Not Quite Mine

by Lyla Payne

  “And you answered the phone? I feel like you’re growing.” Will snickers at his own comment, then clears his throat when I don’t join in. “I’m calling because Travis requested a DNA kit, and I wanted to know if you knew.”

  “Yeah, I know. I agreed to give a sample so we can at least see if there’s anything to get into.”

  Will’s quiet for long enough to let me know he’s skeptical about whether it’s the right decision or not, then sighs at my own silence. “Okay, Gracie. It’s your decision, obviously, but I’m not sure what good it will do to dig up all of this now.”

  He means my mother. We spent hours and nights talking about how her actions affected my worldview as a teenager, and it didn’t get much better or clearer in the years before she died. Maybe nothing good will come of digging into my own past—on my mother’s side or my father’s—but the way I figure it, knowing is better than not knowing. An infection can’t be treated and poison can’t be counteracted until you’ve figured out exactly what kind is running through your blood.

  “I don’t know, Will, but Travis deserves that much. He came all this way.”

  “Yeah, and lied about it,” he mutters on the other end of the line. A loud crash vibrates through the line, and I pull the phone away from my ear. “Gracie, I gotta go. I just wanted to make sure this wasn’t going on behind your back.”

  “Nope, ship shape.”

  “Later.”

  He’s already yelling at Tom Ryan before the phone goes dead, and a chuckle starts in my chest. Those boys have changed so much, and not at all. They kind of remind me of me.

  “What was that about?” Leo’s plate is already scraped clean, and he’s watching me with a careful gaze, his arms folded over his chest.

  “Nothing. Will wanted to make sure I knew Travis was requesting a DNA kit.”

  He sits up straighter. “You’re going to see if you’re related? That’s how you’re helping him?”

  I shrug and swallow two more bites of French toast and then one of bacon before I answer. No sense in letting the food get cold. “For now, anyway. Frank doesn’t want to talk about Travis or his parentage, and my mother isn’t talking, obviously.”

  “Maybe you should ask Daria to find her for you.”

  “I think that would be a terrible idea.” My mouth goes dry at the mere thought of running into my ghostly mother. The fact that she never knew what she wanted or how to communicate that pretty much ensures that if she did pop up now, I’d waste years trying to get rid of her. “I told Travis this is a good first step. First, we find out if we’re really related, and if we are, then I can pressure Frank or start looking into my mother’s life twenty-four years ago.”

  “Do you know who you would ask?”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth when I think her name—the only person my mother ever trusted with her secrets. The woman who was always ready to be Felicia’s friend but never mine. The last time I saw her was at my mother’s funeral. We’d had a fight about her burial clothing that had ended up with both of us being forcibly removed from the funeral home.

  “Yes. But if talking to my mother as a ghost is the very last resort, then calling Shana Fox is almost as bad.”

  “Who’s Shana Fox?”

  “I promise you really don’t want to know.”

  Amelia leaves work after lunch for a pair of appointments, first her gyn and then her therapist, Dr. Farmer. I’m glad she is still going because I know that she can talk to him about things that she feels like she’s bored me to tears with, even though I’ve promised her I’m never bored listening to her problems. It just means that she has to listen to mine, which are plentiful and bizarre.

  Brick encourages her to go, too. I heard them talking one night about how much it helps to have support and why he keeps going to AA even though it’s uncomfortable.

  When do you stop going? Like, when are you cured? my cousin asked in her genuine, sweet, caring voice.

  I’m never cured. On the days when I feel like I might be, I go to two meetings, he replied, his voice rough and deep. As if it weren’t used to speaking raw truth and it hurt.

  So I’ll never be better?

  There was a rustle, like one of them had moved closer to the other, before he answered. You’re getting better all the time. You’ll know when you don’t need the help so regularly, but I think it will always be good to know that it’s there, in some form, if you need it.

  I’m here if you need me, my cousin whispered. You can tell me anything, and I won’t think less of you.

  Brick was silent for so long I worried that one of them would get up and catch me listening, so I snuck away, missing the rest of the conversation.

  I love that Amelia has another person in her life who seems to accept her exactly as she is—and love her for it besides—but part of me struggles to believe this change in Brick is for real. I worry that he’s going to fall off the wagon, that something will remind him that it’s easier to be a dick than a good person, and then Amelia will end up getting hurt.

  But she’s my cousin and my friend, and if she gets hurt, I’ll be there. I can’t control anything else.

  The library is quiet this afternoon, with a few old ladies holding a book club meeting back in the stacks and our boss, Mr. Freedman, working in his office. I stay at the desk out front in case anyone needs to check out a book, but my focus is on my computer screen. My list of mysteries is so long it scrolls through my brain like a time-consuming parade, making it hard to decide what puzzle to start gathering pieces for next.

  That’s what research is to me—gathering the pieces, putting them together in some semblance of order, then adding my own observations, thesis, and conclusion, which is when the big picture emerges.

  Henry’s ghost hovers over my shoulder, and his appearance makes the decision for me. I’m not ready to face the whole Travis thing, so it can be put off until we know for sure, and same with my father’s family and their supposed “legacy.” I’m not sure where to start with Ellen.

