Like mother like daughter. Mrs. Lincoln was also accustomed to getting her way. Needless to say, Lindy was disappointed she had not been the victor in this particular standoff with her mama.
When I went home to pack my bags, I hoped Mama would insist I stay with her tonight. She usually became forlorn if I stayed at Lindy’s and I was counting on it tonight.
Instead, she seemed more than happy to get rid of me, packing my bag for me, further solidifying my fear that she was indeed having some sort of online affair. At least I hoped it was still online.
On my way back to Lindy’s, I agonized over how I was going to get word to Carson that I wasn’t going to be able to meet him at midnight. There was no way I could sneak out without Lindy knowing, and if she found out what I was up to, there’s no telling what kind of ailment she’d fake.
I passed Carson’s house, but all the rooms appeared dark, even though it was after eight o’clock and the sun was setting. I hurried past his house, still contemplating what to do. Besides, I didn’t think I would have the guts to knock on his door anyway. What if his mama or daddy answered the door? I sighed and silently prayed that he would somehow know I couldn’t get away. And hopefully he wouldn’t hate me and think I didn’t want to see him.
Our sleepover was ill-fated from the beginning. Lindy was, of course, in a foul mood. She started off by pinching me on more than one occasion; I didn’t hand her the remote for the TV fast enough, I didn’t agree on the movie she wanted to see, I didn’t give her the extra piece of cake that Maria sent over with her son. It was her pity party and she was making damn sure that I knew it.
Then, she got real sad-like and I caught her staring off into space. I made the mistake of asking her what was the matter, which was definitely the wrong move. She snapped out of her melancholy staring and got this wild look in her eyes.
“Go into my closet,” she instructed, pointing at the spacious walk in closet that housed clothes, shoes and accessories on the one side and her games, books, dolls, etc., on the other. Each side was roughly the size of my own bedroom and everything was so organized you would think you were in a department store when you stood in the middle of the damn thing.
I reluctantly pulled the doors open and stood there staring into it. “What do you need?” I had been waiting on her hand and foot all evening, so of course, I assumed she needed something.
“There’s a box on the game shelf. It’s black and white and says wee-gee on it.”
Sighing, I flicked on the closet light and stepped inside. I examined the game shelf and found a dusty Battleship box and several Truth or Dare games and one about going to the mall. There were assortments of other older games, but none that said Wee-gee.
“Did you find it?” she asked after several minutes had gone by.
“I don’t see it,” I shouted back at her.
I heard a thump followed by bumping noises. Lindy appeared in the doorway of the closet.
“What are you doing?” I asked in an annoyed tone. “You’re supposed to have your leg elevated.”
“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face. She hopped on one foot into the closet and pulled a box off the shelf. “It’s right here. Geez, Kennedy. Are you blind, too?” I could only imagine what she meant by “too”. Like maybe was I blind in addition to dumb and fat.
She hopped out, clutching the box, and I followed.
“What’s that?” I had asked suspiciously. She shoved the piles of makeup we had been experimenting with to the side of the bed and hopped up on it. She got around really well for a girl with an injury that necessitated my staying over.
She gingerly placed the box on the bed and I stared at the cover. “What is it?” I asked again, confused at the drawing on the box. My fingers trailed over the lid. “O-u-i-j-a.” I looked up at Lindy. “What the hell is oija?” I tried to pronounce the word.
Lindy rolled her eyes at me. “It’s pronounced wee-gee. Haven’t you ever played with the Ouija board before?”
“Uh, no.” And I didn’t really want to start then either. It was past midnight and I was annoyed that I wasn’t going to get to meet Carson.
“This is going to be awesome,” she told me matter-of-factly. She lifted the lid to reveal a yellowish board with black lettered yes and no at the top and all the letters of the alphabet underneath that in two arching rows. Below the letters were numbers, zero through nine, and the words good bye. There was a picture of a sun and a moon and a very creepy looking lady. My skin prickled as Lindy lifted a white plastic arrow shaped disk out of the box.
“What is that for?” I asked with concern. This didn’t look like a game where you could spin a dice and land on a prize or go directly to jail. The lady’s face reminded me of the carnival movies where bad things would happen. The whole game gave me a sinister feeling and I had no idea why.
Lindy sat cross-legged on her bed and tapped my legs with impatience. I guessed I was supposed to be sitting that way, too. I crossed my legs and scooched backward so that I could lean my back up against the headboard.
“Not that far away,” Lindy chastised. “Get closer to me.”
I scooted close to her and when our knees were touching, she gently balanced the board on them. I scratched a mosquito bite on my shin, jostling the board in the process.
“You can’t move at all,” she admonished as she placed the white plastic thingie in the center. Her fingers gently caressed the edge of the arrow. “Now you put your fingers on it,” she instructed. “It’s called a planchette.”
