Chapter 1 1 Great-Great-Great-Aunt Eleanor was really named Elsie. She won't admit it, even though she's little more than a bluster through a room, thin and gray and dusty enough to sneeze at. Eleanor, she insists. Hint of a British accent. She was raised in Kansas. I know about Kansas because of Dog. Dog tells the truth. Or brings it to me, really. It's not like he can talk. Living or not, he's still a dog. I tried to tell my not-so-great Aunt Monica about this once, and she nearly felt my forehead. I don't mention Dog anymore. And I call the great-great-great-aunt Eleanor. What's the harm? Dead people deserve whatever names they want, I think, though if I had my choice, I'd rather not wait until dying to rid myself of California. People make comments about a name like California. "What was your mother thinking?" asks Aunt Monica. "What indeed?" asks Eleanor. "Watch it," I warn the deader of my aunts. Good thing about ghosts is they're so much your elders, you don't need to mind them. That, and their swats go straight through you. Excerpted from Almost There and Almost Not by Linda Urban All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
