Ghost Mom

By Leslie O'Kane

Tera Westbrook, a skilled yoga instructor, is burdened by knowing she could have prevented the accident that took her beloved mother’s life. When she returns to work, she believes she is losing her mind when Peggy, her translucent mother, appears. Only Tera can see or hear her. Peggy convinces Tera that she is indeed a ghost. The “accident” was staged by a masked murderer. Daughter and ghost-mother are determined to get the murderer behind bars. So is Tera’s policeman husband—just not at the price of Tera becoming the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Oct 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781641972802

Leslie O'Kane

Leslie O’Kane has written 28 novels in which at least one crime takes place. Many years ago, she was taken hostage in a robbery by an irate customer afterhours at the bar where she was head waitress. Leslie’s first thought was: “This guy is taking missing last call way too seriously.” That made her laugh, which in turn made the robber strike her with his shotgun. The experience taught her that writing about crimes is much more fun than taking part in them. She lives in Boulder, Colorado, with her husband and their Cocker Spaniel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Tera Westbrook’s heart began to race as she pulled into the one empty parking space at the Denver yoga studio where she worked. Her boss had apparently been right when she’d assured Tera that tonight’s memorial class would be well-attended. She turned off the engine but stayed seated, resting her hands on her thighs as she tried to concentrate on her breath so that her fight-or-flight instincts would subside. She glanced at her watch. Two minutes after eight. Tera was already late; maybe she should just turn around and go home. She hated to disappoint everyone, especially her husband. He had tried so hard to boost her self-confidence and her spirits, adamant that she would regret not at least making an appearance. Your students want to acknowledge your loss, as well as their own, he’d said.

She pushed that memory away. I’m going to try my best to attend. No guarantees. The sun had set behind the mountains, leaving the parking lot reasonably dark. No one would spot her if she just sat in her car for a while.

It wasn’t your fault, sweetie.

Startled, Tera jumped so high that the tops of her thighs bumped into the steering wheel. That was her mother’s voice, as clear as if she were sitting beside her in the passenger seat.

Whoa. Weird, she muttered to herself. My mind must be playing tricks on me.

That was precisely what her mother would have said, if she were here. She would have assured Tera repeatedly that she was blameless. Peggy Westbrook, her wonderful mother, would have believed with her whole heart that there was not a single thing Tera could have done to prevent the terrible accident.

Her mother would have been dead wrong. Literally.

Her mother’s fatal accident had been preventable. Within a measly minute or two, Tera could have moved the freaking hanging plant to the dresser and tossed its freaking macrame hanger into the trashcan. That’s all that she would have needed to do. Period. One simple action. Her mother would still be alive. The more Tera thought about it, the more she seethed. She was angry at herself and her mother.

If you didn’t want me to blame myself, Peggy, you should have listened to me!

There. I said it. Out loud, even. Not that anyone was in hearing range. Even so, she already felt horrible and sent up a silent: Sorry, Mom. Tera had become accustomed to calling her mother Mom or Peggy interchangeably. In five years, her mother had never missed even one of Tera’s classes. From the very first yoga class, her mother agreed that she didn’t want to be an exception to Tera’s desire to be on a first-name basis with all of her students.

Mom’s never going to be in any of my classes ever again. Tera’s eyes misted. Frustrated, she pounded a fist into her palm. I’m the one who told Vance not to come with me. I also promised him I’d try my best. So go do this thing! Concentrate! Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath—

"It was just twine, Mom!" she growled. Knots in ratty, old twine. You and your sentimentality! I was ten years old when I made you that blasted macrame. Back then, the plant itself could have fit into a teacup. Who knew a stupid spider plant could live twenty years? We did know that a bunch of braided, knotted twine was never going to last twenty years! You knew that! I knew that! Why, for the love of God, did you hang it over your head?

Whenever Tera had raised that point, her mom countered that it wasn’t directly over her pillow. It’s above my chest, sweetie, she would insist. Plus, I hung it above my bed intentionally. It’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes. It makes me think of you, growing like a big, beautiful plant, connected with a dozen little flourishing plants, all waiting to take root. If the twine breaks one of these days, I’ll get a bruised breast. Worst case, two. And a batch of soil on my comforter. In return, I will have an amusing story to tell at the studio when someone asks me why I’m icing my boobs.

Tera groaned. Her memories were hijacking her entire brain. She needed to find a grief counselor. This was too overwhelming. As a yoga teacher, she had a multitude of resources to help her find strength, balance, and peace. Even so, going back to her yoga studio just two weeks after losing her mother was too soon.

Why the heck did I decline Vance’s offer to come with me?

Argh! Tera cried. Get out of the damned car and make an appearance!

