Only a Ghost Knows

ONLY A

GHOST

KNOWS

MARY ELIZABETH SHEFFIELD

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©

Copyright 2013 Mary Elizabeth Sheffield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2012-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2011-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2013-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921930

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1   A Snapshot in Time

Chapter 2   Time to Use My Brain

Chapter 3   Visiting Georgia

Chapter 4   A Place to Stay

Chapter 5   The Dream

Chapter 6   The Dandelion Care Home

Chapter 7   Meeting Tommy Simpson

Chapter 8   Mrs. Cruella Green

Chapter 9   The Turret

Chapter 10   Lily’s Final Bow

Chapter 11   Something Wicked This Way Comes

Chapter 12   Returning to the Scene of the Crime?

Chapter 13   The Bitter Road

Chapter 14   Putting the Pieces Together

Chapter 15   Full Circle

Chapter 16   Getting Answers

Chapter 17   A Beginning at the End

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated in memory of my grandmother,

Helen Stanton Sheffield, whose poignant passing inspired me to write this book, and who forever reminds me not to view the elderly as an inconvenience when they start to bend with age.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

F oremost, I wish to thank my grandmother, Helen Stanton Sheffield, who I never got to know that well before she died, to my parents Robert and Florine Sheffield who encouraged me to pursue an education; and to Aunt Marlene who revealed the family’s suspicions concerning the circumstances of my grandmother’s death. This book is for her and all the other elderly people who don’t have the law championing for them.

I want to thank all my friends who patiently listened to me reading chapter samples and offered constructive criticism. Those people are Nanci Crucio, Sharon Clement, Dr. Lee Irwin, Lana Nachowitz, Kathy Babcock, Carolyn Proccacio, Wendy Murphy, Donna Hanley, Kristi Reagor, and Peter Crucio, Attorney-at-Law, who gave me legal advice concerning codicils.

I cannot forget my first writing instructor, Karen Ackerson, owner of The Writer’s Workshop, whose homework assignment inspired me to write a new prologue and epilogue at the last minute, and of course, author Debra Moffitt, who gave me ideas to help tweak my first chapter.

If I’ve forgotten anyone or if you feel left out, I apologize. Just know that all those words of encouragement helped me mold my book to where it is now. Thank you.

PROLOGUE

I hear I’m a ghost. It’s a strange feeling being able to move effortlessly through the walls of my home, wandering from corridor to corridor. In the beginning, I often hesitated before a door, uncertain if I should turn the knob to get to the other side. Now this has become child’s play for me in this spectral realm.

After I died, I was surprised that I didn’t choose to cross over to the light where I could be with my beloved husband and precious son, whom I lost years ago. The first memory of my old life came to me in a whisper, echoing my name. It called to me softy, Lily… Lily. I’m not quite sure what happened after that lethal injection of morphine went into my leg, but the remnants of shame seem to shadow me for some unknown reason. As time passed with me caressing my home with residual energy, I became implacable trying to remember the day I died. Abruptly, all my memories returned making me cringe from the choices I made.

Now, as I wander through the walls of my home that used to exude benevolence, I realized how many options I truly had in my life. As a spirit who hasn’t crossed over, I continuously feel the pain of separation from the ones who are waiting for me, seeing that brilliant light that appears from time to time, offering me a chance to let go of this corporeal world. But my tattered soul is consumed with anger and dread. If I don’t bring my tormentor to justice, my fear is that she’ll continue killing and I’ll be earthbound forever. My only hope is that justice will be served with the help of my guardian angel.

But ultimately, there is always a price that needs to be paid for such services. For every minute I live without the love of those who are waiting for me on the other side, has turned these long years into something that cannot be calculated. There is no measure for love lost, and that loss is all consuming.

I continuously pray that the living doesn’t think that I was a bad or weak woman losing my way. I hope they will see instead a confused, fragile human being, who didn’t reach out to others for help through pride and fear of rejection. I was that proud woman who married an affluential young man, who thought that nothing tragic could affect our lives. I forgot I was human, subjected to the same challenges and turmoils as everyone else, despite our wealth.

Most people don’t understand that a ghost can still pray and call out for help through the penetrating layers of multidimensional planes of existence. Your plea goes out silently, sifting through layers of energy to a place where those who’ve died live in the mists. With their help, my message is sent to those ascended beings who are equipped to respond. I may be a ghost, but please don’t dismiss my grief. I know by manipulating the elements of energy, I have made people fearful. But I’m unapologetic for my actions. There is no turning back now.