  That leaves Henry, so I go back to work on the article about him that I’ve been writing for potential publication. I haven’t found anything but scraps of information when it comes to his verified history. There’s only so much that is known about him, and most of it reads like a damn fable. If there’s more, I’m at a loss as to how to find it, and the frustration on his face mirrors the stuff stacking up in my blood.

  His ghost leans so close that it feels like someone slipped an ice cloak over my shoulders, one hazy, determined finger stabbing at the screen. He turns his gaze on me, excitement tussling with frustration in his bright eyes.

  “I don’t know, Henry! You did all this crazy amazing stuff that’s so hard to believe that, well, people aren’t going to believe it unless we can find some hard evidence. Any idea how to do that?”

  He throws up his hands and starts pacing behind the desk, keeping one eye on the front doors. He’s wearing his English ensemble today, the one he probably wore when he sailed to the New World the first time, on one of the ships carrying a scouting party. The earthy, sweaty smell of him swirls in his wake, but I resist the urge to tell him to stop. He’s finally interested in helping me tell his story.

  The thought narrows my eyes while the familiar sense of suspicion creeps up my spine. Why is he suddenly so interested in being useful? “Are you still visiting my father? Did he send you here to keep spying on me?”

  The ghost glowers my direction, then slumps in defeat. He nods, a storm cloud of emotions sweeping over his plain features. A tug of empathy reminds me that Henry, and no other spirit, can refuse my father’s summons. That is no longer in doubt after even Mama Lottie came when called.

  “He’s still checking up on me?” Henry nods again. “Well, tell him to call me back,” I snap.

  The ghost huffs and continues pacing. I spend ten minutes going through the research I have, which hasn’t changed or magically multiplied overnight, then pick up my phone and stare at it.
I’m thinking about texting Brian the Crazy Tour Guide to see what he has on Henry, if anything, that I don’t, but everyone in my life would go apeshit if they knew I contacted him.

  Considering the last time I saw him he tried to burn me alive.

  Still, if we could meet in a public place and maybe someone like Jenna Lee would come along…I don’t see how it could hurt. Jenna would be a good buffer and knows local history as well as anyone.

  I hold up my phone to Henry. “See? I’m going to text a fledgling murderer to help with your case. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  I send the text, asking Brian if we can meet as soon as possible to talk about Henry Woodward, and I make sure to sign my name in case he didn’t save my number. Nothing comes up right away, but he probably shit his pants hearing from me and that takes a while to clean up.

  I assume.

  Henry slumps into the chair at the nearest table, the spot where Amelia usually sits once her daily busy work is complete, and stares at me. He taps a silent finger on the table, a pensive expression on his face that worries and excites me at the same time. The former because when my ghosts get ideas, I usually end up in trouble, as Leo intimated at breakfast, and the latter because I would really, really like to stop feeling like a failure where Henry is concerned.

  Henry needs you.

  The sound of Frank’s voice in my head makes me frown. I shove it aside, do my best to ignore Henry Woodward while he’ll still let me, and decide to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out why my father showed up in the first place. Why he thinks I need to be spied on, after twenty-some years of taking care of myself. When he first arrived, he said he’d come to help me uncover—or come to terms with—the Fournier legacy, but with everything that’s happened, the question of what that means has fallen by the wayside.

  Well, because of that and the fact that Frank doesn’t quite seem to understand the meaning of the word help.

  I signed up for an ancestry account on one of those websites after I found out about Anne Bonny, and I’ve traced my mother’s line all the way back to her. I haven’t even started on my father’s yet, as I didn’t know his name or anything about him—including that he’s alive—until recently. And I’ve been a bit busy.

  I log in and do it now, then watch a couple of leaves pop up, promising more information about Frank’s parents. My grandparents. A funny seed of regret tickles my gut at the thought. Were they as awesome as Grams and Gramps? Had I missed out on a lot by not knowing them? Had Felicia lost even a moment’s sleep over keeping them out of my life?

  The answer to the last one was likely no, but the more I find out about my mother, the less it seems like I know for sure.

  Time escapes like a herd of nervous rabbits while I immerse myself in the new information. My subconscious lets out a sigh of relief when none of Beau’s ancestors show up in the growing family tree, just as Frank promised. I only get back to Frank’s great-grandparents before the website runs out of answers.

  My brain stretches, trying to remember all the detail of everything he’s said, and it keeps coming back to the name Carlotta. Frank had originally said to start there if I wanted to know more about my gifts, about where they come from, but now I know that Mama Lottie is not my ancestor. Which means there must be another Carlotta further back in our line, maybe even someone Mama Lottie was named after all those years ago.

  No matter how many tricks I try, the Fournier line keeps hitting a dead end—or at least, is hidden well enough that it’s going to require more in-depth digging. The last verified ancestor is a Giles Fournier who was born around 1852. That made Giles my great-great-great grandpa.

  The French names get me thinking, my brain clicking along a different path. Maybe I should be searching further back, in France. Or alternatively, if my family came to the United States from France, it’s likely they settled in Canada or New Orleans, not the typical immigrant hubs on the east coast.

