Not Quite Alive

by Lyla Payne

  He makes an impatient gesture that’s impossible to interpret, then pokes at my phone. It falls off the nightstand and onto the floor, because Henry’s really gotten quite good at moving physical objects.

  I pick it up and go through my morning routine of deleting all of the spam emails that arrived overnight, then stop when I see one from Clara. The books have been in her possession for no more than a day or two, but the email subject says “first pages” and I click it open as fast as possible. Henry hovers, his energy making my stomach flutter with nerves that aren’t mine.

  The email is short but exciting:

  Gracie! Translated the first entry and attached it—after I read it, I wondered if it might be fun to do the first entry in all of the Carlotta books, then do the second, and so on. Let me know what you think after you go through this one. Intriguing stuff!

  Talk soon,

  Clara

  I reply quickly to thank her for being fast, and then resist the urge to open the translation then and there. The time on my phone is eight-ten—the library opens at nine.

  “You wanted me to read the email?” I ask Henry, tossing off the covers and climbing out of bed. He nods, and suspicion clouds my thoughts. Henry, like the rest of my ghosts, excluding Anne Bonny, has never really cared much about me or what’s going on in my life. He’s barely been around since the first article was written, and he seems satisfied that more people stand to know he isn’t just a fun legend to tell on ghost tours in Charleston.

  One thing has changed since the last time I saw him: Frank.

  “Are you here because of Frank?” Henry’s head snaps up, his eyes bright. “Do you know who killed him?”

  Frank had forced Henry to spy on me for months. Could the ghost have been with my father when he died? Could he be keeping a host of secrets with his maddening silence, ones that would unravel this whole mystery and not only get me off the hook as far as a federal murder charge, but also give me the answers I need about the Fournier family legacy?

  Henry raises one finger and, like too many of my frustrating ghosts, points it directly at my chest. It takes me a moment to remember what I asked him last, but when I do, my mouth falls open. “You think I killed Frank? That’s ridiculous!”

  Clearly, the ghost doesn’t think so since he only nods to add emphasis to the finger he continues to point in my direction.

  “You’re a big help,” I grumble, ignoring him as I stomp into the bathroom to get ready for work. On the outside, I might look like I’m blowing him off, but inside, I’m freaking out over the accusation.

  If Henry was panicked when he woke me up, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now.

  My mind works on overdrive as I take a quick shower without washing my hair—it can go one more day without—then towel off and get dressed. Amelia is puttering around the kitchen, cleaning up her breakfast and tea mug.

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You’re a grown woman, Grace. I trust you to get up and to work on time—I just figured you were sleeping in after all of the excitement last night.”

  “I guess I was. I didn’t mean to, though.” I think about grabbing a to-go coffee, but we’re too late for me to brew a fresh pot. Hopefully, we’ll have time to run over to Westies before the library gets busy. “You ready?”

  “Yes.” We head for the front door and she eyes me as she shrugs into her coat and jams a hat on her head. “I’d say you look as if you’ve seen a ghost, but…I mean, you probably have. I assume not Lucy.”

  “No, Henry.” I lock the front door behind us and steal Amelia’s keys from her hand, unlocking the car and making sure she gets in without falling before sliding into the driver’s seat. “He thinks I killed Frank.”

  “What?”

  I spend two of our five-block drive to work explaining the nonverbal conversation—at least on Henry’s end—and she spends another one with pursed lips, her eyes faraway.

  “Maybe he doesn’t mean you literally killed him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She swivels to face me as I turn onto the library’s block and start looking for a place to park. “You know, like maybe he means something you did got Frank killed, or something he told you—like those papers.”

  My lips twist in a grimace at the thought, but my mind tries to dismiss her assumption straight away. I don’t want to entertain the idea that something I did over the past six weeks got my father killed. It’s far-fetched, even if Henry does seem sure that his death is, at the very least, my fault.

  “How could the papers have gotten him killed?”

  “I don’t know Grace, I was just thinking aloud.” She unbuckles and puts one hand on the door handle. “You ready for a big Saturday? Extra kids’ time and everything?”

  “Yes. Anything to keep my mind off all the weirdness at home.” It does make me sad that I won’t have time to read Clara’s translation, but it will be better to read it later when there aren’t any distractions. The library closes early on Saturday, and I can’t think of a better reward than getting to delve into some seriously personal history, this time from my own family.

  I also need to see if Travis will talk to me about Frank, and reveal what exactly his own ghostly talents entail. I can’t shake the feeling that maybe he could be the key to finding out what happened to our dad.

  “All right, then,” Amelia says, bringing my focus back around. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Work did keep both Amelia and me busy for the duration of the short work day. Between regular duties, increased patronage, and children’s reading hour, we didn’t have much time to even talk to LeighAnn, who always brings her kids, or Leo, who came with Marcella. Leo wanted to come over later for a run, and even though my plan of doing nothing all night still appeals to me, I agreed.

  Christmas and all of Amelia’s nesting—and cooking—has taken its toll on my waistline, for one. For another, Leo’s relationship with Victoria has stolen more and more of our time together. I figure we can go for an early run, then I can shower and curl up with dinner and the translated pages from the book.