Because only a ghost knows why they’re earthbound, why they need to linger, and why tapping into the intense emotions of the living actually makes them feel alive for a brief moment. It’s the only way to be aware like a sentient being without the benefit of a body.

So stay with me if you dare and be compassionate along my journey. Turn the page and find out if retribution is about to be served or if love will eventually save and release me from my own man-made netherworld. Only then will I be lighter than a fallen leaf fluttering in the breeze. I will finally be free.

CHAPTER 1

A SNAPSHOT IN TIME

A loud snap of someone’s fingers startled me as I said goodbye to my afternoon client. It was my dead grandmother being helpful to remind me of the time. I waved again, thanking her for the two referrals. Twirling around, I quickly closed the door and looked at my wristwatch, thankful that I had another fifteen minutes before my father came home.

I patted the $80 in my tight jeans pocket, relieved knowing I had half of my college loan for the month. The sturdy front door leaned into me as I closed my eyes to the bland living room that hadn’t been redecorated in the last twenty years. Glaring at the ancient grandfather clock, its laborious ticking reminded me of my secret life.

My name is Amy Fletcher, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I still live with my parents and was desperate to move out. My big problem was that going to college wasn’t cheap, UCLA wasn’t cheap, and getting a foothold in the journalism field was harder than I thought. To make things worse, my Orthodox Catholic father and I were on different wavelengths when it came to our individual religious beliefs. If he knew I was using his home as my own personal office to give psychic readings, he’d kick me out of the house. But how else was I going to pay off my outrageous school loans, along with my weekly penchant for a Starbucks cappuccino?

My rebellious nature created a lot of conflict for me ever since I could remember. As a child, I just assumed everyone saw spirits or could talk to them. I was naive and excited about my other world and just yammered away about seeing dead people. My mother used to tell me that when I was four years old, she’d find me talking to someone while playing in my room. When asked whom I was talking to, I hugged my teddy and said it was Boo. Like any other concerned parents, they consulted a psychiatrist, who told them it was natural for a child my age to create an imaginary friend for companionship.

Problem was, Boo never left because it was my grandmother who died before I was born. She was there to keep an eye on me and sang to me at night, trying to coax me to sleep. Part of her charm was to tell me delightful stories at night about my father, making me laugh and clapping my hands for more. Tearing up, Grandma used to say that I was the little girl she never had and promised to protect me while I dreamed.

After a while, my parents’ concern turned into frustration, thinking I was making it up to get attention. When I got older, I spoke less about my grandmother, remembering how she always put a finger to her lips and shook her head saying no, telling me to keep it our secret. People are all about secrets. It’s inevitable. Maybe a human anomaly, I often pondered, thinking of my own hidden agenda. It begins in our childhood, with us whispering into each other’s ears and giggling over some newfound scoop we’d like to share, assuming no else knows.

It’s astounding how keeping secrets can hurt us and others, the longer we hold them inside. Like my client this afternoon, who held on to a childhood trauma and couldn’t move forward. Her dead mother came through apologizing profusely for kicking her out of the home at a young age of sixteen for being pregnant. Tears rolled down my client’s face as she explained that it was her mother’s rigid religious beliefs that forced her out of the house, where she had to give her child up for adoption. It’s frightening at times being a conduit and relaying someone else’s experiences. But that’s how my guides communicated with me, by imparting those same emotions I might have felt during my life.

My parents were an emotional oddity too. I often asked myself, Why did they even have me since they certainly don’t act like they even wanted me? Part of me understood that this lack of emotional nurturing started with my grandfather, a tough Chicago cop who had little respect for women, and that’s how my father treated my mother and me. This lack of respect trickled into my formative years, making me continuously second-guess my existence, where I suffered isolation. I tried to be the good girl but was forever a disappointment. Growing up, there were times I felt I was running a gauntlet of minefields, wondering when one of them would take me out. My hands clenched as I brooded over a painful childhood memory.

I could hear my mother’s frustration as she cried, How did you get to be such an exasperating child? I’m only ten years old, but even I know something must be terribly wrong with me because I’m always upsetting her. My parents named me Mary, after my grandmother. As an only child, I got away with a lot of things, which drove my mother crazy. So one day, I decided to hate my name and chose to call myself Amy. No matter how many times my mother grasped her hands in despair, I refused to budge on the issue. What’s the big deal anyway? I’m gonna keep three out of the four letters from my old name!

