by Erin Huss
"Um, no offense, but do you even know how to drive this thing?"
"Yes. Sort of. I've only had it about"—I check my watch—"two hours." I push a few more buttons, and the dashboard lights up. I put the car in reverse and ease out of my parking space. "Let's go someplace where no one is watching us."
"Like Irky Ira?" She points to Ira who is standing beside the dumpster holding the pink box of donuts and giving me a peculiar look.
"Yes, exactly. And why is he irky?"
"It’s a nickname … wait a second. Is your last name Lane? As in John and Mary Lane, the real estate agents?"
“I'm their daughter.”
“I know you! I mean, I don't know you, know you. Obviously. But we call you Looney Lane.”
“Yeah, well, you're dead, and I'm the only one who can see you. So perhaps we don't call me Looney Lane anymore.” Like ever. Also, “Who is we?”
“Me and my friends. I heard you talk to yourself.”
“I'm talking to dead people. Hence the reason you're here.” I drive across the street to Earl Park. We appear to be the only ones here, which is perfect. I don’t need an audience. But before I can deal with Penelope, I need to call my dad.
“Hid-eee-ho there, pumpkin,” he answers on the first ring. My dad looks like Tom Selleck and talks like Mr. Rogers.
"Dad, I need you to do me a solid and be sick."
"But I have a meeting with Beth later today, and we're at an open house right now."
"I've um … had a visitor, and it's a long story. But I need you to be sick."
"Is that Zoe?" I hear mom say in the background. Mom doesn't know about my gift. Dad does. It's better that way. Mom doesn't do paranormal.
"It is," I hear Dad say to Mom. "But"—he coughs—"I don't feel good."
"No, Dad. You need to have food poisoning."
He sighs. "Okay. I got it."
"Thank you."
We hang up, and I reach into my briefcase and grab a Bluetooth. My phone is old and has zero ability to connect to anything, but the Bluetooth is a great prop. "Okay. Back to you," I say to Penelope.
"Why do you see me if I'm dead?"
"I'm a medium. It's a gift. You're not the first spirit I've seen, and you're not the last, I'm sure. But, oddly enough, you look different than the others."
"Really?" She perks up. "Like better?"
"Honestly? Worse."
She frowns.
"Typically, spirits are restored to their prime and aren't so translucent." I extend a finger, and she leans away.
"Am I, like, a sick ghost then?"
"I don't know what's going on. Let's start with the basics." I grab a notepad from my briefcase and click my pen, which is silver and engraved with Lane, a present my dad gave me on my first day of work. “What’s your last name?”
“Muffin.”
I scribble this on the top of the paper. “Any relation to Mr. and Mrs. Muffin?”
"My dad is Arnold Muffin and Michelle is my step-mother." She says step as if it's a bad word.
Here's what I know about Mr. And Mrs. Muffin: they're in their mid-fifties. She is the president of the crochet club, he wears straw hats, they own Butter Bakery. When your last name is Muffin, you kind of have to, right?
I'm not much older than Penelope, but we've never met before. I've only just entered the "real world." My parents sheltered me my entire life thinking I was a schizophrenic. Turns out I'm not—I just speak to the dead.
"Do you ever work at Butter?" I ask.
"Only in the summer and on holiday breaks. I go to Trucker Community College." Trucker is one county over, about a forty-minute drive north, and twice the size of Fernn Valley.
"Can I ask about your outfit?” Penelope says. “I don’t understand what’s … happening.” She moves her hands around helplessly.
"There is nothing wrong with my clothes." I pick off a strand of cat hair from my shirt, which is a pink chiffon blouse that I bought last week. The sales lady said it looked good with my light brown hair, dark eyes, and tiny frame. I have on jeans and a pair of checkered Vans. And just once I'd like to connect with a spirit who will easily transition to the next phase without having an opinion on my wardrobe.
"I didn't say there was anything wrong with your clothes …" Penelope holds up her palms, and I notice the paint smudged under her fingertips. "My grandma has that shirt, and I thought maybe you were old … but, like, came back young … I-I-I-I … I can't be dead! You can't let me be dead!"
