Bethany Marie Whitaker: A Ghost's Story

Yep. Finally happened.

I'm dead.

And would you look at my mother's face?

Confusion. Sadness. Horror. All three fighting for space on the face of the woman who brought me into this world seventeen years ago. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes are swollen, and she's staring at me like somebody just handed her the worst news in the history of ever.

Which, technically, they have.

Now, before you start thinking I'm some coldhearted, ungrateful, biscuit-brained little heathen, let me explain.

I love my mother. Always have. Always will. Even when whatever supernatural authority is responsible for this floating foolishness finally releases me into eternity, I suspect I'll still be loving that woman from whatever celestial zip code they assign me.

Mama is my person. My ride-or-die. My emergency contact, personal banker, unpaid chauffeur, and the only human being on Earth who can tell me to shut my mouth with one raised eyebrow.

So don't get it twisted.

Seeing her like this is tearing me apart, which is an interesting sensation considering I no longer have any functioning internal organs.

But if I'm being completely posthumously honest, I wish this were my daddy's face I was staring into.

Oh, wouldn't that be a glorious sight?

Bernard Whitaker, standing over my dearly departed remains, looking like somebody just informed him that his luxury automobile had been repossessed by the Almighty.

I'd pay good money to see that.

Well, I would if dead people had pockets.

Or money.

Or any legitimate means of employment.

What in the heavenly hush puppies?

Instead, here I am, watching the one parent who showed up for me fall apart, while the other one is probably somewhere polishing the hood of his precious BMW, completely unaware that his firstborn child has officially checked out of the land of the living.

My mother, Vivienne DuBois, is the sweetest, most trusting woman ever to walk the face of this suspicious little planet.

And I do mean trusting.

Somebody could sell Mama a jar of ocean water, tell her it was imported from the Mediterranean, and she'd thank them for going all that way to get it.

She's been naive since birth. I suspect the doctor slapped her on the backside, apologized, and she forgave him before he finished explaining himself.

And somehow, this woman raised me.

Me!

Bethany Marie Whitaker.

BMW.

Yes. Like the car.

And before you start thinking my parents were sophisticated automobile enthusiasts, allow me to ruin that illusion.

I was conceived in the backseat of my father's BMW.

Classy, right?

Seventeen years ago, my mother apparently mistook leather upholstery, tinted windows, and a man with questionable intentions for the beginning of a beautiful love story.

Nine months later, here came Bethany Marie Whitaker.

BMW.

Mama says my father insisted on the initials because he thought it was hilarious.

Personally, I think naming your child after the vehicle in which you committed your most irresponsible act of recreational foolishness ought to be punishable by community service.

But what do I know?

I'm dead.

Seventeen years of attitude, suspicion, and an exceptionally advanced vocabulary of words that technically aren't profanity but probably ought to be.

Mama believes everybody has some good in them.

I believe everybody has some foolishness in them, and I'm usually the first person to identify it.

Take Bernard Whitaker, for example.

Mama says, "Bethany, your father probably had his reasons."

Reasons?

REASONS?

Seventeen years, Mama!

That man has missed more birthdays, school programs, and scraped knees than I care to count, demonstrating the emotional intelligence of a refrigerated turnip.

He's been about as useful as a dead fish in a swimming pool. At least the fish has the decency to float where you can find it.

Bernard? That biological booger disappears so often he ought to have his own picture on a milk carton.

But Mama still says, "We shouldn't judge people, baby."

Well, somebody has to, Vivienne.

And apparently, the responsibility has fallen to me.

And that, my friends, is about to become Bernard's problem.

See, Bernard has spent years pretending I don't exist whenever it suits him. Well, congratulations, Daddy Dearest! Now I actually don't.

But don't get your chrome-plated, biscuit-bottomed hopes up just yet.

Because apparently, being dead comes with certain privileges, and I intend to exercise every last one of them.

Starting with you, Bernard.

Toot-toot, you paternal pimplepopper!

BMW is coming, and this time, I'm riding shotgun.

The last time I waited for Bernard Whitaker to keep a promise, I was eleven years old.

