The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  “Try to stay calm.” I put Jennifer Aniston back on the rack.

  “No! I don’t want to be calm. And if you tell me to stay calm one more time, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll do … something!”

  "Yelling at me will not help the situation. I’m the only person helping you right now.”

  “I’m not yelling! I’m talking loudly. There’s a difference.”

  “Is there really?”

  “Yes. Anyway, I’m the one who is half dead, and someone is texting my family pretending to be me. That’s creepy. I’m allowed to yell. "

  "I know it’s creepy … " I’m struck with a thought. It's also kind of irky. Like Irky Ira. Not that I find Ira to be irky, nor do I think I'm looney. But nicknames have to come from somewhere, and stealing a phone is annoying.

  Obviously I’m grasping at straws here.

  “How well do you know Ira?” I ask.

  "What does Ira have to do with anything? We don’t ever talk. He was always that kid who wore turtlenecks and hung out by himself under the bleachers smoking. You know, the loner type.”

  I know the loner type well—I am one.

  “He’s also the one who ratted me out for painting the welcome sign,” she adds.

  "Why'd he rat you out?"

  "Because he's irky."

  “Does he know you call him Irky Ira?”

  “You don’t call people their nickname to their face. That’s just rude.”

  Oh, geez. All right. Moving on. “Let’s go.”

  Penelope follows me down the aisle toward the display of maps in the back, near the bathrooms.

  "Who were you meeting tonight?" I unfold a map of Fernn Valley County.

  "A guy from Instagram. He lives in Washington, but he's in town for the weekend on business."

  I lower the map. "You were meeting some guy you met on the internet?" I'm socially challenged, and even I know that's not a good idea.

  "This isn't two thousand and five, Zoe. How else are you supposed to meet people with the same interests? Tag and I have been talking for a few weeks now. He's also an artist."

  "His name is Tag?"

  "Yes, his name is Tag," she says, mocking me.

  "What's Tag's last name?"

  She mumbles something under her breath.

  "What was that?"

  "Fine! His username is Tagalicious. I don't know his actual last name. But it's not like I gave him my address or phone number. We’ve only talked on DM, and were meeting at a crowded bar in the middle of town. That's it!"

  "Is there any way to get a hold of Tag?"

  "Sure, look him up on Insta and DM him."

  She might as well be speaking Swahili. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I've only just gotten my own email account. Social media is next on my Enter the Twenty-First Century to-do list. "Let's pretend I didn't have Instagram. How might I get a hold of him?"

  "Why don't you have Insta? That's, like, basic social media."

  "Does he have an email account?"

  She shrugs. "Probably. But I don't have it."

  I blow out a breath and check the map. "We can figure out the Instagram thing later. First, let's see about the local creeks. There’s Paradise Falls not too far from where you live." I run my finger along the creek’s path; it’s over twenty-miles long.

  “Uh … Zoe?" Penelope says.

  I look up and, oh no! Penelope’s abdomen is bleeding again. I have no idea what this means, but I feel a renewed since of urgency.

  "Is this good or bad?” she asks. “Cause it feels bad."

  That would be my guess, too. But voicing my opinion won't help anyone.

  “We need to get out of here.” I attempt to refold the map, but I can't seem to get it back into its original form … gah! Never mind. I wad the thing into a ball and march up to the register. I ring the bell to get the attendant's attention. "I need to buy this."

  The attendant, Dominick—per his nametag—peers down at the waded-up map.

  "Are you familiar with Paradise Falls?" I ask him.

  "Sure. There’s a great hike following part of the creek.”

  I doubt someone would dump Penelope near a popular hiking trail. But you never know. “Where is the trailhead?”

  “It’s at the end of the frontage road, off Main Street. I don't think you want to go today, though. There have been sightings of lions and cougars."

  "Really?" Perhaps a lion attacked Penelope! Except, a lion wouldn't have texted her parents. Also, I'm ninety-nine percent positive I started the lion rumor. "How much for the map?"

  "That'll be four ninety-nine. Do you want a bag?"

  "No." I slam a five-dollar bill on the counter, grab my map, and tell Dominick to keep the change.

