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Jay clinks his shot glass to Sam's. "Here's to our first successful whiskey tasting event!"
Or that's what he means to say. Has he said that before? He's five shots deep (maybe six?) into Alberta's whiskey stash and he can't remember anymore. The guests are all gone now, and it's only fair that he gets to enjoy some of this expensive hooch, not just the freeloaders who drank away thousands of dollars they didn't even know they had.
"Oooookay, Jay. I think it's time to ease off on the alcohol now." She guzzles from a bottle of water. Spoilsport.
"Hooch. It's hooch. That's what Alberta would call it, right, babe?"
"She says yes, and she's kinda impressed by how much you've put away."
Jay feels all warm and fuzzy. "Awwww. I impressed Alberta? Yessssss." He tries to fist-pump, but his elbow hits the table with a painful jolt. "Owww."
"All right, let's get you to bed."
He feels Sam's arms go around him to lift him up, which is so nice, but the chair feels so nice, too. Cushioned and soft and the rug on the floor also looks nice. He leans toward it.
But he doesn't get to feel it, because everything goes hazy and black. Just before that he hears a voice say, "Get him, Sam! He's going down like that time those mobsters ran us off the bridge—"
Bridge? he thinks. Then there's no thought at all.
When Jay opens his eyes the next time, there's an awful beeping and lights that are way too bright. He squeezes his eyes shut again and moans.
"Jay! You're awake!"
He feels Sam's hand on his arm, but there's something else there, too, making his hand sore. And his throat hurts. And his stomach. Really, everything. "Oww," he says.
"Are you in pain?" Sam asks. "Can you see me?"
"I..." he tries to say, and risks opening his eyes again. Things are fuzzy, but they come into focus in a moment or two, resolving into Sam's worried face. "I can see you."
"Oh, thank God!" Her hand rubs gently over the skin of his arm. "I was worried you went blind."
"Alberta did warn us about that." And something else, but there's something more pressing he needs to know. "Where are we?"
"We're in the hospital, Jay. You passed out, and your pulse was so weak, and I just didn't know what to do..." Her voice is near to breaking. "They said you might have alcohol poisoning, so they pumped your stomach."
Ohh. That's why there's a tube sticking out of his hand. And why everything hurts. And why he wants to throw up despite having nothing in his stomach but horrible cramps.
After he leaves the hospital, he can't even look at a bottle of whiskey without feeling ill, even weeks later. He wants to hear more about the note Sam found in the wall while he was in the hospital with clues to Alberta's murder, but thinking about it reminds him of the whiskey, and his head starts to spin. Even the bottles of wine they serve at dinner make him feel a little queasy. He can't even cook with sherry. Luckily pouring the drinks is Sam's job, and there are plenty of non-alcohol-based recipes to choose from.
He turns away from the stove to cough into his elbow. The winters here get into his bones more than the ones in New York City did. He wanders over to the sink to wash his hands, wishing he could take a sick day. But there's no one else to sub for him when it's just the two of them running the Woodstone, so...
"I think that cough is getting worse," says Sam as she walks into the kitchen. "Sasappis agrees."
"He got any Lenape remedies to share?"
Sam listens for a moment. "He suggests an herb I've never heard of. I can go look it up..."
"Thanks, Sass, maybe after dinner's in the oven." Jay turns toward the kitchen table to work on chopping the carrots.
"Hetty suggests—"
"Oh, she's here, too? Let me guess, cocaine."
"And chloroform. Or morphine. Though apparently mustard plasters or syrups made from garlic or onion worked well if you didn't have those."
"I'll keep it in mind," he lies. It's too bad that the pharmacy in town doesn't deliver this far out.
His chest feels like it's on fire by bedtime. He has to let Sam finish the meal, plate it, serve it, so that the guests wouldn't be scared off by his wracking cough—and he feels awful about it. But not as awful as the cough. He opens the medicine cabinet over the sink. All the cold medicine he bought last winter seems to be used up, except... NyQuil.
He makes a face. Not only does he hate the taste, but this is the original formulation. With alcohol in it. His stomach lurches.
Then he has another coughing fit that cancels out the nausea.
"Ugh," he says as he picks up the bottle, picturing Hetty right there to tut at him for using an inferior product. Maybe Flower is cheering him on. They had NyQuil when she was alive, right? "Down the hatch," he says and tips it back like a shot. He doesn't want to taste it if he can avoid it.
He sets the bottle on the sink and wobbles over to the bed. He's so exhausted. As he turns off the light, crawls in and closes his eyes, he hears a soft voice tell him, "Sleep well."
"Thanks, Sam," he murmurs.
"Ha, he think you Sam." The voice is gruff and low.
