Ghostlight (15 page)

It took me a while to work up the nerve. Calling someone on the phone was something people did on TV reruns. I kept Mom's old flip phone in my pocket during the school year, but that was only so she and I could reach each other in an emergency. It didn't have a texting plan, and since I kept up with my friends online I never called anyone else on it.

I was so jittery that I ended up writing a script for the conversation, and I asked Mom to look it over.

“I'm not sure why you're so nervous about this,” she said.

“I never talk to old people except for Grandma. And talking on the phone is just…
stressful
.”

Mom's eyes got that faraway look. “My friends and I used to talk for hours on the phone after school. Daddy would get so annoyed. ‘Can't you get all that out of your system at school?' But we
never
ran out of things to talk about. And when a boy would call? Sometimes I'd be up past midnight talking on the phone, but I had to be secret about it.”

“Okay, Mom. Enough about the golden olden days.” I glanced over my script again. “I have to do this in private.”

She smiled. “Why don't you use the phone in the sewing room? That way you can close the door. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Once I'd shut the door and settled in the rolling chair, I punched in the numbers. The phone rang and rang. Just when I was about to hang up, it finally connected and a rough voice said, “Hello?”

“Um, hello. Is this Mrs. Shelton?”

“No, it isn't.”

“Could I speak with Mrs. Shelton, please?”

There was a pause. “Who is this?”

It took my last ounce of courage not to hang up. “This is Avery May Hilliard. My grandma is Ava Hilliard.”

“Miss Ava, huh? Church of Christ?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why do you need to speak with my aunt?”

I glanced at my script, which had been written as if I was talking to Mrs. Shelton, not some niece who didn't even give her name. “Well, um, I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Shelton about…what I mean is, I'm doing a project on local history, and I need to talk to some old folks.” I cringed. “Er, I need people who have been in the area for a while and know the history. People who knew my family. I think your aunt was friends with one of my relatives when they were little girls.”

The woman sighed. “Aunt Aileen doesn't talk on the phone much. She doesn't do much of anything anymore, because she tires easily.”

“But I really need to ask her some questions. I'll do whatever it takes.”

She didn't answer, and the silence dragged on for at least a century.

“Are you still there, ma'am?”

“You'd have to come here,” she finally said. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I'm twelve. But I promise I'm serious about this project, ma'am. I can get my mom to bring me, and I won't be loud or track in dirt or anything.”

There was another awkward pause before she spoke.

“You could come by tomorrow morning. She's at her best before noon. I suppose any time between nine and eleven would work. It's not like she has anywhere to go or any other appointments to keep.”

Relief made my knees wobbly. “That sounds great. I'll just check with my mom.”

“You be sure to call if you can't make it. I don't want to waste time getting her ready for a no-show.”

“I promise I'll be there. Thank you.”

After I'd put the phone back on the charger, I went to the kitchen. Mom had her computer open on the kitchen table, and she looked up when I stood next to her.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Mrs. Shelton's niece answered the phone. She sounded a little cranky, but she told me to come tomorrow morning. You'll drive me, right?”

“I'd be happy to. Well done, honey.”

I lay my cheek on her head. “There's one thing. What exactly is typhoid? I probably should know, since that's how Margaret Anne died.”

“Well…it's an infection, I think. You get it from contaminated food or water.” She started to type, but then shook her head. “I can't check the Internet, so if you want to know more, you'll have to look it up in Grandma's
World Book Encyclopedia.
She got that set in the eighties, but it's not like typhoid has changed that much in the last thirty years.”

I went to the living room and pulled the
T
volume off the shelf. The pages were thick and shiny with a sickly sweet smell that made my nose twitch. The entry for “typhoid” was long and I had to read it a few times before I got the gist. Turns out that typhoid is a bacterial disease you get from eating food or drinking water that has feces in it.

Feces? How in the world did anyone manage to eat or drink something with
poo
in it?

Actually, there were
lots
of ways. One way was not to wash your hands after going to the bathroom. Flies feeding on poo was another—if those flies landed on your food they could give you the disease. Or if your water supply got mixed up with sewage, the water could get contaminated. Back in Margaret Anne's day, the water wasn't even chlorinated, so there was a bigger risk. Mom had said that flooding could help spread typhoid. It made me gag a little to think about it, but I could see how sewage and drinking water might get mixed up if water was overflowing everywhere.