Now, don't misunderstand me. Bernard hadn't always been a missing person in the Whitaker family archives. There was a time when the man actually showed up, usually smelling like expensive cologne and looking like he'd just stepped out of an advertisement for something nobody in our household could afford.

He was there when I lost my first tooth. Gave me a twenty-dollar bill and told me the tooth fairy had increased her rates because of inflation. I believed him, naturally. I was six, not an economist.

He attended my first spelling bee, too. Sat in the second row wearing sunglasses indoors, which Mama thought made him look sophisticated and I thought made him look like somebody avoiding a subpoena.

I won that spelling bee, by the way.

Onomatopoeia.

O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-O-E-I-A.

Thank you very much.

Bernard clapped so loudly that the principal turned around to look at him. Afterward, he lifted me into the air and called me his little genius.

I believed in him.

For a moment.

You see, Bernard had a peculiar talent for appearing just often enough to convince Mama that everything was going to be different. He'd arrive with flowers, compliments, and some ridiculous explanation for why he'd been unavailable for the previous three months. Mama would straighten her hair, put on lipstick, and start smiling at her telephone like it had personally proposed marriage.

And just like that, Vivienne DuBois would disappear.

Not physically, of course. She'd still be standing in our kitchen, stirring spaghetti sauce or folding towels, but her mind would be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with Bernard, imagining a future that never seemed to make it past the weekend.

I used to wonder whether grown women could lose their common sense the way children lost their baby teeth.

The difference was that nobody ever left Mama twenty dollars under her pillow when hers went missing.

By eleven, I'd learned to recognize the warning signs. Fresh flowers. New perfume. That dreamy little smile whenever Bernard called her Vivi.

Lord, that nickname.

Vivi.

It sounded like something you'd name a miniature poodle with a bladder problem.

But Mama loved it.

And because Mama loved it, I tolerated it.

Until the day of my regional Knowledge Bowl championship.

I was team captain, which meant I was responsible for keeping four other eleven-year-olds from collapsing into intellectual foolishness whenever somebody mentioned fractions, geography, or the periodic table.

I'd studied for months, memorizing enough obscure facts to make me a deeply irritating dinner companion.

Mama promised to be there.

Bernard did, too.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, princess."

The competition was already underway when Mama slipped into the auditorium.

Alone.

I searched the doorway behind her, hoping Bernard might be following.

He wasn't.

Then, somewhere between identifying the capital of Mongolia and explaining the difference between a simile and a metaphor, I glanced toward Mama.

She wasn't watching me.

She was looking at her phone.

Smiling.

And I knew that smile.

Bernard.

There I was, answering questions about the world, while my mother was too busy smiling at a man who couldn't be bothered to show up in mine.

We won the championship.

Naturally.

I accepted the trophy, shook the superintendent's hand, and smiled for the photographs.

Mama came rushing toward me afterward, waving her telephone and announcing that Bernard had called with a perfectly reasonable explanation.

"Mama, did you see me win?"

"Of course I did, baby."

"What was the final question?"

Silence.

I could've let her off the hook. I could've hugged her, accepted the explanation, and pretended everything was fine.

But I was eleven years old, holding a championship trophy, and tired of being the only person in our family who understood what showing up actually meant.

"Sometimes, Mama, I think you love him more than you love me."

Now, before you start feeling sorry for little eleven-year-old me, save your sympathy. That ship has sailed, sunk, and apparently taken me down with it.

Besides, I'm not eleven anymore. I'm seventeen, deceased, and no longer accepting excuses from Bernard Whitaker.

For years, that man appeared and disappeared whenever it suited him. Well, guess what, Daddy Dearest? Two can play that game.

Only this time, I'm the one doing the appearing.

And disappearing.

Oh, the possibilities!

Ladies, gentlemen, and whatever unfortunate souls may be listening from the great beyond, allow me to formally announce my ghosthood.

Bethany Marie Whitaker has entered her haunting era.

And Bernard?

Your little princess is coming to collect.

Bernard took the news of my death rather hard.

For approximately eleven minutes.