  Penelope is already sitting in the passenger seat when I get back to my car. I can see her through the window, and she appears to be counting. Must be a Muffin thing.

  My phone rings, and I fumble my cell out of my back pocket, hoping its Tabitha Corner finally calling me back. I check the display and … it’s Brian. Darn it. I hit ignore and get in the car.

  My phone rings again, and I drop it into the cup holder.

  "Who is calling you?" Penelope asks.

  "It's Brian, from The Gazette." I start my car and take off toward Main Street.

  "Is that your ex?"

  "No."

  "Your boyfriend?"

  "No."

  "Your lover?"

  "No. He has a girlfriend. Her name is Va-ness-a." Not sure why I feel the need to break her name into syllables. Could be because I’m blindly jealous. Oh, which gives me an idea. “Do you have a jealous ex-lover?"

  Penelope snorts. "I wish. I've been in a dry spell for almost six months."

  "I hear ya." Except mine's been more like twenty-three years, but whatever. "We’re going to check Paradise Falls, unless you can think of any other place you could be?"

  “I might have gone to Trucker this morning, now that I think about it.”

  "Good. This is good. Where in Trucker?"

  "To Quinn's work”—her face lights up with recognition—"I can't believe I forgot. Quinn bought an old copy of Gone with the Wind at an estate sale for me."

  Hallelujah! We have a lead, and the lead doesn’t involve a twenty-mile hike. "Let's go talk to Quinn and see if you ever made it there." I make a U-turn and get on the highway toward Trucker.

  "I can't believe I forgot about that. I'm going to use the pages to create a windstorm coming out of the book. It’s part of my collection for the show."

  "What show?"

  "The Paper Cut Show in Portland this Sunday … if I can still make it." She slouches and flickers in and out.

  "No. No. No. Stay with me. Tell me more about your show."

  “It’s really not that big of a deal,” she says, but I know it means everything to her. I can feel it. What I don’t know is why she downplays her emotions.

  “Is it a big show?” I ask.

  “It’s decent. They’re featuring about ten paper artists. The director saw my stuff on Instagram and invited me to participate."

  "That's amazing, Penelope. What exactly is paper art?" In my head, I imagine brightly colored shapes stuck to a piece of construction paper with Elmer’s glue. But I highly doubt that's what she does, since she’s not in preschool.

  "I create three-dimensional art using paper." A smile creeps across her face. "It's my passion. What I was meant to do. My dad and Michelle want me to become an accountant or a journalist or something equally boring. If I had to sit behind a desk for the rest of my life, I'd die. I would seriously die. And it's not my dad's fault. My mom was an artist. She created the most beautiful cakes, and my dad supported her. Hell, he bought her a bakery so she could carry out her passion. Now he's all grumpy and wears straw hats, and it's because of Michelle. She's his cousin. Did you know that?"

  “Seriously?”

  "It's true. I looked her up on one of those ancestor sites before they got married. They're fifth cou
sins only once removed. It's practically incest, and he still married her."

  "Pretty sure that's not incest. But it does sound like you and Mrs. Muffin have never gotten along."

  "No, and it's not because she replaced my mom, either. If that's what you're thinking."

  That’s exactly what I was thinking. Her dad now runs the bakery he bought for his dead wife with his new wife. Anyone would be upset.

  "My mom died when I was ten," she says. "My dad didn't marry Michelle until I was fifteen.”

  “Isn’t that around the time when you changed Fernn to Sperm?”

  “Don’t get all therapisty on me.”

  “I’ll try not to.” Though the sign incident does make more sense now.

  “I was totally fine with him moving on. But not with her. She had way too many opinions on how I should be raised. She imposed a curfew, made me move my art studio to the garage because the smell of the glue made her sick. Honestly. She just wanted to use the extra bedroom for her crochet crap. When I wanted to go to art school in New York, she convinced my dad that it would be best for me to do two years of community college. That's when she slapped me. When I told her to stay out of my life. She just slapped me right across the face."

  "Because you told her to stay out of your life?"

