The Matchmaker's Medium (13 page)

“Till I get it right. Which is probably gonna be never. So don’t get yourself all worked up, foxy thang.”

I scrambled through her purse (
so much crap in here
) and finally managed to grab onto my phone. Dialing the number, I sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn’t yet be asleep from all his ‘exertions’.

“Nah, he’s still up. Get him hip to the groove, so we can make it right.”

“Hey, there, Esteban. Long time no talk to,” I said, when he answered with a sleepy-sounding ‘hello’.

“Hey, you. Do you miss me already? Wanna make it round three?”

“That would be great, but I have something else to tell you.”

“Oh, this sounds kind of serious. Okay, let me get serious with you,” he cleared his throat, scratched his face across the phone a couple of times, then finally came back on the line. “Ready.”

Oh, Lord, give me strength.

“Remember that story about Marcus?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Sad.”

“Right. Well, there’s a little, um, problem.”

“With what?”

“With you.”

“Me.”

“Well, not exactly
you
, but—God, this is all wrong. Okay, remember Victoria?”

“Yeah, the chunky southern lady with the wrecked car?”

“Her, yeah. Well, remember the whole ‘the ghost of her grandma keeps showing up’ thing?”

“Oh, yeah. You never did tell me why that was happening.”

“Because I didn’t know. But now I do.”

“Good, cuz that was gonna keep me up all night.”

Smartass,
I thought, smiling to myself.

“Ha-ha. Anyway, her grandma’s ghost kept trying to warn her because—well, the kid who killed Trevor is working at your shop.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I asked, after a few minutes.

“Oh, I was waiting for the rest of the joke,” he said.

“Esteban, it’s not a joke. It’s the truth.”

“I don’t have any killer kids working at my shop. Just a bunch of hard-workin’ stiffs who are trying to make a living.”

“Well, he’s not a
kid
anymore, I guess he’d be about—“I looked at Jamal, who answered with upturned hands and a shrug.
No help there
. I counted on my fingers: let’s see, 2009, so about 4 years ago—“maybe 18 or 19 years old.”

He was silent again. Hopefully, trying to figure out which guy it was, so we could call in the feds or something.

“Where was this guy from, again?”

“The D.C. area; Trevor and his family lived in Northeast, and this kid was their neighbor, so, yeah. Not a great neighborhood.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. He was a minor, so they never showed his face or picture or anything. They never even released his name.”

“Then how the
hell—
you know what, maybe this isn’t a good time to have this conversation, Amber.”

I felt a cold shiver creeping its way up my spine, around to my stomach, into my upper chest. Like an icicle flowing through my veins, slowly making its way to my heart.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“Not mad, really, just annoyed, I guess. I mean, how do you know this killer kid guy is working in my shop? You don’t even know what he looks like, or what his real name is.”

The icicle had reached my heart, and a splinter had broken off to wend its way higher, to my throat.

“I, but, you know about my gift—“

“Sure, but you just tell people their love match and crap like that, right?”

Seriously?

Now, I felt the pleasant burn of my best friend—anger—arrive just in time to melt the iciness trying to take over my body.

“No, that’s not all I do. Which is a damn good thing, because I obviously don’t even know how to choose my
own
love match, do I.” The fiery warmth of my rising fury was nice, compared to the fear of dealing with some new guy’s
issues
.

“Whoa, look at you, all hostile again.”

We said nothing for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts, fears, and insecurities. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Well, that about wraps it up for the day, huh?”

“Sure does,” I said, pushing the ‘end’ button.
I sure do miss the physical satisfaction of slamming a phone down when I hang up on a douche like that.

“Now you know how great it was back in
my day
,” Jamal said, with a new shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.

“Why are you so happy? That idiot doesn’t believe me, so now we have a child murderer at the local repair shop. It’s like a bonus service that people will want—
never
.”

I tossed the phone in my purse, purposely listening to the
buzz-buzz
of an incoming call, until it stopped.

“Was that a call?”

“Yeah, so what?” I said, stomping down the hall to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower and wash this
stink
off me. So
stay out
you big perv!” I slammed the bathroom door.

