A Ghost Story. Act Two.

My mother’s presence in the form of the sweet odors continued, following us through each of the four moves we made after her death. (There were no more brownies, alas.) I began to look forward to them as a means of communication and healing with her. They came to us less frequently and some of their strength was lost, but they were still very much with us.

Then something unusual happened. Not too long after we had moved to Bluffton, my husband was on his regular Sunday run to Starbucks. When he got home, he said that HIS mother had been with him in the car! She adored gardenias….could grow them year round…and he said it was as though a massive bouquet of gardenias had been pleasantly pressed against his face. It was her signature flower and perfume……no question that she was with him. A first for both of them. He was pleased and honored.

By now, of course, having experienced unexplained “smells” for so long, we didn’t, even for a moment, question the origin of the gardenia event.

That night my mother visited……for an hour! Unheard of. Truth be told, I was more than a little concerned about those two back-to-back and very unusual occurrences.

The next day, my husband went for his normal bike ride. What wasn’t normal was the accident. He was hit by a car….t-boned….and thrown four or five feet into the busy Bluffton Parkway. He was barely harmed but, by all rights, he should have been killed. The bike was totaled.

Coincidence? Did our mothers know something we didn’t but of course had no way of letting us know, of warning us? No texting, no voice mail…..nothing. Had they put their heads together and done the best they could? Kent’s mother through the gardenias; mine through a prolonged visit? Did they sit down with a cocktail….my mother, a light scotch and water, please; Kent’s mother, with her beloved vodka martini, (easy on the vermouth,) and try to find a means to alert us?

Of course, the bigger question is: were they responsible for his survival? And for my joy and indescribable relief?

There are no more sweet smells at night. It’s a genuine loss for me. Perhaps even bordering on grief. Crazy, huh? I know that’s what you’re thinking about this whole story but everything I’ve told you is true. I can’t tell you why or how all of this happened because we don’t have answers to those things. But true? Most definitely.

So the curtain comes down on this particular play. We, of course, don’t know what might be in store for us. We’ll just have to be patient, wait and see. And be open to things that go bump in the night.

 

A postscript: “Ghost story” was written several months ago, shortly after the bike accident. Indeed my mother has been absent during all those months. But guess what? She’s back! She showed up this week. A stronger, sweeter, fuller smell, but, undoubtedly, my mother. And no, I’m not making this up. I liked the other ending better but the truth changes everything.