The symptoms of typhoid were high fever, stomach pain, headache, and tiredness. Sometimes the bacteria could get to your intestines and then leak into your abdominal cavity, and that could lead to death.

No wonder Joshua Hilliard had been maudlin. It must have been torture to watch his little girl suffer like that. And since his wife was out of town, he was the only one around to take care of Margaret Anne. But why didn't he call the doctor before it was too late? Did the flooding have something to do with it?

Maybe Aileen Shelton would know.

“This is it,” Mom said.

I leaned toward the window and saw
SHELTON
stenciled on the mailbox when she turned off the main road. The tires kicked up gravel as we crept along the driveway toward a little white house with green shutters and a front porch. The siding was dusty and the gutter sagged a little, but Grandma would have called the house “respectable enough.”

I got out of the car and gathered my notebook to my chest for comfort. Blake messed with his hair, pushing it forward in that way that nearly covered his eyes. Mom waited by the front of the car.

We all stared at one another for a moment.

“Go on, Mom,” I said. “We'll follow.”

She shook her head. “
You
need to ring the doorbell, Avery.”

It was no use giving her the pitiful look, so I dragged myself up the porch steps and took a deep breath. The doorbell was cracked, but I heard it chime from inside when I pressed it. After a moment, the door opened to reveal a dark-haired lady with half an inch of gray roots and no makeup. She wore a blue velour tracksuit and didn't look old enough to be Mrs. Shelton.

“You must be Avery May.” She peered closer. “You've got your grandma's pointy chin, all right.”

Her face drooped in a frown, and she smelled like cigarettes.

“Are you gonna come in or what?” the woman said. “Aunt Aileen is in her bedroom. You did know she's bedridden, didn't you?”

My shoulders tensed up. “I've never interviewed anyone from their bed before.”

“You just have to pull up a chair. For some reason she's eager to see you.” She looked past me. “Who'd you bring with you?”

“Just my mom and brother.”

The woman shrugged. “Well, all of y'all had better come in.”

She led us toward the back of the house to a flowery-walled room with lots of light coming in through the windows. A small lady lay in the bed with quilts pulled up to her chest. She wasn't propped up very much, and I wondered if she was even able to sit upright anymore. Her cheeks were wrinkled and kind of sunken, and you could see the pink of her scalp through thinning white hair.

One of her veiny hands beckoned. “Is that you, Avery May? I know I'm a sight, but don't be afraid. I'm just old, is all. People don't visit me much anymore, especially not charming young ladies.”

I straightened up and smiled, happy to take it as a compliment, even if it was just her old-fashioned manners.

Mrs. Shelton pointed a knobby finger. “See that chair? Pull it up next to me and I'll tell you all I know about the history around here. And who did you bring with you? I can barely see anymore.”

“Oh, sorry. This is my mom, Maddie Hilliard, and behind her is my brother, Blake.”

“I'm not sure there's enough room in here for everyone.” She raised her chin and bellowed. “Loretta, why don't you get Avery May's mother a glass of Coke in the parlor? The young gentleman might want one, too.”

“Actually,” I said quickly, “I was hoping he could stay and film our conversation. It's for the documentary I'm making.”

Mrs. Shelton's eyes widened. “Mercy! Are you telling me that handsome young man brought a camera for filming? Does he need space to set everything up?”

“He uses his smartphone.” I glanced at Blake, who was looking kind of squirmy. “It makes pretty decent videos.”

“The good Lord knows I'm old, but you two are making me feel like Methuselah.”

“Would you rather not be filmed, Mrs. Shelton?” asked Mom.

“No, no, it's fine. It's something new, and I thought I'd seen it all. Loretta, is my hair looking all right?”

“Your hair is as good as it gets, Aunt Aileen. Do you have any lipstick or powder around here?”

“Lord, no. I'm past all that.” She turned to me and patted my arm. “Honey, will you just tell me if I start drooling?”

Ordinarily that would have grossed me out, but her cozy way of talking made me feel at home. “No problem, Mrs. Shelton.”

