As I was talking, I'd been backing out of the room. Once I was safely in the kitchen, Max at my heels – he was no dummy, he knew he wasn't going to get a crumb out of those guys in there: I was Max's ticket to people food – I got out a box of cereal and a bowl, then opened the fridge to get some milk. That was when I heard a soft voice behind me whisper, "Suze."
I whipped around. I didn't need to see Max slinking from the kitchen with his tail between his legs to know that I was in the presence of another member of that exclusive club known as the Undead.
C H A P T E R
4
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Jeez, Dad." I slammed the fridge door closed. "I told you not to do that."
My father – or the ghost of my father, I should say – was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across his chest. He looked smug. He always looks smug when he manages to materialize behind my back and scare the living daylights out of me.
"So," he said, as casually as if we were talking over lattes in a coffee shop. "How's it going, kiddo?"
I glared at him. My dad looked exactly like he always had back when he used to make his surprise visits to our apartment in Brooklyn. He was wearing the outfit he'd been in when he died, a pair of grey sweatpants and a blue shirt that had Homeport, Menemsha, Fresh Seafood All Year Round written on it.
"Dad," I said. "Where have you been? And what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be haunting the new tenants back in our apartment in Brooklyn?"
"They're boring," my dad said. "Coupla yuppies. Goat cheese and cabernet sauvignon, that's all they ever talk about. Thought I'd see how you and your mom were getting on." He was peering out of the pass-through Andy had put in when he was trying to update the kitchen from the 1850s-style decor that had existed when he and my mom bought it.
"That him?" my dad wanted to know. "Guy with the – what is that, anyway?"
"It's a quesadilla," I said. "And yeah, that's him." I grabbed my dad's arm, and dragged him to the center island so he couldn't see them anymore. I had to talk in a whisper to make sure no one overheard me. "Is that why you're here? To spy on Mom and her new husband?"
"No," my dad said, looking indignant. "I've got a message for you. But I'll admit, I did want to drop by and check out the lay of the land, make sure he's good enough for her. This Andy guy, I mean."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Dad, I thought we'd been through all this. You were supposed to move on, remember?"
He shook his head, trying for his sad puppy-dog face, thinking it might make me back down. "I tried, Suze," he said, woefully. "I really did. But I can't."
I eyed him skeptically. Did I mention that in life, my dad had been a criminal lawyer like his mother? He was about as good an actor as Lassie. He could do sad puppy-dog like nobody's business.
"Why, Dad?" I asked, pointedly. "What's holding you back? Mom's happy. I swear she is. It's enough to make you want to puke, she's so happy. And I'm doing fine, I really am. So what's keeping you here?"
He sighed sadly. "You say you're fine, Suze," he said. "But you aren't happy."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Not that again. You know what would make me happy, Dad? If you'd move on. That's what would make me happy. You can't spend your afterlife following me around worrying about me."
"Why not?"
"Because," I hissed, through gritted teeth. "You're going to drive me crazy."
He blinked sadly. "You don't love me anymore, is that it, kiddo? All right. I can take a hint. Maybe I'll go haunt Grandma for a while. She's not as much fun because she can't see me, but maybe if I rattle a few doors – "
"Dad!" I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "Look. What's the message?"
"Message?" He blinked, and then went, "Oh, yeah. The message." Suddenly, he looked serious. "I understand you tried to contact a man today."
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "Red Beaumont," I said. "Yeah, I did. So?"
"This is not a guy you want to be messing around with, Suzie," my dad said.
"Uh-huh. And why not?"
"I can't tell you why not," my dad said. "Just be careful."
I stared at him. I mean, really. How annoying can you get? "Thanks for the enigmatic warning, Dad," I said. "That really helps."
"I'm sorry, Suze," my dad said. "Really, I am. But you know how this stuff works. I don't get the whole story, just . . . feelings. And my feeling on this Beaumont guy is that you should stay away. Far, far away."
"Well, I can't do that," I said. "Sorry."
"Suze," my dad said. "This isn't one you should take on alone."
