Spirit Story - Chapter 8
Chapter 8
In daylight, the mysterious silver object looked considerably less mysterious. Mara found this encouraging. She stood at the kitchen counter in her robe, coffee cooling beside her, and examined it beneath the bright light over the sink.
Newton sat on the floor. “You knocked over the box.”
Newton looked at the refrigerator. “I’m comfortable with that conclusion.”
The object was rectangular, slightly longer than Mara’s thumb and perhaps half as wide. Tarnish darkened the edges and had settled into what she had thought the night before was engraving.
It wasn’t.. or not exactly. There was a pattern on the front. Tiny leaves, perhaps. Or flowers worn nearly smooth with age. One side had a hinge. The other had a narrow clasp. Mara turned it over. “Container.” Newton continued looking at the refrigerator.“Possibly.”
She tried the clasp. Nothing. She changed her grip and tried again. Still nothing “Corrosion.” Newton meowed. “You’ve contributed enough.”
She put the object on a sheet of white printer paper and took several photographs with her phone. Then she placed a ruler beside it and took another.
Newton finally became interested. He stood on his hind legs, front paws against the cabinet. “No.” Mara moved the object farther from the edge. Newton dropped back to the floor.
She opened a drawer, not the junk drawer. There were limits. She found a magnifying glass she’d bought years earlier for reasons she could no longer remember and examined the pattern again. Leaves. Definitely. Small clusters between them. Flowers, perhaps.
She turned the object toward the light. There. Near the hinge was a mark. Mara leaned closer. Not a word, not even a complete letter, just a tiny stamped shape nearly lost beneath the tarnish. She photographed that too. Then she opened the notes application on her phone.
Object found: guest room, beneath edge of rug adjacent to overturned storage box.
She stopped an deleted storage box.
Typed: cardboard box.
Precision mattered.
Approx. dimensions:
She measured and added them.
Condition: tarnished. Hinged. Clasp currently does not open with light manual pressure. Decorative botanical pattern. Small unidentified stamped marking near hinge. Origin unknown.
Mara looked at what she’d written, then at Newton. “This is not a paranormal investigation.” Newton scratched behind one ear. “It’s documentation.”
She added: Photographed 6:42 a.m.
Then she called her mother.
⸻
Her mother answered on the fifth ring. “Mara?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s six forty-five.”
“I know.”
“You don’t call me at six forty-five.”
“You’re awake.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Mara picked up her coffee. “I have a question.”
There was a pause. “Are you in jail?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You called before seven.”
“Why would I be allowed to call you from jail using my own phone?”
“I don’t know how jail works, Mara.”
“Neither do I, but I’m reasonably certain—”
“What do you need?”
Mara smiled. “I found something in one of those boxes you gave me.”
“What boxes?”
“The boxes of family things.”
“I’ve given you lots of boxes.”
“I know.”
“Which one?”
“The cardboard one.”
Silence. Mara closed her eyes.
“That is what I was about to ask you.”
“What?”
“Which cardboard box did the family things come from?”
“Well, honey, I don’t remember.”
“Was it from your house?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“It could have been your grandmother’s.”
Mara straightened. “Which grandmother?”
“Mine.”
“Your mother?”
“No, my grandmother.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You have to use names.”
“I know who I’m talking about.”
“I don’t.”
Her mother sighed. “Your great-grandmother Ruth.”
Mara picked up her pen. “Ruth.”
“Maybe.”
The pen stopped. “Maybe?”
“It might have been from Aunt Lillian’s things.”
Mara put the pen down. “Who is Aunt Lillian?”
“You know Aunt Lillian.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Mom, I would remember having an Aunt Lillian.”
“She wasn’t your aunt. She was mine.”
“Then she’s my great-aunt.”
“I suppose.”
“This is why genealogy becomes impossible.”
Her mother laughed. “What did you find?”
“A small silver object.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what does it do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it look like?”
“Rectangular. Hinged. Decorative pattern.”
“A compact?”
“Too small.”
“Pillbox?”
“Possibly.”
“Match safe?”
Mara paused. “A what?”
“A little case for matches.”
“Why do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been alive longer than you.”
“That doesn’t explain it.”
“Your grandfather had one.”
“Which grandfather?”
“Oh, stop.”
Mara smiled. “Do you remember giving me anything like that?”
“No.”
“Did Great-Grandmother Ruth have something silver?”
“Honey, everybody had something silver.”
“That’s spectacularly unhelpful.”
“I do my best.”
Mara turned the object over again. “What about Aunt Lillian?”
“What about her?”
“Could it have been hers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she garden?”
Her mother went quiet. Mara immediately regretted the question. Why had she asked that?
“Garden?” her mother repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Well, everybody gardened back then.”
Of course they did.