Mom and I were living in Los Angeles, California, while my dad was doing God knows what in the army. Ten-year olds were never told anything important anyway. We were stuck living next door to my cousins, and to make me more miserable, they threw me into Catholic school at the last minute.

Don’t parents ever stop and ask what their kid might actually want? I kept hearing them tell me, Amy, these decisions are made for the good of the child. If my parents only knew of all the other brats that were put into Catholic school, they’d be sending in the SWAT team to yank me out. Oops, I forgot. According to my parents, I’m one of those brats! I guess there’s no hope left for me.

Life sucked right now! It’s bad enough going to St. Augustine’s school, but my parents forced me to go to mass every Sunday, telling me my soul needed to be protected. So here I am, squished in between my mother and father, Henry and Louise Fletcher, who, for some reason, had to pick the pew that had twice as many people in it. Actually, it’s my mother’s fault. She was always worried about what other people thought and was too embarrassed to go further up where those nice empty spaces were. We were really late this time!

The worst part of being ten is that you get blamed for everything. Like being late to church again. Hey, I’m the kid who can’t drive, remember? Like I said, it was my parents’ bickering over Dad’s last stay in Korea. My father left my mom alone to deal with me all by herself. I know I was supposed to be good, but when I saw something that needed to be fixed, I fixed it.

Like my cousin Claire. She was missing a patch of freckles right on the tip of her nose. She never stopped talking about it. So all I did was help. How was I supposed to know that the marker I used to fill in that blank spot was permanent and purple? Okay, so maybe I did feel a little bad that it wouldn’t come off for days no matter how hard my aunt Betty tried to scrub it off. Boy, did I get in trouble for that! My mom was happy to tell me that I committed a venial sin. Did I already say that life sucked right now?

And that part where children are meant to be seen and not heard? I had to change those rules too. I mean, there were so many questions I had to ask, and I couldn’t waste a minute of my God-given life. Just quoting Sister Agnes, who pointed out to all of us fourth graders how grateful we should be that we’re even allowed to live.

I also hated the fact that I’m just elbows and knees, and my mom refused to let my nice blonde hair grow out like the other girls. I wanted to yell out to the world, I’m being scalped here, but no one seemed to care. Oh, and what about these god-awful blue plastic glasses I’m forced to wear? Not that I minded the color blue, but why did they have to be crooked? I was constantly holding one side up with my finger, trying to be cool. Don’t parents know that a kid can die from all that teasing one gets for just the smallest thing out of place?

So I was trying really hard to listen to this very long-winded sermon that Father Horatio was giving. When I turned to ask my mom if she could see that other priest, Father Seamus, my dad suddenly yanked me up by my collar and pulled me down the aisle in front of everybody.

When he got me behind the church doors, he said in that West Point tone of his, This is a time of worship and not talking, young lady. Keep that mouth shut and just listen, or I’m going to box both of those ears of yours, where listening won’t be a problem anymore! He then grasped my collar with a tight fist, dragged me down the aisle, and dropped me into my seat with a huge thud.

I stared down at my feet with a very red face and decided right then and there that I hated three people. First, my dad, for embarrassing me. Second, my mother, for not protecting me from my father. Then there was Jesus. A lot of good he was, with all that love-your-neighbor stuff. How about love your kid? So at that point, I decided to hate them all! And guess what? My mother would fall into a dead faint, especially when she found out, how I was going to screw up the big plans she had for me by not being the next Mother Teresa!

The only thing that kept me from bawling right then and there was Father Seamus, who smiled and told me it was going to be all right. I knew my parents couldn’t see him. They thought I was making stuff up again. But there he was, floating around with that wonderful glow about him. And when he spoke into Father Horatio’s ear, I could hear him too. I thought it was nice that Father Seamus was helping Father Horatio with his Latin, ’cause that stuff was really hard to learn. Even I had a hard time understanding all those big words.

I could feel big drops of tears rolling off my face and onto my hands and was grateful for the first time that I wore glasses to mask my pain. The thing is, I wasn’t crying because of what my father just did to me. I was crying because I received a kind word from a complete stranger, who happened to be a ghost. He gave me more sympathy in that one minute than my mother could give me because she was too scared to cross my father. At that moment, I felt pretty pathetic, realizing I couldn’t evoke kindness from the people who mattered. That was when I vowed to never cry again.

The shrill sound of the telephone jolted me back to the present. I touched my cheeks and was amazed to find tears rolling down my face. True to my word, I hadn’t shed a tear since then. I really thought I had put that all behind me. I remembered my cousins trying to comfort me that day after witnessing my shame. They kept consoling me, saying it’d get better. But what did other kids my age know anyway? All I knew back then was that I was treated like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Like I didn’t have a brain.