Jamal smiled really, really big, and did one of his signature disco-dance moves.

“It’s dyno-MIIIITE!” he shouted, hands to the air like a religious man.

Today is turning out to be pretty damn good,
he thought, settling himself onto the couch, waiting for his sexy mama to get out of the shower.

Chapter Eleven

Fresh out of the shower, in clean clothes and completely lotioned, body spritzed, deodorized, hair sprayed, and brushed, I felt much better.

“Hoo-wee! Look at you, shinin’ all over the place!” Jamal was waiting in the living room, one arm draped on the top of the couch. He patted the cushion with his free hand, “Come sit next to me, pretty lady.”

I frowned a little, trying
not
to think anything.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his smile fading a little.

“Why are you acting so weird?” I asked, sitting on the love seat, instead.

He got up and walked over to join me.

“You can stand.”

“Why?”

“Until you tell me what the heck is going on with you. Moving things, hiding stuff, being all happy when I have to break it off with my new lover.” I saw him wince a little at the last word. “See? That’s what I mean. Why does that bother you?”

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about, stop playing stupid. The word ‘lover’. Why did it make you cringe like that?”

He walked away from me, towards the kitchen.

Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a soap opera?
I thought.

“Maybe because you’re acting like a whore.”

What the—

“What did you just say to me?” I jumped up off the love seat, looking for something to throw it him, until I remembered he was a ghost and that wouldn’t do anything.

“Look, girl, you and I both know you were diggin’ me till this—this—Ricky Ricardo fool came along.”

“Ricky Ricardo is a fake guy on a black-and-white sitcom in the fifties, who was from
Cuba
, you dope.”

“That’s just geography, baby,” he said, coming around to meet me. “Come on, you don’t need that man draggin’ you down, just be
cool
with it. We could do so much together.”

“Oh? Oh, really? And what could we actually
do
together, Jamal? In case you forgot,
you’re dead!
” I screamed, jabbing my finger into the thin air that should’ve been his face.

“That don’t matter, does it? I mean, one of us could just cross over to the other side, then we could be together.”

“Cross over? Wait, you’re already a ghost, and I’m alive, so you think I’m supposed to—are you completely
insane
?”

“I know you might be scared right now, but what else do you have to live for? Being a matchmaker for miserable people? Spending all your time talking to the dead, instead of living your life?”

I felt betrayed, shocked, appalled.
He really thinks I’m supposed to die for him?

“Well, yeah,” he said, holding his hand out to me, in a ‘come with me’ move straight out of the soaps.
Good lord, so cliché.

“I wouldn’t be with you, even if you were alive, or I was already dead. Face it, Jamal. The only thing you’re good for is being a
dead—pimp—ghost.
” I shoved my finger into what would’ve been his chest on each of the last three words, and I might be crazy, but it seemed like he actually
flinched
each time I did it.

His smile dropped, making his face look a little saggy and kind of old-ish. Then it turned into a sneering, lips pulled back, rage-filled mask of hate.

“What the hell did you just say, you
bitch
?”

Uh-oh. Shit.

I darted away from him, running around the furniture like a kid playing freeze tag, weaving in and out of the familiar layout. After a few minutes, I felt my sleepless night fall onto me like a tangible weight, huge in its effect.
Wait, he can’t hurt me, he’s a ghost, for cryin’ out loud.
With that, I stopped.

Breath heaving in and out, I silently vowed to get back in shape (
yeah, right
), bending over, hands on my knees, trying to get more oxygen into my lungs.

“Not so fast, white girl.”

I heard a scraping-sliding sound, just behind me, quickly developing into a huge rumble. Turning around, I saw the huge dark cherry wood entertainment center coming after me.

“What the hell?” I blurted, then took off running, again.

Oh my God, he really
can
move things. How long has he been doing this?

“Couple of
years
,” he boasted, smiling with pride, as the couch joined in the pursuit.

“Would you knock it
off,
already? How do expect to win me over? By assault with deadly
furniture
?” I yelled, trying to maneuver around the love seat, while simultaneously expecting it to jump up and run after me.

