Which is exactly what I thought she was, too, before I got to know her, Calla reminds herself uncomfortably, as she watches Lisa give her blond hair a final pat and set her brush on the bureau.
Calla removed all Mom’s old pictures before Lisa got here. In part because she doesn’t really want to share them with anyone, and in part because she was afraid of another ghostly middle-of-the-night incident. Lisa has been sharing her room, sleeping in Mom’s old bed while Calla sleeps on a cot Odelia borrowed from Andy.
Calla hasn’t set up her new digital clock yet, worried that it, too, might trigger something supernatural. Then again, she was having the dream even after she got rid of the old clock, and she hasn’t had it since Lisa got here.
“I just have to put on some lotion,” Lisa tells her, checking her reflection again in the mirror. “My skin gets so dry when I fly.”
Calla rolls her eyes and watches Lisa rummage through her crowded toiletries bag. She pulls out a tube and squirts some lotion onto her palm.
As she rubs it into her skin, Calla sniffs, realizing the room is filling with a hauntingly familiar scent. There’s no telltale chill in the air this time, but the floral perfume is unmistakable.
“What? You don’t like it either?”
Startled, Calla looks up to see Lisa watching her. “What?”
“This smell. It’s too strong, right?”
“You . . . can smell it too?”
“Smell what? My lotion?”
Her lotion? It’s her lotion that smells? Sniffing the tube Lisa thrusts under her nose, Calla realizes that this time, the floral scent has a perfectly ordinary source. No wonder there’s no chill.
“I just bought it the other night at Wal-Mart because they didn’t have the honeysuckle one I usually like,” Lisa goes on, closing the tube.
“What scent is this?”
“I don’t know.” Lisa turns it over, looks at the label, and reads, “Lily of the Valley.”
As Odelia steers the car up Cottage Row again that night, Calla feels numb with exhaustion. All she wants to do is fall at last into her own bed— Mom’s old bed—and sleep.
They saw Lisa off at the airport, but her plane left three hours late because of Florida thunderstorms. It’s raining here, too. Thunder rumbles and lightning bolts light the sky over the lake as Odelia parks in front of the house and turns off the headlights. Rain patters hard on the roof of the car.
“We’ll have to make a run for it when it lets up a little,” she says, fishing around under the seat. “Unless I find an umbrella in here.”
Calla doubts she will—though you never know. Odelia’s car is as cluttered as her house, and Calla’s mind right now.
But she doesn’t want to think about any of it—Aiyana, lilies of the valley, even Mom. Not tonight, anyway, even now that Lisa’s gone.
She looks longingly toward the house as another bolt of lightning zaps the sky, illuminating the world for a split second.
In that second, Calla sees that there’s a figure on Odelia’s porch. Human, but is it alive or dead? Her heart beats a little faster as she gazes at the ominous shadow, which appears to be wearing some kind of hooded cloak.
“Come on,” Odelia says, abruptly opening the door. “It’s letting up.”
Calla hesitates.
“Let’s go!” Odelia commands, and she’s off, splashing her way through the rain to the door.
Calla follows reluctantly, realizing as she bolts toward the house that Odelia can see the person on the porch as well, because she appears to be talking to him or her. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not a ghost, of course.
As she mounts the steps two at a time, she can see that the person isn’t wearing a hooded cloak, it’s a raincoat. And it’s not a ghost—it’s a real live woman. A woman Calla recognizes.
“Calla,” Odelia says, “Mrs. Riggs would like to speak to you.”
Odelia isn’t happy. That much is obvious. Her unhappiness has nothing to do with the fact that she’s sitting in her recliner like a drowned rat, probably cold and uncomfortable.
No, it has everything to do with Calla, also cold and uncomfortable and drowned-rat-like.
Calla’s sitting on the couch next to Elaine Riggs, who turned down Odelia’s offer of hot tea and said she has something important to say, then is heading back to the White Inn down in Fredonia, where she’s spending the night. Apparently, she spent at least a few hours on Odelia’s wet porch, waiting for them.