The irony of that painful experience is, I realized my parents did me a huge favor. Because out of those ashes of shame came a tenacity to continuously prove them wrong. It was that moment in my life where I was most naive yet was able to experience complete clarity that forever defined me. I learned to trust and depend more on my unseen friends than my earthbound ones. As a child, I kept thinking how cool it was that these friendly spirits could float and go through walls.

I might not have been the smartest kid, but I did know that I could see what others could not. Every day since then, I thanked God and science that time didn’t stand still for me, and the rhythm of life finally let me grow up.

CHAPTER 2

TIME TO USE MY BRAIN

I n the last three years since I’ve graduated from college, I’ve managed to buy a new car, earned a decent living as a freelance journalist, and procured my first rental. Sounds good, right? I kept telling myself that everything was great, except sharing the moving-out part with my father. My father has a hard time with change. I’m often astounded that he even allowed me to leave the house to go to college.

At twenty-five, I’d like to think I had the respect of my peers and my father. Well, at least half my wish came true. Life is about upsets and unseen tragedies. That’s what happened to me when I lost my mom to a freak accident, which completely turned my life upside down.

Right after I graduated from college, my mother tripped over her own two feet. Not a big surprise, since both of us were klutzes (inherited from a long line of previous klutzes). When Dad took her to the emergency room, the doctors found out that she suffered a hairline fracture in her femur. No big deal they said, but the fracture nicked a vein, so she had to have minor surgery to cauterize it.

Leaving Mom at the hospital to sleep off the successful surgical procedure, neither of us expected the 4:00 a.m. call the next morning. They told us a clot had formed near the nicked vein and went undetected by the surgeons. We were reassured it was quick when she passed in her sleep when the clot lodged in her brain.

My father was an emotional wreck, wanted to cry but couldn’t. He turned his anger toward the hospital and the doctors, threatened to sue them for negligence. But I convinced him to let it go, because how could anyone really know that would happen? As it turned out, the hospital wrote a $100,000 check to my father, avoiding any future liability and temporarily pacifying my father’s grief.

After my mother’s death, I put all my attention on a career and started to earn a respectable living, along with the added income in giving readings as a psychic/medium. You’d think I’d be happy, but living with my father since my mother’s death forced me to look for a place of my own. My father (the colonel) was a major control freak, and standing up to him was like facing Saddam Hussein’s firing squad. Thank God there weren’t any loaded guns around the house, at least not within hands’ reach. Life with him had toughened me up to withstand the most catastrophic events, which one of them was happening right now.

He was only five feet six inches tall and still sported the same crew cut he had his entire military career to cover up his premature gray hair. I would have been shocked into a heart attack if he loosened up a bit after his retirement. One of my father’s nicest features was his deep blue eyes that were still hidden by a pair of military black-framed glasses. It was a darn shame that my father’s biggest fear of not having structure in his life prevented him from being a little trendy. The only thing he had going for him was his love of golf. His passion started when he got stationed at Fort Baker, San Francisco, where they had a huge parade field right in front of our 1920s house. Whenever he had a chance, he’d take a bucket of golf balls and practice hitting those silly white things during his time off.

When I was eight years old, my father sent me down the opposite end of the field to retrieve his golf balls, saving himself a backache. Grinning at this brilliant idea, he was delighted that someone else was doing the extra work, until one day, he made a slice shot and hit me in the leg when my back was turned. My mother screamed at my father for days after they rushed me to the military hospital. Ironically, he was more embarrassed by his bad shot than apologetic for hitting me. Nothing stopped my father from playing a game that could be disguised as work, not when the golf course was the most common place where all the officers, from generals to lowly lieutenants, would conduct their meetings. It was a game that was completely unpredictable and that finally translated into how he changed his style of dress after he retired. Before, his outfits were nondescript white button-down starched shirts, and now he allowed himself to wear more fashionable golf apparel.

No matter how dashing my father looked in his turquoise golf shirt, it didn’t distract me from the belligerent look on his face when I told him of my decision. Look, Dad, I love you, but it’s been three years since I’ve graduated from college, and I need—I paused, desperate to find the least hurtful words—my own life. So I’ve found a new place just a few minutes away. Okay, so it’s more like thirty minutes away, but who’s counting?

Nervously biting my lip, I watched for his reaction from lowered lids and saw that telltale twitch under his right eye. Uh-oh, this wasn’t