“All right, then. Loretta, you be sure to open a fresh bottle of Coke. The real stuff, not that Kroger brand.”

Loretta sighed. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs. Shelton nodded and turned back to me. “Well, Miss Avery May Hilliard, are you ready to get to work?”

I took a seat and waited for Mom and Loretta to move on to the parlor. Then I checked my notes and gave Blake the thumbs-up to start filming.

“I was hoping you could help me with some family history. I found this in the old Hilliard House.” I pulled the photo out of the notebook's inside pocket. “It's a photograph, and I think you're in it.”

Mrs. Shelton took the photo and peered at it. Then she snorted. “Sweetheart, would you hand me that magnifying glass on the side table? Yes, that's it. Without it all I can see are two blobs.” She propped the photo on her belly with one hand and held the magnifier in the other. The glass shook a little as she stared at the photo.

“That's me, all right. I sure was a scrawny thing back then. Guess some things never change.” She started to laugh, but it ended in a wet cough. “That's Margaret Anne Hilliard next to me. She was your grandpa's cousin.” She nodded to herself. “All those golden curls always falling out of ribbons. Her hair had a mind of its own, I tell you.”

“What was Margaret Anne like? Were you good friends?”

“Good friends? It was more than that.” Her eyes softened. “We were nothing alike, but we were kindred spirits. I called her Meganne, because her real name had too many syllables. Her mama hated the nickname, though—she thought it ‘common'—so I only called her that when we were alone.”

“Meganne,” I said. “I like that.”

Mrs. Shelton nodded. “Her mother's folks owned the land we farmed, so whenever Meganne visited her grandma, we would spend as much time together as possible. She was a dreamy gal, loved stories and such. Me? I was a girl of action. I suppose she taught me to be a little more thoughtful, and I taught her how to be brave, how to take risks and live life.”

She settled back with a smile, as if thinking about Meganne made her feel young again.

“We found something else at Hilliard House, Mrs. Shelton,” I said. “An old china doll with gold hair and a pink dress. Did that belong to Meganne?”

“Her name is Bettina.” She grinned. “Can you believe that sprang to my mind so quick? Bettina was a gift from Meganne's daddy. She came all the way from Germany and was quite a treasure. More than anything, she was a comfort when that poor girl was confined to her bed, which was often. I was forever trying to get Meganne to take long walks, to breathe fresh air, because she needed strengthening up. I was half her size but strong as a bull. She tended to get every little bug that came along.”

“Is that why she got typhoid?”

Mrs. Shelton winced. “That was…well, that was a real tragedy.”

I straightened and took a breath. “How'd it happen? Was it the flood?”

She closed her eyes, and the photograph trembled in her hands. “I couldn't say for sure. By the time her daddy got hold of the doctor, there wasn't much that could be done.”

A bead of sweat trickled near my eye. I glanced at Blake, whose armpits now had dark circles of perspiration. The room had seemed warm when we came in, but now it was practically boiling. I waited for Mrs. Shelton to continue, but the silence stretched on.

“Did she drink contaminated water, Mrs. Shelton?” I finally prompted.

She swallowed hard before opening her eyes. The next words were spoken to the ceiling. “Everyone said that Mr. Hilliard didn't take the proper precautions. That's what his wife claimed, anyway, and her story got around real quick.”

“It makes me sad for old Mr. Hilliard,” I said. “He told my mom he did everything he could, but people blamed him anyway. Grandma says he turned maudlin and shut himself up in his house. Did you ever see him again after Margaret Anne died?”

“Once or twice, I suppose.” Mrs. Shelton closed her eyes again.

“Did he seem strange to you? Did he talk to you about her?”

“It's so hard to remember, child.”

“But—”

Blake put a hand on my shoulder, and I shut my mouth.

A tear trailed down the side of Mrs. Shelton's face. She handed the photo back to me without opening her eyes.

“Young lady, I'm afraid you've worn me out,” she said.

My heart lurched. I wasn't ready for this to end—she'd barely told me anything.

“I only have a couple more questions, ma'am.”

“I've said all I have to say.” Mrs. Shelton pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It's time for you to leave.”