"Bringing people back to life isn't one of my gifts, unfortunately." Actually, no. Fortunately. That would be a little too creepy.
"You have to help me!" Her voice reaches an ear-piercing octave. “I know I’m not dead!”
"I'm trying to help you. We’ll figure out what happened so you can transition peacefully."
"What if I don’t want to transition anywhere?”
“I know this must be shocking—”
“We can't figure anything out by sitting in the car! How many ghosts have you helped?"
"Spirits, and really just one, but—"
"That's it? You've helped one! I need a professional. Someone who knows what they're doing. I'm in trouble. I need help! Don’t you see? I’m not dead!"
"I'm trying to help you, Penelope. Please try to stay calm. I know this is difficult to take in—"
"Stop telling me to stay calm—" And poof, she's gone.
Um …
"Penelope?" I stumble out of my car and survey the park. "Penelope?" I call out. "Hello?" I check the duck pond, behind the bushes, the trees, and the gazebo. "Hello?" I close my eyes and concentrate, hoping to feel Penelope's spirit. I don't feel anything but the wind on my face and a gnat, which has landed on my nose.
I shoo the tiny insect away and walk back to my car, feeling utterly baffled. Penelope's words roll around in my mind: I'm in trouble. I need help! She sounded so bone-chillingly desperate that just the memory brings goose bumps to my arms. Then there’s her appearance. Her translucent like state, the abdomen wound, the twigs in her hair, and the cut under her eye. Clearly, she didn’t go down without a fight. No wonder she’s so frantic.
From everything I’ve experienced and read, a person will be restored to his or her prime after death. For example, the last spirit who visited me was in his nineties but looked thirty. Sure, Penelope is only twenty-one, which most would argue is your prime. So it’s not like she would appear to look any different than she did when she was alive. But why would she still have the abdomen wound and the cut under her eye?
I take out my key fob and unlock my car. The driver’s side door slowly lifts just as a horrid thought enters my mind. When the previous owner of this car showed up and declared he’d been murdered, I didn’t believe him. He was old, and early reports stated he’d died of natural causes. I thought it was my job to help him accept this news. In the end, he turned out to be right. He had been murdered. He’d known all along there was nothing natural about his death, despite my insistence, and I made a promise to never question a spirit's instinct again.
Which is problematic because Penelope did say, “I know I’m not dead!” She was rather adamant about it too. Why would she appear to me if she weren’t dead? Can a person’s spirit leave a living body …? Oh, crap.
I bend over and put my head between my knees, feeling light-headed. I’d read about this once in a book. When a spirit made contact right before their death. It’s rare, but it has happened. If I’m right, that means Penelope isn’t entirely dead. She’s not entirely alive either, which makes this situation entirely dire.
Chapter Two
I barrel into the library and find Rosa, the librarian, sitting at the desk peering down at an iPhone. Her glasses rest on the tip of her nose. You'd never know it by looking at her, but Rosa recently inherited a great deal of money. She's still the same person on the inside and out—even wearing the same flowy dresses, same beaded earrings, sitting in the same library that smells of damp wood and books.
Rosa puts a hand on her chest. "Goodness, Zoe. You can't go around scaring old women like that. I'll have a heart attack."
"Sorry. I need the book now. It's in, right?"
"Of course. You're the only one who checks it out. Why don't you buy yourself a copy?"
“Why buy when I can borrow for free?” I shout over my shoulder as I take off toward the non-fiction section—paying no attention to the Shhhhhh signs posted on every available surface. There's no one else in the library. There never is.
It's been months since I last used Reaching the Other Side, a how-to workbook for mediums. I run my finger along the books until it lands on the familiar spine. I flip to the table of contents and scan the chapters until I find what I’m looking for.
Chapter Fifteen: Crossing Together
There are several reports from around the world of Spirits visiting loved ones prior to their death. It's happened to me only once, writes the author, Tabitha Corner. The Spirit of my aunt Kitty appeared to me. At the time, she was over 3,000 miles away at home with pneumonia. She came to say good-bye and died three days later. I discovered through this experience that a Spirit can visit loved ones during or just before their death, to bid farewell or to give a warning.
