The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney

by Suzanne Harper

  I remember that he was a lanky man with smiling blue eyes and a bald spot on the back of his head.

  I remember that he used to carry me piggyback up to bed, taking the stairs at a run so that I squealed and laughed.

  I remember that he loved roaming through the woods, searching for leaves, twigs, and berries to make a foul-smelling tea, which he claimed cured a dozen ailments from the common cold to absentmindedness.

  I remember that he was mild-mannered on the surface and incredibly stubborn down deep, where it really matters. When he was asked to do something he didn’t want to do (and I have a feeling that he was badgered on an hourly basis, based on personal experience of living in this family), he would at first simply say no.

  If the petitioner continued trying to convince him that really, if he only thought about it, he actually did want to adopt five homeless cats or fix the sagging front porch step or build an elaborate treehouse in the backyard during a late-summer heat wave, he would then say, “I would Rather Not.” Somehow he managed to capitalize those last two words just by making his voice a little frostier, and his listener would be unable to utter another word of protest or persuasion. End of argument. No further discussion needed. Case closed.

  Now that I’m older, I think about what the days must have been like for him, living in a huge rickety house with nine females, not to mention all the ghosts, which, even if he couldn’t see them, still managed to make their presence felt. All in all, I can understand why he might run.

  A few years after he left, well-meaning friends and neighbors began to suggest that we should conduct a special reading to see if he had gone to Summerland. My mother refused all offers with a vague smile.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s still among us,” she would say. “I would feel it if he were no longer walking this earth.”

  Of course, that’s what I wanted to believe, too. But sometimes I wonder. If he had died, surely he would contact me? Surely Sparrow Delaney, who sees everybody else’s loved ones on a far too regular basis, would get a visit from her own father? The fact that I haven’t seen his spirit makes me feel both hopeful and depressed.

  Hopeful, because that meant he was probably still alive.

  Depressed, because if he’s still alive, why hasn’t he come back?

  Hopeful, because maybe he just hasn’t come back yet. Maybe he wants to return, dreams of it even, but he’s been imprisoned in a South American jail or icebound in the Antarctic or shipwrecked on an atoll in the Pacific.

  Depressed, because the worst thing would be to know that he has died and still chooses not to come back for one last message.

  As always when I think about my father, I turn my head to stare at my bedroom walls. Soon after moving in, I papered the walls with old maps from the local junk store. They’re interestingly faded and discolored and look particularly nice in the golden glow of my bedside lamp. When I stare at the tapestry of small towns and hidden back roads, I try to sense my father’s presence somewhere in the wide, wide world.

  On good nights I imagine him traipsing through the southwestern desert or sitting in the piney woods up north, peering through his new binoculars. After a moment he lowers the binoculars, a faraway look on his face as he suddenly realizes that he misses us. He grabs his gear and heads for his battered pickup, determined to drive night and day until he gets back home.

  On bad nights I imagine him sitting in front of a small campfire in a tropical jungle clearing, sipping a cup of herbal tea, and thinking about the family he left behind. Weighing the pros and cons, perhaps, of returning. And somehow, every night, deciding that when it comes to a joyous homecoming, he would Rather Not.

  Chapter 7

  By noon the next day I was already down five points for getting lost on the way to French, up two for a fast sprint that got me to class just as the late bell rang, then down three for discovering that I had forgotten everything about how French people use the past imperfect tense in conversation (or, indeed, why they would want to).

  After struggling through an hour of le français, I walked to my locker. Jack was leaning against the wall. He was wearing his army jacket again, despite the heat, and surveying the passing crowd like a scornful prince deciding which commoner should be thrown into the dungeon. He spotted me and raised one eyebrow in recognition; other than that he didn’t move a muscle.

  “Hey,” he finally said.

  “Oh, hi!” That was terrible. Too bright, too enthusiastic, too head cheerleader for words. Dial it down a bit, I told myself, even as I felt myself hold out my hand like a glad-handing businessman and heard myself say, “I’m Sparrow.”