She grabbed her teal-colored water bottle from the cup holder, got out of the car, opened the backseat door, and grabbed her yoga mat, swinging the strap over her shoulder. Her memory flashed to a class just four weeks ago, the middle of July. She and her students were in a half-moon pose, their left hands and left feet on the mat and their right limbs reaching high. Her mother suddenly toppled over backward, but she managed to get her right hand and foot down to break her fall.

Startled, Tera had asked, Are you alright?

Oh, absolutely, her mom had quipped. I had the urge to do a bridge pose…which suddenly became a London-Bridge-is-falling-down pose.

The whole class had laughed.

Let’s not add that particular asana to our repertoire, Tera had remarked.

Tera now smiled at the memory. Her mother would want her to be happy. She could do this in honor of her mother. She crossed the parking lot and entered the small building. The attractive sign above the door read: Yoga Barre. Every couple of months, some new student would ask if the resemblance of the studio’s name to Yogi the Bear was intentional. It was. Tera had suggested the name five years ago, when she first learned that a new studio was opening soon. During her interview, the owner mentioned that she specialized in Barre classes and wanted the exercise studio to concentrate on both disciplines.

Now Tera found herself inside the lobby without even remembering walking across the parking lot. The air was orange scented, a pleasant aroma provided by cleaning fluid, not the actual fruit. She appreciated being able to take unfettered breaths; she and her students had stopped wearing protective masks only a couple of months ago. A great thing about this intimate, boutique-style studio was that the large western-facing windows opened out onto the gorgeous Rocky Mountains. Furthermore, there were no weight machines or television sets, and no sweaty-socks or tee-shirts odors. Her mom had loved this place. So much so that she’d become a fifty-percent co-owner, when the studio was still reeling from the pandemic.

For the sake of the hardwood floors, Tera took off her shoes and socks and strode barefoot on the blue-gray, thick-weave carpet in the lobby. The door to the group-movement space was open. Though the lights were dimmed, she could estimate at a glance that more than thirty students were present. Most of them were sitting on their mats in the Sukhasana (easy pose) cross-legged position. Her vision was drawn to the mat in her mother’s favorite spot. Someone—probably Amy Karr, the owner—had seen fit to surround Tera’s mother’s mat with white, battery-lit candles. In an especially nice touch, a white lotus blossom floated in a large bowl of water on the center of the lilac-colored mat.

Amy was seated in a cross-legged position on the far side of the teacher’s stage—a raised platform in front of the mirrored wall. Amy gestured gently at Tera, encouraging her to join her on the stage. Tera, however, stood frozen in the doorway, fighting the urge to turn around and go home.

It’s okay, Tera, one of her students called out. We know how much you miss her. We’re all on your side. The voice was Debbie’s, she realized. Debbie Kessler was her mother’s age—in her mid-fifties. She was trim and fit. The white roots that periodically appeared in the center part of her black hair were the only clue that she wasn’t in her early thirties.

When it came to looking one’s age, Amy Karr was Debbie’s opposite. She was in her thirties, but the assortment of worry lines across her face made her appear to be at least a decade older. She had the body of a professional gymnast, petite, with shoulders wider than her hips, and muscular. She sported an ombre hairstyle, with long dark roots merging with straw-colored ends. Choosing to ignore Amy’s beckoning, Tera began to head to the back of the room.

Tera, Amy said, using her rather nasally yoga voice, please just lead us in settling into our practices? I’ll take over for Vinyasa? Amy tended to be blunt at all times; turning her directives into questions was atypical. Yoga, however, was all about suggestions. Students’ priorities were not to emulate their teacher, but rather to focus on their own bodies’ feedback. "That’s why yoga is called a practice," was a common refrain among teachers.

Tera decided she would stash her mat beside the doorway and join Amy on the stage. She would then either leave after settling the yogis into tonight’s practice, or, if her spirits defied the odds and were lifted, she would go along with Amy’s plan and move to the back of the room once Amy took the lead.

She sat down next to Amy on the stage and promptly crossed her legs in a full-Lotus position, with her ankles resting on opposite knees. After a long, soothing breath, Tera said, Thank you all for coming. I see that most of you are seated. So let’s begin today’s practice there. Remain in a comfortable seated position. If you want to close your eyes, please do so or lower your vision to a spot on the front of your mat. She closed her eyes and took a measured breath. To her relief and surprise, she felt centered immediately. Although she never spoke about what she assumed was an idiosyncrasy, her body signaled her when she was physically and emotionally ready to start her yoga practice. She would experience pleasant sensations of warmth on her face, and a soothing pressure on her cheekbones and forehead.