One of my clients saw the spirit of her father prior to his death. “I was doing dishes when my dad walked past the window. At first, I was confused. As far as I was concerned, my father was at home perfectly well. But he appeared almost see-through, and he had a head wound. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew he was about to die. We had a nice conversation and said our good-byes. Several hours later, I received a call from the hospital telling me that my father had been in a horrible car accident and was in a medically induced coma. He died two days later.”
I fall back against the bookshelf, weighted by shock. I'm not a loved one, but I am sensitive to spirits, which is why she appeared to me. This all seems unbelievable and way out of my comfort zone. I’m still figuring out how to help people who are actually dead. I’m not sure what to do about the almost dead.
I turn to the back cover.
Medium Tabitha Corner began communicating with the dead when she was three years old but didn't fully accept her gift until she was forty-two. Now, she's helped hundreds of people connect with their deceased loved ones using her remarkable gift. Tabitha lives in Seattle, Washington, with her five cats, two birds, and a hamster.
Aha! I’ve got an idea.
I take a seat at the computer desk located in the back of the library. The internet is free but requires a code. Good thing I have it memorized. I click on Google and search for Tabitha Corner, Medium, Seattle, Washington.
Who better to help than the medium who wrote the book?
Tabitha’s Yelp page shows up at the top of my search. She has over two hundred five-star reviews. I call the number listed. Three rings and I get her voicemail.
"You've reach Tabitha Corner, medium and psychic. Please leave your name, phone number, and reason for calling. I'll get back to you shortly." Tabitha sounds much older than I expected.
I wait for the beep. "Hello, Ms. Corner. I'm a fan of your book, and I have a question about a spirit who visited me today. Her appearance—"
"If you're happy with your message, please press one," says an automated woman's voice.
I press one, and I'm disconnected.
Ah! Stupid phone.
I call the number back. Wait for the voicemail message to end then spit out my name, number, and ask her to please call me back as soon as possible.
Phew.
Okay, so now I wait for Tabitha Corner to call me back. In the meantime, I need to look for Penelope.
I race to the front and slam the workbook on the counter. "Do you know Penelope Muffin?"
Rosa jumps and drops her phone. "Zoe, please, a little warning next time." She plucks her cell off the floor and wipes the screen using the bottom of her dress. "My kids told me to buy one of these smart phones, but I just don't know that it's worth the hassle."
"Okay, sure. Do you know Penelope?"
"Yes, she's the Muffins’ daughter. She gives poor Michelle Muffin quite the stress."
"How so?"
"Do you remember the welcome sign incident?"
How can I forget? Someone with a spray can and a stencil made the F a P, connected the two n's, and added an S. Welcome to Sperm Valley it read. Nearly every person in town died of mortification. Wait …"Did Penelope do that?"
"Yes."
"Isn't Penelope super religious?" Changing Fernn to Sperm doesn't sound like something a churchgoing patron would do. Granted, I'm not a churchgoing patron myself. So, I guess I wouldn't know.
Rosa laughs. "Heaven knows the girl could use a little religion in her life."
Great. So Penelope lied to me. Not a great start to our medium/spirit relationship.
"She and Michelle have a rocky relationship," Rosa adds.
"How rocky? Like Michelle would-attempt-to-kill-her-stepdaughter rocky?"
"Heavens no, Zoe. What an accusation to make."
"Sorry." I wring my fingers, unsure of what to do next. Penelope said she was a student at Trucker Community College. I guess that would be a good start. Obviously, no one knows she's hurt yet. This is a small community. News of that nature would travel fast. Two weeks ago, Mr. Sanders, the town’s pharmacist, choked on a hot dog at Glady’s Diner. Glady was still mid-Heimlich when residents began calling in the news to The Gazette’s tip hotline. If people knew Penelope was hurt or missing, everyone would know.
"Zoe," Rosa interrupts my thoughts. "Zoe, are you all right, dear?"