  "That and I called her a fat cow. She still shouldn't have slapped me, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was responsible for all this.” She gestures to her stomach.

  For the record: if I called my mom a fat cow, she’d slap me as well.

  I'm not entirely convinced Mrs. Muffin hurt Penelope. I'm not entirely unconvinced either. She was with us when Mr. Muffin received the text. I’m not sure how she could pull that off, unless it was a two-man job. Which is a possibility. Hopefully Quinn will hold some answers as to where Penelope went this morning, because she's even more translucent than she was ten minutes ago.

  "There was another spirit at your house," I say. "Did you see anyone? Feel anyone?"

  She shakes her head. "No, but I think Sheriff Vance wants to help find me now.”

  "I’m not so sure about that.”

  "Then why is he following us?”

  "What!" I look in my rearview mirror and, sure enough, three cars back is the familiar black SUV.

  “Um … um … okay. It's going to be okay," I say, mostly to myself. I'm not doing anything illegal. He said not to go far, but he wasn’t specific. Trucker isn’t considered far. He can’t follow me for no reason. Right?

  "You look a little green," Penelope says. "Just so you know, I have emetophobia."

  I turn my head slowly and say, "What?"

  "A fear of throwing up. Just the thought gives me a panic attack …" she trails off. "Except I'm not panicking." She perks up. "I'm cured. Vomit! Vomit! Barf! Gag!"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it," I interrupt, because if she doesn't stop I'll be an emot-whatever. And I don’t need a new ailment right now because I’m this close to soiling myself. This is so bad. The spirit told me to get away from Sheriff Vance, and now he’s right behind me!

  I suppose he could be on his way to Trucker as well.

  Of course.

  This is just a wild coincidence.

  Yeah, that’s probably it!

  Just to be sure, I take the next exit, hoping he'll disappear, but instead he exits as well. I turn right. He turns right. I turn left. He turns left. I get back on the highway going toward Fernn Valley. He gets back on the highway toward Fernn Valley. This is not a fun game we’re playing.

  “Why are we going back to Fernn Valley?” A painful and confused look is coming over Penelope’s face, and she flickers.

  “After you disappeared, Sheriff Vance followed me outside. We had a strange encounter, and there was another spirit there. She instructed me to get far away from Sheriff Vance. He’s not going to help us find you, Penelope. If anything, he’s going to make it harder.”

  “Oh,” she says, barely above a whisper and falls back against the seat. “One, two, three, four, five, six …”

  “What’s with the counting?”

  “After my mom got sick, she used to count. She said it helped when she was feeling overwhelmed, or angry, or scared. Seven … eight … nine … ten.”

  Oh.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten … Nope. Not helping. I’m still feeling overwhelmed, angry, and pee-my-pants scared.

  We’re nearing town, and the sheriff is still trailing behind. There’s a slight glare on his windshield, but it looks like he’s on the phone. “Penelope, can you go see who Sheriff Vance is talking to?”

  "I'm on it." She disappears.

  I beat my thumbs on the steering wheel, glancing up at the rearview mirror every two seconds.

  "He's calling in your license plate," Penelope says, reappearing beside me. "He thinks you stole the car. Err …" She drums her fingers on her thigh. "Did you steal this car?"

  "What? No! I told you, it was a gift. I have the title." I cock my thumb to the shoebox on the backseat, where the title is. Earlier this morning, before the donuts, before Penelope, and before Va-ness-a, the widow of the last spirit I helped gifted me a pair of trendy Vans (which I’m wearing) and the car. It was a pleasant surprise. A surprise I haven't had time to fully digest yet. Like how much is the gas and maintenance for this expensive gift going to cost?

  “Do you think he’s the one who did this to me?” Penelope asks.

  “I’m not sure. What’s odd is your name hasn’t crossed his mind. He’s more concerned about a little child with brown eyes.”

  “What would that have to do with me?”

  “I don’t know. For some reason, the whole incident at your house brought back these haunting memories for him.”

  “And he seriously told you all this?”

  “No, I felt it.”

  Her mouth drops open. "Can you read minds? Like the vampire from Twilight?"