“Nah, I just figured I’ll crush you to death, then you can join me over on my side. Hang out in
my
crib for a minute.”

Oh, my God, he’s serious.

I raced around to the front table, desperately trying to get to my phone, but it floated out of my purse, hung there for a second or two, then flew across the room and crashed into the wall, falling to the floor in a bunch of tiny pieces.

Well, that’s gonna
kill
my replacement deductible,
I thought automatically.

“Your what?” he asked, confused.

“Never you mind, you big seventies
dummy
!”

Knock-knock.

“Amber? Is everything okay in there?”

Esteban!

“No! Come in! Help me!”

Banging on the door, rattling the knob.

“I can’t, it’s locked!”

I didn’t lock the door.

“I did,” Jamal said, casually strolling over to the door, turning to look at her, then disappearing through it to the outside.

“Showoff!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The furniture dropped back to the floor, no longer the sorcerer’s apprentice-type of possessed furniture out to kill me.

“NOW!” I shouted, hoping Esteban would understand.

He did.

The door cracked and splintered as he burst into the house, the door knob still in his hand. He looked down at it, surprised, and tossed it to the floor, running over to me.

I grabbed him, clutching at him with all of my strength, terrified to let go.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

Where the hell is Jamal?

“He trapped me in here! He was trying to kill me so I would, you know, be his
chick
forever!”

“What? Who? Did you hit your head?” he was looking all around the room, while trying to scan my face for scrapes or bruises.

“No, I didn’t hit my head. The story I told you about Marcus—I left something out.”

“Yeah, what?”

“The ghost that helped me, Jamal?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s still here.”

Esteban pushed away from me, protectively shoving me behind him, looking desperately around the room to see where the threat might be coming from.

“You won’t be able to see him, Esteban.”

“So, this ghost-guy,
Jamal
, has been around since the Marcus thing? For almost four
years
?”

“Um, well, it might be a little longer than that, even.”

“How
much
longer?”

“Since October 2008.”

“Almost half a
decade
?”

“Yep.”

“Talk about leaving out the important details,” he said, walking around the room, looking under and behind stuff, like he might find Jamal hiding there. “Were you rearranging your furniture or something?”

She laughed, in spite of the fear and worry. “No, Jamal was actually making the furniture chase me.”

He turned to look at me, incredulous doubt written all over his face, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know it sounds uber-retarded, but—“

“No, no, I get it. One of those obsessive-love ghost things. I’m down with it.”

I giggled. Then I remembered Jamal was still missing.

“I don’t know where he went. I don’t trust it.”

“I’m right here, girl.”

He was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. I considered my options, without forming an actual thought, then started crying.

Obviously, Jamal didn’t expect that, because he jumped right into my line of sight and asked, “Hey, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to make you cry, stop that.”

I instantly shut off the waterworks, cut my eyes to Esteban as if to say ‘move back’, and yanked an old talisman hanging on a thin string around my neck out of my blouse.

“Go back to the other side, Jamal!” I yelled, holding it directly in front of his face.

At first, he just looked at me. Then he started laughing.

“What’s that? Some junk jewelry from the mall? You gotta be kidding!” he roared with laughter, ghost-tears shining on his cheeks.

I kept holding it, smiling a sweet, secret smile. Like I was waiting for something.

“Are you all right, Amber?” Esteban asked, standing over by the front door.

“I will be in a minute,” I answered, my voice steady and confident.

What Jamal didn’t know, and I purposely expelled from my mind, was the ancient secret of those with the ‘gift’ (or the mark, or whatever name it had): ghosts don’t actually belong on earth. So, presenting them with something that exists inside and outside of this earth—simultaneously—forces their stubborn soul to go where it belongs.

Suddenly, Jamal began to shiver and look a little fuzzy. He instantly stopped laughing, wiping the tears from his face, his eyes widening with the horrific realization of what was happening.

“No, Amber, wait, I was just playin’ with ya, we can keep things the way they are!”

He pleaded with me, as he faded, sputtering and crackling like eggs frying on a hot pan, until finally—he was gone.

Sighing, I lowered my hand, letting the talisman fall back down onto my chest. Then I started crying, for my lost friend.