I know because I watched him arrive at Mama's house looking like somebody had personally unplugged the sun. His eyes were red, his shoulders slumped, and he kept repeating, "My baby. My beautiful baby."

Well, well, well.

Look who suddenly remembered he had one.

Mama opened the door, and Bernard collapsed into her arms with enough theatrical enthusiasm to qualify for a supporting role in a Tyler Perry production.

"Vivi, I don't know how I'm going to live with this."

Interesting question, Bernard, considering how often you managed without giving my existence much consideration.

Mama held him while he cried. And I watched, perched comfortably on the arm of the sofa, waiting to see whether grief might accomplish what seventeen years of fatherhood had not.

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Then Bernard lifted his head.

"Vivi, baby, I hate to bring this up at a time like this, but have you thought about how you're going to handle the expenses?"

Mama wiped her eyes. "What expenses, Bernard?"

"The arrangements. Everything. You know how these things can add up."

"Bethany's arrangements are taken care of."

He nodded slowly, rubbing his chin.

"That's good. That's real good. You always were a responsible woman, Vivi."

Oh, here we go.

He moved closer to her on the sofa.

"Did you have some kind of policy on her? Life insurance or something?"

Excuse me?

Mama looked at him.

"Bernard, our daughter is dead."

"I know, baby. I know. I'm just trying to make sure you're protected."

Protected?

From what, Bernard? A sudden outbreak of financial responsibility?

He reached for Mama's hand, stroking her fingers with his thumb.

"Listen, Vivi, you shouldn't have to handle all this alone. Maybe it's time we started thinking about us again."

US?

The nerve.

The unmitigated, gold-plated, double-breasted NERVE!

My mother was sitting there mourning the only child she'd ever had, and Bernard Whitaker was attempting to resurrect a romance while conducting a preliminary insurance investigation.

I looked at Mama.

She looked at Bernard.

Then she gently removed her hand from his.

"I think you should go."

Oh!

Well, slap a halo on Vivienne DuBois and call her Saint Common Sense!

Bernard blinked. "Vivi, sweetheart—"

"Please, Bernard."

He stood, straightened his jacket, and gave her one final wounded look before heading toward the door.

And just like that, the grieving father had left the building.

I followed him outside.

He climbed into his precious BMW, adjusted his rearview mirror, and checked his reflection.

Then he reached into the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses.

Red eyes concealed. Hair smoothed. Collar straightened.

The resurrection of Bernard Whitaker was complete.

I settled into the passenger seat and crossed my ghostly arms.

"Well, Daddy Dearest, since you're so concerned about arrangements, let's discuss yours."

He started the engine.

I smiled.

Oh, this was going to be delicious.

Bernard backed out of the driveway, humming some ridiculous little tune as though he hadn't just attempted to turn his daughter's death into a financial opportunity.

I watched him adjust the air conditioning, straighten his sunglasses, and answer his ringing telephone.

"Hey, beautiful."

Beautiful?

Oh, this ought to be educational.

"Nah, baby, I'm fine. Just had to handle some family business."

Family business?

I beg your premium-leather pardon!

"Listen, I'll meet you in twenty minutes."

He ended the call and turned up the radio.

And that's when I decided to introduce myself.

Not formally, of course. Bernard hadn't earned that privilege.

I reached toward the dashboard, and the radio switched stations.

Gospel.

Loud gospel.

A choir was announcing that somebody needed to get their house in order.

How appropriate.

Bernard frowned and changed the station.

I changed it back.

He changed it again.

I returned him to the choir, which had apparently reached the portion of the service where everybody was encouraged to repent immediately.

"What the hell?"

Language, Bernard! There are children present.

Well, formerly.

He switched off the radio.

I switched it back on.

This time, the choir was accompanied by a thunderous organ and a woman who sounded personally acquainted with every sin Bernard had ever committed.

He slapped the dashboard.

"What's wrong with this stupid car?"

Oh, nothing, Daddy. The car is fine.

It's your passenger who's experiencing technical difficulties with forgiveness.

Then I noticed his telephone.

A message flashed across the screen.

Beautiful: Can't wait to see you, handsome.

I considered my options.

