Believing

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She slips out into the night and across the yard. She’s halfway up the steps when the front door opens and Evangeline appears, wearing a pair of lavender knit pajamas and sneakers.

  “Oh! Calla! You scared me!”

  “Evangeline, did you see—”

  “Yes! I just saw it. I was about to run over to your house and cross my fingers you were still up. I can’t believe it!”

  “I can’t, either!”

  Their excited whispers punctuate the hushed night air, marked only by steadily chirping crickets and the occasional croak of a frog.

  “You must feel great,” Evangeline tells her. “You just saved a life. I told you calling the hotline was the right move.”

  Wrong move, he silently snarls at the so-called anonymous tipster as he strides angrily across the floor like a caged animal.

  He should have been more careful. Made sure Erin Shannahan was dead before he dumped her. Now she’s going to tell the cops all about the so-called detective who abducted her.

  That simply can’t happen.

  He’ll take care of Erin Shannahan once and for all.

  But first, he has to silence little Miss Psychic. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that she’s the one who led the police to Erin. Thanks to his online research, he already knows exactly how far away she is, and exactly where to find her, if the time comes.

  No . . .

  Not if.

  When the time comes.

  You might have saved one life—temporarily, he tells her, but you just made sure you’re going to lose your own.

  NINE

  Saturday, September 8

  10:45 a.m.

  “More coffee, Jeff?”

  “Sure, I’ll take a warm-up. Thanks.”

  Stifling a yawn, Calla watches her grandmother fill her father’s cup. He sits comfortably at the kitchen table eating breakfast as though they’ve all done this a thousand times before.

  “Tired, Cal?” he asks, catching her yawn.

  “I stayed up awhile after you left.”

  Awhile? More like hours. Too exhilarated to sleep after the news about Erin, she watched a couple of bad old movies on television. Today, she’s paying the price with burning shoulder blades and scratchy eyelids—just like all those mornings when she was awakened at 3:17 and couldn’t get back to sleep.

  “That was delicious, Odelia.” Dad polishes off his second helping of homemade waffles with fresh blueberries and whipped cream. “I think I’ve got to go walk this off. How about showing me around Lily Dale, Cal?”

  “Oh, uh, there’s not much to see, really.”

  Conscious of her grandmother looking up, mid-sip, above the rim of her coffee cup, she goes on nervously, “I mean, it’s a small town.” Which happens to be populated by mediums, channelers, healers, and a whole lot of dead people. “You know . . . just a bunch of houses . . .” Yeah, mostly haunted. “. . . And, uh, you know, some trees.”

  Uh-huh. Including one former tree: the concrete-encased Inspiration Stump deep in Leolyn Woods—a hallowed local landmark where the Dale’s spiritual energy is supposedly at its peak.

  “I don’t care what we see,” Dad tells her, “as long as we can get out and enjoy a beautiful day.” He gestures at the sun streaming in the window, and Calla curses it for making one of its rare local appearances today, of all days.

  “But I was thinking we could go to a movie or something,” she suggests. “I’ve been wanting to see . . . uh . . . uh . . .” Terrific—she can’t come up with one title of a movie that might be playing right now.

  That’s what happens when you’re completely out of touch with the electronic world. The only movie that pops into her head is a really old, really stupid comedy from the early eighties that was on late last night.

  It’s one she watched with Kevin on a rainy night when he was home last winter break. She still remembers everything about that night—the way they cuddled on the couch in their sweats, eating hot brownies she had baked for them; the way they laughed, not at the lame movie, but at themselves for watching it; the way Kevin looked and smelled and tasted, like molten chocolate, when he kissed her.

  She pushes the memory away, telling her father, “I’ve, uh, been wanting to see . . . something funny. A good comedy. There are a bunch of them out now.” Total guess, of course.

  Maybe a good one because her father says, “I know, and I could use a good laugh, too.”

  “Great. So let’s go to the movies. Want to come, Gammy?”

  “Can’t right now . . . I’ve got a meeting.”

  Right—for the mediums’ league. Which, of course, she doesn’t mention.

  “It’s okay, we’ll go to the movies tonight instead,” Dad says. “For right now, I’d love to get outside since there’s no smog for a change.”

  “Smog? In Lily Dale?” Odelia smiles.

  “Have I told you how bad the smog is where I am?” Dad asks, and shakes his head.

  “I thought you liked California, Dad.”

  “I do. Except for the smog. Anyway, the leaves are starting to turn here. We have to get outside. I haven’t seen fall foliage in years.”

  Calla hasn’t seen it ever.

  She glances toward the window above the sink and notices, for the first time, a few golden and reddish leaves among the branches. She’s been so preoccupied, she hasn’t even noticed them until now. Or maybe they weren’t there until now?

  Whatever, the bright foliage is a blatant reminder that the season is turning at last. Summer, which brought Mom’s tragic death, is almost behind them now.

  Back in Florida—and out in California, come to think of it—seasons don’t come and go with much visible change. There’s always sun and green foliage, blooming flowers, and blue skies. No obvious seasonal closure. Not like here.

  So. Maybe the changing landscape will help bring some kind of closure to the raw wound.

