“Can your ghost—Ben, sorry—play spades?” Mom asked.
“I haven’t in a while,” Ben mused delightfully.
I nodded. “Yeah, he can.”
“Good! Because you’re terrible, sorry, sweetheart. He can help you—but no more cheating, are we clear?”
“Crystal, Mrs. Day,” Ben replied.
“He said”—and I adopted my best Ben impression—“？‘Crystal, Mrs. Day.’？”
“I do not sound like that.”
“You definitely do,” I replied.
Mom laughed. “Tell him to call me Bella. I hate Mrs. Day. Nicki, dear, it’s your turn.”
And that was that. Ben came back around to stand behind me and point at cards, muttering about the probability of my family members having certain hands, and which were safest to play. I always threw down cards as a chaos agent, but he was meticulous and strategic, much like how he kept his office. Sometimes when he leaned over me to point at a card, muttering low and quickly, a shiver would crawl down my spine because I loved the way he talked softly, pinpoints on the edges of his words— Loved.
Oh.
A few rounds later, we all decided to call it a game. Carver had won, which was no surprise to any of us, and Nicki politely thanked “the ghost” for playing. They left the kitchen, laughing about how I was still saddled with the dishes despite having ghostly help. I could hear them in the living room, talking loudly about the visitors from the wake.
As I pulled in all the cards and shoved them back into their box with the jokers, Mom said to me as she cleaned off the table, “He was always torn, you know, about the gift you shared. He wished you could’ve chosen instead of being burdened with something you didn’t want.”
That surprised me. “I never thought about it that way. I always thought . . . it would’ve been put to better use with someone like Alice or Carver. They’re so much better than I am.”
“I think you all would have had hills to climb. Alice is hotheaded and Carver is fickle. You give too much of your heart. Like your father.” She put the dishes in the sink and turned on the water, waiting for it to warm.
One of my biggest flaws. “What do you think’s in the letter that I have to read?”
Mom gave a think. “I’m not sure, actually.”
“You’ve gotta have some idea.”
“I do,” she agreed, “but I’m not sure. Though whatever it is, he wanted you to read it.”
“But why? Alice and Carver are much better at speaking in front of people!”
“Because he probably felt like you needed to the most,” Mom replied, and squeezed Dawn soap over the plates in the sink. “Honestly, you think I understood everything that went on in that man’s head? Of course not. He always surprised me. I think he will again. Are you helping this ghost friend of yours?” she added, changing the subject.
“She’s doing a wonderful job,” Ben commented.
“I’m trying to,” I replied, deciding not to dog her about the letter anymore. “He’s leaning beside you. Against the counter. To your right—I mean left.”
Mom turned to her left and said, “You’re welcome here anytime, Ben.”
“It would be a treat,” Ben remarked, and I bit in a smile because I wondered what Mom would really think of him, so tall his head almost brushed against the top of the doorframe, his dark hair floppy and his eyes bright.
“He says thank you,” I translated.
“Good. Now—”