The GREAT news is that Dad told me that the doctor's think Nana's turned the corner. They've taken her off the oxygen mask and expect to release her early next week!
Because of that, Dad appeared really relaxed, and was in the mood to tell a few tall tales. We spent some time talking about the ghosts that lived in our old house. I always tell a story about Nana's old boyfriend Uncle Wendy, who died when I was nine. I was very fond of Uncle Wendy, who was a blustery Irishman, with a shock of white hair and a thick red nose. He would always come over and hand me a quarter, so I thought he was cool.
Anyway, when he died, Mom and Dad decided that I wasn't ready to handle the concept of death, and told me he had moved to California.
A few weeks after his death, however, one summer afternoon, I made my way down to Nana's in-law apartment, and there was a man standing there, in the living room. I knew Nana wasn't there, because it was a weekday, so she was working in the mill. All the lights were off in the house, no TV was on, and everything was dark and shadowy. I screamed and ran up the stairs (and apparently didn't tell anyone).
But the thing is, the man seemed *familiar*. He was much younger than Uncle Wendy, but for some reason, I felt that it was him, even though I didn't learn that he had died until a few years later.
There's an addition to this story, that I just discovered yesterday. It appears that I had never told my parents about all this, because they remember visits from Uncle Wendy after he died, too. Seems that he would ring Nana's doorbell downstairs on the Fridays he would come to visit for years after his death. Weird.