Before she says whatever it is she has to say to Calla, though, she’s found it necessary to tell Odelia what led up to this impromptu visit.
So . . . now Odelia knows.
That Calla saw the ghost of Kaitlyn Riggs. And that she called the girl’s mother to tell her to search a remote park based on information she received from a spirit.
And Odelia doesn’t like this, any of it. Not one bit. Which doesn’t surprise Calla, because obviously Mrs. Riggs is here to complain to Odelia that her granddaughter has been meddling where she doesn’t belong.
“The reason I’m here,” Elaine Riggs says at last, her voice trembling a little, “is to thank you.”
“To thank me?” Calla echoes, startled. “For what?”
“For finding Kaitlyn.”
The rain has subsided into a steady drip from the drainpipe above the porch by the time Calla finds herself out there again. In silence, she and her grandmother watch Elaine Riggs climb into her car and drive away.
Calla doesn’t dare turn her head to look at Odelia. She can feel her grandmother’s anger—and is bewildered by it.
True, Mrs. Riggs’s story doesn’t have a happy ending.
But at least it has an ending. Closure. Thanks to Calla.
Kaitlyn Riggs’s strangled body was found yesterday morning in the woods not far from Rock House Cave in Hocking Hills State Park. The police still don’t know what happened to her, but they think she was abducted from the mall parking lot by a stranger. They even asked that Calla be brought in to speak with them, to see if she has any impressions of Kaitlyn’s killer.
She doesn’t. And when she looked questioningly at Odelia, her grandmother somewhat stiffly told Mrs. Riggs she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with Calla doing that. “We’ll let you know,” she said, “after we’ve discussed it.”
Which Calla isn’t particularly eager to do.
“Let’s go in,”Odelia says now. “It’s cold out here. And we have to talk.”
“Can we talk tomorrow?” Calla asks, eager, once again, for bed. “Please . . . I’m so exhausted.”
Odelia hesitates. “We can. But there’s something I want to say to you first. Right now.”
“What is it?”
To Calla’s surprise, Odelia grabs hold of her shoulders and leans in to look closely at her. “This is important, okay? You obviously have a gift. And you chose not to tell me . . . for whatever reason. Which I respect. You don’t have to confide in me . . . about most things. But now that you’re here, you’re over your head in something you don’t fully understand. Something that might even be dangerous.”
Calla swallows hard. “Dangerous . . . how?”
“Kaitlyn Riggs was murdered, Calla. And you were given information about her case. The way you chose to share it with her mother . . . well, I know your intentions were good, but I wish you’d come to me first. It takes years to learn how to deal sensitively with people who are grieving. Sometimes it’s still hard for me, and I’ve been at this forever. But what I’m most concerned about is that you could have gotten yourself hurt.”
“How?”
“Kaitlyn’s killer is still out there somewhere.”
Calla nods slowly as a chill slithers down her spine. “Okay. I get it.”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Odelia says, giving her a squeeze. “And do me a favor . . . don’t mention this to anyone, okay? You haven’t . . . have you?”
“No. Not a soul.”
“Good.” Odelia smiles. “It’s goin
g to be okay. I promise. You just . . . have a lot to learn. But you’re in the right place. And it’s a good thing you’re staying. I hope you haven’t changed your mind.”
Calla hesitates. Has she?
“No,” she says at last, feeling as though a wall has come down between them. “I haven’t changed my mind, Gammy.”
Odelia smiles.
A few hours later, Calla wakes from a fitful sleep. It’s happening again, God help her.
The only way we’ll learn the truth is to dredge the lake.
She refuses to open her eyes, trying desperately to slip back into unconsciousness. Maybe if she could just finish the dream. . . .