Mara wrote nothing. “What did Lillian look like?”
“Mara.”
“What?”
“Why are you suddenly interested in Aunt Lillian?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to identify an object.”
“By asking whether she gardened?”
Mara looked at the silver case.
Fair. “Context can help establish provenance.”
“You sound like you’re at work.”
“I am not at work.”
“You sound like it.”
Newton meowed. Her mother said, “Is that Newton?”
“Yes.”
“Put me on speaker.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a cat.”
“He knows my voice.”
“He ignores your voice.”
“He likes me.”
“He tolerates you.”
“Mara.”
She put the phone on speaker. “Mom wants to talk to you.”
Newton walked away. Mara picked up the phone.
“Devastating.”
“He’s tired.”
“He’s unemployed.”
Her mother laughed.
Mara looked at the clock. “I have to get ready.”
“Send me a picture.”
“Of Newton?”
“Of the silver thing.”
“Oh.”
“Honestly.”
“I’ll send it.”
“And Mara?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t clean it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. You could ruin it.”
Mara looked at the tarnish, that was unexpectedly sensible advice.
“I won’t.”
“Call me tonight.”
“I will.”
“You always say that.”
“I usually do.”
“Three days later.”
“I’ll call tonight.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Mara ended the call. She sent six photographs. Then she stood looking at the object.
Great-Grandmother Ruth.
Possibly.
Aunt Lillian.
Possibly.
Someone else entirely.
Possibly.
That was not provenance. That was a family throwing darts at a century. Mara picked up the object and carried it back to the guest room. The cardboard box remained on the floor where she’d left it. She looked at the desk. Then at Newton. He had followed her.
“All right.”
Mara put the box back on the desk. She positioned it approximately where she remembered seeing it before it fell. Then she stepped back. The box extended perhaps two inches beyond the edge.
Mara touched it lightly. Nothing. She nudged it. Nothing. She pushed harder. The box shifted. Another push. It tipped. Folders slid forward. The box fell to the carpet.
Newton jumped backward. Mara looked at him. “There.” Perfectly ordinary. She restored the contents and put the box back again. This time she crouched and looked at it from Newton’s approximate height. “You could absolutely have done that.”
Newton sat down. “A jump onto the desk. Contact with the box. Box shifts beyond center of gravity.” She demonstrated with her hand. Newton began licking his chest.“Case closed.”
Mara picked up the silver object. She should put it back in the box. Instead she carried it to the living room. She set it on the small table beside the front door. Her keys were already there. She placed the silver case beside them. Then stopped. Mara looked at the arrangement. Keys. Silver object. Ceramic bowl. Nothing else. She took a photograph and immediately she felt ridiculous.
“Baseline.” Newton had followed her again. “This has nothing to do with ghosts.” She checked the time. 7:11. She was going to be late.
Mara grabbed her bag, then her keys. She looked once more at the silver object. It remained exactly where she’d put it, of course it did.
⸻
At 10:36, her mother texted. Mara was reviewing the additional runs from Sample 41 when her phone vibrated. She ignored it until she finished entering the result. Then she looked.
Her mother had responded to the photographs.
MOM: I don’t recognize it.
Mara felt something she refused to call disappointment.
A second message arrived.
MOM: Your dad doesn’t either.
Then:
MOM: I sent it to Aunt Carol.
Mara stared at the screen. No.
She typed quickly.
Please don’t send it to the entire family.
Her mother’s response:
Too late.
Mara closed her eyes.
Daniel looked over.
“Problem?”
“My mother has initiated an investigation.”
“Into what?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s usually your job.”
Mara’s phone vibrated.
MOM: Carol says maybe a vinaigrette.
Mara frowned.
She typed:
A what?
Three dots.
MOM: Vinaigrette. Little silver case women wore.
Mara read it twice.
Daniel was watching her now. “What?”
“Do you know what a vinaigrette is?”
“Yes.”
Mara looked up. “You do not.”
“No. But I enjoyed your expression.”
She searched the term. The results appeared, small decorative containers, often silver, often hinged. Historically used to hold aromatic substances, some were worn or carried.
Mara scrolled, then stopped. A nineteenth-century example filled the screen. Rectangular. Floral decoration. Small clasp. A loop at one end. Mara enlarged the image. Not identical. Not even particularly close, but similar enough that the object beside her keys suddenly had a category.
Her phone vibrated again.
MOM: Carol says ladies sometimes wore them on chains. At waist maybe? She’s looking.
Mara put the phone down.
Daniel’s chair rolled closer. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because nothing has happened.”
“You’re staring at your phone like it insulted your mother.”
Mara picked it up again.
At waist.
Something silver hanging at her waist.
She felt that same irritating tightening between her eyebrows. Evelyn had described something silver, that was all. Silver objects had been worn at women’s waists for centuries.
