Writing Vagabond Heart: My Encounter With a Ghost

I’ve never seen a ghost. While I won’t contradict others who say they have, my pragmatic nature leans toward cynicism when I think of Ouija boards, séances, and the Amityville Horror. I always knew someone was moving the pointer during a Ouija board session because I was the one doing it.

During my research for Vagabond Heart, my wife and I stayed at the La Posada Hotel in Winslow, Arizona. You know, the town where Jackson Browne stood on the corner decades before and wrote “Take It Easy” with Eagles front man Glenn Frey. (Youngsters, look it up.) La Posada, which means “The Resting Place,” is one of the most amazing places I’ve visited. I could feel the stress sloughing off my shoulders as we wandered through the gardens toward the front door. If there was ever an oasis to rejuvenate, reflect, or write, it’s La Posada.

It was nearly destroyed twenty years ago, but a French millionaire and his artist wife saved it from the wrecking ball. They recreated the vision of Mary Jane Colter, the female architect who’d designed La Posada in the 1920’s. Since its rebirth, many have claimed it was haunted. In fact, a week before we were to leave on our research trip, I read an article about haunted hotels along Route 66. La Posada was mentioned, and I couldn’t know it then, but it foreshadowed my one and only ghostly encounter.

We were there one night, on our way to Colorado for a friend’s wedding. We spent much of the afternoon exploring little Winslow (cute!) and wandering through the many public rooms of La Posada. After dinner we ventured toward the art gallery of Tina Mion. Ms. Mion is one of the owners and her artistic flare can be seen throughout La Posada. Her artwork is over the top, macabre satire on contemporary life and issues. One of her most notable paintings is titled New Year’s Eve in Purgatory. In hindsight, a ghostly encounter shouldn’t have surprised me.

The gallery was dark except for the individual art lights that illuminated each canvas. The effect was chilling but matched the tone of the paintings. My wife and I were the only ones in the gallery, and the quiet was numbing. We slowly strolled past each painting, commenting on Mion’s talent or laughing at her unique perspective. Who wouldn’t laugh at George W. Bush depicted as the Cowardly Lion?

Toward the back of the gallery was a 3-D display. A floor rug lay in front of a painting (whose content I don’t remember). On the rug was a rocking. Since it was part of the art, we stepped carefully around the rug as we moved on. I saw a sliver of light to the left, beyond an alcove just past the display. While I ventured toward the light, which led to another wing of rooms, my wife moved to the next picture.

And that’s when we heard it. Creeeeaaaak. It was loud and broke the absolute silence we’d enjoyed during our tour. I immediately ducked back into the main room and looked at my wife. “What was that?” I asked. She was staring at the rocking chair. She pointed and said, “It moved. Like someone got out of the chair.”

I can’t describe the expression on my face or what I said next because everything blurred. I grabbed Amy’s hand and we skeedaddled down the corridor I’d found and headed back to a more populated area. After immersing ourselves in the presence of other human beings, we finally went upstairs to our room and prepared for bed. Tucked under the covers, I glanced about the room, wondering if spirits traveled about or if they were confined to certain spaces. It took an hour or two before I finally fell asleep (fortunately, ghost-free).

That night was certainly memorable, and Vagabond Heart includes a fictionalized account of our experience. Ghosts are just one example of the colorful characters found on Route 66, which serves as the backdrop for this romantic comedy. Because hey, who doesn’t need a good laugh about now?

Chapter One

"Do it, you damn son of a bitch! Make my wife a rich woman!"

Quinn O'Sullivan charged out of her ground floor apartment and looked up at the unfolding scene. Her construction foreman, DD, hung over the crumbling second-story railing. The electrical subcontractor, known only as Buzz, hovered over him, ready to shove him off. She raced up the cement stairs. Other members of her crew ran to help.

She reached Buzz first. His small black eyes dared her to do something. While she wasn't a petite woman, Buzz had her by at least a hundred pounds, much of it muscle in his arms. If she tried to attack him, she'd probably wind up over the railing with DD. Emboldened by the appearance of Rod, her drywaller, she grabbed a nearby nail gun. Just as Buzz let go of DD, Rod grabbed DD's hand—and Quinn fired a nail into Buzz's foot.

He wailed in agony and fell to his knees. Quinn and her crew circled DD to make sure he was okay. He nodded and glared at a moaning Buzz.

"What happened?" Quinn shouted.

