My father - or the ghost of my father, I should say - was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across his chest. He looked smug. He always looks smug when he manages to materialize behind my back and scare the living daylights out of me.
"So," he said, as casually as if we were talking over lattes in a coffee shop. "How's it going, kiddo?"
I glared at him. My dad looked exactly like he always had back when he used to make his surprise visits to our apartment in Brooklyn. He was wearing the outfit he'd been in when he died, a pair of grey sweatpants and a blue shirt that had Homeport, Menemsha, Fresh Seafood All Year Round written on it.
"Dad," I said. "Where have you been? And what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be haunting the new tenants back in our apartment in Brooklyn?"
"They're boring," my dad said. "Coupla yuppies. Goat cheese and cabernet sauvignon, that's all they ever talk about. Thought I'd see how you and your mom were getting on." He was peering out of the pass-through Andy had put in when he was trying to update the kitchen from the 1850s-style decor that had existed when he and my mom bought it.
"That him?" my dad wanted to know. "Guy with the - what is that, anyway?"
"It's a quesadilla," I said. "And yeah, that's him." I grabbed my dad's arm, and dragged him to the center island so he couldn't see them anymore. I had to talk in a whisper to make sure no one overheard me. "Is that why you're here? To spy on Mom and her new husband?"
"No," my dad said, looking indignant. "I've got a message for you. But I'll admit, I did want to drop by and check out the lay of the land, make sure he's good enough for her. This Andy guy, I mean."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Dad, I thought we'd been through all this. You were supposed to move on, remember?"
He shook his head, trying for his sad puppy-dog face, thinking it might make me back down. "I tried, Suze," he said, woefully. "I really did. But I can't."
I eyed him skeptically. Did I mention that in life, my dad had been a criminal lawyer like his mother? He was about as good an actor as Lassie. He could do sad puppy-dog like nobody's business.
"Why, Dad?" I asked, pointedly. "What's holding you back? Mom's happy. I swear she is. It's enough to make you want to puke, she's so happy. And I'm doing fine, I really am. So what's keeping you here?"
He sighed sadly. "You say you're fine, Suze," he said. "But you aren't happy."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Not that again. You know what would make me happy, Dad? If you'd move on. That's what would make me happy. You can't spend your afterlife following me around worrying about me."
"Why not?"
"Because," I hissed, through gritted teeth. "You're going to drive me crazy."
He blinked sadly. "You don't love me anymore, is that it, kiddo? All right. I can take a hint. Maybe I'll go haunt Grandma for a while. She's not as much fun because she can't see me, but maybe if I rattle a few doors - "
"Dad!" I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "Look. What's the message?"
"Message?" He blinked, and then went, "Oh, yeah. The message." Suddenly, he looked serious. "I understand you tried to contact a man today."
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "Red Beaumont," I said. "Yeah, I did. So?"
"This is not a guy you want to be messing around with, Suzie," my dad said.
"Uh-huh. And why not?"
"I can't tell you why not," my dad said. "Just be careful."
I stared at him. I mean, really. How annoying can you get? "Thanks for the enigmatic warning, Dad," I said. "That really helps."
"I'm sorry, Suze," my dad said. "Really, I am. But you know how this stuff works. I don't get the whole story, just . . . feelings. And my feeling on this Beaumont guy is that you should stay away. Far, far away."
"Well, I can't do that," I said. "Sorry."
"Suze," my dad said. "This isn't one you should take on alone."
"But I'm not alone, Dad," I said. "I've got - "
I hesitated. Jesse, I'd almost said.
You would think my dad already knew about him. I mean, if he knew about Red Beaumont, why didn't he know about Jesse?
But apparently he didn't. Know about Jesse, I mean. Because if he had, you could bet I would have heard about it. I mean, come on, a guy who wouldn't get out of my bedroom? Dads hate that.
So I said, "Look, I've got Father Dominic."
"No," my dad said. "This one's not for him, either."
I glared at him. "Hey," I said. "How do you know about Father Dom? Dad, have you been spying on me?"
My dad looked sheepish. "The word spying has such negative connotations," he said. "I was just checking up on you, is all. Can you blame a guy for wanting to check up on his little girl?"
"Check up on me? Dad, how much checking up on me have you done?"
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you something. I'm not thrilled about this Jesse character."
"Dad!"
"Well, whadduya want me to say?" My dad held out his arms in a so-sue-me gesture. "The guy's practically living with you. It's not right. I mean, you're a very young girl."
"He's deceased, Dad, remember? It's not like my virtue's in any danger here." Unfortunately.
"But how're you supposed to change clothes and stuff with a boy in the room?" My dad, as usual, had cut to the chase. "I don't like it. And I'm gonna have a word with him. You, in the meantime, are gonna stay away from this Mr. Red. You got that?"
I shook my head. "Dad, you don't understand. Jesse and I have it all worked out. I don't - "
"I mean it, Susannah."
When my dad called me Susannah, he meant business.
I rolled my eyes. "All right, Dad. But about Jesse. Please don't say anything to him. He's had it kind of tough, you know? I mean, he pretty much died before he ever really got a chance to live."
"Hey," my dad said, giving me one of his big, innocent smiles. "Have I ever let you down before, sweetheart?"
Yes, I wanted to say. Plenty of times. Where had he been, for instance, last month when I'd been so nervous about moving to a new state, starting at a new school, living with a bunch of people I barely knew? Where had he been just last week when one of his cohorts had been trying to kill me? And where had he been Saturday night when I'd stumbled into all that poison oak?
But I didn't say what I wanted to. Instead, I said what I felt like I had to. This is what you do with family members.
"No, Dad," I said. "You never let me down."
He gave me a big hug, then disappeared as abruptly as he'd shown up, I was calmly pouring cereal into a bowl when my mom came into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light.
"Honey?" she said, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, Mom," I said. I shoveled some cereal - dry - into my mouth. "Why?"
"I thought - " My mother was peering at me curiously. "Honey, I thought I heard you say, um. Well. I thought I heard you talking to - Did you say the word dad?"
I chewed. I was totally used to this kind of thing. "I said bad. The milk in the fridge. I think it's gone bad."
My mother looked immensely relieved. The thing is, she's caught me talking to Dad more times than I can count. She probably thinks I'm a mental case. Back in New York she used to send me to her therapist, who told her I wasn't a mental case, just a teenager. Boy, did I pull one over on old Doc Mendelsohn, let me tell you.
But I had to feel sorry for my mom, in a way. I mean, she's a nice lady and doesn't deserve to have a mediator for a daughter. I know I've always been a bit of a disappointment to her. When I turned fourteen, she got me my own phone line, thinking so many boys would be calling me, her friends would never be able to get through. You can imagine how disappointed she was when nobody except my best friend Gina ever called me on my private line, and then it was usually only to tell me about the dates she'd been on. The boys in my old neighborhood were never much interested in asking me out.