  "No.” Thank goodness. I don’t want to know what everyone is thinking all the time. “I get flashes of people's thoughts as they pertain to their current feelings …" Wow, I’ve never said that out loud before. I’m not sure I even realized that’s how it works. But, yes, it makes sense. I see people’s thoughts as they relate to their current feelings. Huh. It’s nice to know how this power of mine works.

  "Dang, girl.” Penelope smiles. “That would be an awesome party trick. Seriously, you could charge money for that."

  "Why would someone pay me to tell them what they’re feeling? It's not like I can predict the future." If I could, then I’d already know where Penelope is. I would have known about Va-ness-a and not wasted my time pining over Brian. I would win the lottery—a few times.

  Also, I’d already know how to lose Sheriff Vance and do it so we can concentrate on finding out what happened to Penelope and not spend our time cruising around town.

  “So what’s your plan to get rid of Sheriff Whacko-doodle?” Penelope asks.

  I stop at a red light. “I’m not sure. If he called in my license plate, then he must be looking for a reason to arrest me, I guess.”

  “You can’t be arrested?” Penelope shrieks. “You can’t find me if you’re in jail—” And poof, she’s gone.

  The light turns green, and I start to go when I hear a crash, whoosh, and a scream. I’m scared to look, but I have to. I peek into my rearview mirror. Mrs. Batch's pink Cadillac is on top of the sidewalk, parked exactly where the fire hydrant used to be. Water gushes from the ground like a geyser, and everyone has rushed to Mrs. Batch's aid, including Sheriff Vance.

  Penelope appears, smiling from ear to ear. "I created a distraction so we can get out of here."

  “Is anyone hurt?"

  "Pfft. No. I went in Mrs. Batch's ear and told her to run the red light so, you know, she’d get pulled over. But, nope. She just made a U-turn in the middle of the road and took out the fire hydrant. This is fun. Who else should I visit? I can tell Brian to break up with Va-ness-a."

  "What? No.
Well … no. Definitely … no. Let's go."

  I turn left on Crawford Street and travel through a residential area of small homes with picket fences. The house on the corner belongs to Beth. My parents’ real estate sign is proudly displayed on the front lawn, and Beth is on her hands and knees gardening. I wonder how many people went home “sick” today from work.

  “I doubt we’re going to be able to keep Sheriff Whacko-doodle away for long,” Penelope says.

  I agree. He’ll easily find me. Especially when I’m driving around in a flashy car … oh! “I’ve got an idea!”

  Chapter Five

  Sheriff Vance is still occupied with the Mrs. Batch vs. the fire hydrant incident, which buys me enough time. I drive down the back frontage road.

  “Where are we going?” Penelope asks.

  “I’ll park my car at the Paradise Falls trailhead. That way when Sheriff Vance finds it, he’ll suspect I went into the woods. The hope is he’ll go looking for me there, and while he’s looking for me, he’ll be looking for you too. In case you happen to be near the creek.”

  “Cool plan, unless he’s the lunatic who hurt me.”

  “True, but we can’t drive around in my car. It’s too flashy. So at the very least, we’ll ditch the car. Then we’ll walk over to The Gazette.”

  “The Gazette? Sweet, I’ll meet you there.” She closes her eyes and disappears.

  Um … okay. Guess I’ll do this part on my own.

  I park my car right at the trailhead and run up the dirt path, stomping my feet, then I leap over to the grass and come back down. Hopefully this will throw the sheriff off.

  It’s a quick walk to The Gazette, and I manage to get there unseen.

  Or so I hope.

  Penelope is waiting out front, pacing, counting, hands wringing, abdomen bleeding. “What took you so long? All the waiting is making me crazy.”

  I check my watch. “It’s been ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what to do with my hands. I want my phone back.”

  “Let’s concentrate on finding you first.” I push open the door to The Gazette. It’s quiet—only the sound of the fans whirling above us. Chairs are pushed in, and all monitors are black, except for mine. The time scrolls along the bottom, which is odd since I didn't turn my computer on this morning. The old-fashioned glazed donut is still on my desk, untouched.