[Not Just Any Other] Ghost Story

Chapter 12

cw: mention of s*icide and r*pe

Saturday morning came sooner than Sarah had wanted. Not knowing what had woken her--the alarm hadn't been set and there wasn't anything making a ruckus--she pulled the comforter snugly around her and rolled onto her side. The room was abso-freaking-lutely frigid and there was no way she'd be getting out of bed yet. The early birds could have those damned worms for all she cared.

But the universe wasn't cooperating. As hard as she tried, she couldn't fall back asleep.

Now wasn't that just perfect? One of the few days in the week that she could actually take her time and just be a lazy ass teenager, yet her mind refused.

The smell of coffee in the air was the dealbreaker.

After her feet--snuggled in her favorite wool socks that had lost all elasticity to stay up past her ankles--hit the floor, she shuffled out the door and down the stairs. The faint murmur of voices got louder as she neared the kitchen and by the time Sarah crossed the threshold, Jane and Alex Quinn were in full-blown hysterics from laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked Sarah as she tried to hide her own amusement at finding her aunt with a special guest so early in the morning. She couldn't wait for the explanation of what brought one of New Bedford's "finest," ahem officers, on a personal house-call.

With tears of joy running down her face, Jane waved her off. "Oh, nothing," she said from her spot leaning against the counter before glancing at the dashing officer seated at a small table in the corner. "You kind of had to be there."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, it's a stupid in-joke," they said, also obviously unwilling to share any more before diving into their mug of coffee.

Sarah shrugged, caring less about the topic of conversation than about who'd been having it. "Whatever," she mumbled, reaching for a plastic pod labelled 'Hazelnut Blend Dark Roast' to pop into the machine.

"I made fresh spiced-apple pancakes," Jane offered from behind her with the clank of dishes as the coffee began to brew.

Sarah watched the dark liquid pour into the waiting mug decorated with a cartoon chicken surrounded by the words 'Nobody knows what the cluck they're doing.' "No thanks," she said, declining the food as the coffee slowed to a drip. "I told you I'm not big on breakfast."

But Jane was already making a stack on the fresh plate. "Nonsense. You have to eat something if you want to have any energy for the rest of the day," she said before freezing on the spot. After slightly shaking her head, she widened her eyes and began to laugh. "Oh my goodness! Did I just really say that? Why, I sound just like my mother. You remember Grandma Kate, don't you, Sarah? You were pretty small when she passed, but you two were quite the pair."

Quinn snickered behind a raised hand, no doubt an innocent reaction at the clichéd thought of kids eventually aging into their parents, but Sarah hid her own grimace behind the chicken mug. Because even though her memories of the woman--who supposedly let her two-year-old self try to bake from scratch resulting in sugar cookies tasting completely of salt or agreeing to have Sarah dress herself, which had her going to pre-school in just a t-shirt and tights in the middle of December--were quickly fading, Sarah would always vividly recall certain things that she desperately wished she could forget.

Those were stories her mother had told her, whether she thought Sarah wanted (or needed) to know or if only to relieve her own conscience about not being the only one to bear the burden. How else could anyone justify revealing to a then ten-year-old child that her grandmother had selflessly given up her dreams of stardom as a Broadway actress to raise a family after unexpectedly becoming pregnant, or that same woman's husband--her grandfather--committed suicide after a chronic diagnosis in order to save the family from medical bankruptcy?