The Matchmaker's Medium (4 page)

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You. Us. I mean, here I am, talking to a ghost-pimp from the disco days—which, by the way, was only a few decades ago—and it’s like we’re speaking Spanish and Italian at the same time. Some stuff gets through, but a lot of it is ‘lost in translation’.”

He laughed too. It was nice to laugh with a guy, after weeks of fighting with one. Too bad this one was a ghost.
Leave it to me to hit it off with the only dead guy in the room, haha.

“I guess we got a lot to work on, if we’re ever gonna get anything done, huh?” he asked, fiddling with his shirt collar.

“Wait,
what
?”

“We have to work out our differences—”

“No, not that part, the part about
getting anything done
. What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, worried that I already sort of knew where this was going. “I don’t want to get anything ‘done’ with you.”

“Look, Amber,” he said, “I picked you for a reason. There’s some things we need to get
done
around here, and you’re the first one who can
relate
to my kind that doesn’t scare the livin’ hell out of me.”

No. No, no, no. No way. This will be a disaster.

“No!”

“Too late.”

Ugh.

Maybe I could just—

“Don’t bother.”

I looked at him, eyes widening.

“Did you just read my mind?”

“Not exactly, but it’s the same idea.”

Crap. That means the whole time we’ve been talking—

“—I knew what you were thinking. Yep.”

I sat there, frozen in fear.

“Don’t be afraid, Amber. I don’t want to do anything bad to you. Besides, it’ll be fun working with a lovely lady such as yourself, who thinks I’m a stone-cold fox with juicy lips.”

Good grief.
Being embarrassed is one thing, but
this
was starting to feel like one of those ‘at school with no clothes on’ dreams.

“Yeah, I hate those. Unless there’s nothin’ but females in the room, then I’m a little more ‘up for the occasion’ if you know what I mean.” He winked at me, made a
click
sound with the side of his mouth, and smiled really, really big.

“Stop that!”

“What?” he grinned even bigger, teeth almost glowing in the dark they were so bright. “What’d I do?”

“Get out of my
head
you big jerk!” I swung to smack him, and caught nothing but air.

He laughed hugely, slapping his leg, tears glistening in his eyes, getting a really good
hardy-har-har
going, at my expense.

Which is the exact moment the stupid waitress showed up. Staring at me like I was totally insane. To be fair, seeing me yell at—and try to smack—the
nobody
sitting across from me probably made her think I was just the
tiniest
bit of crazy.

“Uh, here’s your check, whenever you’re ready. But—no hurry, okay, just, um, take your time, ma’am.” She slid the bill towards me, very slowly, as if—at any second—I might suddenly
lunge
and devour her eyeballs in a couple of quick bites. As soon as the paper was out of her reach, she snatched her hand back and did a lightning-fast about face to book it out of there.

“Great, now the wait staff here thinks I’m totally bonkers.”

He was still laughing, trying to calm himself down.

“Sorry, sorry, little mama, I’m trying!” He wasn’t really trying.

“No, no, by all means, go ahead and make yourself
sick
laughing at me. Obviously, I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here being ridiculed by a
dead guy
.”

That did it.

He instantly stopped laughing and composed himself, glaring at me the whole time he straightened his shirt and leisure suit, smoothed his goatee, and patted his ‘fro.

“So let’s get down to business, then,” he said, totally serious, now.

“We don’t
have
any business, Mr. — ”

“Jamal. Jamal Turner; hail from right here in good ol’ D.C., southeast.”

“Oh.”
That’s not exactly Mr. Roger’s neighborhood, it’s pretty rough.

“Don’t I know it.”

Now it was my turn to glare.

“Sorry, sorry. I spend so much time listening to people’s thoughts, it’s hard to shut it off.”

“Seriously? What are you, some kind of disco-ghost-spy?”

“Nah, nothin’ that serious. Just comes with the whole ‘being dead’ thing.”

I looked at the check sitting on the table in front of me.

“I don’t suppose the dead have credit cards, do they?”

“Credit cards? Who uses those things?”

“Only every person in this century, that’s who.”

“Oh. Well, no, we don’t have that stuff on this side. No need, y’know?” That smile, again.

“How typical. Guy offers to buy me a drink, but doesn’t have any money to pay for it. Why did I expect anything different?”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse, shuffled through it again, muttering under my breath. Finally, I grabbed my credit card holder, randomly picked one, did a little ‘air math’ and smacked it down on the table next to the bill. “This should be good for an amusing minute or two over at the register.”

I signaled for the waitress, who saw me then turned her head really fast to pretend like she hadn’t.

“Okay,
Jamal
, what kind of work is it that you want ‘us’ to do together?”

“Now we’re talkin’,” he said, rubbing his hands together in pleasure. “How about we go to your place and talk about it, without all these people thinking you’re crazy for talking to no one?”

“Good idea.”

“Tell you what—you wait for the bee girl, and I’ll meet you outside.”