"But I'm not alone, Dad," I said. "I've got – "
I hesitated. Jesse, I'd almost said.
You would think my dad already knew about him. I mean, if he knew about Red Beaumont, why didn't he know about Jesse?
But apparently he didn't. Know about Jesse, I mean. Because if he had, you could bet I would have heard about it. I mean, come on, a guy who wouldn't get out of my bedroom? Dads hate that.
So I said, "Look, I've got Father Dominic."
"No," my dad said. "This one's not for him, either."
I glared at him. "Hey," I said. "How do you know about Father Dom? Dad, have you been spying on me?"
My dad looked sheepish. "The word spying has such negative connotations," he said. "I was just checking up on you, is all. Can you blame a guy for wanting to check up on his little girl?"
"Check up on me? Dad, how much checking up on me have you done?"
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you something. I'm not thrilled about this Jesse character."
"Dad!"
"Well, whadduya want me to say?" My dad held out his arms in a so-sue-me gesture. "The guy's practically living with you. It's not right. I mean, you're a very young girl."
"He's deceased, Dad, remember? It's not like my virtue's in any danger here." Unfortunately.
"But how're you supposed to change clothes and stuff with a boy in the room?" My dad, as usual, had cut to the chase. "I don't like it. And I'm gonna have a word with him. You, in the meantime, are gonna stay away from this Mr. Red. You got that?"
I shook my head. "Dad, you don't understand. Jesse and I have it all worked out. I don't – "
"I mean it, Susannah."
When my dad called me Susannah, he meant business.
I rolled my eyes. "All right, Dad. But about Jesse. Please don't say anything to him. He's had it kind of tough, you know? I mean, he pretty much died before he ever really got a chance to live."
"Hey," my dad said, giving me one of his big, innocent smiles. "Have I ever let you down before, sweetheart?"
Yes, I wanted to say. Plenty of times. Where had he been, for instance, last month when I'd been so nervous about moving to a new state, starting at a new school, living with a bunch of people I barely knew? Where had he been just last week when one of his cohorts had been trying to kill me? And where had he been Saturday night when I'd stumbled into all that poison oak?
But I didn't say what I wanted to. Instead, I said what I felt like I had to. This is what you do with family members.
"No, Dad," I said. "You never let me down."
He gave me a big hug, then disappeared as abruptly as he'd shown up, I was calmly pouring cereal into a bowl when my mom came into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light.
"Honey?" she said, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, Mom," I said. I shoveled some cereal – dry – into my mouth. "Why?"
"I thought – " My mother was peering at me curiously. "Honey, I thought I heard you say, um. Well. I thought I heard you talking to – Did you say the word dad?"
I chewed. I was totally used to this kind of thing. "I said bad. The milk in the fridge. I think it's gone bad."
My mother looked immensely relieved. The thing is, she's caught me talking to Dad more times than I can count. She probably thinks I'm a mental case. Back in New York she used to send me to her therapist, w
ho told her I wasn't a mental case, just a teenager. Boy, did I pull one over on old Doc Mendelsohn, let me tell you.
But I had to feel sorry for my mom, in a way. I mean, she's a nice lady and doesn't deserve to have a mediator for a daughter. I know I've always been a bit of a disappointment to her. When I turned fourteen, she got me my own phone line, thinking so many boys would be calling me, her friends would never be able to get through. You can imagine how disappointed she was when nobody except my best friend Gina ever called me on my private line, and then it was usually only to tell me about the dates she'd been on. The boys in my old neighborhood were never much interested in asking me out.
"Well," my mom said, brightly. "If the milk's bad, I guess you have no choice but to try one of Andy's quesadillas."
"Great," I groaned. "Mom, you do understand that around here, it's swimsuit season all year round. We can't just pig out in the winter like we used to back home."
My mom sighed sort of sadly. "Do you really hate it here that much, honey?"
I looked at her like she was the crazy one, for a change. "What do you mean? What makes you think I hate it here?"
