Connecting

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Calla nods, remembering. That’s exactly what it was like with her grandfather Poppy Ted, who had Alzheimer’s disease before he died. He was convinced that the nurses were stealing his hospital bed out from under him, piece by piece. Toward the end, when he didn’t recognize his own sons—Dad and Uncle Scott—he even accused them of robbing him. It was horrible.

  “I’ll see if I can find out where the stock certificates are,” Calla tells Owen sympathetically, having some idea of what he must have been through with Betty.

  “Thank you.” He leans forward in anticipation, his coffee still untouched.

  Calla glances around the diner. The two elderly sisters are sipping tea in the next booth, their mother sitting silently beside Dora, who’s still glowing faintly. The waitress is wiping down the counter, oblivious to a pair of truckers who sit eating eggs . . . because they aren’t really there, Calla realizes, noticing that they’re getting a bit transparent before they vanish altogether.

  Ghosts.

  They’re everywhere.

  With a sigh, she closes her eyes.

  Just focus on the spirit you need.

  Breathe in . . . breathe out . . .

  Come on, Betty. Show me where the stock certificates are.

  That same house pops into her head. The gothic one on the cliff, overlooking the water.

  Okay, maybe she’s getting somewhere.

  Is the stock hidden in the house? she asks Spirit.

  Nothing new.

  Just the image of the house again, stubbornly filling her head. She senses a pointedness to the vision, though.

  “It’s in the house somewhere,” she tells Owen, opening her eyes to find him waiting anxiously.

  “Which house?”

  “Um. . . your house, I’m assuming. Yours and Betty’s?”

  He nods. “It’s a brick cape. So the stock is there after all?”

  “Brick cape?”

  “That’s the house. Brick. Cape Cod–style.”

  She shakes her head. “No. The house I’m seeing is more like a mansion. Really old-fashioned. On a cliff above the water.”

  He frowns. “Which water?”

  “I don’t know . . . I thought it must be the sea, because there’s a widow’s walk.”

  “No. Betty’s house—mine and Betty’s house—is on a cul-de-sac, right down the highway in Fredonia. No widow’s walk. Tell me more about the house you’re seeing.”

  She describes it in as much detail as she can. When she mentions the big square turret and octagonal stained-glass window, it’s as if a lightbulb has suddenly gone on in Owen Henry’s brain.

  “Well, how do you like that,” he says, and reaches into the pocket of his suit.

  He pulls out a ten-dollar bill and hurriedly tosses it on the table in front of Calla. “There . . . that’s for my coffee, the rest is for you. Thanks. You really helped me.”

  “But . . . I mean, is that all?” she asks, watching him shove his arms into the sleeves of his damp overcoat and plunk his hat back on his head. “You don’t want to ask Betty anything else? Tell her anything else?”

  Maybe, one more time, that you love her?

  “No, that’s it. Thanks again,” he says, and is gone.

  Watching him scurry out into the rain, Calla has a sinking feeling.

  She should have listened to Odelia.

  Getting involved with this man wasn’t the right thing to do. Not at all.

  Out the window, Owen Henry jumps into the shiny SUV and starts the engine with a roar. The tires screech a little as he pulls out onto the highway, heading north, toward Fredonia.

  It isn’t until Calla stands up that her gaze falls on Owen’s cane, propped where he left it against the side of the booth.

  Her heart seems to stop short in her chest as she remembers how he left the diner just now.

  He was striding, without the slightest sign of a limp.

  Dear God, Calla.What did you just do?

  “You’re just in time!” Odelia calls from the living room when Calla arrives home.

  “For what?” Calla hangs her backpack on the newel post and pokes her head in to see her grandmother sitting in her favorite chair, knitting in front of the television, with Gert at her feet.

  “There’s a great movie starting on Lifetime. Want to watch? Loni Anderson is in it.”

  “Who?”

  Odelia sighs. “Sometimes, my dear, I forget just how young you are. Sit down and watch anyway. I could use some company.”

  Right now, she just isn’t in the mood to be around anyone, not even Gammy.

  “I have a ton of homework. Sorry.”

  “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Odelia says as Calla bends to give her a peck on the cheek.

  She’s halfway up the stairs when her grandmother calls after her, “Oh, Calla? I forgot! You have mail!”

  “I do? Where?”

  “Somewhere. Maybe in the kitchen. Check the counter,” Odelia advises with typical scatterbrained vagueness.

  With a silent sigh, Calla heads to the kitchen. The counters and table seem to hold everything but the mail.

  “I can’t find it, Gammy,” she calls.

  “Did you look in the fridge?”

  “The fridge?”

  “I brought it in when I was putting away the milk and eggs. It might be in there.”

  “Of course it might,” Calla mutters, shaking her head.

  And of course it is, a card-sized envelope, addressed to her, lying on the shelf next to the Tupperware filled with leftover snickernoodles no one is ever going to eat.

  Recognizing the handwriting, Calla gasps.

  Kevin.

  Why is he sending her mail?

  “Did you find it?” her grandmother calls.

  “Mmm-hmm.” She’s already tearing into the envelope and pulling out a card.