DD ran his hand through his thick brown hair. He was wiry and muscular, but his soft features betrayed his lack of masculinity. "He asked if I had a real dick. I said I did and I knew my penis was bigger than his because I'd ordered an extra large. Then I compared his to a Little Smokey sausage." Buzz started to shout as the rest of the crew laughed, but DD held up a hand to hold their attention. "Actually, that's not correct. First I compared his to a Vienna sausage, but he didn't know what that was." The crew howled and Quinn couldn't stop the chuckle that burst out of her. While her crew had no problem with DD being a transgendered male, some of the subcontractors couldn't get past it.

"My foot! Do something!" Buzz wailed.

"Shut up!" DD ordered. "It doesn't hurt half as much as it will when they pull that nail out," he gloated.

"I got it all on film," Ward said.

"Good," Quinn said. "Send it to me."

"On it, boss."

He was the youngest and most tech savvy of the crew, barely eighteen, with dark Filipino good looks.

Quinn crossed her arms. "All right, Buzz. Time to go to the ER. Since the elevator isn't working yet, you'll have to hobble down these stairs. I imagine it's gonna hurt like hell."

When they lifted him up, he emitted a horrific cry, and the crew scowled at him. Crying was frowned upon by the construction trade in general, but Buzz was crying at a level reserved only for those who accidentally saw off a limb or pierce their lung with a piece of rebar. She followed behind them, checking her Dropbox account for Ward's video footage. They pushed Buzz into the passenger seat of her company truck, ignoring his pleas to be gentle with his foot.

She turned to Rod and said, "Hero man, you come with me. DD, get everybody else back to work. And get Buzz's wife's name from his emergency contact sheet. Call her and tell her we're going to St. Joe's."

"Yes, boss," DD said.

Rod puffed out his chest and smiled before he climbed into the cab's backseat.

Quinn ran back to her apartment for her keys and phone. She glanced at the display. Her sister Fiona had called as well as Michelle, her funder and sometimes lover. And her Aunt Maura had shared a video in Dropbox.

"Wow." She couldn't believe her seventy-year-old aunt could navigate video sharing. That could wait. Michelle could wait. She hit speed dial and hoped Fiona didn't need her immediately. But since she was calling instead of texting, it probably meant there was a problem.

She piled into the cab just as Fiona answered. Her sister was treated to Buzz's moaning.

"What the hell is that?" Fiona asked in her thick Irish accent.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Are you crazy?"

"Little accident at work. What's up, Fi?"

"It wasn't little!" Buzz screamed.

"Pipe down," Quinn snapped.

"Just a reminder that you're coming over to stay with the boys tomorrow night, right?"

"Yes. I haven't forgotten."

"I just wanted to check. You get so busy with these flipping projects that you forget a lot."

Quinn didn't disagree. She was deep in an apartment renovation that ate most of her time. She was also her sister's go-to babysitter. Her two nephews were always plotting mischief and no sitter had ever agreed to a second visit. The last one had run screaming from the house after Fiona and her husband Steven had returned from a movie and found the sitter bound and gagged in the living room. In true O'Sullivan fashion, the boys were forever making up games. That one had been called Kidnap.

Quinn went over a speed bump and Buzz wailed.

"Oh, my God, Quinn," Fiona exclaimed. "That man sounds like he's dying."

"Not yet," Quinn said mildly.

"Since I have you on the phone, I want to talk about your birthday party."

"No, no birthday party."

"I want to come!" Rod interjected. He leaned forward on the seat and pointed at himself. Quinn shook her head.

"I promise it's not going to be a large party," Fiona clarified. "Just family and a few of your interesting friends."

"Why don't we just keep the party to family?" Quinn whined. Her family disliked several of her close friends and they felt the same about her family. The O'Sullivans were truly an acquired taste. Any new person had to survive an initiation that bordered on hazing.

"I'm not up for an evening of playing referee," Quinn said. "It's my birthday and I should decide."

Fiona sighed. "You really don't want anyone else at your thirtieth?"

"No," she said sharply. "Just tell me when and where."

"Hold a sec," Fiona hissed. Quinn heard her sister's backdoor open and she pulled the phone away from her ear. Fiona shouted, "Boys! Get Mr. Squeaker out of the pool! You can't teach a guinea pig to swim!" Quinn heard her nephews protest, but Fiona shouted over them. "Right now!" The backdoor closed again and Fiona said, "Where were we?"