A smooth Southern-accented voice adds, "Poor thing. He's really not feeling well, is he?"
"Noooo," he groans. "I'm not."
"It's almost as if he can hear us," a thoughtful male voice says. "But that would be silly to contemplate, wouldn't it?"
Too many voices, too loud. He buries his head in the pillow and moans, "Stop talking, I need to sleep..."
"Oh my God, he can hear us!" the Southern voice shouts.
He bolts up in bed. "Oh my God, I can hear you!" It's the ghosts! It has to be. He blinks around at the dark room, looking for shadowy figures but he can't see anything. He fumbles for the light switch on the lamp beside him and a moment later, the room is illuminated in soft light—but still too bright to his dark-adjusted eyes. There's no one there. He blinks rapidly and rubs at his eyes, still no one.
"Ghosts?" he asks the air tentatively toward where he heard the voices.
"I believe he cannot see us, only hear us."
"How exciting!"
"Better than nothing, I suppose."
"Isaac? Flower? Alberta?" he asks, turning his head to where the voices came from.
"And Thor!" booms the gruff voice. "Others downstairs with Sam."
"How is this happening?" Jay says, shaking his head with amazement. Then he starts coughing again. He has a thought when the hacking eases. He'd heard a voice, Alberta's voice, just before he passed out from the whiskey. He turns to her area of air. "Did you get run off a bridge once, Alberta?"
"I did!"
"I think I remember you telling me that, just before I passed out from the whiskey."
"Prove nothing," Thor huffs. "Maybe he remember from one of times you tell Sam."
"I don't think Sam ever told me that story."
"Well, that certainly proves it," Isaac says. "Or I suppose he could simply be wondering aloud."
"I'm not wondering aloud—well, I guess I am—just not only wondering, I'm responding—" He starts coughing again, and throws off the bedcovers to stumble back to the bathroom.
"Whoa!" and "Watch it!" come from the voices beside the bed, but he must have avoided walking through any of them.
He takes a big swig from the bottle of NyQuil, not bothering to pour it into the little plastic cup. His arms start to feel warm and the pain in his chest seems to lessen, just a little, though he knows it's too early to start working yet. Then he takes a few steps toward the bed.
And freezes.
The ghosts are there. Fuzzy, ethereal, not solid the way Sam describes them, but there.
"Oh my God, I can see you."
Sam comes running up the stairs at the ghosts' shouts. "Jay! What's wrong!" Sassapis, Pete, Hetty and Trevor are right behind her, as semi-transparent as the others.
"I told him he should have tried the chloroform." / "Dude, he's greener than the time I did fifteen body shots off Chloe Sevigny." / "Has he tried a nice steam bath?" Their voices overlap, and he puts his hands over his ears as he sinks down onto the bed. How does Sam deal with this every day?
"Sam!" Alberta's voice cuts through the rest. "He can hear us."
"And see us!" Flower says.
Jay nods, eyes shut. He's afraid to talk more than he has to. The coughing fits are getting more painful.
"How?" Sam asks. Her voice gets really quiet suddenly, and he feels her sit beside him, arm coming around his shoulders. "Did you cough so much you...died? For a few seconds?"
Jay shakes his head. He's got a theory, but he's not sure he can voice it without coughing again.
"It's the alcohol—in the NyQuil," Flower says. "He almost died from alcohol poisoning, maybe did die for a second, and now when he has alcohol he can hear us. Or see us if he's had a little more. I used to have the best visions. Of course, that was LSD, not just alcohol..."
"Visions?" Sam asks.
Flower's voice goes dreamy. "You get visions, too? They're so groovy."
"How much NyQuil did you have, babe?" Sam asks Jay gently.
"A couple of doses," Issac answers. Thor scoffs, "Only enough for baby."
"Hm." Sam shifts a little. "There can't be that much alcohol in a couple of doses of NyQuil. Are you sure that's why?"
"There's enough," he croaks out. It's starting to kick in, and gravity pulls him down to curl up on his pillow.
He feels Sam pull the covers over his body and tuck them in just the way he likes. "Sleep, now. You'll feel better in the morning."
The ghosts all call out overlapping wishes and he winces. "They're so loud, babe."
He feels a soft kiss on his temple. "I know, babe."
Sam gets him some proper cold medicine and he spends a couple of days in bed, until the worst of the coughing and achiness has passed. Thankfully, their last guests checked out early and the next reservation isn't until the following weekend. He wonders which of the ghosts is standing vigil beside him, waiting to see if he'll notice. He definitely can't see or hear anything now. Was it real? Or some sort of fever dream minus the fever? There's only one way to find out.
The kitchen is empty when he gets there, the house quiet; Sam must be out running errands or something. Which is good, because he doesn't want her to affect this experiment, unknowing or otherwise.
