Freedom Part 2

The next night, I went back to the cemetery.
I had no choice; it felt like something was drawing me there. Something I needed to see. Something I needed to get closure on.

My heart about leapt out of my chest when I saw a ghost. Not just any ghost -- but a ghost that looked like the pictures I saw of my paternal grandmother, Jamie Jolina.
As most of you reading this blog know, I've been wanting to 'meet' her for a very long time. Reading her journal and hearing about her from my dad and others, she sounds like a fascinating woman.
So, even though there isn't much that actually frightens me, understandably, I was a ball of nerves when I walked up to her ghost. I've only had very limited experience with supernatural creatures, even those with prior blood ties to me.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked her.
"I know exactly who you are," she said. "You look like my son -- and you look like me."
"Really?"

I found out she'd been flirty, a party animal, and a bookworm. Which explained a lot, really. It explained my dad. It explained Noah. It explained Sebastian. And it explained me. But I had so many more questions for her, many more than I had time to ask. For it was nearly five a.m. and the ghosts return to their slumber then.

While I was talking to my grandma's ghost, my grandpa's ghost was standing off to the side. He cleared his throat to make sure he got my attention.
When I saw the outline of his face, I thought for a second that I was looking at my dad.

When I realized that standing before me was the ghost of the family founder, my grandfather Nigel Plumb, I quietly gave him my best curtsy before he flashed that same lopsided grin and that same twinkle in his eye. He explained my dad, too, as much as grandma does.
I wondered what my grandparents would think of my mom. They'd died before my dad even met her.

I walked in the house at six-thirty that morning. By then I was starved and knackered. But dad was as wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever while eating leftover ratatouille from the night before.
"Morning, darling," he said, "have a seat."

"So, what grand adventure have you been up to lately?"
"I haven't been on any adventures."

"Savannah --"
I cannot lie to my father. I get away with doing it to my mom, but I cannot do it to my dad, because he knows when I'm lying right away and he looks at me, not with anger, but with disappointment.
"Savannah, I know you. When you were little you used to come from the forests past Pinochle Point with scrapes all over. Have you been looking for rocks down at the cove?

"Nope."
"Have you been exploring the catacombs beneath the cemetery?"
"Nope."
"Have you been at the art gallery, bookstore, or the theater?"
"Nope."
I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. I didn't have the guts to tell him I'd talked to Aunt Margaret and I'd talked to his parents. I couldn't tell him I have grandma's journal. I couldn't tell him about the family scrapbook project I started.

Instead, I changed the subject. I talked about everything BUT what I've been up to. I'm just not sure he's ready for what I've been up to. How's he gonna deal with a daughter who spends more time with the dead than the living?
"How's your new symphony, dad?"



He perked up. "Lovely, dear, thank you for asking." He went into his soliliquy about contraltos and half-notes, and I was reminded yet again how much he lives and breathes this stuff. He once told me that he loved the idea of putting together notes that don't seem to fit -- and making them sound harmonious.
But he wasn't thrown off track one bit. "Savannah," he laughed, "I know you've been up to something. When you're ready to tell me, I'm here."
With that I went into my room (well Aunt Margaret's) and I pulled the covers over my head and went to sleep.