A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,82
eyes were huge and her body trembled visibly. She peeked up at us and her gaze landed on me. “Daisy?” She looked paler than any ghost I’d ever seen.
“It’s me,” I said, unsure what to say or do to help her understand the unbelievable.
“How?” she asked. “How did you do that?” She turned her attention to Heather. “And why aren’t you surprised?”
Heather’s eyes narrowed in fury at us as she led Missy to the scarf-covered sofa. “It’s a long story that you will find difficult to believe,” she said, placing her hands on either side of Missy’s face lovingly.
“Try me,” Missy said, still shaking and glancing over at everyone who had literally popped in.
“Do you have wine?” I asked.
She nodded. “In the kitchen.”
“Would you like a glass?” Gideon inquired politely.
Again, Missy scanned the room. “Will I need it?”
“Yes,” I said with a weak smile.
“Then yes,” she replied to Gideon. “No glass needed. I’ll drink from the bottle.”
“Excellent call,” Tim said approvingly.
“I’m good like that,” Missy replied, still guarded. She turned her attention to me. “Start talking, dude.”
I nodded and sat down.
I started talking… and talking and talking. We all did.
There was a whole hell of a lot to tell.
“You look shell-shocked,” I said, impressed that her head hadn’t exploded. It had taken me a while to come to terms with the otherworld that existed under my nose. Missy had truly taken it much better than I had. It was a lot to absorb that the collective age of the Immortals in the room was a number so high it could fry a brain.
“Understatement,” Missy replied dryly. “I’d add gob-smacked, amazed, dumbfounded, astonished and freaked out. I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or if I’ve lost my damn mind.”
Tim chimed in. “You’re wide awake and your vocabulary is impressive. And your sanity is completely intact.”
“And what you’ve learned—albeit against normal protocol—is the truth,” my father said.
Missy squinted at him. “Not real sure normal should be a word in your vocabulary,” she pointed out.
“Touché,” Michael said with a small smile.
While Missy had taken in the information about all of us fairly well, I still hadn’t told her about what she was and why we were here. Quite honestly, I hadn’t been sure she’d believe a single word of what she’d been told, but, at least, she hadn’t passed out or tried to leave.
There was that…
Missy took another swig off the bottle of red and shook her head. “Scarily enough, some of your stories sound familiar,” she said, offering me the bottle.
I happily took a sip. “Not following.”
“Remember when I told you about my great-granny?”
My body tingled and I almost choked on the wine. I’d met her great-granny in a roundabout way a little over an hour ago. “I remember. Why?”
Missy sat back and let her head fall back on the couch. She sighed and then got lost in thought.
No one said a word. I think they were as surprised and relieved as I was that Missy wasn’t on the floor in a fetal position and babbling.
Missy sat back up and slowly and deliberately made eye contact with each and every person in her home. “My great-granny told me these stories—or at least versions of them. I thought she made them up. I loved the tales—begged her to repeat them to me all the time.” She shook her head sadly and looked down at the floor. “It was when she was telling me the story of the Death Counselor for the hundredth time that my parents walked in on us and caught her. They sent her away the next day to a home, and I never saw her again. They said she was crazy and had the Devil inside her—told me if I wasn’t careful, I’d have the Devil inside me, too.”
“They were sick people,” Heather said, taking Missy’s hand in hers.
Missy leaned into Heather and rested her head on her shoulder. “True. I always thought it was my fault they sent her away. I still blame myself for it.”
“Can I share something with you?” Michael asked Missy.
“Will it freak me out any more than I already am?” she shot back.
Michael smiled. “No. I don’t think it will.”
“Then have at it,” Missy said with a small laugh. “Wait, what do you call him, Daisy?”
I grinned. “At first it was Darth Vader, then John Travolta and now Dad,” I said. “You can call him Clarence or Michael if you’re more comfortable with that.”
“I’m going to go with John Travolta,” Missy announced. “It fits.”