He opens the liquor cabinet, bracing against a wave of nausea, but nothing happens. That's a good sign. He picks up a bottle of tequila and puts it back down, then one of rum, shaking his head at himself when he avoids the whiskey. He decides on the vodka.
Pouring a shot's worth into the bottom of a highball glass, he studies the clear liquid for a few long moments. Why is he hesitating? He's wanted to see the ghosts for ages—and now maybe it's only a drink away. "Down the hatch," he tells the air/ghosts in waiting, and shoots it back.
He closes his eyes while the vodka pleasantly burns its way down the back of his throat. And waits.
There's nothing.
No voices, no sounds at all except the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle whoosh of heat through the air ducts.
He opens his eyes. Nothing to see either. He sighs and closes his eyes again, setting the glass down with a disappointed thunk.
"Guess it wasn't real after all."
Then he looks up to find Alberta standing there. "Ha!" she shouts, hands lifted and fingers spread. "Gotcha!"
Jay tumbles back in shock, almost smacking into the counter behind him. "Alberta?"
"Oo-hoo-whee!" she crows in glee, clapping her hands together. "Did you see that? I got him good."
"Sure did," says Sasappis, flowing through the wall to stand beside her.
Jay looks at the empty glass, then at the two ghosts, then runs a hand over his face. They are still a bit semi-transparent rather than solid, but he can definitely see and hear them. "It was real. It is real!"
"It is, honey!" Alberta says, still gleeful. "Instead of blind, looks like alcohol can make you see!"
"How long do you think it'll last?" Sasappis asks Jay.
"Who knows? An hour? Less. I guess it probably depends on how quickly I metabolize the alcohol."
"Or how much you drink," Flower says, appearing on the other side of Alberta. "If it's anything like my acid trips, it could go on for days."
"This is alcohol, not acid," Alberta says. "But I do remember that Friday night I was so blotto that the next time I noticed the time, it was Wednesday." She sounds wistful.
Jay holds up his hands. "I'm gonna start slow. We'll see how long this one lasts and go from there."
Flower looks disappointed.
"All right then," Alberta says. "While I've got you to myself—" She cuts her eyes at the other two. "Do you mind? Give a girl a little space!"
Sasappis rolls his eyes but fades back through the wall. Flower stands there patiently. At Alberta's dirty look, she says, "Oh, you mean spaaace," then wanders off.
Alberta comes around to sit beside him, placing her elbows on the table. It's odd that he can't feel the weight shift, yet she's really there.
"So I've got a favor to ask, nothing much..."
He leans toward her. After all, if not for Alberta and her booze stash, he'd never be able to see the ghosts at all. "Go on."
It turns out Jay is a pretty good guesser. One shot equals one hour of ghost time. It doesn't matter if he uses mixers or not, but drinking it straight up means the effects hit him faster. With a sip of wine, he can hear a few sentences. If he pushes his limit to four shots in an hour, things start to get a bit too spinny and it doesn't matter what he sees or hears—he can hardly remember anything. Two shots seems to be the sweet spot—it lasts a couple hours, just long enough for him to be tired of the incessant noise. How does Sam deal with it?
Jay decides to keep the secret about still being able to see the ghosts from Sam. For a little while. Sam's basically decided that him seeing and hearing the ghosts before was a fluke anyway.
They keep Alberta's request secret from Sam, too—at Alberta's insistence. And from most of the other ghosts, too. Some new reality show has sucked them in, a rare occasion of a show that appeals to them all, so there is no fighting over the remote.
"Just look at it go!" Alberta exclaims one afternoon, studying the music scrolling past on the iPad. "It's like a piano roll on a player piano, except it doesn't press the keys for you."
"I guess they've got karaoke for that, now."
Alberta shudders. "I've never gotten used to that. There's nothing like singing with a live band." She closes her eyes and sways back and forth. "The way the rhythm section and the front line interplay and support you like a lover's sweet embrace..."
Jay takes a sip out of his whiskey glass. He's enjoying these trips down memory lane, but he's gotta keep topped up. "Too bad you've only got me."
"Too bad," she deadpans, patting the air above his shoulder. He can see a small smile twist the corner of her mouth.
But he loves to watch her sing. Before, sometimes, he could hear her humming, but it wasn't like this—her voice filling the room with emotion and power, her presence electric. Was the mysterious would-be murderer 'T' jealous of Alberta? He can believe it. Anyone would fall in love with a voice like that.
When they're almost ready, he finally thinks to ask, "Why this song?"
"I just like it, is all. Isn't that enough?"
He holds her gaze, taking a slow sip from his glass.
When his sip comically turns into a loud slurp, she waves her hand at him in exasperation. "Fine, fine! I was gonna sing it the night I died."