  Jack looked down at my hand, then glanced up at me with an ironic smile. He took my hand and shook it solemnly.

  “Yeah, I know. You sit one row over in history, remember? But it’s nice to meet you formally.”

  I blushed and pulled my hand away. “Yeah, me you too,” I muttered idiotically.

  Jack’s smile widened. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”

  “What’s that mean?” I snapped defensively.

  “Nothing. You just seem nervous, that’s all.”

  “I’m not nervous!” Even more defensive, even more snappish, and now I sounded shrill too. This was going so well.

  “My mistake. You’re cool as a cucumber.” He seemed ready to change the subject. “Look, I thought we’d better get together and talk about our history project.“

  “Yes, good idea,” I said, my entire being focused on nodding intelligently and looking bright and interested.

  I smelled autumn leaves and woodsmoke. Behind

  Jack’s left shoulder a shape flickered, then solidified into the ghost of room 12B. He winked. I frowned and pointedly turned my attention back to Jack . . .

  . . . Who had moved on to complaining about our history project. “We only have a few more days to get the topic approved, and then there’s all the research Grimes wants us to do,” he was saying. “Ten sources, footnotes, a bibliography! He must think his class is the only one we’re taking!”

  Behind his back the ghost was watching me intently. At least he wasn’t trying to talk to me. But somehow I found his steady, silent gaze even more unnerving. In fact he looked as if he were taking my measure in some way.

  “Mmm,” I murmured, trying to sound suitably outraged while keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Jack’s face. “Well, I was thinking maybe we could research the Seneca. You know, the Indian tribe that used to live in this area . . .”

  My voice trailed off in the face of his disbelieving stare.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little, I don’t know, fourth grade?” he asked. “What are we going to do, make a diorama out of modeling clay and Popsicle sticks?”

  I clenched my hands, willing myself to remain unflustered. (This was especially hard because my mind had immediately flashed back to my own wobbly model of a Native American longhouse that I had, indeed, made in fourth grade.)

  He seemed to read my mind. “Don’t tell me.” He grinned.

  “It was papier-mâché, not Popsicle sticks, and I got an A, for your information,” I said. He laughed. I bit my lip to keep from smiling, but it didn’t work.

  “Okay, scratch that idea. Maybe something with politics? I think there was a congressional debate held around here back in the 1800s, I’m not sure of the exact date, we could look it up—”

  “Too obscure.”

  Jack was still smiling. He seemed to be taking an evil delight in shooting down my ideas one by one. I should have just shut up. But one of my great personality flaws—according to Professor Trimble, who keeps a long and detailed list—is stubbornness.

  So instead I suggested, a bit wildly, “Well, in the nineteenth century, one of the main industries around here was textiles. That could be kind of interesting—”

  Even the ghost was shaking his head sadly at this.

  Jack looked at me for a long moment, his expression blank. Then he said just one word. “Textiles?”

/>   The delivery was so deadpan that I almost smiled again, but I caught myself in time. “Fine! You think of something then!”

  “I already have. I heard about this place—”

  The first bell rang. I glanced nervously at my watch. “We’d better get going.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to be tardy.” Jack gave the last word a sarcastic twist, as if he thought the only people who cared about being late were grade-grubbing, authority-obeying morons. He started moving in the direction of our classroom, but I think his pace could fairly be described as leisurely.

  “So you heard about this place?” I prompted as I walked next to him, but just a little bit faster.

  I could feel a deep chill as the ghost strolled companionably at my side. I tried to ignore it, but there’s really nothing worse than the bone-numbing cold that spirits give off. It makes you feel as if all the air has been sucked out of your lungs and you’ll never be able to breathe again.

  “I think we should do a report on Spookyville.”

  “Spooky—” I almost choked. Spookyville, of course, was what some people called Lily Dale. It was not an affectionate nickname.

