Apparition

By Sandra Rarey

PROLOGUE

Heaven was right there in front of Lenore. All she had to do was step through those pearly gates and into the welcoming arms of the angels.

How foolish she’d been to take one last look back. Hadn’t she read her Bible? Didn’t she know what one last look could cost a woman? Look at Lot’s wife. Besides, it really wasn’t any of her business if her husband was self-destructing. He wasn’t even her husband anymore. That relationship, God made perfectly clear, ended when she crossed over.

But she knew she’d been more than a little at fault for the way the situation had turned out. Perhaps she could fix it before losing herself in blessed oblivion.

With a sigh, she cast a longing glance at Paradise, then turned away. It was time to have a little talk with Michael. With any luck, this would only take a few minutes.

CHAPTER ONE

My wish for death has finally diminished to the point where it’s just about equal to my interest in life. I assume I’ll teeter here for a time.

It’s been thirteen months since my Lenore and my precious Katy died. My wife, my daughter, my life. That April day was as balmy and blue as today, the water as calm, the breeze as gentle. The weather report had beckoned us with a fickle finger, luring us out onto Mobjack Bay, exposing us to the Specter of Death.

My only problem since then has been that Death only did two thirds of his job.

Lenore saw the funnel first, rocking the boat in her excitement. Giddy excitement, like the time we’d ridden the waves with dolphins.

Terror only set in at the last minute when it became obvious we’d been pinpointed by the damned thing. Lenore threw Katy to the deck, covering her with her own slight body, while I frantically tried to outmaneuver the whirling water dervish.

Funny, how the boat and I escaped without a scratch while Lenore and Katy had been pummeled and finally tossed, like so much refuse, into the churning water. Katy, my feather-light little girl, sank in the depths like a stone, her life jacket ripped off and carried away like a trophy by the water spout. Lenore, her jacket still intact, floated face down. A limp rag doll bobbling on the surface.

I’ve dreamed about her watching her baby sink beneath her as she dies.

A year and a month later, after fighting cold sweats and nausea, I returned to the spot where my wife and my daughter left me, forever. It was immeasurably difficult yet easier than I expected.

Rocking on the swells, breathing in salt tang, I realized it was time to reclaim my life. To straighten up the mess I’d allowed it to become while I spent my time and energy covering the terrible pain with a nacre of oblivion.

Wiping my fingers after baiting my double hook with blood worm, I dropped my line into fifteen feet of water, hit bottom, then reeled up a few feet. I wasn’t in the mood to fish, but I was here and I was staying. A croaker, grunting loudly but hardly struggling, was my first catch. I un-snagged the hook from its mouth and held it to the water, watching intently as it slipped into the depths. My baby. My baby.

The sky reflected with such true color I could barely make out the line delineating sky from water. There wasn’t a cloud in sight except for one faint streak low on the distant horizon. It was too calm for the sailboats that usually skate across the bay. The crabbers and fishing boats were up the York River, out of sight.

I fished for more than an hour, catching and releasing several more croakers and a couple of spots. I told myself I had to stay until my flight mechanism gave up. When I knew I could stay, I would leave.

A movement in my peripheral vision had me focusing on the cloud. It was drawing nearer, a snake of smoke slithering towards me with determination. Sweating in the unseasonable heat and humidity, I waited impatiently for the driving wind behind the cloud.

The tide had turned more than an hour ago. The fish had stopped biting. I kicked aside empty Bud bottles then propped my feet up on my Igloo cooler. Closing my eyes, I let my pole hang loose in my hands. I drifted in mind and body with no awareness of time passing. The realization it had cooled off and become darker brought me back. I opened my eyes and saw a mist surrounding me.

The cloud.

I was in the middle of it. Visibility was down to zero. The density of moisture baffled the sounds of seagulls and overhead jets. I felt like the weight of the world had settled on my chest.

A shard of panic sliced through me and immediately dissolved. I was anchored out of the channel by buoy 24. I wasn’t lost. I wasn’t in danger of collision with another boat. Still, the eerie moment made my insecurities fight with my common sense.

It must have been late; the low-riding sun gave a pinkish tinge to the mist that obscured familiar landmarks. The tall pines standing sentry at the mouth of the Severn River had disappeared. The tide had gone out. Thank God for my GPS. Without it, I’d never be able to make it back without grounding myself in the shallows.

I almost decided to wait out the cloud, let it pass on before heading home but the pink turned to purple and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before the sun would drop out of sight. A vague anxiety settled into the pit of my stomach. I had always had a fear of being on the water at night.

I started the Mercury, turning my Chris Craft until the bar lined up with the first coordinate on the GPS. I pushed the throttle bar forward. The engine roared. The bow rose with the initial thrust then immediately settled back on the resulting swell as the engine died.

What the hell?

I turned the key, pushing the throttle forward only to have it kick my arm back with tremendous force. Swallowing hard, I refused to panic and once again twisted the key.

The engine caught and purred, soothing my fear with its deep rumble. I gripped the throttle, giving it a slight nudge. It seemed frozen. I pushed again with all my might. The damned thing wouldn’t move. The engine, stuck in neutral, took on a disjointed grumbling like the sound of a distant conversation. Words, but not quite. I listened intently, thinking perhaps another boat had drifted close and I was hearing its occupants.

“Helloooo,” I called, cupping my hands to my mouth. The discordant mutterings became more coherent, but not enough for me to make out the actual words. I fished for my flashlight. It was dead. Beating it on the palm of my hand didn’t make it work. I’d replaced the batteries before leaving the house this morning.

“Hey, out there! Anyone hear me?” Apprehension turned into panic as the mist darkened to charcoal, stealing most of my immediate visibility. I had no running lights, no aft lights. If there was a boat nearby, it could easily run into me. My fumbling attempts to find the air horn, on board somewhere, failed.

Rocking swells turned into converging waves. My boat skittered sideways. I lurched and slipped; my left leg flew out, slamming my bare toes into the steel seat pedestal. Dropping to the deck, I sat, bracing my forehead against my knees while my stomach turned inside out and my foot throbbed. My chest heaved and I broke into a cold sweat. That’s when I thought I heard something.

“Michael.”

Relief rushed my system with such force I almost passed out. There was someone out there who apparently recognized my boat. Someone knew I was here. I’d be okay.

I lifted my head and heaved to my feet, grateful to find the mist had risen to a cloud hanging above my head, taking some of the darkness with it. But to my puzzlement there were no boats in the fast-clearing visibility.

I’d heard my name. I knew I wasn’t hallucinating.

My attention was drawn to the cloud above me, whirling faster and faster yet staying over my boat. Visions of the waterspout that killed my precious family had me thinking briefly it had come back for me. A sense of righteousness had every muscle in my body going lax and lazy. I wouldn’t mind one bit, joining them.

“Michael.”

There it was again. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. This time I thought I recognized the voice, but it couldn’t be. I frantically looked around, seeking something, anything that would give the sound a rational origin.

Then I knew. My Lenore had come for me. The swirling mist took on her features, solidifying into that beloved face. Her heavy mane of hair, her slashing brows, her beautiful mouth. It was smiling.

I scrambled onto the bow, preparing to be swept into the water. I stood, my arms flung wide, whether to embrace Death or Lenore, I still don’t know.

As if in slow motion, she mouthed my name, her lips settling back into place before the word insinuated itself into my mind.

Then, like evaporating steam, she was gone.

And I was left alone once more.

For the first time since she left me, I bawled like a baby.