by Lisa Graff
Roger tilts his head to the other side, and the screen freezes again. Two blue fish chase each other around my aunt’s hair.
“Didn’t you see it that time?” I ask Roger—because he’s staring at me like he’s waiting for me to figure something out, when I’m the one who should be waiting for him.
“Didn’t you?” he asks.
But Jax pipes up before I can answer.
“She said ‘Marie’ first,” Jax says, looking at Aunt Nic’s frozen face. “Then Mary.”
“Big whoop,” I reply. “Spirit can be hard to hear sometimes. Living people don’t always speak super clearly, either.”
“Yeah,” Jax says slowly. “But that’s a real common name, Mary. Nic could’ve just been guessing. And”—when Jax looks at Roger then, he gets an encouraging nod—“it wasn’t like she was pointing at the woman, Mary, when she said her name, either. She basically just shouted, ‘Is anyone here named Mary?’ and that lady jumped up.”
I can’t believe Jax is turning on me, too. “It wasn’t a wild guess, Jax. I’ve seen Aunt Nic do that thousands of times. She’s always right.”
“Maybe,” he says thoughtfully. Roger’s busy beaming at Jax like he wants to give him a gold star, which is making me madder than anything. “But, okay, if you think about it, probably every person in that audience had someone who was close to them die, right? That’s why they came. And cancer—that’s like one of the most common ways people die. I mean, my grandpa died of cancer, and my mom’s cousin, too. And so, yeah, the odds were probably pretty good that somewhere in that room was a lady whose sister died of cancer and whose name was Marie or Mary or Marjorie or something like that. And actually”—he pauses for just a moment as he thinks it through—“your aunt just said”—he does a pretty terrible impression of her voice—“I’m getting a name that starts with ‘M.’ She could’ve meant the sister who died was named that. She didn’t say.”
“Very astute, young man,” Roger tells Jax, and I start fuming like I’m filled with steam. “In fact, if you watch a little closer”—Roger tilts his head again, and the video spins forward to the spot where we see Mary rise up in the audience—“you’ll notice four other women”—he points out three figures deep in the back rows of the theater, and one not too far away from Mary—“who raise their hands when your aunt asks just such a thing. Four other women”—he points them out again—“who would just as happily tell her that they are the person the spirit is speaking about.”
I squint at the figures on the glass. “But it doesn’t matter if they think they’re the ones the spirit meant,” I argue. “Because they’re not. If they were, Aunt Nic would’ve picked them instead.”
Roger sighs, like I’m just not getting it. “She would’ve picked whoever she felt like,” he replies. “Because she’s not channeling any spirits at all. Your aunt is lying, CJ. Simple as that. And the worst part is, the very person she’s lying to”—he jabs the image of Mary in the chest—“is helping her do it. This poor woman doesn’t think she’s telling your aunt anything. But your aunt is a very skilled manipulator, CJ. I’ve been following her for over a year. She got this poor grieving woman to tell her everything she needed to convince her that her dead sister was right there with them.”
“She didn’t manipulate anyone,” I say. “I was there.” I search my brain for a detail that will prove him wrong. “Aunt Nic knew about Mary’s sister being super smart. I remember. And Mary never told her that. She just knew.”
Jax, beside me, is nodding. First useful thing he’s done in ten minutes. “I remember that, too,” he says. “The lady was really impressed Nic knew that.”
“Okay,” Roger says, tilting his head again. The recording flips even further forward. “Let’s watch.”
“She was smart, your sister, huh?” Aunt Nic is saying to Mary. “Used lots of big words?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” Mary replies.
“But she didn’t like to show off,” Aunt Nic goes on. “Didn’t want everyone else to feel bad, knowing they weren’t as smart as she was. She was always looking out for other people.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mary replies. Smiling. Big nods. “Always.”
I turn to Roger just as he freezes the image again. “See?” I say. “She knew.”