Chatelaines.
Keys.
Scissors.
Watch chains.
Vinaigrettes.
Decorative cases.
There were dozens of possibilities. Hundreds. The fact that Mara had found one in a box of old family belongings proved nothing.
Daniel leaned over. “What are you reading?”
Mara locked the screen. “Work.”
“Your phone says otherwise.”
“Daniel.”
He rolled away. “Fine.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Mara looked despite herself.
This time it was Claire.
CLAIRE: I have decided to respect your boundaries.
Mara stared.
Then another message appeared.
CLAIRE: Starting tomorrow.
Mara laughed.
MARA: What did you do?
The dots appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared.
CLAIRE: Define do.
Mara’s smile disappeared.
MARA: Claire.
CLAIRE: I may have looked up a few things.
MARA: What things?
CLAIRE: Spirit guide things.
Mara typed:
Stop.
Claire answered:
I knew you’d say that.
MARA: Then why did you do it?
CLAIRE: Because one of us has to be fun.
MARA: Do not research the woman. Do not research the man. Do not research 41.
There was a longer pause.
Then:
CLAIRE: Okay.
Mara narrowed her eyes at the phone.
MARA: That was too easy.
CLAIRE: Personal growth.
Mara put the phone down.
Daniel looked over. “Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Ghost stuff?”
“Guide stuff.”
Silence. Mara slowly looked at him.
Daniel smiled. “You did it again.”
“Terminology.”
“Absolutely.” She turned back to her work.
⸻
Mara arrived home at 5:38. She unlocked the door. Newton met her in the hallway and immediately complained about conditions.
“You have food.” He disagreed.
Mara put her bag down. Her keys went automatically toward the ceramic bowl. Then she stopped. The silver object was gone. Mara stared at the table. Ceramic bowl. Mail. Nothing else. She looked at the floor. Nothing. Under the table. Nothing.
“Mmm.” Newton rubbed against her ankle.
Mara looked at him. “Did you?”
He walked toward the kitchen. She followed. The object wasn’t on the floor. Not beneath the cabinets. Not under the refrigerator. She returned to the entryway. Maybe she hadn’t left it there. She had. No. She thought she had. There was a difference. Mara took out her phone. Opened the photograph from that morning. There it was. Silver object beside the ceramic bowl. Timestamp: 7:11 a.m.
“Fine.” That established location at 7:11. It did not establish location when she left the house. She could have picked it up afterward. Had she? She reconstructed the morning.
Photograph.
Checked time.
Bag.
Keys.
Looked at object.
Left.
She had not touched it. Probably. Memory was not evidence. Mara searched the living room. Nothing. Guest room. Nothing. Bedroom. Nothing. She checked her purse. Nothing. Her coat pockets. Nothing. Kitchen counter. Nothing.
Newton followed for approximately thirty seconds before losing interest.
Mara returned to the entryway. She stood there with both hands on her hips. “Okay.”The house offered no response. She looked at the photograph again. Then at the empty table. “Okay.” Not frightened. Annoyed... Very annoyed.
She walked into the kitchen and fed Newton. Then she searched again.
At 6:14, she found the silver object. It was in the junk drawer. Mara stood perfectly still. The drawer was open in front of her.
Pens.
Tape measure.
Screwdriver.
Rubber bands.
Dead batteries.
Soy sauce.
Silver object.
She stared at it. Then laughed once. “Of course.” She had put it there. Obviously.... at some point. Probably last night... except she hadn’t. She had found it last night and carried it to her bedroom. Examined it this morning. Photographed it. Put it beside her keys. Photographed it there.
She reached into the drawer. Stopped. Then withdrew her hand. “No.” Newton appeared behind her. Mara closed the drawer. She took out her phone. Photographed the closed drawer. Then opened it. Photographed the object where it lay. She checked the time. 6:16.
Newton jumped onto a chair. Mara looked at him. “New protocol.” He sat down. “Since apparently neither my memory nor your testimony is reliable.” Newton began washing one paw.
Mara retrieved a clean sheet of paper. She placed the silver object in the center. Traced its outline lightly in pencil. Photographed it. She wrote the date and time at the top. Then she placed the paper on the guest-room desk. Closed the door.
Newton remained outside. Mara looked down at him. “You’re excluded from the experimental environment.” He looked offended. “Conflict of interest.”
She closed the door. Mara stood in the hallway for a moment, then smiled. There.
Now she had a baseline. If nothing happened, she had an explanation for the earlier discrepancy: Human memory. Ordinary error.
A tired woman moving an object without encoding the action into long-term memory.
Perfectly plausible. Tomorrow morning, the silver object would be sitting exactly where she had placed it.
Mara went to make dinner. She felt better. She had stopped wondering. She had started testing.
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