"You. You just referred to Brooklyn as 'back home.' "
"Well," I said, embarrassed. "That doesn't mean I hate it here. It just isn't home yet."
"What do you need to make it feel that way?" My mom pushed some of my hair from my eyes. "What can I do to make this feel like home to you?"
"God, Mom," I said, ducking out from beneath her fingers. "Nothing, okay. I'll get used to it. Just give me a chance."
My mom wasn't buying it, though. "You miss Gina, don't you? You haven't made any really close friends here, I've noticed. Not like Gina. Would you like it if she came for a visit?"
I couldn't imagine Gina, with her leather pants, pierced tongue, and extension braids, in Carmel, California, where wearing khakis and a sweater set is practically enforced by law.
I said, "I guess that would be nice."
It didn't seem very likely, though. Gina's parents don't have very much money, so it wasn't as if they could just send her off to California like it was nothing. I would have liked to see Gina taking on Kelly Prescott, though. Hair extensions, I was quite certain, were going to fly.
Later, after dinner, kick-boxing, and homework, a quesadilla congealing in my stomach, I decided, despite my dad's warning, to tackle the Red problem one last time before bed. I had gotten Tad Beaumont's home phone number – which was unlisted, of course – in the most devious way possible: from Kelly Prescott's cell phone, which I had borrowed during our student council meeting on the pretense of calling for an update on the repairs of Father Serra's statue. Kelly's cell phone, I'd noticed at the time, had an address book function, and I'd snagged Tad's phone number from it before handing it back to her.
Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.
I had forgotten to take into account, of course, the fact that Tad, and not his father, might be the one to pick up the phone. Which he did after the second ring.
"Hello?" he said.
I recognized his voice instantly. It was the same soft voice that had stroked my cheek at the pool party.
Okay, I'll admit it. I panicked. I did what any red-blooded American girl would do under similar circumstances.
I hung up.
Of course, I didn't realize he had caller ID. So when the phone rang a few seconds later, I assumed it was Cee Cee, who'd promised to call with the answers to our Geometry homework – I'd fallen a little behind, what with all the mediating I'd been doing . . . not that that was the excuse I'd given Cee Cee, of course – and so I picked up.
"Hello?" that same, soft voice said into my ear. "Did you just call me?"
I said a bunch of swear words real fast in my head. Aloud, I only said, "Uh. Maybe. By mistake, though. Sorry."
"Wait." I don't know how he'd known I'd been about to hang up. "You sound familiar. Do I know you? My name is Tad. Tad Beaumont."
"Nope," I said. "Doesn't ring a bell. Gotta go, sorry."
I hung up and said a bunch more swear words, this time out loud. Why, when I'd had him on the phone, hadn't I asked to speak to his father? Why was I such a loser? Father Dom was right. I was a failure as a mediator. A big-time failure. I could exorcize evil spirits, no problem. But when it came to dealing with the living, I was the world's biggest flop.
This fact was drilled into my head even harder when, about four hours later, I was wakened once again by a blood-curdling shriek.
C H A P T E R
5
I sat up, fully awake at once.
She was back.
She was even more upset than she'd been the night before. I had to wait a real long time before she calmed down enough to talk to me.
"Why?" she asked, when she'd stopped screaming. "Why didn't you tell him?"
"Look," I said, trying to use a soothing voice, the way Father Dom would have wanted me to. "I tried, okay? The guy's not the easiest person to get hold of. I'll get him tomorrow, I promise."
She had kind of slumped down onto her knees. "He blames himself," she said. "He blames himself for my death. But it wasn't his fault. You've got to tell him. Please."
Her voice cracked horribly on the word please. She was a wreck. I mean, I've seen some messed up ghosts in my time, but this one took the cake, let me tell you. I swear, it was like having Meryl Streep put on that big crying scene from Sophie’s Choice live on your bedroom carpet.
"Look, lady," I said. Soothing, I reminded myself. Soothing.
There isn't anything real soothing about calling somebody lady, though. So, remembering how Jesse had been kind of mad at me before for not getting her name, I went, "Hey. What's your name, anyway?"