But he’s still shaking his head like I’m the one missing something. “The first thing Nic asks is if her sister used lots of big words—and it’s clear from the woman’s reaction that her sister did not. It’s only after your aunt gets a tepid response that she asks a follow-up question that fits a little better—if the sister was smart, but didn’t like to brag about it.”
“And she was right about that!” I don’t understand how Roger can be watching the exact same recording as me but seeing something completely different. “The woman agreed. She was thrilled Aunt Nic knew that.”
“She was thrilled about something,” Roger replies. “She might be agreeing with the fact that her sister was smart, or that she didn’t like other people to feel bad, or that she cared about others. And what person doesn’t think most of those things about their sister? The only thing we know for certain is that the sister didn’t use big words, which is the only straightforward question your aunt asked.”
Beside me, Jax is nodding again, but this time it’s not me he’s agreeing with. “Yeah, actually,” he says, “I’d say that stuff about my sister, too, and I don’t even like her that much.”
“I think it’s time we left,” I say. I’m filled with hot, angry steam. How am I supposed to convince Roger to stop spreading lies about Aunt Nic when I can’t even convince Jax? I head toward the octopus wall again and spot the woman in gold, waiting for us in the hallway. “I’m obviously going to let Aunt Nic know what you’re up to,” I tell Roger on our way out.
“I figured as much,” Roger replies. But he doesn’t look like he’s mad about it or wants to stop me. Actually, he looks like he feels sorry for me.
I really hate this guy.
“Can I ask one question?” Jax says just as we’re face-to-face with the octopus again. He turns to Roger, his voice a little steadier. “How’d you do that, with your cup filling up with hot chocolate, I mean?”
“It doesn’t matter how he did it,” I tell Jax, pushing him forward. “It looks cool, but it’s just a dumb trick.”
The look Roger gives me then, I think he’s going to give me the gold star. “Exactly,” he tells me. And then, even more annoying, “You’re a smart girl, CJ. The truth is out there for you to find, if you want to see it.”
“The truth is there for you, too,” I reply. “If you want to see it.”
At that, he smiles. A corners-only, sad little smile. I give him the same one back.
It isn’t until the wall is swinging closed behind us that Jax and I notice the octopus again. I can tell Jax sees it too by the way he sucks in his breath.
Only the last five letters of the octopus’s original message remain now, bold, inky blue against the bright water.
JAMES
As soon as we read the name, the wall closes completely behind us.
* * *
• • •
It’s obvious Jax and I are avoiding talking to each other as the woman in gold leads us back through the weird mansion. But the second she deposits us in the gardens on our own, I tell him, “Look, I know Roger was getting to you in there—” Then I have to pause, because it’s so bright outside that I sneeze, three times. “But I need your help again. I got another message from Spirit, and I think it’s important.” And as we cross back through the hedges toward the parking lot, I explain about the mushroom bracelet. “The artist’s name was James Darek. James, just like the name in the octopus. And I swear, Jax, those mushrooms on the bracelet were exactly like the ones in my mom’s sculpture. And I know you think this is all a coincidence, and you’re worried about your job and everything, but I real
ly think Spirit is telling me to look into this James guy, and—”
“I’ll help you,” Jax tells me. Which might be the most surprising thing he’s said all day.
“You will?”
“The whole time we were in there,” Jax says, “I kept getting this weird . . . feeling. Like someone was watching me or something, I don’t know. And then that name in the octopus? James?” He’s tapping the side of his phone like he thinks that’ll make it pick up a signal faster. “James was my grandpa’s name.”
My eyes go buggy. “No way.”
“Well, Jaime. James was the American version.” He darts his eyes at me. “I thought maybe it was Abuelo’s way of telling me that I need to help you out.”
“Your grandpa sounds like a pretty smart guy,” I say.
At that, Jax laughs. “He’d agree with you,” he says. And then, whacking his phone one more time, he shouts, “Aha! A signal! Whoa.” He brings the phone close to his face. “I’ve got fourteen missed calls from your aunt and six from Uncle Oscar. Oh, man, it’s past two. They must be totally freaking out.”