Within just her second full cycle of breath, she found she could even muster a slight smile. Again, I’m grateful to all of you for coming tonight. My mom, Peggy, would love this. I hope you know how much she cherished all of you. She always marveled at how yoga brought restoration to our souls, the calmness and beauty of our breath, and our group connectivity.

Tera winced at her last word. Her mother had advised her years ago not to use the term connectivity, which divulged her initial career in programming and her degree in computer science. There’s wonderful energy in this room, Tera continued. Let’s concentrate tonight on unity and compassion. Acknowledge and embrace the good and the happiness that is inside of us. Set aside for now whatever tasks we’ve left undone. Set aside whatever worries we have that don’t serve us. She paused. Her sadness was returning. As we concentrate on our breathing—

She had to stop. A lump the size of an apple was forming in her throat. Concentrated breathing with deep inhales and lengthy exhales had been helping her withstand her grief. Yet not in this instance.

Sorry, she managed to say quietly.

Oh, my gosh! a woman’s cheerful voice rang out. I can do a downward-facing dog with my heels on the mat!

Tera’s eyes popped open. Once again, the voice belonged to her mother. Tera had heard that voice during all thirty years of her life. She could also see her. Her mother was wearing her indigo-colored silk pajamas with white piping. Her light-brown, shoulder-length hair dangled, almost touching the water in the Lotus bowl. Her hips were high, her heels were pressed down on her mat, and the line from her hands to her hips formed a straight line. An excellent-indeed down-dog pose. The only flaw in its presentation was that Tera could see right through her mother to Emma Ford, seated directly behind Peggy.

Chapter Two

M om! Tera cried.

You can see me? Peggy asked as she stood up tall.

Panicking, Tera said, Um, I meant, ‘om-m-m.’

It’s okay, Tera, Emma said, still seated behind Tera’s translucent mother. We’re here for you. Her voice had been gentle and might have been comforting, had Tera been less terrified.

Oh, dear God, Tera thought. I’ve totally lost my mind.

Don’t worry, Peggy said. I’m not an illusion.

Tera accidentally released a shriek-like giggle at the irony. I’m terrified, not worried! She could tell by the lack of chaos in the room that her not-an-illusion mother was neither seen nor heard by anyone else.

For the last two weeks, her mother explained, I’ve been trying to power my way into actually materializing. I finally did it, just now! It’s probably thanks to all of the Sutras I’ve learned from you, Tera.

Tera? Are you okay? another student asked.

We miss Peggy, too, someone else added.

You can go ahead and cry if you want, Emma added. This type of statement was the reason Emma remained just a casual friend. She came on too strong and was too clingy. Tera neither needed nor wanted anyone’s permission to start sobbing.

Please don’t be sad, sweetie! I’m fine, Peggy said. Then she paused. Well, admittedly ‘dead’ is less than fine. But it’s not all that bad, when you lose your corporal body. Look how flexible I am now. She bent down again and walked her hands even closer to her feet.

Amy’s throat-clearing noises drew Tera’s attention. Amy was staring at Tera, her familiar scowl now mixed with confusion. Amy was a former ballerina. Tera and Amy had taken instruction classes in each other’s disciplines so that they could fill-in for each other as needed.

Amy, can you take over the class? I’m clearly not ready to be here.

Of course. This is my fault for pushing you.

Oh, Tera, I’m sorry, sweetie, her mother said. I didn’t mean to disrupt your class. I didn’t realize I could materialize until it happened. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to…un-materialize.

Determined not to indulge her damaged mind for another second, Tera strode to the door, grabbed her mat, then left. She strode toward the built-in bench near the front door and sat down near her shoes. She cringed as she saw her mother walk through the wall and come toward her. "I’m so sorry, sweetie. I couldn’t let you go on, thinking that your birthday gift to me some twenty years ago led me to my grave. Or my urn, rather."

Tera couldn’t take this anymore. She doubled over and splayed her knees, trying to take deep, measured breaths.

I’m making this even worse for you, aren’t I? Peggy said. "Please don’t fret over my talking about the urn. You were right to follow through with my wishes to be incinerated. Cremated, rather. I don’t mean to be so graphic. I’m just really flustered. I didn’t feel a thing when I passed away. I just sort of lifted out of my body. But, Tera, I need to tell you something important. My death wasn’t an accident. I was murdered."

With her head still between her knees Tera said, Make this go away. Please, God. I can’t handle this.

"I don’t know if it can work that way, sweetie. God is a force, not a thing. The word God is closer to a verb than a noun. Though none of this is to say that I understand God any better, now that I’m a ghost."

Tera sat upright. She looked at her mother, who was wringing her hands. Just leave, Mom. Please. Your image is getting stronger. You’re more solid.

Peggy held her hand up to her face. I think that’s mostly due to the brighter lighting.