  Amelia and Brick are going to make good on their plans for last night. They wanted to head to Beaufort to talk with Marcia, but I need a night off. They offered to go without me, but Henry’s silent accusation that my actions led to Frank’s death has risen my protective hackles too high for me to let Amelia do anything related to my ghosts on her own.

  Travis was cagey about his Saturday night plans, asking whether we could have coffee one day next week before work instead. Who knows, maybe he’s gotten a girlfriend, too.

  By the time Leo knocks on the door a little after five, I’m full of restless jitters.

  “You ready?” Leo asks as I stand on the porch, still stretching my right quad.

  A rush of cold air hits my cheeks, as refreshing as it is shocking. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  We start on our normal path, which takes us through the neighborhoods and onto the boardwalk that runs along the Charles River in town. The circuit is just about two miles before it loops past the benches that line the water. Today, when we stop, the river is gray and choppy, a reflection of the wintery twilight hanging above our heads. The bench is cold under my thighs and we both puff out white clouds of expelled breath as my heart rate and breathing return to normal.

  “You tell Beau about his ex?” Leo asks a minute later, glancing over at me as he leans back into the iron slats on the back of the bench.

  “Yeah. It didn’t go over so well.”

  “You didn’t think he’d be happy to hear it, I assume, so what do you mean?”

  I pause, not wanting to badmouth Beau now that he’s apologized. But Leo’s a friend, and his advice has been invaluable. And he’s never been Beau’s biggest fan, so it’s not as though anything I say will tarnish his good opinion. Besides, it’s been weighing on me, and I need to tell someone.

  �
��He implied he didn’t believe me, hung up on me, and didn’t talk to me for two days,” I admit, then rush on when I notice the shocked, slightly indignant squint to Leo’s eyes. “He apologized. Said it caught him by surprise and that he wasn’t prepared to hear or process the news. It’s fine now.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I mean, not fine. Obviously Lucy is still dead and none of us have any real idea how to go about helping her, or finding her body if that’s what she wants. But at least we’re all working together on it.” I’m talking too fast, and even I hear the defensive tone in my voice. I laugh, trying to cover it up, but Leo’s lack of a verbal reaction is making me nervous. “It helps to have the heft of the Drayton family—and their bank account—behind the investigation, for sure.”

  Leo shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. His shoulders relax, making me realize they’d tensed up at some point during my verbal vomit. “Bugs, it’s pretty funny to hear you talk about ghostly investigations. I’m just saying.”

  “Trust me, I know. Anyway. We don’t have any real leads, but they might know someone who can help.”

  By the time we’re both shivering, our sweat dried on our bodies, I’ve caught Leo up on the weirdness from the phone call last night. He walks me back home and we catch up on other things, like Victoria and Marcella, how Lindsay is doing much better. He never talks about the rest of his family, not even the brother whom I’ve met—and really liked.

  For some reason, I don’t talk about Henry’s silent message about my role in Frank’s death. Maybe because I don’t want it to be true.

  Maybe because I’m afraid that it is.

  Amelia and Brick are gone by the time I get out of the shower and turn on the oven, intent on cooking myself something healthy, like a frozen pizza, for my night of blessed, lazy, alone time. I loiter in the kitchen, watching the birds flock to Millie’s full feeders on the deck while the oven heats up, then pop in the pizza and run upstairs to dry my hair while it cooks.

  I get back downstairs in time to impatiently watch the oven while the pepperoni pizza cooks its last two minutes, but before long it’s cooling on a plate next to my beer on the coffee table and my laptop is finally open in front of me. A quick check of my email reveals nothing new that needs to be dealt with—basically, nothing from the Journal of American History—so I click open the attachment from Clara, pull the plate of pizza onto my lap, and settle in.

  Paris, 1816

  I had hoped that things would settle down after the end of the revolution, then again after the rise and fall of Bonaparte, but as usual when it comes to matters of my family, my hopes have been in vain. It was silly, perhaps, to think that our family’s troubles could be as easily solved as those of France. Not that our country’s troubles are likely over, but perhaps we will have a period of rest.

  Rest would be nice, but as my daughter has displayed the tendency at the early age of seven, I know that I will not be able to do any such thing. Nor will she, though I hope to wait a few years before explaining why, exactly, she must keep her ghostly friends a secret.

  I’m starting this record as a genealogy, of sorts. A list of the two halves that make up the whole of the Fourniers, so that future generations—like my daughter—will be able to know who they can trust, and who will stop at nothing to erase what they see as an abomination from our bloodline.

  A bit of history, in case there comes a day when the origins of our particular brand of strangeness has been lost, or goes untold for a generation for one reason or another. Though I’m not unhappy with my lot in life, I can easily see why someone would choose to ignore our calling instead of embracing it.

  Or attempt to, at any rate.