  Yet another reason why it’s good that Calla’s here in Lily Dale . . . and why it’s a good idea for her to stay awhile.

  Dad pushes back his chair and picks up his plate, carrying it to the sink.

  “Leave it, Jeff. I’ll get the dishes,” Odelia says promptly. “Really. It takes two seconds to wash them.”

  “Then I’ll dry and Calla can put away.”

  “Oh, we don’t dry or put away,” Odelia says. “That’s a waste of time. Around here, we pretty much just leave them in the dish rack to dry by themselves. Right, Calla?”

  “She does,” Calla tells her father. “She says why bother to put stuff away when you’re just going to use it all again later?”

  Dad grins and shakes his head.

  Less than five minutes later, Calla finds herself walking down sun-splashed Cottage Row with him. Sure enough, the boughs overhead seem to have changed overnight, with lots of yellows and golds tucked among the green leaves, and even a few shades of red.

  The sun is bright but not particularly warm today; the air is crisp with a breeze off the lake.

  She thinks about Erin. About how she might not have survived another night—a cold night—in the woods.

  How did she get there? Was the person who hurt her also responsible for Kaitlyn’s death?

  Yes. There isn’t a doubt in Calla’s mind about that, after the way Kaitlyn urgently told her to “Stop him.”

  But did she?

  I found Erin, she thinks uneasily. I helped her, like Kaitlyn asked.

  But did I stop him?

  I don’t even know who he is. What if the police don’t find him?

  “Huh.”

  Startled by Dad’s voice, she looks up to see that they’ve made it halfway down the block, and he’s gazing at a nearby cottage.

  More like, at the shingle hanging from a porch post on the cottage.

  PATSY METCALF, REGISTERED MEDIUM & SPIRITUAL CON-SULTANT “I feel like I’m in California all over again,” Dad comments with a laugh.

  Uh-oh. To distract him, Calla points at the patch of water visible betwe
en the houses and trees. “Look, Dad . . . isn’t it pretty?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Let’s head down that way. There’s a nice little dock and benches by the water.” And it’s away from all the houses—and signs.

  As they head closer to the lake, Calla can see that today, for a change, it actually looks more blue than gray. She can hear the distant hum of a fishing boat.

  “Have you been swimming a lot here, Cal?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why not? You always love the water.”

  “Yeah, but it’s too cold for me here,” she says, not about to tell him the real reason she hasn’t gone in.

  “It’s pretty cold in California, too . . . the Pacific, I mean.”

  “Have you been in it?” she asks in surprise. Her father never went to the beach back in Florida. Mom, either. That wasn’t their thing.

  Calla often went out to Pass-a-Grille Beach with Lisa, though. And later, with Kevin. She shoves aside the memory of him, tanned and bare chested in board shorts, diving into the warm, salty Gulf of Mexico surf with his boogie board.

  “I’ve gone up to Malibu once or twice,” her father tells her. “Dan surfs, so he goes up all the time.” Dan is the friend Dad’s staying with out there. “He talked me into it.”

  “Did you try surfing?” She’s wide-eyed at the thought of her father in a bathing suit, let alone on a surfboard.

  “Yeah . . . tried and failed.” He laughs. “But it was actually fun. I might try it again.”

  Wow. Maybe she doesn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

  That’s a strange feeling. Just as it was when she figured out that there might have been more to her mother than Calla ever knew when she was alive.

  Is this what it’s like when you grow up and drift apart from your family? Do you start seeing your parents less as parents, more as just . . . people?

  People with quirks and faults and secrets.

  A fresh sense of loss sweeps through Calla. It isn’t fair. She’ll never have the chance to be an adult alongside her mother—to be women together. She was cheated out of that.

  Nobody ever said life was supposed to be fair.

  Anyway, Dad’s going to be around. And she’s going to grow up, and they’re going to have to build some kind of relationship, some kind of life. In California or Florida or . . . wherever. Just the two of them.

  They walk along and Calla kicks a pebble a few times, thinking the silence is awkward. She has to say something, anything, to break it.

  “So, Dad . . . does Lily Dale look like you pictured it?”

  “I never really tried to picture it, I don’t think. Not until you came to stay here, anyway.”

  “Really?”

  He shakes his head. “All I knew was that it was a small town by a lake, with long, stormy winters. And that Mom left when she graduated from high school.”

  “And never looked back,” Calla murmurs. “Right?”

  “Right. Calla . . .” Dad pauses as though he’s weighing his words carefully before going on. “Your mother didn’t have the happiest childhood here. Her father left when she was young, and your grandmother . . . well, I’m sure she did her best, but she’s not the most stable person I’ve ever known.”

  “I know, but she’s—”

  “Look, Odelia’s been great through all of this. To you and to me, too, even. That’s why this feels so . . . strange.”

  “What does?”

  “Being here.” He looks around, waves a hand at the row of cottages, and at the lake visible beyond. “Because I never got the feeling your mother had any intention of coming back. Even to visit.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “No. We didn’t talk about it.”

  “Ever?”

  He shrugs. “She didn’t want to and I didn’t push her. So even though I can understand your wanting to know more about her life here, I don’t think it’s something she carried with her after she left.”