But it’s useless. There’s nothing to do but open her eyes, knowing what she’ll see on the face of the brand-new clock, which she plugged in and set before climbing into bed earlier. She also pulled all the picture frames out of the drawer, eager to have her room back to normal and to get a good night’s sleep.
So much for that.
Sure enough, the florescent digits of the clock—green, this time, instead of red—read 3:17.
Come on. Did you really think buying a new clock was going to change anything?
Her mind flits back to what happened in Wal-Mart the other day.
Aiyana. The strange woman only she could see, who seemed to be trying to tell her something just before . . .
Just before . . .
With a gasp, Calla sits straight up in bed and looks again at the clock’s glowing green digits. Green. 3:17.
That’s a time of day, yes. But it can also be . . . a date.
3-17. Green. Saint Patrick’s Day.
And—oh! The Irish Cream coffee. The shamrock dish she broke in the store. None of that was an accident. It was all tied to . . .
Saint Patrick’s Day. But why?
Even as she wonders, tinkling music fills the room.
She listens for a moment before realizing that it’s coming from the music box on her nightstand. That doesn’t make sense, but it must be, because she recognizes the melody.
Reaching for the bedside lamp, she flicks it on and blinks, momentarily blinded.
It takes her a moment to grow accustomed to the light. When she does, she sees that the jewelry box is wide open, and the song—why is it so familiar?—is coming from it.
How can it be open?
She distinctly remembers tucking her new Wal-Mart watch inside it earlier, when she found it in the bag that still held the clock. She latched the top of the jewelry box securely.
Now a series of other memories begin to slam into her, each more forceful than the last.
Bam!
Saint Patrick’s Day . . .
Mom baking Irish soda bread.
Bam!
Doorbell rings. Calla answers it. Mom’s coworker is there. The one she saw at the funeral. Todd, or Tom. That’s it. His name was Tom. He had a manila envelope under his arm, she recalls, the memory suddenly as vivid as if it were a movie playing before her eyes.
Tom looks nervous, but he seems as though he’s trying not to act it. Yeah, he’s whistling when she opens the door. He asks for Mom, then leans against the door frame and starts whistling again as Calla goes to find her.
Bam!
The tune he’s whistling is the same one spilling from the music box right now, and . . .
Bam!
“Oh my God.” Calla leaps from the bed and rushes toward the dresser, snatching up the frame she showed Ramona. There’s no mistaking it.
Tom’s face is an older version of the one in the photograph on her dresser.
Bam!
Tom is Darrin.
How can that be? Stunned, still clutching the frame, Calla realizes that the music is growing louder. She turns slowly back to the music box. Rather than winding down, its melody is somehow increasing in tempo and volume.
Calla throws the frame onto the bed and moves toward the little jewelry box, her hands pressed over her ears as the music grows almost deafening.
Leaning over the box, she realizes that the watch she placed there earlier isn’t readily visible, as it should be. Instead, lying on top of the other jewelry in the box is a familiar object.
An emerald bracelet, caked in dried mud.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The spiritualist community of Lily Dale, New York, is a real place. Of course, I’ve fictionalized all of the characters in my book, as well as some community elements—for instance, there is no Lily Dale High School—and I’ve taken some creative liberties with other details. But the town itself is pretty much as I have described it: a quaint, isolated, gated Victorian community of ramshackle nineteenth-century homes clustered along the grassy shore of a picturesque country lake. Its residents are primarily spiritualists, some of whom are registered mediums and/or healers who advertise their calling on painted shingles hung above their doors.
I grew up a stone’s throw away in Dunkirk, the small city on Lake Erie visisted by Calla and Blue in this book. As teenagers, my friends and I frequently made the ten-minute drive during the summer “season” to Lily Dale, eager to consult with the psychic mediums who lived within its old-world iron gates. Unlike many visitors, we weren’t necessarily trying to get in touch with the dearly departed. No, back then, we were mainly concerned about our futures—and our love lives.
