Silent Echoes

by Carla Jablonski

  “Papa?” Lucy asked, wanting him to get things under control, uncertain if they should proceed as planned.

  “Yes, my dear, a spirit did speak through you,” he said, offering Mrs. Van Wyck his handkerchief. “I do believe you gave our lovely hostess some comfort from beyond the grave.” He placed a reassuring hand on Mrs. Van Wyck’s trembling shoulder.

  “Oh yes, oh yes, indeed!” Mrs. Van Wyck gushed, blotting her face.

  “Shall we see if there are other spirits hovering? Or have you had enough?” he asked Mrs. Van Wyck gently.

  “I’m fine, just fine,” Mrs. Van Wyck assured him. She reached up and clutched his hand. “I’m sure others have those they wish to contact.”

  “I’d like to see what else you’ve got,” Mr. Von Clare said. “I don’t imagine there’s a spirit who wants to talk to me.” Under his breath he muttered, “I’m not a foolish, excitable woman.”

  Lucy’s jaw tensed. All right, Von Clare, you’re next. This was going to be good.

  “Lucy?” Colonel Phillips said. “Are you up to having another go?”

  Lucy nodded. “I’ll try,” she said weakly.

  She shut her eyes and went back into her trance routine. She threw in a few moans to cover the rumbling of her empty stomach.

  “Is anyone there who would like to make contact?” she called out. “Spirits! Speak to me!”

  “Help me,” a voice replied.

  Lucy sat bolt upright in her chair, her skin suddenly cold with shock.

  “Help me,” the voice repeated. A voice not her own. A girl’s voice, a voice that didn’t belong to anyone in the room. “Why won’t anyone help me?”

  The world spun around and went dark as Lucy fainted dead away.

  Two

  “Help me,” Lindsay Miller whispered. She hugged her knees close to her body,. Her limp dark hair fell around her face, blocking her already-narrow view as she rested her forehead on her knees.

  CRASH!

  Lindsay cringed and dug her nails into her legs, counting that as the fifth broken glass. Outside the closet door a battle raged. Lindsay was hiding in her bedroom, like a soldier in a foxhole. Two weeks ago she had installed the latch on the inside of the door. Without uncurling her body, she ran her hand up the wall and reassured herself that it was locked.

  How could Melanie do this to us? Lindsay slid her face between her knees and rubbed her cheek against the rough fabric of her blue jeans. The truth was, though, this wasn’t the first time her mother had done something outrageous and stupid.

  Lindsay startled, jerking up her head as she heard another crash. She pushed a coat away from her face. Plate, she thought, covering her ears to block out the shouting, the deep, booming voice resonating throughout the apartment. A voice she still had to get used to hearing, a voice that had grown louder over the past few weeks.

  Somehow while Lindsay was up in the Catskills, working at a summer camp, her mother had managed to get herself married. A courtship, a marriage, and a move to Manhattan had all been related to Lindsay in one rush of insane chatter at Port Authority bus station the moment she had disembarked.

  CRASH!

  Lindsay bit her lower lip. An object’s position, velocity, and acceleration can be plotted as functions of time. But, Lindsay reminded herself, there are a number of variables to consider. The glass and the plate have different mass, which would affect speed. Without knowing the mass…

  She’s worse, crept into Lindsay’s brain, interrupting her physics problem. She got worse while I was gone. Her face suddenly felt hot, and she wished the closet were bigger. She squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position, her long legs having nowhere to go. She’s worse because I was gone. She shoved the clothes dangling over her head away from her face.

  Lindsay had gotten off the bus and steeled herself in her mother’s bearlike hug. She had instantly smelled the sweet-sour combination of alcohol and sweat, and the disappointment rolled up through her like a wave of nausea. Before Lindsay had left for camp, her mom had vowed to clean up her act, had hung the brochure for AA meetings on the fridge, and had thrown out her stash of pot and booze without any prompting.

  But apparently the change hadn’t lasted. It was then that Lindsay noticed the man with the square face and the thick build standing awkwardly behind her mother.