  Before I can figure out where to go next, I notice that the world outside the library’s front entrance has gone dark. The sound of Mr. Freedman closing his office door and walking toward the front has me clicking out of the search engines and snapping my notebook closed for the night, too. Amelia will already be home and it’s my night to cook dinner.

  Maybe I’ll stop and get her a burger at Suds ’n Rubs. She can’t get mad at me for being late, then.

  “You’re still here,” Mr. Freedman comments, a surprised look on his face. He’s in his fifties but looks younger, even with a dignified sprinkle of pepper at his temples.

  “I lost track of time, but I’m headed out.” I stuff my notebook in my bag and stand up, shrugging into my coat so ungracefully that it takes me a good thirty seconds to complete.

  “I wanted to tell you again what a nice job you’re doing here, Miss Harper. All of the patrons say you’re pleasant, and the mothers love story time.” He shifts, looking uncomfortable giving praise. “My wife and I would love to have you and the mayor around for dinner, if you’d be interested.”

  Not really, but I can’t turn down the invitation without sounding rude.

  “That would be nice.”

  He nods, and we walk toward the exit together. Mr. Freedman holds the door open for me, and we part ways at the bottom of the steps since my car is on the street and his is in a designated spot for the library director. Then I pull out my phone and call Suds to place a carry-out order. They take forever so even a five-minute head start will help.

  After that, I push a few buttons to call Frank, hoping he’ll answer and I can cut through some of the tedium of scrolling birth and death records in a foreign language.

  It rings once before his voicemail picks up, a sure sign that he’s still screening my calls. I can’t help but wonder if he has a way to know when I need something, like I did during those ten terrible minutes when Beau and I thought we were cousins, and the rest of the time he figures I’m only going to ask him things he doesn’t want to answer.

  “It’s Gracie, Frank. Your daughter, the one you refuse to talk to. I thought you said the whole reason you came to find me was that I needed to know about our family heritage or some shit, but now you don’t want to talk?” I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound calmer. “I’ve done about as much research as I can online and it only goes back to Giles Fournier, born 1852. It’s going to take me a while to chase leads further back…or you know, you could help me. Just a thought.” I pause, wondering if there’s anything else I should add. “Okay, well, bye.”

  If Henry is frustrated over my lack of progress researching his own life, I’m something else entirely over Frank popping into mine, saying all this mysterious shit, then fading away again. It’s not as though I’m not used to fending for myself, but why bother showing up at all? If his family history is really something I need to know now that the ghosts are part of my life, why is he acting like I can take my sweet-ass time figuring it out?

  There are too many questions where my father is concerned, and all of them fly out of my head when my phone buzzes with a response from Brian the Murderous Tour Guide.

  Where and when? And what do you need?

  Your ass in a sling, I think, but bite my lip before responding. Pistol Pete’s in Heron Creek. Tomorrow night, nine pm. Bring everything you have on Henry Woodward.

  K.

  I grind my teeth together at his response. I hate that stupid letter. I hate all letters in place of whole words, but that one is so dismissive and superior.

  EVERYTHING, I reiterate, just to show him who’s boss. He’s the one who tried to kill me, after all, and I’m the one who didn’t press charges. I didn’t even make him pay for Amelia’s ruined SUV.

  OKAY, comes the reply.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and decide to walk down to Suds instead of driving, hoping to blow off some steam. With my research into both Henry and the Fourniers hitting road blocks, I decide to turn my attention to Ellen, the new spirit in my life. She
hasn’t appeared again since this morning on my way out the door, but that’s not so odd. My ghosts get pushier the longer I go without solving their problems, and it seems as though she’s not going to be any different.

  Which is a good thing, I think as Henry shows up at my side, walking sideways next to me so he can stare into my face like an insolent child. One permanent spirit visitor is quite enough.

  Chapter Five

  The next day is my day off from the library. Amelia is holding down the fort, and Mel promised to keep her company over lunch, at least, maybe longer if Grant doesn’t turn into a hell beast before naptime. I thought about lazing around at the house, snuggled up on the couch with blankets and a good book. I also considered surprising Beau at his office with nothing underneath my coat.

  Both options would be entertaining and lovely in different ways, but after I found Ellen sitting on my bathroom counter when I came out of the shower, I figured maybe I would check in with the people who knew her best. See what they think about her disappearance.

  Her parents still live in Heron Creek, near Travis’s rental house, and it shouldn’t take much to track down Leo’s brother, Trent. He works on a commercial fishing boat up in Seabrook, but I couldn’t find his phone number. The drive would be nice in the spring, but it’s winter now. Anyway, I’m going to see her parents, first.

  Ellen stares at me while I crawl around on the floor in search of my second shoe, and her presence is more intense than it was the first time we met. Anxiety trembles through my limbs, making me want to move faster, do more. She’s tired of waiting, or maybe the timer on some event still a mystery to me is slowly counting down to Armageddon.

  “I’m going, okay? You haven’t seen a black flat around here, have you?”