"You'd just canceled my birthday party."

Fiona laughed. "Fat chance." A huge wail blared through the phone from her youngest nephew, baby Donnelly. Fiona cooed at him and eventually said, "Small party. Just family. Fine, I'll get back to you. Please don't forget about babysitting—I mean watching the boys."

Quinn knew her nephews hated that Fiona still used the term babysitting about them. "Of course," she said.

She looked at Rod in her rearview mirror. He'd slumped dejectedly on the seat, pouting. He was the most sensitive of all the guys on her crew, and she suspected he had significant learning disabilities. He never got the jobs that required great thinking, but he was the best drywaller she'd ever seen. "Hey Rod, don't be mad. The party is just for family. If we have a get-together for friends, you'll be first on the guest list." He nodded. "Are we good?" she asked. He nodded again, but he wouldn't look at her. "C'mon, Rod. Give me a smile. He finally obliged. "Great."

She pulled into the ER parking at St. Joe's and glanced at Buzz. His eyes were closed. She hoped he hadn't passed out—or died. When she squealed into a spot and slammed on the brakes, his foot thumped and his eyes bugged out. Not dead.

He turned to her and cried, "You did that on purpose!"

She smiled. "I did. Before we go inside, we need to come to an understanding." She opened Ward's video on her phone and held it up so Buzz could see. "Okay, here's what we've got. A great image of you attempting to kill DD. Look how clear that is!" He watched but his whole face telegraphed agony. "So you need to tell me how you wound up with a nail in your foot."

At first he seemed confused until Quinn waved her phone at him. He hung his head and mumbled, "Accident."

"What, Buzz?"

"It was an accident!"

"That's right. If you don't want DD to call the police, it damn well better be an accident. The fact that you attempted to kill DD because of who he is, makes it a hate crime. That adds time to your sentencing. Are we clear?"

She knew what had happened was a gray area. DD might have provoked him, and she doubted Buzz understood the finer points of law. It was better if the whole thing just disappeared. Her insurance would cover the emergency room visit, and she'd never allow him on a project again.

He nodded, and when he looked at her, his face was a puddle of pain. "Please help me."

"Of course," she said sweetly. "Let's go, Rod."

The intake clerk gathered a few basic facts, took one look at Buzz's foot and had a nurse get him into triage immediately. As much as Quinn would've loved to drop him off and resume her day, she wanted to make sure his story about the nail gun remained the agreed upon version. The nurse wheeled him into a room. She took his vitals and was asking him about the accident when the curtain opened and a doctor joined them, reading her iPad. She was petite with dark brown skin and long black hair held back by a gold clip. Despite her stature, her presence was commanding. The room felt as though the air had changed.

"Hello, Leslie," she said to Buzz in a quiet, but commanding tone. "I'm Dr. Singh. Let's take a look at your foot."

Leslie. Quinn immediately understood his need for a nickname. DD would love that piece of information.

He nodded and she gently turned it left and right. "Oh, my." She looked at Quinn for the first time and stumbled over her words. "I'm sorry. Are you Leslie's wife or girlfriend?"

"No!" Buzz shouted, glaring at Quinn.

"No," she said mildly. "He was working on my construction project." She put out her hand. "Quinn O'Sullivan." She gazed into the doctor's rich brown eyes until she introduced herself.

"I'm Dr. Singh."

When their hands met, Quinn grimaced. Dr. Singh's hand was delicate and soft, whereas hers were rough and calloused. "Sorry. Consequence of the trade."

"Nothing wrong with hard work."

"Hey, doc. A little help here," Buzz pleaded.

Dr. Singh had Buzz lie back while she elevated his foot. "How did this happen?"

He glanced at Quinn before he answered, an action not missed by Dr. Singh. Her face grew wary as he said, "Workplace accident."

"I see."

She gave Quinn a hard look before removing his work boot and starting a morphine drip. The staff asked him questions as his treatment proceeded, but Quinn tuned it all out and focused on Dr. Singh. Her movements were fluid and her expression remained focused. The lab coat was slightly too large for her petite frame, and she continually pushed up the three-quarter length sleeves with her long fingers. She wore no rings, only a necklace with a gold emblem and diamond stud earrings. And she smelled lovely, a floral scent that wasn't overpowering or obnoxious.

The examination over, Dr. Singh said, "We're taking you down to x-ray, Leslie. Once we see where the nail lodged, we'll develop a course of treatment. Okay?"