“Okay,” I said, looking around for the bumblebee toddler.

He gathered his things, and stood to leave. But, instead of walking to the huge front door, he walked right through a whole crowd of people—and the wall they were standing in front of—without the slightest hesitation.

“Holy crap,” I whispered, “what a
show off
.”

He poked his head back through the wall, and mouthed the words I heard in my head:
What are you, jealous?

With that, he winked, and walked back through the wall all over again.

Chapter Four

“Is it okay if I come in?” asked a muffled voice, through the inner office door.

“Yeah! Just push the door open!” I yelled, trying to be heard over the sound of the TV. Jamal was watching another one of his reality TV shows, at full volume. This time, it was
Hell’s Kitchen
, with Chef Gordon Ramsay yelling at some ‘stupid cow’ who had made the tragic mistake of handing him barely-cooked pork.

Grabbing the remote, I pushed the volume down button at least 10 times, until Chef Ramsay’s screaming was only a small roar, “Aw,
come on
, you
bleep
muppets! Do you really expect me to serve this
bleep
garbage?” The guy cussed so much, I was starting to wonder why they even bothered putting the show on regular network TV, if you missed half of it from all the bleeping.

“Hi, Amber! I’m Victoria!”

A very chunky woman came barging into the room, hips swinging back and forth in a dizzying wave, as she crossed the room with her hand out. I shook it.

“You’re welcome. Have a seat.”

She turned and looked at the two rickety, second-hand chairs next to her. Immediately dismissing them as choices, she looked over at the lopsided thrift store couch against the wall.
Bingo
. Hefting her jiggling body on short legs that looked like they might collapse at any second, she huffed and puffed and finally dumped her colossal self onto the threadbare fabric with a resounding
thud!
I watched her for a few seconds, mostly to make sure the couch didn’t cave in, then sat back down.

“What can I do for you, Victoria?”

She was messing with an inhaler. Shake-shake, cap off, into her mouth, push it down, and
swish
. Inhale quickly, hold he breath for a few seconds. She held up a pudgy, sausage-fat index finger, waiting. At least a hundred hours went ticking by, as we both sat there doing and saying nothing, Chef Ramsay’s yell-bleeping in the background.

A huge
hooooo
as she let the air back out.

“Sorry ‘bout that, doggone az-mer makes me crazy.”

Az-mer. Nice,
I thought.
Just one more thing to add to the list of “Carolin-isms” I need to learn.

“My grandmamma came to me again last night, just like I thought she would.”

“Yeah? What did she have to say?”

“Nothin’. It’s the darndest thing. Even when I was younger, she never said a word. Always usin’ her hands and mouthin’ words, trying to get me to do this or do that. I could hardly figure it out.”

Being quite familiar with the fact most ghosts don’t make any noise, I could empathize.

“Well, what did it
seem
like she was trying to tell you?”

“Y’know, I’m not sure this time. She made her hands like she was drivin’ a steering wheel, and then a big
crash
thing, so I think she was talking about the car accident. But, besides that, I couldn’t make head nor tails of what she wanted me to do.”

“Maybe it would help if you tell me the whole story of the car accident. That’s when she started coming to you every night, right? After the accident?”

“Yep.”

“Well, let’s start there, okay?”

“All right, well, I guess the best thing to do is start from the beginning.”

“Good, I’ll just turn on my digital recorder and take a few notes while we talk.”

“Fine by me,” she said, readjusting herself and finally settling in.

I pushed start on my handheld digital recorder, grabbed a pen and flipped to a new page in my notebook.

“All right, go ahead,” I told her.

“It all started about 30 years ago, when I was just a little thing.”

Lord help me.

“I’m sorry, I meant for you to just start with the accident, Victoria.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just
say
so, then?”

I groaned internally, saw Jamal chuckling in my peripheral vision.
Jerk,
I thought, making sure to glare at him with my hateful, evil face on. He stopped laughing, smoothed his ‘fro, and tried to act serious.

“Go ahead, Victoria.”

“So, the other day I was coming out of the Food Lion, I had just done my shopping for Mother’s Day. I got some ribs, some barbecue sauce, some ‘taters for the ‘tater salad, a big jug of sweet tea—”

“Got all your food for a Mother’s Day cookout, I got it.”

“Yeah. So, I have all the food in the trunk, and I’m trying to drive slow, so’s not to smash the cake or anything. I’m bein’ real careful, obeyin’ the speed signs and all, when all of a sudden, this big ol’ truck comes up outta
nowhere
and just plows right into me!”

Starting to sweat already, she pulls a small handkerchief from a secret spot just under her shirt, probably in her bra. Watching as she dabs at her forehead and upper lip, and wipes underneath her double chins, I remember I need to get back to the gym tonight.

“Which direction?

“What?”

“Which direction did the truck hit you from?”

“From the passenger side. ‘Bout scared me to
death
!” she said, starting to get herself all worked up.