I placed my hands over it lightly like she had done and asked, “So are we supposed to move this or something?” I was totally and utterly confused as to the purpose of this game.
“No, you dope!” Lindy replied with a snort. “The ghosts move it!”
“What? What ghosts?” I asked as I pulled my hands away. I must have looked just like I saw a ghost at that moment because Lindy rolled her eyes in that patronizing fashion at me.
“This board is for convening with the dead, Kennedy. It’s like a séance.”
“The dead?” I jumped to my feet, the board falling on the bed. “I don’t want to convene with the dead!” I had no idea what convene meant, but I had a pretty good feeling it wasn’t anything I wanted to do with the dead. There wasn’t much I wanted to do with the dead, in fact.
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s fun. Cut the light, will ya?” Lindy said as she propped a pillow up behind her back. I just stared open mouthed at her for a minute before she barked, “Don’t be such a baby, Kennedy!”
Reluctantly I flicked off the lamp on her nightstand, submerging us in darkness. I was not afraid of the dark, per se, but in Lindy’s room just then, I was petrified. My skin erupted in goosebumps as I climbed back onto the bed and I awaited instructions.
Lindy flicked on a small flashlight and held it up underneath her face, illuminating her usually pretty features, making her appear grotesque.
“Put your hands back on the planchette,” she commanded in a spooky voice.
My blood pounding in my ears, I settled my trembling fingers back down on the board.
Pleased with my obedience, Lindy explained, “We have to call a dead person to have a séance. Do you know any dead people?” She asked it in the same manner you might ask a party host where their restroom was located.
I kept my mouth shut, though. The only dead person I knew was my daddy and I sure as hell didn’t want to raise him from his dirt nap.
As if she read my mind, Lindy exclaimed, “We can call your daddy!”
My fingers tensed up and froze on the planchette, but I didn’t say a word. It didn’t matter if I said no. Lindy would do what she wanted to anyway and I was powerless to stop her. Not that I believed in this whole séance thing anyway. . .
“Now you have to be very quiet,” Lindy said ominously.
I nodded my head. I hoped she wasn’t going to yell at me for my heart thundering in my chest; I was certain that she could
hear it.
“We are calling the spirit of Kennedy’s dearly departed daddy…” She leaned closer to my ear and asked, “What was his name?”
I bit my lip as I considered my options. If I gave her the wrong name, would it not work? I decided against it. I might give her the name of some ghost that really was scary. My daddy wasn’t scary, right? Well, I didn’t know what years underground would make a person look like if they showed up to this séance. Did a ghost actually materialize? I had no idea. At least I didn’t think my daddy would hurt me if he returned from the dead and joined us for this nonsense in Lindy’s bedroom.
Actually, I wasn’t sure what he’d do, him being dead for so long and all. Even at fifteen years old, I didn’t have a whole lot of memories of my daddy. The few that I had were spotty at best. I recall one time he took me to the movies when Mama was sick. He let me get popcorn and candy. Mama would have made me choose between the two. I remember him putting his fingers to his lips when we left the theatre and telling me not to tattle about it when we got home. He seemed like a good guy. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him, though because I was envisioning his skin hanging off his face like a bad zombie movie.
But of course, I couldn’t lie to Lindy. And it’s not like it was really real anyway. At least that’s what I told myself as I practically whispered, “His name was Mark. Mark Ryan.”
Lindy nodded solemnly. “We are calling the spirit of Mark Ryan, father of Kennedy Ryan, to come join us here and now.”
My fingers stiffened as we awaited a response. It was so quiet in the bedroom that I could not only hear my blood flowing in my veins, I could hear Lindy’s lungs inflating and deflating sharply.
Suddenly, the planchette jerked and my breath caught in my throat. I glanced at Lindy, a smile playing on her lips. “Lindy,” I whispered with annoyance. “You moved it.”
Lindy shook her head. “I didn’t. I swear.”
At this revelation, my fingertips began to sweat as the pointer moved toward the letters. It traveled to the letter H. I glanced up at Lindy to see her mouthing, H.
The pointer moved toward the E at a snail’s pace and then made a sharp turn and zipped over to the L where it rested for a moment and then finally, the O where it stayed.
“Hello,” Lindy called out excitedly. “The ghost is saying hello, Kennedy!”
I simply nodded, my jaw locked as if I didn’t want to talk out of disbelief or out of fear.
“Are you Kennedy’s daddy?” Lindy asked, not missing a beat. I let out a slight whimpering noise and I instantly felt Lindy’s withering stare on my face.
The planchette jerked over to the top of the board and pointed to the word yes. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
I pulled my hands off of the plastic. “I don’t want to play anymore, Lindy.”
“It’s not a game, Kennedy. You don’t appreciate what an opportunity you have right now. It’s so cool that you can talk to your dead daddy. I’m jealous. Now put your damn fingers on that pointer and talk to him.”