  “We met at a meeting,” Melanie had gushed, clutching his arm and dragging him a few steps forward.

  Lindsay had tried to piece it together. She picks up a guy at an AA meeting and goes back to drinking. What is wrong with this picture?

  Somewhere in the blur of words, statements so ludicrous they could hardly be believed, was information that Lindsay knew she had to understand, to process quickly. She had to put aside the clanging in her head, the hollowness of her stomach, the cloud of confusion swallowing her. The news that Melanie had already packed up their one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and had moved them to her new husband’s place in Greenwich Village, where Lindsay would start a new school, and wasn’t it all exciting?

  CRASH!

  A parametric equation of a downward spiral is plotted using both sine and cosine where t equals time and—

  CRASH!

  The fight was escalating. It could take hours before they exhausted themselves. Lindsay shut her eyes, wondering if she should risk dashing out to retrieve her MP3 player, her physics textbook. No, it would be more productive if she grabbed her history notes. They were studying nineteenth-century politics, and all those dates and names and various forms of corruption got jumbled inside her head. Elections and newspaper editorials were—

  CRASH!

  Lindsay slumped against the back wall of her closet, boneless and weary. She reached up and clutched the sleeve of her winter coat, pretending there was someone to hold on to.

  “Help me,” she moaned. “Why won’t anyone help me?”

  Lucy heard her father saying her name and a woman nervously asking, “Is she all right? Oh, dear, how could this have happened? This never happened at Sara Schyler’s!”

  “That’s not strictly true,” a man said. “Although it wasn’t the medium who fainted, but one of the sitters.” He chuckled. “You would too if your dead husband berated you in front of your friends for taking up with a younger man!”

  Lucy swallowed. She was terribly thirsty. There was a cold, wet sensation on her head. Who are these people, and what are they talking about? Her eyelids fluttered open, and only then did she realize that the reason it was so dark was because her eyes had been shut.

  “She’s come to!” a very short and sturdy woman announced to the room.

  “Dearie dear,” Colonel Phillips said, removing the cold compress from her forehead. “You gave us all a fright.”

  “Did I?” Lucy’s brow furrowed. She felt very odd—like there was empty space in her head and she was moving in slow motion. Something important had just happened, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

  “You fainted!” Mrs. Van Wyck exclaimed.

  ‘Did I?” Lucy repeated, then blushed, hearing how dull-witted she sounded. “I suppose I did.”

  “Perhaps if she could have a little sustenance, get up her strength.” Her father’s blue eyes were dark with worry; he obviously thought she had fainted from hunger. Lucy was relieved that he wasn’t angry that she had spoiled the séance.

  The séance! Lucy sat up very straight. That was what made her faint! She had heard a voice—an actual voice! A real, honest-to-goodness voice from the spirit realm!

  “Yes,” Mr. Von Clare said. “Let’s all have some sustenance. I believe I smelled duck?”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Van Wyck fretted. “I’d expected our spirit circle to go on longer. I don’t believe Cook will be ready to serve.” She bit her lip, and Lucy could see she was on the verge of tears. Speaking to dead children and having her party spoiled seemed to have equal impact on the woman.

  “No—I don’t need any food,” Lucy said. “Please, let’s resume the séance.”


  “Why did you faint?” Miss Carlyle asked.

  “It—why—it must have been the force of my contact with the spirit that caused me to lose consciousness,” Lucy explained, thinking quickly.

  “Yes, yes of course,” Colonel Phillips said, covering the lower half of his face with his hand to mask his grin. He stroked his chin, obviously impressed by Lucy’s improvising. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “The impulses coursing through my dear daughter’s veins,” he said sagely, “through her very being, her soul, are quite taxing, even with the weakest and mildest of spirits.” He knelt beside her chair and took her hands in his own. “Are you certain, dear child? Do you truly want to proceed?”

  Then, with his back to the group, he winked and twisted his features into a ridiculous, grotesque expression. Lucy sucked in her cheeks to keep from laughing. When her father was very certain of their success in ruling the crowd, he’d play these pranks on her. She sometimes did it to him too, and they’d engage in a contest to see who could make the other laugh and find a plausible cover for the outburst.

