Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,23

our own. After seventeen years of being blind to it all, why am I suddenly conscious of the bleed-through?

I catch sight of another ghost just as I’m leaving for work the next morning.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen the woman in the white dress in my dreams, and having never gotten a good look at her face, I’m not immediately certain it’s her. She stands on the second-floor landing, gazing down at me with sadness in her eyes. She looks familiar, like a distant relation of mine. Though how far back, I’m not sure.

I apologize to Keema for running late. She tells me not to worry about it. I tie my apron on and gather the supplies I’ll need for the first round of tastings into my wooden basket, then head out to the garden patio where I’ll be assisting the sommelier.

I’m in the process of laying out Red Cliff napkins and coasters when I hear her singing.

My breath catches. I stop and listen to my mother’s favorite song of all time. “Landslide,” by Fleetwood Mac. She sang it to me when I was little, and continued singing it as I got older, whenever I was sad or sick or heartbroken.

Slowly, I turn from the table toward the garden path.

My mother sits on the stone lip of a raised bed, looking healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her hair is loose and wild, and there’s color in her cheeks. She spins a hibiscus flower between her fingers, singing to it like she used to sing to me.

I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle a sob.

Will wasn’t lying. She really is here.

I’m dying to run to her, to throw my arms around her, but I don’t want to startle or cause her to disappear. She might not know who I am. Please, God, let her remember me...

Cautiously, I make my way over to her.

“Mom?” I say softly.

She glances up. For a second, I’m afraid she doesn’t recognize me, and my heart cracks like ice over a pond. Then she smiles.

“Hi, baby.” She has a dreamy glint in her eye, but she’s clearly happy to see me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m having tea with your grandmother. She should be here any minute.”

My grandmother died a long time ago, but my grandpa spoke about her with such vigor and affection that I feel like I really knew her. The thought of my mom getting to meet her own mother makes my heart ache in the best of ways.

More than anything, I wish I could throw my arms around my mother. But I don’t want to surprise her if she expects to be able to hold me, and then our hands pass straight through each other.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m feeling great, sweetheart. How are you?” She studies me for a moment. “You look strong.”

I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m about to shatter into a thousand pieces. Reminding myself to breathe, I fight to stay composed, but a few tears make it past my defenses.

“I miss you,” I say. “I feel like I’m all by myself out here.”

“Oh, baby, you’re not alone. You’ve got family all around you.”

“But they hate me, Mom. They don’t want me here.”

“I don’t mean them, honey. I mean the ones who love you.”

“Who loves me?” I take a seat on another bed close by. “I don’t understand.”

“He says you look just like her.” She gets a familiar look in her eye, like she’s trying to see through me. Apparently she can still have visions, even now. “They’re coming...”

“Who’s coming?” I wish I could take her hand. “Who’s coming, Mom?”

“They’re coming for you...” Fear contorts her features. “The man in chains. I didn’t know what he was...”

“What man? Oh, God, Mom.” It’s like her final moments all over again. Incoherent scraps of thought and memory running together like watercolors.

“They took everything from us. But you’re going to take it back. You have to be braver than I was. I couldn’t help him then, but you can help him now.”

“Who can I help?” I grip the stone lip beneath me to keep myself for reaching for her. “Mom, who’s in chains?”

“Mariah,” Keema says. She steps off the patio onto the garden path. “Is everything okay?”

When I turn to look back at my mother, her ghost is gone.

“No,” I say, breathless.

“Are you feeling all right?” Keema asks, her face drawn with concern.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?