  On the front is a photo of a herd of sheep. One is wearing a clownish red bow tie, and the caption reads, “Adding to my misery, no one here thinks I’m funny.”

  Smiling to herself, Calla opens the card and reads Kevin’s handwritten note:

  Hey, Calla—Saw this and thought of you. I really miss your laugh. And a lot of other things. I e-mailed you a while back to tell you I’ve got the car here in Ithaca now and maybe I’ll take a ride to Lily Dale to visit you some weekend. I never heard back from you. My sister said you can’t check your e-mail very often from there so I figured you probably didn’t get it. Bet you didn’t know I knew how to use the regular mail. Gasp! I even had a stamp. Call my cell (same number) if you want me to come see you or if you need anything.

  xoxo, Kevin

  She did get that e-mail he sent—and chose not to reply after Lisa told her that Kevin is thinking of bringing his new girlfriend, Annie, home to Tampa for Thanksgiving.

  If he’s so crazy about her, why does he keep writing and wanting to visit me?

  In all fairness, she supposes Kevin might just want to stay in touch for old times’ sake . . . as friends. After all, they’ve known each other most of their lives. She was Lisa’s best friend before she was Kevin’s girlfriend and spent almost as much time in the Wilsons’ house as she did in her own.

  That’s why it was so strange, after the breakup, to have him more or less erased from her life. She didn’t just miss him as a boyfriend. She missed him as her closest confidante.

  Calla glares at the sheep in the red bow tie.

  So where were you when I needed you most?

  Yes, he was at her mother’s funeral, and he even tried to talk to her afterward.

  But he didn’t tell her he still loved her, and he didn’t ask her to be his girlfriend again. Most likely, he just felt sorry for her.

  He probably still does.

  I don’t need that. I don’t need him.

  She tucks the card into her backpack and wearily climbs the stairs to start her homework.

  ELEVEN

  Friday, September 28

  7:17 p.m.

 
; For the second time today, Calla walks along Dale Drive toward Lily Dale High . . . only this time, it’s dark, and she’s alone.

  Evangeline was planning on coming with her to Blue’s soccer match tonight, but instead, she’s out dress shopping with her aunt.

  Russell Lancione finally worked up his nerve to ask her to the homecoming dance, and Evangeline decided to go with him.

  “A last-minute date with someone you only like as a friend is better than no date at all, right?” she asked Calla on the way home from school.

  “Sure,” she said, remembering her junior prom and Paul “Shorton” Horton.

  “You don’t sound very convincing.”

  “You’ll have a great time.” Who knows? Maybe she will.

  “Not as great a time as you. Everyone’s in love with Blue, and you get to go with him. You’re so lucky.”

  Maybe . . . but she’s definitely not in love with him.

  She’s barely even seen Blue the last few days. He’s been busy with soccer, and she’s been busy with schoolwork and babysitting and seeing ghosts around every corner and . . .

  Owen Henry.

  She feels sick every time she thinks of what happened yesterday. She keeps trying to convince herself that he really was a sweet, frail old widower, but . . .

  Aren’t sweet, frail old widowers more interested in telling their late wives how much they miss them than in missing stock certificates?

  And how do you explain his magically being able to toss the cane aside and pretty much run out the door?

  Magical Lily Dale healing?

  Ha.

  There’s nothing Calla can do about it now, other than put it behind her.

  Tonight, she’s vowed that all she’s going to allow herself to think about is Blue, and soccer, and staying warm.

  It’s so cold out that she can see her breath, and the wind is gusting off the lake, as usual. She’s shivering even in three layers and a fleece jacket.

  A fat harvest moon hangs in the sky, and in the distance, the lights from the athletic field cast a welcoming yellow haze. But it’s dark and lonely here on the deserted country lakeside road.

  Lonely . . . but she isn’t alone.

  Hearing giggling along the side of the road, she spots two spirit children running along, pushing a wooden hoop with a stick.

  They’re harmless . . . still, she’s spooked.

  And spooked again when she hears a faint jingling of silvery bells and turns her head just in time to see an old-fashioned sleigh glide past in a swirl of phantom snow, filled with laughing young people in Victorian bonnets and caps.

  Okay, it’s cold . . . but not that cold.

  A little farther down the road, a man in some sort of military uniform gallops past on horseback.

  Either the ghosts are out in full force tonight . . . or her powers of perception are growing stronger, like Odelia said.

  Is this how it’s always going to be? Spirits constantly around her, coming and going and hanging around?

  She’s read enough to know that it probably is . . . and that she has to learn how to tune them out, or they’re going to drive her crazy.

  Not that she would ever get involved with drugs or alcohol, but . . .

  Ramona told her that some people here—especially teenagers—aren’t comfortable with their sensitivity.

  “It can be a frightening, isolating feeling to discover that you have an awareness of spirit energy,” Ramona said. She told Calla that some people—like Darrin, when he was younger— self-medicate to escape what they can’t accept or control.

  I didn’t get it then, but I do now, Calla thinks uneasily, eyeing a little girl in a frilly turn-of-the-century dress and a big, floppy hair bow.

  She finds herself picking up her pace, almost as if she can outrun them. All of them.

  But she can’t.

