The Complete Coffee and Ghosts

2. Giving Up The Ghosts-7

Nigel stops twitching. He rolls onto his back, closes his eyes, his face almost serene. An infant asleep. Or a man near death. In my mind, I hear an echo of a voice, a command from long ago.

Katy-Girl, the coffee, now!

“Coffee!” This comes out as more air than word, but understanding lights Malcolm’s eyes.

We race for the camp stove. Except for the pot I removed earlier, the rest remains, brewing and steaming and filling the air with an aroma to rival the best coffee shop. Malcolm pours cups of tea from the samovar. When that heady mixture of saffron and spice strikes the air, I think I hear a cheer, the sound both joyful and otherworldly.

“Katy, look!” Malcolm points and we round the truck together. “Do you see them?”

“I do!”

One by one, glimmers emerge from Nigel’s mouth. Tiny ones, no more than sprites. They streak toward the brewing coffee. They dip and dive in the steam before compliantly sinking into one of the Tupperware containers by the truck’s left rear wheel.

“They’re happy to be free,” I say.

And they are. Happy. Grateful. A few swoop by me, giving me a ghostly kiss on their way to a container. Granted, one smacks Malcolm on the back of the head, but it’s more of a ghostly version of a buddy shove than any sort of retribution.

Sprites are one thing. Nigel has just swallowed something very nasty. We will have to face that.

During my years of ghost catching, I’ve only witnessed a full-on ghost infestation three times, two in homes, once in an old barn. Never have I seen one inside a person, but that can only explain Nigel’s current state. He appears glazed over, as if a thin sheet of ice covers him. His lips turn blue; his eyelashes are frosted.

“More heat,” I call to Malcolm. “More steam.” I refill the percolator. Malcolm turns the knob of the camp stove to high.

“Let’s bring the cups to him,” I say a moment later. “Tempt them out.”

When the coffee is ready, I pour. Malcolm adds the cream and sugar, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cups.

“Three black,” he says, “three with cream.”

“Three with sugar,” I say, picking up the chant. “And three extra light and extra sweet.”

“Because even ghosts have a preference.”

Twelve cups. Always. The way my grandmother taught me. We rush the cups of scalding coffee across the parking lot. Hot liquid sloshes over the sides. My hands throb with the scalding, their skin bright pink. I keep up the run until a circle of coffee surrounds Nigel, the ceramic mugs gleaming in the sunshine, bright blues to rival the sky, the green deeper than the chemically enhanced lawn of the mausoleum behind us.

With all twelve cups in place, it’s like Nigel is some strange offering to the god of caffeine. Steam rises into the autumn air, the vapor clouding my view of him. He is hazy, as if we’ve tucked him in for the night in a blanket of fog.

His entire body trembles. He cries out, once. Then, the world glimmers.

From his mouth, ghosts stream. The more powerful ones jostle the mugs, send coffee splashing across the asphalt, my hiking boots, Malcolm’s loafers. They whirl, kick up leaves and pebbles with the force of their escape. We grab containers and catch the slower ones. Some bypass the coffee, intent on freedom—and that is anywhere but our Tupperware.

I don’t sense my grandmother. I detect no hint of that ... thing, the one who flutters bed sheets and makes me think of bridal veils. Nigel bolts upright. He coughs. He strikes himself in the solar plexus as if giving himself the Heimlich maneuver.

What emerges from his mouth is an inky swirl of dark purple, tinged with green, like storm clouds during a tornado warning. It does not glimmer. It oozes. I take a few steps back and bump against Malcolm. He grips my shoulders, and it’s his heat that keeps me steady.

The thing floats inches from my face. The air around it is stale, devoid of scent. Its presence fills my head. Cold metal. Gray sleet. And thoughts I force myself not to think. Bed sheets. Bridal veils.

“Know this, Katy,” the thing says in its strange, metallic voice, words clicking against my eardrums. “You can’t run.”

Malcolm pushes himself in front of me, but the thing drifts skyward as if filled with just enough helium to give it lift. The breeze takes it and carries the inky mass away until the blot against the sky at last vanishes.

Malcolm swears softly in my ear, giving voice to my thoughts. Then I whirl.

“My grandmother!”

We rush to Nigel’s side. He is still, his face pale, eyes shut. Malcolm sinks to one side, I land on the other. I close my own eyes to hold back the tears. True, I’ve lost my grandmother to death. That she follows me now during her afterlife has been more of a comfort than I’m willing to admit. Now I fear the goodbye is for real.

“Katy.” Malcolm’s voice is soft. “Look.”

So I do. There, emerging from Nigel’s mouth, is a soft, shimmering glimmer, robust and able to withstand the breeze. Thirsty, perhaps, for a cup of coffee—two sugars, extra cream.

“It’s the yellow cup,” I tell her.

Before she swoops in for her reward, my grandmother’s ghost swirls against my cheeks and dries my tears.

Malcolm holds his brother’s hand. “He’s breathing, his pulse is fast, but I think that’s to be expected.”

“Should we—?” Before I can suggest calling 911, Nigel bolts upright.

He coughs, a shudder convulsing his body. His eyes clear. “Malcolm?”

Malcolm nods.

“I ... I ...” Nigel surveys the parking lot, the coffee cups. His gaze follows the tree line. I see the instant the memories come flooding back. The chagrin on his face is painful to witness.

“Oh, God,” he murmurs and buries his face in his hands. “I am so ashamed.”

Malcolm hugs his brother, but Nigel won’t stop his litany of regret and shame.

“I don’t know what I’ve done, and yet, I remember it all. I can’t explain it.”

“You weren’t in control,” Malcolm says. “It was the ghosts.”

“Oh, but I swallowed them.”

Malcolm casts me a desperate look. I inch closer. My red and white striped stockings are ruined, so what’s a little more asphalt? I kneel and peer up at Nigel. Then I offer him my hand.

“Hi, I’m Katy. You saved my life.”

Now I have the attention of both brothers. And yes, the resemblance is there, although where Malcolm’s hair is a gleaming ebony, Nigel has a shock of pure white. Their eyes are dark, but Nigel’s have the look of a man who has seen far too many things.

“I ... saved your life?” he says, each word its own question.

“That thing.” I touch my neck. It’s tender, and I suspect a bruise is already forming. “It tried to kill me. It would have, or taken me over, or something. You crashed into me on purpose, didn’t you?”

Nigel is silent.

“You had second thoughts about it, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.” The words are rough and honest.

“I think you did, and you didn’t have to save my life, but you did anyway.” I’m still extending my hand. I nod to it.

He takes my hand, his skin nearly as warm as his brother’s. A second later, he exclaims, “You’re freezing.” He turns to his brother. “Malcolm, she’s freezing.”

“I think there’s some tea left,” Malcolm says.

We huddle around the tailgate and sip the last of Malcolm’s tea, my grandmother turning lazy circles in the steam from the samovar.