“I’ll call Aunt Nic,” I tell him, taking the phone. I need to warn her about Roger and try to buy us some time to work through this new message from Spirit without telling her too much. I flip open my messenger bag and hand Jax my tablet. “You look up James Darek.”
The phone rings twice before someone picks up. But it isn’t Aunt Nic on the other end. It’s Oscar.
“CJ!” he answers. Oscar is never a happy person, but he sounds especially irritated right now. “Where are you? Your aunt is in a reading right now. She told me the second I got you I was supposed to make sure you’re not in a hospital, and then yell at you. Are you in a hospital?”
“We’re fine,” I say. “But before you yell at me, I want you to know that it’s not Jax’s fault we’re so late, it’s mine. I practically dragged him here.”
Jax’s breaths are short and quick as he listens to my end of the conversation, but at least he’s not scratching. Probably because he’s too busy scrolling through search results on the tablet. I peek over his shoulder to see what he’s found. It doesn’t look like there’s much, but Jax clicks on a website for a gallery that features some of James Darek’s work. That might be a lead on how to reach him, I guess.
“Where’s ‘here’?” Oscar asks me.
“We’re like, a half an hour from the theater. We’re safe, I promise.” I don’t mention Bakersfield, and the Ezolds, and my mom’s house. There will be time for all that later. “Listen,” I say as Jax pings through more search results. “This is important. As soon as Aunt Nic’s done with her reading, you have to warn her about Roger Milmond. That TV producer? He’s not who he says he is. He’s trying to prove to everyone that Aunt Nic is lying about being a medium. He’s a real creep. Just tell her, okay? Soon as she’s done?”
There is silence on the other end. At first I think I’ve lost the connection, but when I pull the phone away, I see the call’s still going.
“Oscar?”
That’s when Jax elbows me in the ribs. “CJ,” he whispers. “I found him.” He shows me the tablet.
The post on the screen is from a social media account, and it’s time-stamped only fifteen minutes ago. Back at work on the top-secret project!
I raise an eyebrow like a question at Jax, and that’s when he points to a location marker on the post.
The San Diego Zoo.
“The zoo?” I mouth at him. It’s 150 miles from here. A two-hour drive, maybe, if you don’t care too much about speed limits.
Jax just gives me a look like I’m game if you are.
On the other end of the phone, Oscar finally says, “CJ?”
I’d forgotten he was still there. “Yeah?”
“Just . . .” Oscar takes a deep breath. “Don’t go searching for answers you don’t want to find,” he says.
I look back at the tablet, then at Jax’s eager-but-terrified face. And I tell Oscar, “We’ll be back in time for curtain.”
TEN
I HAVE NEVER felt as antsy as I do sitting in the passenger’s seat on the road to San Diego. “Find anything?” Jax asks me after twenty minutes or so. He darts his chin toward the tablet.
“No photos of the guy, no nothing,” I say. I sigh and slip the tablet back into my messenger bag. “James Darek has one social media account, which is the one we found, and there are only a few posts, mostly pictures of different types of mushroom art. I can’t figure out how old he is, or where he’s from, or anything.”
I give up and stare out the window. At least the 405 is more scenic than the 5. “What do you think this guy has to do with my mom, anyway?” I ask, pulling the cement mushroom cap out of my coat pocket. For the millionth time, I transfer it heavy between my hands, running my fingers over those smooth, shiny bits of glass. Trying to feel my mom’s energy. But I get nothing. “And what sort of top-secret project could he be working on at the zoo?”
“Maybe it’s one of those guerilla art things,” Jax answers. “You know, those guys who, like, plop a giant papier-mâché dinosaur in the middle of a Kmart parking lot overnight or whatever? So when people wake up, they’re all, ‘Whoa, what does it mean?’” I wrinkle my nose. I do not know about that. “It’s usually something super weird, or making a political statement. Maybe this guy James is putting some mushroom garden in front of the zoo, to protest . . .”
“Mushrooms?” I wonder.