  They’re everywhere. A couple of teenage boys chugging past in a 1930s car with an ah-ooga horn, a fifties housewife pushing a baby carriage, a fleet-footed Native American brave hunting game with a bow and arrow.

  She probably shouldn’t be out tonight. She should be home, in bed, trying to fall asleep so that she can escape the three-ring spirit circus for a little while.

  But she told Blue she’d be there, and anyway, she’s found that it’s easier when people are around or she’s busy. She doesn’t notice the ghosts so much when she’s distracted by conversation or schoolwork.

  Out here alone at night on the country road, though, there are no distractions.

  Too bad her grandmother wasn’t around to give her a ride to the school—or home, at least. But Odelia is conducting a workshop up in Buffalo tonight, on vibrational healing. She won’t be back before midnight.

  “Be careful walking over,” was the last thing she said to Calla before heading out the door earlier. “It’s dark, and cars fly through there at night.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Calla promised wearily.

  Be careful. Be careful.

  That’s all anyone ever says to her anymore.

  She’s always been careful.

  But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.

  Even as the thought enters her head, she hears footsteps shuffling in the dry leaves behind her.

  Running footsteps.

  Bearing down on her.

  Another ghost?

  No.

  “Jacy!” Talk about a welcome sight.

  “Calla!”

  He stops running, asks breathlessly, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Going over to the school.”

  She doesn’t bother to ask him what he’s doing; it’s obvious from his shorts, running shoes, sweat band, and Lily Dale Track T-shirt.

  “You must be freezing,” she says, and realizes he’s wiping sweat from his face. Duh. He’s working out. Of course he’s not freezing.

  “No, but you look like you are.”

  The wind kicks up, and she shivers—not so much from the cold, though.

  It’s more . . .

  Well, out here alone in the dark with him—it’s not like it should be the least bit romantic under the circumstances, and she’s sure it isn’t, for him, but . . .

  Stop that.You’ve got to get over him. He’s obviously not interested. He barely even speaks to you.

  “So what’s going on at school tonight?”

  “Soccer match.”

  He nods. “Going to see Blue play?”

  “Yeah.” She wants to ask him when his next track meet is and tell him she’ll be there, too, but that seems more than a little ridiculous. Better to keep her mouth shut as much as possible, especially after the way she stuck her foot in it last week.

  But the awkward silence that falls between them is almost worse.

  She has to say something. Anything.

  “Hey, you haven’t had any more dreams about me, have you?”

  Anything but that.

  “I mean . . . not those kinds of dreams,” she blurts, which definitely sounds even worse.

  “I mean . . . you know . . . visions,” she amends, and is glad it’s so dark. She has no desire to see the look on Jacy’s face, and it’s a good thing he can’t see hers, because her cheeks are flaming hot.

  Why does she always say the wrong thing around Jacy?

  Come on.You know why.

  It’s because she’s so physically aware of him—especially now, alone together in the dark, all that lean muscle and masculine sweat—that she can’t even think straight.

  At last, Jacy speaks. “I’ve had a few.”

  A few . . . a few . . . a few . . .

  What is he talking about?

  “A few . . . ?”

  “Visions. About you.”

  “Oh!” You idiot. You just asked him about that. “Well, can you tell me what they—?”

  She breaks off with a startled cry and clutches Jacy’s arm as a rush of noise and flashing light swoops toward them out of nowhere.

  “It’s okay, it’s just an am
bulance.” He pulls her closer to him, away from the edge of the road as the rescue vehicle, sirens screaming, barrels past and disappears around the bend.

  “Was it real?” she asks.

  “Real? What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, I thought . . .” Calla forces a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what I thought. Sorry. I’ve been pretty much a nervous wreck lately.”

  She starts to let go of his arm, but his other hand comes down on top of hers. “Hey . . . are you all right?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

  “What isn’t?” Her heart is pounding . . . but no longer in fear.

  Something’s happening between them. Something that started with the electrical current the moment they met; something that just moments ago seemed impossible, but now feels . . . inevitable.

  “I’ll help you,” he tells her. “I know you feel alone . . . but you’re not.”

  The breeze stirs and her bangs fall across her eyes. Before she can brush them away, he reaches out and gently pushes the strands back. His fingers are warm against her forehead, and they linger, so that he’s cupping her face, almost as though . . .

  He’s going to kiss me.

  There’s no time for her to grasp the idea; no time to stop it from happening.

  Jacy leans in and their lips meet, and the autumn chill gives way to the Fourth of July with an explosive shower of sparks.

  “That was a long time coming,” he says when he pulls away from her.

  “It was?” she can’t help asking, shocked to discover that he felt that way, too—and glad he made no apology, though that, she suspects, wouldn’t be his style.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “You know what I think.” She offers him a taut smile. “I bared my soul to you the other day, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You don’t know how much I wished I hadn’t said anything.”

  “You don’t know how glad I am that you did.” At last, he removes his hand from her face. She’s disappointed, until she feels him grasping for her hand.

  “But . . . you’ve barely talked to me since,” she points out, lacing her fingers with his, scarcely able to believe this is really happening. Did Jacy Bly really just kiss her? Are they really holding hands in the moonlight?