“Did you stop and get out?”

“Well, I was already
stopped
, after getting’ smashed by a truck.”

“Fair enough.”

“I just pullt my car over to th’ side, and put her in park. Then I got my cellular out, and got the police on the horn. Officer James came right on over, he knows me real good, been friends since we were kids. That terrible man didn’t even have in-shurnse.”

I looked up from my notes, confused.

“What?”

“Which part, what?”

“Who didn’t have the—“

“The other driver, that terrible man. Didn’t even have the common decency to have in-shurnse on his car. Now I have to put it all through mine. Hope it doesn’t make my rates go up.”

Oh. In-sur-ance. Gotta love the south.

“Did the police—did Officer James—give you a ticket?”

“’Course not! It wasn’t
my
fault!” Victoria yelled, sitting forward on the obviously-sagging couch. I actually felt kind of sorry for the couch, now. Poor thing; never hurt anyone, just wanted me to bring it home from the thrift store.

“Who was the other driver?”

“I don’t know. Richard somethin’ or other. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Only to the in-shurnse company,
I thought. Jamal started chuckling again, in my peripheral vision. When I turned and looked, though, he quit.

“So you went home after that?”

“After the tow truck come, I had to get Officer James to carry me home with my groceries. By then, the cake wasn’t lookin’ too good, but I didn’t feel like messin’ with returning it and all that nonsense. So I got the groceries put away and right when I picked up my kitchen phone to call Ruby—she’s my best friend since kindy-garden—my grandmamma showed up. Right there, next to the old stove she used to cook at.”

Finally, we get to the point, only five hours later.
I drew a line under my other scratchings, and wrote: Grandma’s ghost in kitchen.

“So, that was about what time?”

“It was exactly 10:31 a.m. on my stove clock. I know, cause I was lookin’ right at it, when her ghost sort of blurred it out.”

I stopped taking notes and put my pen down.
Hmm. I wonder if she really
can
see ghosts?

Looking over at Jamal by the TV, I asked her, “Victoria, do you see your grandmamma in here right now?”

She sat up a little on the poor couch, looking around the room, really slowly. I watched as her eyes went to—and then past—Jamal.

“Nope,” she said, settling back into the cushions with a muffled
squeak
.

So, maybe she can see her grandmother’s spirit, but not all ghosts in general.

“Or she’s crazy as a loony bird,” Jamal offered, from his spot by the TV.

Ignoring him, I asked, “Victoria, have you ever seen any other spirits? Or just your grandmamma?”

“Lemme think,” she said, looking up to the ceiling while she tapped her chin with a forefinger. “No, I guess not. I thought I did once, but it was just a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yep. I was small, and it was just after granddaddy died, he was a mean ol’ bugger. I thought I saw him starin’ at me while I slept, but that was just a dream. Well, more like a nightmare, I guess.”

Jamal got up and walked over to Victoria, stood the side of her, leaning over to see her better. For such a tall guy to get that low was almost comical, like he was folding himself in half.

He squinted his eyes, pulled his head back a little, and lifted his nose in the air like he was
smelling
her. I watched him go through this strange ritual, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

Does he do that to me?
I wondered. He glanced over at me and shook his head:
No.

Finally, he stood up, unfolding himself back to full height. He walked over to me and whispered in my ear, “She’s got it.”

It. She’s got it. What I have. What only a few other people I’ve been around
have
. The Spirit Mark. At least, that’s what I call it. There’s no real name for it, and there’s certainly no diagnosis or cure for it. I only call it that, because those of us who have it seemed to be singled out; special, in a way. Usually, we get ‘marked’ when we’re very young, and it stays with us throughout our lives, either constantly or only popping up now and then. She seemed to have the latter. Too bad she didn’t know how lucky she really was.

“Were you scared when you had the—nightmare about your grandfather?”

“Scared?” she seemed to contemplate this for a time, chewing on her bottom lip. “I guess I was a little scared. That’s why I say it was a nightmare, instead of a dream. But he was mean in reg’lar life, too, so maybe I was just scared that he came back and would start cursin’ and yellin’ things at me again. He had the old-timer’s disease, always forgettin’ who everybody was. Most of the time, I just felt bad for him, but when he got to hollerin’, it was hard to feel anything for him but mad.”

I knew, firsthand, how bad
Alzheimer’s
could be. My own great uncle had it when I was a teenager. Even during that rebellious, you-can’t-make-me phase of my life, I was instantly brought to tears by his raging, senseless rantings. The few times I saw him, I wished with every fiber of my soul that he would die so I would only have to see him in his ‘muted’ version—motions and actions, with no sounds. I shuddered at the memory, a physical response I wasn’t expecting.

Jamal bent toward my line of vision, his head sideways, trying to make me laugh. It didn’t work.

“Okay, so…you’re in the kitchen, it’s 10:31 a.m. and your grandmother’s just standing there. Is she trying to tell—I mean, show—you anything?”