  But this was different. This time something real was happening, and Lucy didn’t want to play games—she wanted to find out exactly who it was who had contacted her. Later she’d worry about how and why.

  “Please, Father, before the spirit leaves, I must go back into my trance!” Lucy insisted.

  Colonel Phillips stood slowly and faced the circle of onlookers. “You heard my daughter. At great personal risk, she is determined to discover what message this spirit has for us.”

  “If you’re sure…” Miss Carlyle said uncertainly. She searched Lucy’s face and Lucy lowered her eyes, not wanting to meet her gaze. Lucy had had experience with women like Miss Carlyle before, do-gooders who worried that Lucy was being pressured by her father and didn’t want to see her exploited.

  “I am absolutely certain,” Lucy said firmly.

  “Oh, this is terribly exiting!” Mrs. Van Wyck exclaimed, her face dimpling as she realized her party was going forward as planned.

  Everyone settled back into their seats and Lucy shut her eyes, concentrating. She breathed deeply and slowly, trying to remember what she’d been doing when she heard the voice.

  Lucy sat a few moments, listening. She could tell the partygoers were growing restless.

  “Lucy, my dear,” her father warned, “perhaps you shouldn’t wait for the spirit to come to you. You should reach out yourself.”

  “Can you hear me, spirit?” she called out.

  Nothing.

  “It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. I’m waiting to hear from you. You have nothing to fear.”

  She waited, her muscles taut. It felt as if the whole room was holding its breath. Everyone was waiting for her to speak.

  Her shoulders sagged. It wasn’t going to happen, and now she’d have to come up with something to say. Perhaps this was the time to reveal the juicy nugget about Von Clare? He was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Yes, it would serve him right. She was about to speak when—

  “Who are you?” said a voice in Lucy’s head. “Where are you?”

  A bolt of energy surged through Lucy, making her start in her chair, frightening Mrs. Van Wyck, who instantly dropped her hand.

  Lucy gripped the edge of the table and caught her breath. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I did it!” she exclaimed.

  “Lucy?” her father prodded.

  Lucy cleared her throat. She had to answer before the connection was broken. “I am Lucy Phillips, and I am in Mrs. Van Wyck’s home on Clinton Street.” She was amazed by how calm she sounded. “Do you have a message for me?”

  “You’re the one who called to me,” the voice said, rather petulantly. “What do you want?”

  Lucy was at a loss. She couldn’t tell the truth: that she was a fake medium at a sham séance and was stunned it had actually worked. Lucy had always assumed there was no such thing as ghosts—what could she possibly want from one?

  “I heard you call for help,” Lucy explained.

  “Tell us what the spirit is saying!” Mrs. Van Wyck whispered urgently.

  “Yes, every word!” Miss Carlyle agreed.

  Mr. Von Clare snorted. “You gullible females. Don’t you see? It’s all just playacting!”

  “Hush,” Gloria Buren scolded. “Don’t spoil the fun.”

  Lucy held up her hand to silence them. She was afraid she’d miss the spirit’s response amid all their chatter.

  “No one can help me,” the unseen speaker said softly.

  “No one can help you?” Lucy repeated. The spirit sounded so sad, it nearly broke her heart. “Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can. At least, I’ll try. What’s your name?”

  “Lindsay.”

  “Lindsay,” Lucy repeated. “Are you in pain?”

  “No—that’s not it.”

  “Are you…lonely?” Lucy thought she’d be lonely if she were dead.

  “Yes. I’m all alone.” Now the voice was tight, as if holding back a sob.

  Lucy wondered if being dead was really awful, even if you did go to heaven. But of course, that was why the girl was so upset—she hadn’t made it to heaven yet! Most mediums claimed that spirits were restless because they were tied to this realm for some reason and that the goal was to release them. So this spirit, this girl, was trapped between the worlds. All by herself. How horrible.

  “You’re not alone,” Lucy said. “I’m here.”

  “I’ve never told anyone this but…my mother. She—she isn’t like other mothers.”