He stops, the alcohol burning the inside of his mouth as he forgets to swallow.
"What?" she asks, bemused.
Well... he swallows, the booze trickling painfully down. "What if it's the song that's keeping you here, not the murder? Don't you think you might..."
"Get sucked off? That's kinda the point. You look like that's a bad thing!"
"I'd miss you," Jay says quietly.
He gets a glimpse of a fond smile before she turns away, exclaiming, "I won't miss the sour notes you keep hitting!"
He shakes his head. He's about to restart the song when there's a gasp from behind them.
"I knew it!"
He and Alberta both turn to where Sam is framed in the doorway, an empty wine flute in her hand.
"Babe?" he asks, trying to play it cool.
She comes into the room, her face twisted into an annoyed pout. "I kept finding empty glasses in here. At first I thought, huh, that's strange, are we just booking a bunch of alcoholic weirdos lately, or..."
"You know I told you that couple last weekend was a little too nosy," Alberta tells Sam, and he tries not to react. "Better put a lock on the liquor cabinet."
Sam ignores that. "Jay..." She gestures with the wine flute to the glass still in his hand and then to the ghost standing beside him. "Alberta..."
Jay sighs.
"You caught us," Alberta says.
"You can see them now! And hear them!"
"Only if he drinks!" Alberta adds, unhelpfully.
Sam paces back and forth, stomping a little. "For how long? And why didn't you tell me? Why didn't any of the ghosts tell me?"
"A few weeks," Jay admits. Sam doesn't look very mollified. "And why? Well, because..."
"Because it was a surprise," Sasappis says, coming into the room, Flower trailing behind. "They made us promise not to tell."
"Tell what?" Flower asks.
Sam stops pacing. "What kind of surprise?"
Jay looks at Alberta. It's not quite perfect yet, but they have been practicing every day. He tilts his head at her, and she nods.
Alberta gestures to the sofa. "Take a seat, Sam."
Jay sets down the glass he's holding and fishes his guitar from behind the armchair, tunes it up a little, then starts in on the opening chord progression. Alberta begins to sing, "When your spirit's down, blues are hanging 'round / what's the use of a sigh / Sighs don't make a hit, never help a bit / there's a good reason why / Here's a recipe, it would suit you to a T."
As she sings, the confusion melts from Sam's face into an expression of wonder. The other ghosts in the house drift in from upstairs, the reality show forgotten.
Alberta hits the main melody. "When the sun is out of sight / even though you miss the light / just to keep things goin' right / Keep a song in your soul."
Pete leans against the doorframe, nodding to the beat. Isaac's fingers conduct lightly in the air. Trevor closes his eyes and headbops. Thor starts to dance a little. Even Hetty allows her shoulders to move in time.
On the next part, Jay joins Alberta in harmony, "When the dark clouds gather 'round / that's no time to wear a frown / and your castles tumble down / Keep a song in your soul."
Sam claps a little, the ghosts murmuring with surprise. Amazingly, they'd kept it a secret from the rest as well.
"If you take heed to my story," Alberta sings alone, then Jay sings, "You'll be introduced to glory, glory" in response.
Finally Alberta takes away the rest, all on her own, "If you keep this thought in view / anything that troubles you / disappears like morning dew / Keep a song in your soul." She improvises her way up to a high note, holding it so long that the tremolo he's playing on the chord beneath starts to hurt. Then she lets it go, holding her arms out, and the sound seems to ring in the air around them.
Everyone bursts into applause. "Bravo!" Pete calls out. "Brava," Isaac corrects, and Pete shrugs, yelling "Brava!"
Alberta continues to hold her arms out for a few moments more as if she's soaking in the applause, but Jay knows that's not it. She's staring toward the ceiling hopefully.
But then she shrugs and looks at Jay. "Well, it was worth a try, wasn't it, honey?"
"I've gotta say, I was a little worried at first, but this is working out well." Sam tips up her beer bottle and clinks it against Jay's. There is nothing like their now-regular beers and basketball with Pete and Flower. And really, there is nothing like gimlets on game night with the whole gang either (Sasappis is a killer Charades partner.)
"Glad you agree, babe," he says before taking a drink.
Flower yells something shockingly vulgar at the referee on the screen while Hetty gives her an affronted look. "Language!"
"Though it isn't fair that you can just turn it on and off," Sam tells Jay quietly with a shoulder nudge. "If only I could."
He wobbles his head in apology. But it's a good thing really, one of them has to be undistracted when guests are staying. And now she can escape the squabbling and let him deal with it when she needs a break.
Yeah, it is working out well.
He puts an arm around her and kisses the top of her head, settling down into the couch to cuddle closer.