I’m going nuts, Tera declared.

Oh, sweetie.

Stop calling me sweetie.

"Tera. I wish I could hug you. Take the pain away. I can move objects with my hands, but that’s about the extent of my powers. Even at that, I sometimes drop objects. Plus, I’m afraid I’m sort of, well, tethered to you. I can’t get all that far away from you. Just maybe seventy feet or so. I know that’s unfair to you, but—"

"Life isn’t fair. You told me that enough times. Then you went and died, because of me and that stupid plant and the stupid macrame I gave you."

Peggy shook her head. I was murdered. I couldn’t see who did it. Someone must have climbed through my kitchen window and killed me. I read in the newspaper that the heavy flowerpot had landed on my head, like you always worried about, but that’s not what happened. The killer must have pulled my body farther down on my bed after I died, to make it looked as if the heavy plant fell on my head.

Tera tried to distract herself from her growing panic by putting on her shoes. "You were a light sleeper. You’d have wakened if someone climbed through a window and up the stairs, took down the hanging flowerpot, and…and smashed you in the face with it. You. Aren’t. Here. I’m devastated and shocked and exhausted, and I’m seeing and hearing things. I must have summoned up some strange tantra somehow, and you’re a delusion."

Except I’m not. I’ve been within some seventy feet of you since my soul left my body. I’ve witnessed how upset you are, and I’ve been helpless. I couldn’t do a single thing to ease your pain.

You still can’t. Your being here is just adding to it. I’m hallucinating.

You’re not hallucinating. But what’s important now is that I remember my death, Tera. I remember waking to a blow to my head and an instant later, I couldn’t breathe. I was right there with you and Vance when the coroner was talking to you. He told you I had dissolved an Ambien in the cup of water that I keep on my nightstand. He was wrong. I haven’t used Ambien in at least five years, thanks to your yoga classes. I only kept it for super-long flights with major changes in time zones. And, like you told the coroner, I would never have dissolved it. But I did take some gulps of water. It tasted funny. I thought that bad flavor might have been the glass of water sitting too long. Have you ever noticed when you leave water sitting out overnight or so, it starts to taste like it came from an old garden hose?

"What’s actually important, Tera grumbled, is that I’m alone, talking to myself."

Peggy grabbed the hem of her pajama top. Look. These are my new pajamas you gave me for Christmas. Seems like I’m stuck wearing the clothes that I died in. Thank goodness it wasn’t a nightgown. That would have been so embarrassing. Just before you spotted me, I tried—and failed—a handstand. I’d have mooned you.

If you can walk through walls, how is it that you can stand or step on the floor?

"No idea. My hands and feet seem to be solid. If I put my palms against a wall or a floor, I just push against it. I can’t go through surfaces unless I act as if they aren’t there. Maybe my experiences in my afterlife conform to what I already believed. Maybe life after death is whatever you believe it to be. And maybe right now, I’m conforming to whatever rules for ghosts I think are accurate. In other words, I’ve probably constructed myself as a ghost who has to obey the rules of physics that I assume ghosts can follow due to ghosts in TV shows and movies."

Be that as it may, I am done talking to my object of severe delusion. Tera stood up, yearning to break into a run and barge through the door.

Tera?

It was Emma. Yeah, Tera replied, turning.

I had a feeling you were still here. Emma walked right through Peggy. Brr, she said. There’s quite a draft. She stopped and peered up at Tera with sorrowful eyes. Emma was slightly pudgy but was lithe and flexible. When she smiled, her whole face lit up, and she resembled a young Catherine Zeta-Jones. She wore her wavy brown hair in a bun on top of her head, which she jokingly claimed gave her the two or three inches to match Tera’s height. Tera, like her mother, was tall; they were both five feet, nine inches. They both had blue eyes, straight sandy-blond hair, and well-toned bodies. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Do you want some company? Or to come back to class? I’ll move my mat to the back row with you, if you’d like.

No, but thanks for asking, Emma. I’m going to head home.

I knew this was too soon for you to return. Emma rubbed Tera’s arm, while looking all-but piteous herself. I told Amy as much. She insisted she needed to do something for Peggy. She told me how your mother saved her from bankruptcy. That was so noble. Peggy gave up her therapy practice in order to help Amy run the place. Your mother was a saint.

Gag me, Peggy said, rolling her eyes. "If I’m a saint, someone must have set the sainthood bar so law it’s at the bottom of a swamp."

Peggy’s comments were so unexpected, Tera had to stifle a laugh. Thanks. My mom was the best.

Oh, thank you, sweetie!

"To be fair, though, Mom was already partially retired." Tera raised her voice in the hope that her dementia would give up the ghost,