Page 8 of Ghost in the Cupboard

No Harlan. Again.

However, it hadn’t been a total waste. There was one ghost in the corner of The Parlor, tapping her foot, her arms crossed over her chest. The thin, elderly woman with a chignon of white hair, wearing what looked like a Chanel suit, looked ready to clutch her pearls. She was staring directly at me, probably appalled that I was sitting on such a nice sofa in jeans and a t-shirt and a secondhand jacket.

“No Harlan,” I said with an exhale as I looked over at Rhonda.

She slumped slightly, her shoulders collapsing as her eyes went to her lap.

“Your mother is here again,” I said.

Rhonda’s demeanor changed immediately. She gripped her knees and her head lifted, a glower on her face. Through gritted teeth, she muttered a reply.

“I will not speak to that woman. Even in death.”

I shrugged. “Your dime.”

Looking over Rhonda’s shoulder, I made eye contact with the apparition of her mother.

“She still doesn’t to talk to you,” I said.

‘I CAN HEAR HER!’ Her mother’s ghost wailed.

Shrugging, I said, “Okay. Well, she doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say. Sorry.”

Rhonda, watching me closely, fascinated by my one-sided conversation, was sitting on the edge of the sofa.

“Maybe some other time we can—” I began.

“I will never speak to her,” Rhonda insisted from the other sofa.

The ghost in the corner looked at the back of Rhonda’s head and flipped her the bird. Then she gave me one for good measure. And she was gone. My eyes went back to Rhonda.

“She’s nice,” I said simply.

Rhonda chuckled. “I don’t want to know.”

“You know,” I said slowly, “it’s possible she’ll never, um, move on, if you don’t hear what she has to say. She might keep lingering around here until—”

“Ler her suffer.” Rhonda sniffed, going rigid. “She would have done the same to me.”

I examined my client for a moment. It had to be a difficult life, being unable to let go of the past and hurt caused by others. But I was a medium, not a therapist.

“Totally up to you,” I said.

“Can we try again?” Rhonda asked. “Just once more?”

“You have me for an hour,” I said. “I can keep calling to Harlan as long as I’m on the clock.”

Rhonda smiled. “Good!”

Regardless of Rhonda’s optimistic outlook on all things related to her husband’s spirit, the rest of the hour proved to be fruitless. Once her allotted time was up, I was once again faced with giving Rhonda the bad news. Harlan Milner, her husband who had passed away four months prior, was still a no show. His interest in speaking directly with his widow was nonexistent. Fortunately, Rhonda took the news as well as she did in every other session, and thanked me profusely for my time. Furthermore, she had allowed me to pass along a message from a long-lost cousin who decided to show up during the session, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

As Rhonda was showing me out the front door moments after the session had ended—no point in letting The Help linger—all evidence of spirit was gone from her house. One thing to know about spirits—they’re almost everywhere at all times. As a medium, I find that discovering a space where a spirit doesn’t wander through from time to time is unusual. Rhonda Milner’s house was one such space. Unless I was present, calling out to spirits, her house seemed to be a crypt. I shivered as I stepped out of the house, thinking about how quiet the place must be for a widow.

“Now,” Rhonda said, filling the doorway to speak to me as I turned to her, “I’ll see you again tomorrow?”

Seeing her small frame take up the entire entryway was an obvious message. Unless I was there on business, I wasn’t welcome. Rhonda Milner was actually, regardless of all her niceties and pleasantries, an elitist. I was a poor young man who spoke to spirits and ran a charity for the hungry.

You do not belong here unless you are being paid, Rhonda’s position in her doorway announced.