That said, I was definitely spooked whenever a spirit would pop up with a message for me—especially when the eerie messages made sense. How, I wondered, could a stranger possibly have known about any of that? I’d scribble notes during some sessions and run the identifying details by my parents and grandparents later. They often recognized the ghostly relatives who came through, even when I didn’t. Of course, they did their best to remain skeptical—especially my dad, whose motto in life is “I don’t believe it unless I see it.” Even he eventually got some spine-tingling evidence that there might just be something to the Lily Dale experience.
Very little has changed in “the Dale” over the past twenty-odd years since my first visit. The Victorian cottages are still ramshackle, the suggested “donation” per reading hasn’t inflated much, and the official season remains restricted to July and August, though some mediums are in residence year-round. Now that I’m an adult living the “future” I was once so curious about, I still find myself drawn to Lily Dale.
If you are too, you can check out the community’s official Web site at www.lilydaleassembly.com.
A PSYCHIC CHAT
WENDY CORSI STAUB was thrilled to have the opportunity to chat with Dr. Lauren Thibodeau, a registered medium in Lily Dale, New York. Dr. Thibodeau has been a registered medium with the Lily Dale Assembly since 1996.
WCS: Dr. Lauren, at what age, and how, did you first realize you were . . . is “gifted” the right word?
LT: I first showed signs of strong psychic ability as soon as I was able to speak, so about age two or so. My grandmother helped me by explaining that not everyone could see or hear what I could, but that I could always come to her with questions. Lucky Calla, though she might not feel that way all the time. I know it helped me to have an older person’s support and help, though.
WCS: It’s interesting that it was your grandmother who guided you, just as Calla’s grandmother helps her in the Lily Dale book series. I just finished reading When Ghosts Speak by Mary Ann Winkowski, and her grandmother did the same. Is this ability frequently handed down through older females in a family?
LT: I believe it’s like any other talent that runs in families. Musical talent, artistic talent, athletic talent, mechanical talent—lots of talents have a genetic component. This one is no different in that sense. And like any talent, developing it takes devotion and time.
WCS: My Sicilian grandma “sees” people who have passed, more frequently now that she’s approaching ninety, and now I and other females in my family have begun to sense we may be similarly gifted. I’ll also share that Grandma is a devout Catholic and doesn’t particularly like to discuss this “talent.
”
LT: I have heard that kind of story often. And surprisingly, quite a number of modern Spiritualists have Catholic backgrounds. In fact, we have three former nuns and a couple of former priests living in Lily Dale. It tends to be a “female thing” much of the time. There is research suggesting that strong intuition is related to brain structure— that the two hemispheres, right and left, have more connecting nerve fibers in women. That means we are able to move between the creative right brain and the logical left brain more easily.
WCS: Does that explain, in part, why there are more female than male registered mediums in Lily Dale? I’ve always wondered about that!
LT: I think women are also more tuned in to relationships, generally speaking. We often hear it called “women’s intuition” and, although it may come more naturally to women, men certainly have it too.
WCS: Do male mediums work differently, then? Focus on different types of readings, perhaps, or in different areas of psychic work?
LT: It tends to follow your interest patterns and your life experience. If you are a man interested in cars, much of the information the spirit world sends would follow that. You might find you “get cars” a lot. As in, “I have a man here, he shows me a 1967 Buick . . .” to start off the identification process.
WCS: Can you describe how you receive psychic impressions? How do you see (or hear or speak with) people who have passed?
LT: You are presented with impressions—that’s the right word. Everyone has what I call an “intuitive style.” It might be very visual, or very auditory, or very sensory or body-based, sort of a gut feeling. Over time these blend together and you reach what I call the “knowing zone,” where you just . . . know. Your impressions are also what I call “symbolic shorthand.” You learn how to interpret that information through practice, and of course by paying attention. Keeping a record of your own symbols is wise. For example, I get months of the year by flowers. August is a gladiola; March is a crocus.
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