Ghosts of Christmas (Steamy Bwwm Holiday Romance)

I couldn’t depress them after they were trying to help me as usual.

The truth was that when I took the drink, I descended into distress and was lost in a vortex of zombie-like figures. My mother was there in the distance with a rope hanging around her neck and all these bags dangling from the rope. She kept screaming for me to come to her as all the zombies chased me.

And it lasted for hours. Never again would I try something like that.

Weeks later, I battled near-constant anxiety, panic attacks, and insomnia. When I sought a therapist, she explained that while Ayahuasca helped so many, it traumatized a small percentage. For the people that dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder like me, the brew generated extremely strong and fragmenting experiences. I spun into panicky thoughts. Due to that, I went to my usual defensive mechanism, I withdrew, went mute, and numb.

The therapist helped me get rid of the new panic attacks and taught me meditation. That helped me get off my pills. Last month, I’d finally thrown away all my medications and prescriptions.

I thought I was getting better.

Now I’ll have to get back on them. There’s no way I’m going to deal with these damn nightmares this year.

A prickling sensation crept down my spine—the tell-tale sign that someone was watching me. I scanned the plane. All the other passengers had their eyes closed. Most of their faces were turned away from me.

I let out a long breath.

The stewardess brought over my drink.

“Thank you.” I took the drink, sipped it, and pulled out my book that analyzed future trends in fabrics, colors, and shapes.

After an hour of perusing fabric predictions and my second drink, I closed my eyes.

A woman whispered in my ear. “Ivy.”

“Hmmm.”

“Ivy, open your eyes.”

Park?

Yawning, I opened my eyes. The whole plane was dark. Everyone was asleep. I thought Park had called me, but she was still out. Her head leaned to the side. Her mouth was open.

The voice came in the opposite direction. “Ivy, come on, sweetie. We have a lot to talk about.”

I looked to the aisle and froze.

There my mother stood.

No. No.

She was illuminated and somewhat see-through. A glowing gold rope wrapped around her neck and fell past her shoulders and all the way to the ground. Tons of luggage and pocketbooks dangled from the long rope and filled the aisle.

“Ivy.” She gestured for me to get up. “Come on. I know this is odd, but we don’t have time for this. You don’t let yourself sleep much. And it was a bitch getting here.”

I stared at her.

“Sweetie, get up.”

My ghostly mother crossed her arms. “Ivy, you’re wasting time.”

A stewardess strolled down the aisle, walking through my mother and all her luggage and purses on the rope.

Horror seized me. All I could do was gape at her.

My mother leaned her head to the side. “Are you really going to make me come and get you?”

“Wake up, Ivy.” I hit my chest. “Wake up.”

“Yes, sweetie. I know Dr. Sanders told you to hit yourself to wake up, but this really isn’t a dream. I’ve awakened your spirit.”

“Come on, Ivy.” I hit myself harder but felt nothing. “Wake up.”

“Ivy Nicole Smith.”

I snapped back to her.

“Get out of that seat and come on.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Now!”

“O-kay.” I tried to unbuckle my seatbelt, but my hand went through not only that but my stomach. “What the hell?”

She frowned. “I would be careful with saying hell and heaven while in spirit form. You may attract some things. A few curse words are okay. Bitch for example. But the f-word isn’t a nice one. Demons like it when you use the f-word in spirit form.”

I stood or rather. . .my spirit did. The illuminated version of me rose out of my physical body. I turned around and studied the physical part of me. There, I lay in the seat, snoring. My head leaned against the window.

“Come on, sweetie.”

I looked back at my mother.

Another stewardess walked through her.

“Ivy.”

“Why is this dream so weird?”

“It’s not a dream, honey.”

“O-kay.” I headed to her. “Then, why are you here? What is this?”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you for years, but all those drugs and drinking didn’t allow for it. Then the pills. At least that stuff you drank in the Amazon cleared away a good bit of the fog.” She shook her head and hurried off. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” I followed her, walking through a sleeping Park and the chair. “Where are we going?”

“We need to leave the plane. It’ll only distract you.”

“Leave the plane? I can’t.”

She stopped, turned around, and grabbed my hand. Warmth came from her illuminating touch. Tears stung my eyes. How long had I imagined feeling the hold of my mother’s hand? How much had I yearned to feel her hug again?