  “Yeah, everyone there says they can talk to ghosts,” Jack went on. “I think it sounds cool, in a freaky kind of way. And it’s been around for more than a hundred years, so it’s historical.”

  My mind raced as I tried to think of an argument, any argument, to counter this reasoning.

  “I’m not sure how interesting that would be,” I said weakly.

  He gave me a look of utter disbelief. “Are you kidding? Everyone’s interested in ghosts. Even my parents were talking about it last night. Within ten minutes a perfectly normal conversation became this huge argument—” He stopped in mid-sentence. I glanced over at him, but his gaze skittered off mine, and he seemed to develop an unnatural interest in a nearby poster that implored someone, anyone, to run for student council.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” Now he was suddenly moving faster. Now, it seemed, he couldn’t wait to get to class.

  I sped up until I was practically double-timing it through the hall. “Why did they start arguing?”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Ah, my mother’s more of a believer, I guess. My dad thinks that psychics are all con artists.”

  “Why does he say that?” I tried not to sound indignant.

  “He’s read about all kinds of tricks they use to fool people,” Jack said. “Like, some psychics have friends who hang out with the audience before the show starts and listen to what they’re saying about their dead relatives, then they give the psychic notes. The psychic goes onstage and miraculously has all the details, right down to what brand of dentures Grandpa used to wear.”

  We stopped in front of the classroom door. His voice had been getting louder, and his face was a little flushed. “They make money off of people’s grief,” he said, finishing up. “It’s disgusting.”

  He paused for a second, as if recalibrating his tone, dialing it back from unreasonably irate to offhandedly casual. “But even if it is all a con, it would be kinda cool, to figure out how they do it,” he said. “You know, like in that old movie The Sting, when Paul Newman and Robert Redford outcon the con men?”

  “I never saw it.”

  “My brother loves that movie—” Jack looked down at the floor and shook his head slightly. Then he looked back at me, his eyes shuttered. “You should watch it some time. It’s on DVD.”

  I didn’t want to admit that we didn’t even have a working TV, let alone a DVD player. I matched his voice. Cool for cool. “Oh, yeah, I’ll check it out,” I said airily.

  We went into class and sat down, with the ghost taking his usual seat behind Jack.

  “All right, people, settle down,” Sergeant Grimes’s voice boomed out.

  Jack leaned forward and whispered, “I think we should start by visiting the Spookyville museum. I’ve got stuff to do this weekend, but maybe next Saturday?”

  I stared at him. My mind was blank.

  Then the ghost helpfully snapped his fingers in the air. I jumped and blurted out, “Yeah, sure. That sounds fine.”

  The ghost nodded encouragingly just as Sergeant Grimes exclaimed, “Delaney! Dawson! Class is now in session!”

  Jack slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  I blushed and turned to face the front of the room, but not before one last glance at the ghost. He gave me a wink and disappeared.

  Chapter 8

  “You know, Sparrow, tonight is the last message service of the season,” my mother said to me a few days later. It was Saturday; I was having lunch with my mother, Wren, Lark, and Linnet and considering what I wanted to do with the day. Usually I lounged around, maybe went on a bike ride, and thought vaguely about getting an early start on my homework without, of course, actually doing anything of the sort. Today, however, all I could think about was next Saturday, when I would be meeting Jack at the museum.

  And now my mother, who was not a wheedler by nature, had decided to start wheedling about going to a message service. I quickly took a big bite of my grilled cheese sandwich to avoid answering. “Mmm,” I said instead.

  “It would be so lovely if you would come with us.” My mother’s vague gaze drifted off to the far corner of the kitchen. “Dear, please don’t sniff the red wine. You know it gives you headaches.”

  I glanced over and saw the prune-colored image of a woman wearing a hoop skirt, a sunbonnet, and a sour expression lurking between the sink and the stove.