"Great, doc," he slurred. The morphine had taken over.

The nurse and an orderly wheeled him out. He actually waved at Quinn as he departed and she chuckled. Once his gurney disappeared, she felt Dr. Singh's stare. She stood to meet her gaze at eye level. It was a great excuse to be close and study her face, particularly her lips. Sultry was the word that instantly came to Quinn's mind. She wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

"As a doctor," she said slowly, "I must follow up when I notice suspicious behavior."

"I understand."

"Did Leslie's injury—"

"He goes by Buzz, just so you know."

She lost her train of thought and blinked. There was a long pause and only after she took a breath did she continue. "Was Buzz's injury really an accident?"

Quinn hesitated. She wanted to say something cryptic, something that would prolong the conversation and keep the good doctor from floating away to her next patient, because she seemed almost ethereal. She was lovely. Exotic.

She suddenly remembered Dr. Singh was waiting for her to answer. She swallowed and said, "Yeah, it was."

Dr. Singh lifted her chin, debating whether or not to believe her. Quinn sensed she was prolonging their meeting as well. Something was happening. The energy in the room shifted. She leaned toward her…

"Are you Dr. Singh?" a woman blurted as she threw open the curtain.

She immediately stepped away from Quinn and greeted her. "I am."

"I'm Buzz's wife, Shirley," the short, plump woman announced. It was difficult to see her facial expression underneath the red Make America Great Again cap.

Quinn stepped behind Shirley and slipped through the curtain, but not before she took one last look at Dr. Singh. Her beauty was unique, perhaps because Quinn didn't know anyone of Indian descent. She wanted to remember her. For a split second, Dr. Singh glanced at her, as if she were trying to do the same.

Quinn quickly left for the waiting room and reclaimed Rod. Her phone, which she'd set to vibrate, now had five voicemails and three texts. The chance meeting with the beautiful doctor floated away as she plunged back into her chaotic life.

Chapter Two

All Quinn saw was an eyeball. Nothing else. It seemed to jump out from the laptop's screen, and she reflexively leaned back in her desk chair.

"Don't have a damn idea if this fuckin' thing is even working," the eyeball's ownermuttered.

She immediately recognized the speaker as her Aunt Maura. After a few more curses, Aunt Maura sat back on the tiny plaid seat of her Airstream camper. Behind her were the familiar bright yellow curtains with smiley faces that Quinn had chosen years ago.

Aunt Maura tucked her shoulder-length gray hair behind her ears and tugged at a chin hair. She'd already forgotten the video was recording her every move. Quinn watched with amusement as her finger and thumb plucked the intruder. She smiled after the victorious pull and wiped her hand on the sleeve of her faded purple sweatshirt.

A mysterious stain that looked like jelly sat above her left breast, and Quinn guessed she hadn't noticed it. Maura was religious about working the crossword puzzle each morning while she had breakfast. Pieces of egg, toast or pancake routinely dropped en route to her mouth as she analyzed the horizontal and vertical clues. Crosswords were just one type of game Aunt Maura enjoyed. She also loved travel adventures and had passed on that love to Quinn.

"Okay, I'm ready," she announced, smiling into the camera. "Hi, Quinn! It's me, Aunt Maura. You're probably surprised to receive this, but I got this newfangled Mac laptop with a camera." She shook her head in amazement. "Who da thunk you could make a movie with a camera the size of a pinhead on a machine no bigger than a heating pad? I know your generation is all about technology, but for me it's as much a pain-in-the-ass as it is helpful. I'm not sure you'll ever get to see this movie, but what the hell. When I'm done, I'll get it on that Dropkick thing."

Quinn snorted a laugh.

Suddenly the screen went black. Quinn reached for her keyboard, but then she heard Aunt Maura say, "Eleanor Rigby, get your fat ass off the new Mac!"

Quinn laughed heartily. Eleanor Rigby was one of Aunt Maura's three cats that shared the camper with her. Eleanor had a penchant for being the center of attention. When the screen remained covered in fur, Quinn knew Eleanor had stretched across the keyboard, ready for a nap.

"Not now," Aunt Maura scolded. Her liver-spotted hands wrapped around the cat and disengaged her from the laptop. As she vaulted off the table, she howled in protest. Maura sat back and scratched her head. "Where was I?" She looked down and saw the glob of jelly. "Sonof-a-bitch. Hold on," she said, and disappeared from the picture.