Jax shrugs. “Anyway, I bet he was a friend of your mom’s growing up. I bet that’s why their styles are so similar.”
“Maybe,” I say. But I’m learning to stop trying to predict where Spirit will lead me. “I just hope he’s still there when we show up.”
Jax’s phone lights up then, from the cup holder between us. It’s Oscar. He’s called five times since we left the mansion.
“Reject it,” Jax tells me, gesturing toward the phone. “If I’m fired, I’m fired. I don’t want to find out about it till we get back to the theater. It’ll mess with my driving.”
“They’re not going to fire you,” I say, grabbing the phone to reject the call. I whip my thumbs through a text message. We’re fine! Talk soon! “I told you, I’ll explain it to them, I promise. I dragged you on this road trip—it’s not your fault at all. They’ll have to understand. I’ll make them.”
“That’s really sweet and everything, CJ,” Jax says. And he’s using this voice like he thinks he’s so much older than I am, but I decide not to be offended. “But they’re not gonna care that it was your idea. I’m the one driving. I could’ve turned us around at any point if I wanted to. Still can. So if I get in trouble, I probably deserve it.”
I study the side of his face while he drives. Really take him in. And I’m just about to tell him thanks, and how much it means to me that in all this craziness I know I have someone on my side, when, totally out of the blue, he looks right at me and shouts, “HORSE!”
It startles me so badly that I jerk my chest against the seat belt. And then I see where he’s pointing, at the horse in the field off the highway up ahead, and I burst out laughing.
He grins. “Did I win the game?”
“I told you,” I say, laughing, “you don’t win Horse. You just—HORSE!” I spot another one, in the same field. And then several more. “HORSE! HORSE! HORSE!”
“HORSE!” Jax chimes in, pointing.
“No, I already claimed that one,” I tell him.
“Nuh-uh. I was pointing to a totally different horse than you.”
“How could you—? HORSE!” As we crest the hill, we see that the field is completely swarming with horses. “HORSE! HORSE!”
“HORSE!”
“HORSE!”
That goes on for some time. And I don’t mind a bit.
* * *
• • •
The zoo is enorm
ous. It’s a bright, sunny afternoon, and the place is crowded. Everywhere I look, there are strollers. Parents holding kids’ hands. Toddlers shrieking, gnawing on pretzels, startling pigeons.
Unfortunately, there is no protest mushroom artwork in the parking lot. Or—we discover, once we buy tickets and pass through the turnstiles at the entrance—anywhere we can see inside, either.
“So . . .” I say to Jax after we’ve been wandering awhile. “What do we do now?” I keep flipping the zoo map upside down and back again, like if I do it enough times I’ll find a message from Spirit that says, This way, CJ! When Jax doesn’t answer my question, I check over his shoulder at his phone. “Did James Darek post anything else yet?”
“Nope,” he replies, just as the phone rings in his hand. It’s Oscar. Again. Jax rejects the call, slipping the phone in his back pocket. “Maybe someone who works here knows something?”
I nod, because that’s not the worst idea. “Want me to do the talking?”
I don’t wait for an answer, since I know by now how Jax feels about strangers. Instead, I walk up to the first zoo employee I see, a woman in a navy polo shirt sitting behind a rolling cart piled with fossils.
“Excuse me?” I say as I approach, Jax lurking just behind me.
“Hello there!” The woman smiles broadly, clearly very excited to talk to us. I’m guessing most people don’t spend much time with the fossil-cart lady, when they could look at real live animals instead. “Are you interested in learning about the evolution of the hoof?”
“Actually,” I say, “do you know a guy named James Darek? He’s an artist. He does, like, mushroom themes?”
The woman sets down her fossil, obviously sad that I don’t want to chat about hooves. Of all the cart people we’ve passed so far, this woman definitely got stuck with the worst spot. She’s sitting right on the edge of a blocked-off construction area where there’s not much to look at but temporary plywood walls and a sign that says EXHIBITION IN PROGRESS!