And because I have always believed in responding promptly to correspondence, I dictated a little reply.

Unfortunately, Bernard is currently occupied with the consequences of his poor decisions.

Send.

The telephone chimed.

Bernard glanced down.

"What?"

Another message appeared.

Who is this?

I smiled.

Excellent question, madam.

Bernard grabbed the phone, nearly swerving into the next lane.

"Who sent that?"

I leaned toward his ear.

"Your daughter."

The BMW lurched.

Bernard slammed on the brakes and stared at the empty passenger seat.

For the first time in my seventeen years, I had my father's undivided attention.

"Bethany?"

Well, butter my biscuits.

He remembered my name.

I let the silence stretch just long enough for him to question his sanity, his hearing, and possibly his relationship with the Almighty.

Then I whispered again.

"Hello, Daddy."

Bernard's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

A remarkable development for a man who had spent his entire adult life talking his way out of responsibility.

"You're dead," he finally whispered.

"Congratulations! You've answered the first question correctly. Would you like to continue to the bonus round?"

He clutched the steering wheel.

"This isn't happening."

"Oh, it's happening, Bernard. And unlike you, I intend to stick around."

He closed his eyes and began praying.

Praying!

The man hadn't shown up for my Knowledge Bowl championship, but apparently he could find time for a private consultation with Jesus on the side of the highway.

"Lord, please protect me."

"From what, Bernard? Your own child?"

"Bethany, baby, I'm sorry!"

There it was.

Seventeen years, one funeral announcement, and a malfunctioning radio later, Bernard Whitaker had finally located the word sorry.

I considered letting him suffer a little longer.

Believe me, the temptation was enormous.

But then I remembered Mama sitting on that sofa, wiping her eyes while Bernard questioned her about insurance policies.

And suddenly, the joke wasn't quite as funny.

"You know what I wanted, Bernard?"

He swallowed.

"What, baby?"

"Not your money. Not your car. Not even your ridiculous twenty-dollar tooth fairy contributions."

I paused.

"I wanted you to show up."

Bernard lowered his head.

"I know."

"No, you don't. You showed up when it was convenient. When Mama was pretty and smiling and willing to believe whatever nonsense came out of your mouth. But when things got difficult, you disappeared."

He said nothing.

"And today, when she needed somebody to hold her together, you tried to find out whether my death came with a check."

"Bethany, I wasn't—"

"Don't."

One word.

That's all it took.

For once, Bernard Whitaker listened.

"I loved you, Daddy."

His shoulders began to shake.

"And the worst part is, sometimes I think you loved me, too. Just never enough to stay."

I watched him cry.

Really cry.

No audience. No Vivienne to comfort him. No woman waiting to be charmed. Just Bernard Whitaker and the daughter he'd spent years disappointing.

And I realized something rather inconvenient.

Making him miserable wasn't going to bring me back.

It wasn't going to give me another birthday, another spelling bee, or another chance to sit beside Mama eating butter pecan ice cream.

But perhaps it could give him one thing he'd avoided all his life.

The truth.

"Go back to Mama," I told him.

He looked toward the empty seat.

"Bethany?"

"Not to ask for money. Not to whisper sweet foolishness in her ear. Go back and apologize. Tell her you were wrong. And for heaven's sake, Bernard, don't call her Vivi."

He laughed through his tears.

A small, broken sound.

"Okay, princess."

I considered correcting him.

But for once, I let it go.

He started the engine and turned the car toward home.

I settled back into the passenger seat, feeling strangely lighter.

Not that I had much weight to begin with, considering my current condition.

And as Bernard drove, I caught my reflection in the window.

There I was.

Bethany Marie Whitaker.

Seventeen years old.

Deceased.

Still exceptionally intelligent.

And apparently quite gifted at supernatural automotive maintenance.

Now, don't misunderstand me. One apology does not erase seventeen years of disappointment, and I wasn't about to award Bernard a Father of the Year trophy for finally developing a conscience.

But it was a beginning.

And if he disappointed Mama again?

Well.

I knew where he parked.

Yep. I'm dead.

But Bernard Whitaker?

He's finally going to have to live with me.