Quinn shook her head and used the time to click through several emails, most of them solicitations to volunteer or donate money. She gladly volunteered for multiple organizations, but she didn't have money to contribute to anything except the Fund to Care and Feed Quinn O'Sullivan. Her small construction company, FaceLift, sucked all of her time, money and energy—as did her family. She found an email from Fiona. The subject line read Your Birthday.

Quinn groaned. Her hyper-responsible sister probably wanted to remind her about the damn party at her parents' house. She deleted Fiona's email without reading it as Aunt Maura returned wearing one of her many Route 66 T-shirts.

Maura made her living driving across the fabled Route 66. She wrote monthly columns for various travel magazines, and every two years she updated her immensely popular travel guide, Mother Road Travels. Gift shop owners routinely bestowed clothing and trinkets upon her in hopes of a favorable review. Quinn knew what they did not: Maura O'Sullivan's opinion couldn't be bought.

Maura sighed as she looked into the camera and tucked her hair behind her ears again. She smiled and her face emanated kindness. Her wrinkles were the well-earned result of constant smiling and laughing during her seven decades. She'd told Quinn many times that the secret of life was attitude. Hers was always positive, and her approach, combined with her talent for storytelling, ensured her success as one of the most popular travel guide writers in America.

"Take two," Maura said with a sigh. "So, you're probably wondering why I'm taking the time and trouble to make a movie. Well, I'm not getting any younger. I have to start thinking about what the future holds and the inevitable possibility that I won't live forever. Because I probably won't."

Quinn sat up straighter. Was Aunt Maura making a dying declaration? If the next sentence included the word cancer, she'd scream. Aunt Maura was her favorite relative and the one person in the world who understood her. And, according to Quinn's mother, there was a lot to understand.

"I know you're busy," Maura continued, "and you have your own life, although your father has offered to draw you a map because he doesn't think your life is going anywhere." She quickly held up a surrendering hand and said, "At least not in the direction he would pick."

Quinn automatically rolled her eyes. Aunt Maura frequently broke confidentiality with her brother Shane, Quinn's father, to update Quinn on his comments or plans. He was Maura and Quinn's opposite. While Maura was focused on happiness and freedom, Shane lived for prosperity and success. He was the oldest and remembered the long journey to citizenship he and Maura had endured after they left Ireland.

Aunt Maura folded her hands together and looked solemnly at the screen. "Next week I'm going in for some tests that are probably long overdue. You know me, Quinnie. I don't like doctors. I've never liked anyone telling me what to do, least of all your father. I'm expecting this doctor might give me some bad news," she stated simply. "Regardless, I wanted you to know you'll be getting a package soon. So this video is like a preview. I want you to be on the lookout for it."

Quinn sat up straight, frowning. She rewound the video, having missed several seconds after Aunt Maura announced she was having tests.

Maura smiled and leaned toward the camera. "I love you, Quinn the Mighty."

She left the couch while Quinn wiped tears from her eyes. She knew Maura had a flair for the theatrical, but she really would miss her terribly when she was gone. They were so alike. Maura had dubbed her Quinn the Mighty as there was little Quinn wouldn't try. She'd learned to ride a bike at two and a half, skied at four, eaten chocolate-covered ants at her ninth birthday party, and skydived at twelve.

A loud bang from the computer screen made Quinn jump. "Oh, my God!" she cried. She never would've imagined her aunt would kill herself. She fumbled with her cell phone. Should she call 911? What good would that do? She'd received the notice of a shared Dropbox video three days before and just hadn't made the time to view it. I'm a terrible niece! She pictured the sheriff finding Maura's decayed body. Should she call her father? She stared at the computer screen, stricken with shock and grief.

"Wait, wait!" her aunt shouted as she returned to the couch. "Lousy timing for a car backfire. Had to hit the john. One of life's joys when you get older, stealth pooping. Sorry to scare you, Quinn." She pointed a finger and said, "Don't worry about me. When it's my time, God's gonna have to personally scoop me up, and I promise to be as ornery and prickly about leaving as a jumping cactus." Aunt Maura scanned the keyboard. "Now if I can just figure out which button stops this damn thing…" She flashed one more smile. "Bye, Quinnie."

Neither could know it at the time, but those words would be the last Quinn would hear from Aunt Maura. Until the Indian arrived.