“Um … yes. But I do need to find Penelope. You wouldn't happen to know if she came home for the three-day weekend, do you?”
"I'm not sure. You can check Butter and see if she's there. But don't eat anything. There's been an outbreak of food poisoning. The town is boycotting the bakery until they’ve passed a proper food-safety inspection."
Oh, geez. Why did I have to say food poisoning? Couldn't I have just said he had the stomach flu? Gah! I need to get better at lying. The poor Muffins are having a really bad day—and I suspect they don’t even know the half of it yet.
"I'll check this out." I hand Rosa the book.
"Okay, but remember, My Hot Stepbrother books one and two are due back Monday. You also have the entire Steamy Waiters series out. I meant to tell you sooner, but I completely forgot. It's been a busy morning. I just got here less than an hour ago—"
"Mmmhmmm, will do." I peek around the room, hoping Penelope is hiding behind a bookshelf. I don't see her. I don't feel her.
Where did she go?
"You seem preoccupied." Rosa scans the barcode then hesitates. "You know what? Here." She hands me the book. "Have it."
"Doesn't it belong to the city?"
"Pfft. No one comes in here anyway. Let alone looking for anything on this subject."
"Thank you so much, Rosa." I slip the book into my briefcase and race out. Except there's a revolving door, and it's painfully slow today. Like it knows I'm in a hurry. We fight for a while (me and the door), until I win and get outside.
Butter Bakery is the most popular place in town. A pink and white awning hangs over the entrance, with three-tiered wedding cakes proudly displayed in the window. Inside, the tables are white wrought iron, the walls are painted lavender, and the display case is long and filled with the most delicious-looking treats. The aroma is a mixture of sugar and coffee, and on any typical day, you'd be lucky to find a place to stand.
Today is not typical.
The bell attached to the door announces my arrival. The display case is cleaned out, and Mrs. Muffin is behind the counter wearing a pink apron, dumping trays of sweet-smelling baked goods into a trash can. Every single table is empty.
I feel terrible.
"Sorry, we're closed." Mrs. Muffin drops
an entire coffee cake into the trash. "We'll reopen tomorrow, hopefully."
"I'm actually looking for your stepdaughter, Penelope."
Mrs. Muffin looks up. "Aren't you the Lane girl?"
"Yes." I squeeze between two tables and walk up to the counter. "Is Penelope in town?"
"She arrived last night.” She raises an eyebrow. “I wasn't aware you two knew each other."
"Um, yes. Have you spoken to her recently? Today, maybe? Like”—I check my watch—"a half-hour ago?"
"No, it's been a busy morning. Why do you ask?"
How do I tell her that I've seen Penelope's spirit? She'll think I'm crazy. Which won't help Penelope at all.
Think, Zoe. Think …
Penelope was in workout clothes. There are many places to run around here, or so I think. I've never actually been. But The Gazette prints hiking trails in the paper once a year.
Mrs. Muffin is staring at me.
"Can you please call Penelope?” I ask.
"Why?"
"I heard she went hiking and … um … there have been reports of … unruly wildlife."
Her eyes go wide. "Like lions?"
"Sure, and bears, possibly cougars! You should call her. Right now."
Without another word, she shuffles to the rotary phone mounted to the wall. I cringe with each turn of the number dial, counting the seconds ticking by. It's like nothing in Fernn Valley is efficient!
Mrs. Muffin wraps the phone cord around her finger while it rings in her ear. "It goes straight to voicemail." She hangs up. "Who told you she was on a hike? That doesn't sound like something Penelope would do."
Well, crud. "What about a run?"
Mrs. Muffin shakes her head. "She's probably still sleeping."
"Oh, I really don't think she is." I massage the back of my neck. "It's almost eleven o'clock. I'm sure she's up. Maybe you should go home and check on her."
"Why would I do that?"
“Because … um … because …" Nothing. I've got nothing. My mind is like a vast field of dead grass blowing in the wind. “Errrr …."
"Honey, I'm a little busy." Mrs. Muffin dumps a tray of banana loaves into the trash. "Perhaps you could call her yourself."