  Calla could tell him that he might be wrong about that, but that would only open the door to something neither of them is prepared to handle right now.

  Dad clears his throat, but his voice still sounds ragged when he goes on. “I think Mom would just want you to remember her how—and where—she was when she was a part of your life. Our lives.”

  Calla’s eyes fill with tears, and she looks down, trying hard not to cry.

  “Cal, I’m sorry.” Dad stops walking and puts a gentle hand on her arm.

  “For what?” She wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt and looks up. He’s blurry. She is crying, dammit.

  “For upsetting you about Mom. I know it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too. Look, maybe . . . maybe when I go back to California, you should come with me. Forget about staying here another month or two and just—”

  “No!” she cuts in. “I can’t do that, Dad! I mean, where would I even stay?”

  “I’m sure we could work something out with Dan and—”

  “But I can’t!” she says again, trying not to sound frantic. “I mean, I’ve got my babysitting job here now, and Paula’s counting on me, and anyway . . . I shouldn’t leave when I’m having all this trouble in math,” she adds without thinking, grasping at straws.

  “What trouble in math?” he asks sharply.

  Oops. She wasn’t going to tell him about that.

  She quickly explains the situation, trying to make the issue sound important enough that she should stay here and get caught up on the curriculum, but not so urgent that her father will be concerned about her academics and pull her out of Lily Dale High.

  “I’m already getting back on the right track,” she assures him, “so you don’t have to worry.”

  “Too late. I’m worried. You’re about to start applying to colleges. You need to keep your grades up.”

  College? That’s the last thing on her mind with all that’s gone on.

  Back before Mom died, they used to talk about where she would apply, and the trips they would take together to visit various campuses. Mom—who put herself through a state university, then got an Ivy League MBA—wanted Calla to get into a good school. When Kevin was accepted into Cornell, Mom was probably even more thrilled than Mrs. Wilson was.

  Calla used to think, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she might follow him there someday. Not because of any burning academic ambition, though. More because she was crazy about Kevin and wanted to be near him.

  Well, that’s clearly not an option now. She doesn’t know what she wants to do next year.

  And there’s not a whole lot of time to figure it out.

  “Dad, I’ve got a great study partner for math,” she says, “and the teacher is on top of it, too. And anyway, you know it wouldn’t be good for me to start yet another new school right away. That won’t look great on my college applications either.”

  “You’re right.” He flashes a sad smile. “I guess I just wish I hadn’t agreed to this plan in the first place.”

  “It was a good plan. And I’m in good hands here between school and Gammy.”

  “I know. I just wish they were my hands. And Mom’s.”

  She swallows hard, aching, closing her eyes.

  After a moment, she feels his arms settling around her shoulders, holding her close. The hug is so comforting that she just sinks into it, glad he’s here.

  Then she hears him speak and is startled to realize his voice isn’t as close by as it should be.

  The arms release her just as she opens her eyes to see that her father is still a few feet away, and his hands are shoved into the pockets of his khakis.

  TEN

  “What . . . what did you say, Dad?” Calla asks, shaken, looking around, seeing no one.

  Someone hugged her. Someone invisible. Because it couldn’t have been her father.

  “I said, I’m selfish. I miss you.”

  Calla nods vaguely, unable to speak, sensing the presence just beside her. A comforti
ng presence. Not like Kaitlyn’s. Or even Aiyana’s.

  Mom? Is that you?

  She reaches out, half expecting to encounter something— someone—solid and finding only thin air.

  Are you here? Oh, Mom . . . I need you so much.

  Oblivious, her father sighs. “Listen, Cal, if you came back to California with me now, we could make it work.”

  That jars her enough to find her voice, and she manages to say, “I really want to stay awhile longer. Like we said. Please?”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says, and the subject is dropped.

  Or so it seems.

  They walk a few more steps, and her father suddenly says, “That’s bizarre.”

  Calla looks up to see him frowning at the shingle on the next house down.

  REV. DORIS HENDERSON,CLAIRVOYANT.

  Here we go, she thinks, the lingering warmth of the phantom hug evaporating.

  “What’s bizarre?” she asks her father, and holds her breath, waiting for a reply.

  “Two New Age freaks living right next to each other in the middle of nowhere.”

  She should have known the local trade couldn’t stay hidden for very long.

  “New Age freaks? Geez, Dad.” She’s so irritated at his phrasing that she forgets, for a moment, about trying to distract him.

  Then, remembering that her future here could very well be hanging in the balance, she looks around and points at a bird flying overhead. “Hey, wow, is that a bald eagle? Look! They’re not on the endangered list anymore, you know.”

  Her father glances up. “That’s a sparrow.”

  Then he says, reading off a shingle on the next house down, “Andy Brighton, Psychic Medium,” and Calla realizes it’s all over.

  “Andy’s a friend of Gammy’s, Dad.”

  “Really.” His tone says, that just figures.

  “Yeah, and his cat just had kittens and we’re getting one— I mean, she’s getting one—in a few days. Isn’t that cool? I’ve always wanted a pet.”

  “Mmm-hmm. So he’s a medium? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Oh, you know.”