  My father fell in love with and married a tribal woman from Northern Africa while on one of his many Christian missions. He loved her, regardless of their many differences, including the fact that she believed her special ability to be a blessing and a noble calling, and he considered it a curse. Even so, I’m honestly not sure that he ever believed my mother could see and assist spirits who asked for her help. He was a white man, and a Frenchman, not to mention one of the most devout Christians I’ve ever met.

  When I told mother, on my fourteenth birthday, that I saw them too, I’m sure he thought it was more about a daughter wanting to emulate her mother than any real affliction.

  I no longer know what I believe. It depends on the day. I do know that I will teach my daughter—called Carlotta, as well—what my mother believed. It is better that she think it a gift, as there is no reason to hang a curse around a small child’s neck. Not as long as I have the power to control how she sees herself and her future.

  There are others in our family who will teach her otherwise. My uncle from Morocco, and my own brother, who says I am the devil, though Maman always claimed he was simply jealous of my abilities. Either way, once they find out my daughter has the calling, too, they will not stop with me. Which means we must run away and hide, for her safety if not for my own. Her father is a good man, and he cares for us both though he doesn’t understand.

  He will take us away if I tell him it’s necessary, and it is. And so I’m not sure where the next entry will be written, or even when. For now, there are no names to record but mine and hers—two Carlottas, both carrying on a tradition from a continent away—but I’m afraid there will be more. That it won’t stop, because they need us, the spirits. If we don’t help them, where else will they go?

  The entry ends there, in that odd place. The middle of a thought, almost, as though she trailed off in thought and never went back to it. At least not in writing.

  I sit back on the couch and stare at my plate of pizza, still full and getting cold. My mind is buzzing with Carlotta’s two-hundred-year-old words—how strange and wonderful it feels to witness the beginning of the ability that’s only come alive within me in the past couple of months.

  I feel the truth of her words, no matter how reluctant they sounded. That this pull, this undeniable desire to help these ghosts who come asking for help, is some kind of weird calling.

  Or a curse. Her father could have been right about that.

  Still, though the passage is captivating, it doesn’t tell me much about this legacy of Frank’s. The thing about her brother and uncle is weird, but maybe it shouldn’t surprise me. People fear what they don’t understand, after all, and perhaps they were jealous if she received special attention for what she could do.

  Her fear seems out of proportion, more than anything.

  I make a mental note to research the prevailing opinions on spiritualism at the time—I vaguely recall from one class or another that there was a time when it was en vogue, but certain sects of the church have never admitted to the existence of ghosts because they see them as a challenge to the core beliefs and teachings of Christianity.

  Definitely not my area of expertise, and I can’t think of anyone I went to school with to consult on this one, so I’ll have to bear down and do the research myself. Fail.

  Either way, Clara was right—it’s interesting, but how does it all fit together? I hope that more of the pieces fall into place after she sends me the first entries from the next couple of Carlottas.

  If not, this is going to be another dead end. With Frank gone and Travis and me at the tail end of the family tree, that’s definitely something I can’t afford if I ever hope to find out what being a Fournier really means.

  Chapter Twelve

  Amelia was out so late last night that I fell asleep before she got home. When I woke up on the couch after eleven, I was worried—the last time this happened, she had literally been kidnapped—but she immediately responded to my text and promised that Brick was not holding her hostage. Odd, and I have no idea how she managed to stay awake past eight p.m.

  She’s going to have some details to spill this morning, I decide as I swing my feet out of bed. I would rather stay snuggled under the covers, but my bladder has other ideas. Apparently it’
s taking notes on annoying behavior from Millie’s, only mine doesn’t have a seven-pound baby sitting on it.

  I’ve finished that and am digging in my drawer looking for my wool knee socks when there’s a rustle of air, the scent of fear, and the ghost of Lucy Winters appears in my room.

  “Ahh! Don’t move. Please.” I don’t want to break eye contact with her for fear that she’ll be gone when I turn back around, but I can’t find the map while I’m staring at her, so really there’s not much choice.

  I whirl around and sprint for the bed, then crouch down to pull the big atlas out from underneath. I dump it on the bed and grab the sticky note tabs at the top, thankful that I was well prepared, for once, and can flip right to the Middle East.

  She’s still here.

  “Lucy, come here. Please,” I add as an afterthought.

  The spirit does as I ask even though they don’t always, casting half a dozen looks over her shoulder in as many steps. Her pale eyes flit from the maps on the bed to me, then back to the maps. When she looks up at me again, question marks fill her gaze.

  “You want my help. To find you?” I put it that way on purpose, because we can’t waste time arguing over whether she’s alive or dead. There’s no way to know what it might do to her psyche, to her ability to manifest here, if I shatter her illusion that I can still physically help her.

  She nods, biting her lower lip as tears fill her eyes. My heart squeezes with matching desperation and fear, and I have to swallow a couple of times before regaining focus on the task at hand.

  “Okay. I was thinking you could point to where your bo—where you are. Even if you don’t know the exact place, a city or a region would be a big help.”

  The frightened expression on her face turns to a look of concentration, her lips pulled down in a frown and a wrinkle on her forehead, as she reaches for the map. It’s open to Iran and Iraq, and we both get a surprise when she tries to turn the page.