than just the two of us. How’s about we go to a nice, open place like the solarium upstairs? Not so claustrophobic-feeling, and there might be some lingering spirits up there. That was probably one of the pla
ces people were happiest here.”
Yay for my Aunt Magg
ie for coming up with that one.
“You have a point,” Howard conceded. “It might have been an uplifting experience for the patients, producing a positive e
nergy dynamic for the spirits.”
With Howard’s blessing, we headed up the creaking stairs to the second level of the hospital. As we ascended, a smothering heat came upon us. I sure hoped some of these lingering s
pirits brought a fan with them.
“Hot enough for ya?” Maggie said. In Pecan Bayou, this phrase was Texan for “Hello” and could easily be exchanged at any time for “How do
you do?” or “Have a nice day.”
We came to a long open room with one side banked in windows. There were still a few rusty bed frames standing against the opposite wall. Thinking about the stifling heat, I wondered how anyone would want to be in this room in the times before air conditioning. There were plenty of windows for a cross breeze, but on a day like today, any breeze was a stranger. We shuffled along as my aunt looked up and around. I think she was expecting a full-fledged appari
tion to pop up in front of her.
“This was the sun porch,” Howard said. “They believed lots of sunshine could cure TB. Crazy today. Many people passed on in these rooms. We are thick with paranormal activity here.” He waved around a little metal device that looke
d like a phaser from Star Trek.
“What are you doing?”
I asked.
“I’m measuring the EMF readings. Paranormal beings emit electrical
signals that can be picked up.”
“Not good if you’re ghost huntin’ at the power com
pany though,” Aunt Maggie said.
Even though there was plenty of light up here, I couldn’t shake the dead tunnel out of my mind. I felt like backing up, not crunching forward following Maggie and Howard through the scattered papers, broken
plaster and shredded wallpaper.
Howard went on with what was turning out to be a walking tour of the old place. “The town built this hospital back in 1911 when tuberculosis was called ‘consumption.’ The building could house one hundred patients.”
“Did many people die?”
“If someone was diagnosed with tuberculosis, they were required to stay at a hospital for three to five years. During this time, maybe ten out of a hundred people might die, so it wasn’t necessarily
a death sentence,” Howard said.
I reached out and touched a rusty sign. “Hmm, no smoking. It’s a wonder they even had to put that up in a tuberculosis
hospital,” I said.
“In the beginning they didn’t even know smokin’ was bad for you. They probably put it up because the smoke made the s
heets stink,” Aunt Maggie said.
We looked down the hall at the doors lined up like old soldiers waiting for their assignments. It was like some kind of macabre bedroom farce movie. In my mind, I could see spirits running in and out of the unhinged doors hanging from the doorways. Aunt Maggie finge
red the tiny cross at her neck.
“When I looked at the old blueprints,” Maggie said, “I saw a room up here that would be perfect for the angle of the cameras and what light we can produce. We can run an electric cord right out
the window to the van below. “