One Last Bus Ride
As Avon writers are sharing Halloween stories this week, I thought I’d share one of my true life ghost stories. Having spent years volunteering in senior citizen residences, I’ve seen more than my fair share of unusual circumstances and coincidences. Elba’s story is my favorite. I often dream of her sitting on that bus, her face radiant with happiness.
One of my favorite bingo partners was Elba. Elba wouldn’t tell me her age but, as she teased her ninety-year-old friend about being “just a youngster”, she must have been close to one hundred years old.
My buddy, Elba, was fascinated with my weekend bus ride to and from my hometown. She wanted to know everything – when the bus left, what the fare was, what the bus driver said, who stopped at which towns. I spent hours with her every Monday, recapping my trip from start to finish, relating every little detail.
At the end of my Monday visits, she’d sigh and tell me how she always wanted to take a bus ride across the country. She would stay in the tiny little towns along the way, meet different people, eat different food. “It would be the grandest thing”, Elba would say. “Once.” She slapped the armrest of her wheelchair. “I get out of here, I’ll go.”
She said this every time, sounding quite determined, but I knew it wouldn’t ever happen. Elba was very sick. She had some complicated illness I had never heard of and I was told she hadn’t long to live.
One Friday, the boss kept me at work later than usual and I had to run to catch the six o’clock bus. As I hustled to the back of the vehicle, I looked up. My Lord. I stopped in the aisle. There, sitting in a seat, was a woman who could have been Elba’s twin. This woman was wearing an old fashioned white wool coat. Her gray hair was perfectly curled in that 1960’s Jackie Kennedy style. A tiny white pillbox hat was balanced on top of her head. The light above her made her skin glow.
As I stood there, gawking at Elba’s twin, another passenger bumped into my back. “Excuse me,” she snapped. When I didn’t respond, she pushed her carryon luggage against me.
I ignored her, my gaze fixed on Elba’s twin. Should I ask her who she was? No. If she wasn’t related to my friend, I’d die of embarrassment. I’d ask Elba next week. This would give us something to talk about.
The bag dug into my spine and the lady behind me huffed impatiently. I moved to an unoccupied seat and sat down. When I exited the bus at my stop, Elba’s twin was gone, her seat empty.
On Monday, I rushed into the senior citizens’ residence, eager to talk to Elba. I poked my head into her room. There was a new lady sitting primly in Elba’s bed. I double checked the door number. Yes, it was the correct room but where were all of Elba’s things?
“Where’s Elba?” I asked a nurse.
That was when I found out.
She had died.
On Friday at exactly six o’clock.
Just in time to make the bus.
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