Why do mobiles only ring when you’re busy? I pick up.
“Happy
Birthday.”
I know that voice. It rips skin off teeth faster than Tequila Slammer after curry. The
tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Dumbstruck, body heat going ballistic, I’m
sucking air like someone’s cut the planet’s oxygen supply.
“How are you
today? Have you had lots of cards? Sorry I’ve not sent you one this year.”
Mother, you never did! I want to scream,
but nothing comes out. Reality check - vital! I’m hearing my
mother’s voice. Impossible, the Big M died eighteen months ago. Today
is my birthday, so who is this insensitive bitch and why is she playing a sick
joke on me?
Anger restores my voice. “I’m absolutely fine,” I answer trying to
make light of the situation, but there’s a volcano bubbling inside me.
I can't hold back my temper for much longer. I manages to stqueak, “Where are you?”
“In the body where
you left me, you silly goose,” she answers as if I'm supposed to know, “but in
spirit, now that’s another tale.”
The “silly goose”
jolts me. I hated it when she was alive. Big M knew it and often used it to
wind me up. But who else knows? Fury level topping the scale, I rip the phone from my ear and eyeball the screen - caller
unknown. The sick bitch isn’t going to be caught out so easily. I change
tack. “What’s the weather like at your end?”
“It’s daylight
so I’m inside, but the last time I looked, cold and dismal. I won’t be surprised
to see snow.”
Head pressed
against the window pane of my pokey studio flat, I do a weather check. Damn it,
she’s right. A few wispy flakes melt as they touch ground. So, perhaps she
isn’t far away. “How’s your chest?” I ask to test her.
“Better since I
stopped the foul medication. Pain’s completely gone.”
“Good,” I
pretend I’m pleased. Big M died of lung disease, true, too young, but she did
fag forty a day. This phone jerk knows too much. “So, what’s this about your
spirit?”
“Do you know
dear, I’m so glad you asked. You see, I’ve not been able to talk to a soul about
it, and it’s not for the lack of trying. They don’t understand.”
“Understand
what? That you get off pretending to be the dead relative of an unsuspecting mortal?”
“I don’t!”
“Liar, come on, pretending
you’re dead turns you on, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know what
you mean.”
I grin. I’m
making progress. Once I’ve crank up her annoyance meter, she’ll forget to
imitate Big M’s voice and slip into her usual speak. “Oh, so you really are my
mother speaking to me from beyond the grave via SpiritCom, or whatever network
the dead subscribe to in the afterlife.”
“Well really darling,”
she scoffs and sounds frightening like Big M cornered. Full marks to this
weirdo, she’s done her homework. “So, if you are calling me from beyond the
grave, what’s it like?”
“What’s what
like?”
“Life after
death!” I scream.