Sniffling, she just went, "Please. You've got to tell him."
"I said I'd do it." Jeez, what'd she think I was running here? Some kind of amateur operation? "Give me a chance, will you? These things are kind of delicate, you know. I can't just go blurting it out. Do you want that?"
"Oh, God, no," she said, lifting a knuckle to her mouth, and chewing on it. "No, please."
"Okay, then. Chill out a little. Now tell me – "
But she was already gone.
A split second later, though, Jesse showed up. He was applauding softly as if he were at the theater.
"Now that," he said, putting his hands down, "was your finest performance yet. You seemed caring, yet disgusted."
I glared at him. "Don't you," I asked, grumpily, "have some chains you're supposed to be rattling somewhere?"
He sauntered over to my bed and sat down on it. I had to jerk my feet over to keep him from squashing them.
"Don't you," he countered, "have something you want to tell me?"
I shook my head. "No. It's two o'clock in the morning, Jesse. The only thing I've got on my mind right now is sleep. You remember sleep, right?"
Jesse ignored me. He does that a lot. "I had a visitor of my own not too long ago. I believe you know him. A Mr. Peter Simon."
"Oh," I said.
And then – I don't know why – I flopped back down and pulled a pillow over my head.
"I don't want to hear about it," I said, my voice muffled beneath the pillow.
The next thing I knew, the pillow had flown out of my hands – even though I'd been clenching it pretty tightly – and slammed down to the floor. As hard as a pillow can slam, anyway, which isn't very hard.
I lay where I was, blinking in the darkness. Jesse hadn't moved an inch. That's the thing about ghosts, see. They can move stuff – pretty much anything they want – without lifting a finger. They do it with their minds. It's pretty creepy.
"What?" I demanded, my voice squeakier than ever.
"I want to know why you told your father that there's a man living in your bedroom."
Jesse looked mad. For a ghost, he's actually pretty even tempered, so when he gets mad, it's really obvious. For one thing, things around him start shaking. For another, the scar in his right
eyebrow turns white.
Things weren't shaking right then, but the scar was practically glowing in the dark.
"Uh," I said. "Actually, Jesse, there is a guy living in my bedroom, remember?"
"Yes, but – " Jesse got up off the bed and started pacing around. "But I'm not really living here."
"Well," I said. "Only because technically, Jesse, you're dead."
"I know that." Jesse ran a hand through his hair in a frustrated sort of way. Have I mentioned that Jesse has really nice hair? It's black and short and looks sort of crisp, if you know what I mean. "What I don't understand is why you told him about me. I didn't know it bothered you that much, my being here."
The truth is, it doesn't. Bother me, I mean. It used to, but that was before Jesse had saved my life a couple of times. After that, I sort of got over it.
Except it does bother me when he borrows my CDs and doesn't put them back in the right order when he's done with them.
"It doesn't," I said.
"It doesn't what?"
"It doesn't bother me that you live here." I winced. Poor choice of words. "Well, not that you live here, since … I mean, it doesn't bother me that you stay here. It's just that – "
"It's just that what?"
I said, all in a rush, before I could chicken out, "It's just that I can't help wondering why."
"Why what?"
"Why you've stayed here so long."
He just looked at me. Jesse has never told me anything about his death. He's never told me anything, really, about his life before his death, either. Jesse isn't what you'd call real communicative, even for a guy. I mean, if you take into consideration that he was born a hundred and fifty years before Oprah, and doesn't know squat about the advantages of sharing his feelings, how not keeping things bottled up inside is actually good for you, this sort of makes sense.
On the other hand, I couldn't help suspecting that Jesse was perfectly in touch with his emotions, and that he just didn't feel like letting me in on them. What little I had found out about him – like his full name, for instance – had been from an old book Doc had scrounged up on the history of northern California. I had never really had the guts to ask Jesse about it. You know, about how he was supposed to marry his cousin, who it turned out loved someone else, and how Jesse had mysteriously disappeared on the way to the wedding ceremony…
The Mediator #2: Ninth Key Page 4