  “Is Mrs. Witherspoon manifesting again?” Lark asked. She used her spoon to slingshot a cherry tomato in the direction of my mother’s gaze.

  “Lark!” my mother said. “Manners!”

  “Sorry,” Lark said blandly as Linnet giggled. “It just got away from me.”

  Mrs. Witherspoon, who Crossed Over right after the Civil War, is not a family favorite, to put it mildly. Even my mother has come close to losing patience with her. Perhaps because of the many, many travails she suffered on Earth, Mrs. Witherspoon used to take a nip now and then when she was alive. Now she just inhales the fumes from any wine bottles that happen to be around and then comments disapprovingly to my mother about the behavior of “young ladies these days,” meaning, of course, my sisters and me.

  My mother cocked her head to one side and listened for a moment. Then she turned to us and said, “Mrs. Witherspoon says that you should use your napkins a little more and try to smack your lips a little less—”

  A chorus of boos greeted this etiquette tip from Beyond.

  “It’s just food for thought, darlings, all just food for thought.” Then she turned back to me. “About tonight’s message service—”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. No.”

  The first time I went to a message service, I was horrified to discover that ghosts had no qualms about standing right next to my seat, leaning forward so that their faces were only inches from mine, and yelling over one another to get my attention. I finally told my mother that I’d developed a migraine (which turned out unfortunately to be true) and ran from the auditorium.

  Gradually I got better at ignoring the spirits, but I never became truly comfortable. For one thing, it’s exhausting to maintain the illusion that I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. And then there are the physical symptoms I get from spending too much time around too many ghosts. My chest starts to feel tight, I begin to shiver uncontrollably, my nerves feel as jangled as if I’d drunk a pot of coffee. And I always end up with a killer headache.

  So I quit going. My mother thought that I was disheartened by my lack of psychic success, so she kept coaxing me to “just try one more time, darling, I’m sure you’ll get a message tonight!”

  I had been steadfastly refusing for so long that we could now conduct our discussion almost entirely in shorthand.

  “I’m sure you’ll find it—”

  “No, I’ve told you—”

 
; “If you’d just try—”

  “But I have, and anyway, it’s so—”

  “No, darling, it’s not boring, not really—”

  “Yes, it is! In fact, it’s—”

  Just as we reached round three and I was opening my mouth to take an irritated bite of sandwich, I felt a little nudge, right between my shoulder blades. A freezing cold little nudge.

  I turned around. Oh, no. The ghost from school was perched on the kitchen counter. The nudge I had felt was from his foot, which was swinging lazily as he watched our family discussion.

  He nodded a cheery hello.

  I deliberately turned my back to him and tried to remember where I had left off with my mother.

  Ah, yes.

  “It is beyond boring,” I said truculently.

  There it was again. Another nudge, harder this time. It made my elbow slip off the table. (All right, that means it was on the table while I was eating. Mrs. Witherspoon isn’t totally wrong about our manners.) My soup slopped onto the tablecloth. Wren looked martyred.

  I almost said a very bad word. I stiffened my back, trying to send a clear message to the ghost—Go away, you’re not welcome here, don’t you have something important to do in the afterworld?—through sheer force of mind.

  “Sparrow? Is something wrong?” My mother was watching me closely.

  “What’s wrong is that I just washed and ironed that tablecloth yesterday!” Wren said. “It took half an hour!”

  I followed family tradition and ignored Wren; after all, she was the one who insisted we use tablecloths at every meal, including lunch, and everyone knew she secretly loved to iron. “I was just saying that I don’t think I can make it tonight because—”

  Another . . . okay, that wasn’t a nudge. That was a shove. I heard a whisper from behind me: “Sparrow. Go.”

  Somehow, without meaning to say those words at all, I heard myself snap, “Oh, all right! I’ll go!”

  Everyone stopped eating. Everyone looked at me. Then everyone looked at one another, as if to check that she hadn’t been the only person who had heard what I just said.