  “I don’t have a mother,” Lucy replied, hoping this would help the spirit feel she was speaking to someone sympathetic. Colonel Phillips startled beside her. She felt his eyes on her, but she needed to keep her attention on the spirit.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” the voice said. “I mean, I guess my mother is better than no mother. At least some of the time.”

  “Is she the reason you…why you…?” Lucy wasn’t quite sure how to phrase the question delicately. How did you ask a ghost if her own mother had been the cause of her death?

  “Yes,” the girl responded. “She ruined everything.”

  Lucy licked her lips nervously. Perhaps the girl was trapped between worlds to bring her mother to justice? Or seek revenge? If so, what would Lucy have to do to help her?

  “What is the spirit saying?” Mr. Holden demanded.

  “We’re not hearing anything,” Mr. Grasser said.

  “Because no one’s there,” Mr. Von Clare grumbled.

  “At Sara’s, the spirit spoke through the medium and not simply to her,” Mrs. Van Wyck complained. “The way my darling Amelia did earlier.”

  “Tell us what the spirit is saying, dear,” Miss Carlyle urged.

  “I can’t,” Lucy whispered. She swallowed and raised her voice so that the spirit would hear her clearly. “Please,” she said, “tell me more about your mother. Maybe then I can do something.”

  “This is very frustrating,” Mr. Grasser groused.

  “Hush,” Colonel Phillips ordered. “We’ll have Lucy relate all the spirit told her after the connection is severed.”

  “Why did she have to bring that freak into our lives?” the spirit said, her voice rising in pitch. Lucy winced at the pain, the near hysteria she was hearing. “He’s going to kill her one day. If the alcohol doesn’t do it first. I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take care of her. She—she’s supposed to take care of me. And my SATs are coming up, and I have to concentrate and study.” The spirit’s words all came out in a rush. “He’s going to do something bad to me too. I know it.”

  “He already has,” Lucy said sadly. She didn’t know what “es-ay-tees” were, but the situation the girl described was an all-too-familiar one. The drunken mother, the brutish suitor. Lucy had seen quite a bit in her young life.

  Lucy felt sorry for the terrified spirit, who clearly didn’t realize that the worst had already happened—that the mother’s
suitor had already murdered her. Lucy would need to handle this carefully—the girl didn’t know she was a ghost.

  “Now school seems so stupid,” the spirit sobbed. “And I used to love it. But really! Why should I care about all these names and dates? That Jay Gould and Roscoe Conkling got their candidate to win the nomination? That Governor Cooper was defeated?”

  These were names that sounded familiar to Lucy. “Governor Cooper defeated? By Jay Gould and Roscoe Conkling?” Lucy repeated.

  A gasp went around the room, but Lucy ignored it; the spirit was speaking again.

  “I mean, I know it’s all supposed to be oh so very relevant, with elections coming up and everything,” the spirit complained bitterly. “But right now, the only thing relevant to me is staying out of their way.”

  “I understand,” Lucy said.

  “Yeah, I feel like you do,” the spirit replied. Lucy heard a yawn in her head. “I—I think I can sleep now. They’re sleeping already.”

  “I’m glad,” Lucy said.

  “Good night,” said the spirit. “Um, thanks for keeping me company.”

  Lucy felt as if a door shut. The connection was closed.

  Leaning back in her seat, Lucy took in a long, deep breath, then let it out again.

  She felt exhilarated, not at all spent the way she’d seen other mediums pretend to be after contacting a spirit. She didn’t feel as if she’d been “possessed” by the spirit, simply as if she’d been having a conversation with someone she couldn’t see.

  Colonel Phillips stepped beside Lucy and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We thank you, spirit guides, for being with us and delivering me back my daughter safe and unharmed. We now ask that you return to your realm and leave life to the living.” He held out his hands to the sitters. “And thank you for being such a receptive, spiritually aligned group.” He walked to the wall sconce and turned up the gas so that the room brightened.

  “Oh, marvelous!” Mrs. Van Wyck clapped. “That was so exciting!”

  “Tell us what your spirit said, dear,” Miss Carlyle asked.