My mouth hung open, not from Lindy’s insistence that I continue, but the fact that she was jealous my daddy was dead. I really didn’t think she processed words before she said them sometimes.
“Fine,” I grumbled as I repositioned my fingers. “But I don’t like it.” I wanted her to know that I was definitely doing this under duress, not that she really cared about anything except for what made her happy.
Lindy promptly continued her questions for my poltergeist of a daddy. “Did you die a horrible, torturous death?” she asked, lowering her voice for dramatic effect.
“Oh my God! Lindy that is—”
Lindy cut me off. “We have to know these things, Kennedy.” She spoke to me as if I were a five-year-old.
“Lindy, he died in Afghanistan. I don’t want to know how he died. If you ask again, I am going home,” I replied with a trembling lip. I was trying to sound like I was in charge of myself, but it was rough against Lindy, my Patrick to her SpongeBob.
“Fine,” she huffed in a tone that indicated anything but fine. “I’ll ask a different question, so you don’t have to go and cry like a big baby.”
I nodded curtly, ignoring the dig.
“Let’s make sure it’s him. We need to ask something only he knows. Hmmmm.” She tapped one finger to her plump lips, deep in thought. “Oh, I’ve got it. Where is your body?” Lindy asked mysteriously.
I sighed with annoyance, but I stared intently at the board because this question didn’t bother me. Of course he was buried in a cemetery. I didn’t know exactly what cemetery, and I had never asked my mama so I would have no way to check if Lindy was lying about moving the planchette or not. I was half expecting some generic cemetery name like St. James or Oak Park Cemetery, but what the board spelled out made my blood run cold.
In the basement.
“In the basement?” Lindy squeaked. “How are you buried in the basement?” I could tell just from her pretend-scared tone that she was getting a perverse thrill out of this whole thing.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lindy. Of course he’s not buried in a basement,” I scoffed with a mixture of fear and annoyance.
“Let’s find out what basement!” Lindy said excitedly.
“No!” I yelped as I leaped off the bed. This was probably the only time in our entire friendship that I had stood up to her. “We’re done. I know you’re moving the piece. My dead daddy is not in this room. And he is certainly not buried in a basement,” I announced with conviction, hands shaking, voice wavering. I was desperately trying to believe it myself. “Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”
Lindy pulled the flashlight to her chin again. “But you’ll never know for sure, will you? Muwahhhhhhh!” She dissolved into a high pitched cackling laughter.
I stood with my arms folded, trying not to completely lose it on her, reminding myself how lonely the losers’ table in the cafeteria was.
In the end, Lindy ended up sticking the board in the box and telling me to put in back on the shelf. She then decided that it was late enough and she wanted to go to sleep. I clicked off the light and crawled into the day bed Lindy had in her room for sleepover guests. It was actually more comfortable than my own bed at home and I would normally sleep like a baby.
But on this particular night, I just couldn’t get comfortable as hard as I tried. Lindy was snoring away within minutes (she would deny snoring with her dying breath, I’m sure), but I stared at the ceiling till dawn. My mind was racing with dead daddies, boys waiting for me in the woods, and a best friend that was determined to undermine my quest for happiness.
NINE
As I groggily headed back home late the next day—Lindy had slept till noon and I felt weird slipping out of the house with her still sleeping)—I wondered if I should stop by Carson’s house and explain what happened and why I was a no show the night before. I wished I had been able to call or text him, but I realized he had never given me his cell phone number or asked for mine.
That’s strange. . .he must not like you if he didn’t even ask for your number. Lindy’s voice popped into my head. I told her to shut up as I tried to come up with a logical explanation why he never asked for my number and couldn’t come up with one.
I avoided passing his house as I slipped into my own, bracing myself for my mama’s onslaught of motherly love.
“Hi! I’m home!” I called out when I didn’t see her in the living room, perched on the couch as usual. I was met with stony silence.
That’s odd, I thought as I dropped my overnight bag on the floor. Then, I heard the sound of crying. It was so muffled I couldn’t make out where in the house it was coming from.
“Mama?” I crept toward the kitchen, Mama’s second favorite place in the house. Why would she be crying, though? I wondered. Maybe she was making dinner and realized she ran out of corn meal for her crispy fried chicken? Mama cried over the craziest things sometimes.
I stepped into the empty kitchen. A mi
xing bowl lay abandoned on the counter, a big wooden spoon rested on the side of the bowl. It smelled like Mama’s barbecue sauce. I noticed the oven was also on. Mama must be fixing to make some wings. But where was she? And why was she crying?
“Mama?” I called out again, leaving the kitchen and passing through the dining room to enter the small foyer that housed the staircase leading to our bedrooms. Our house was a small Cape Cod style; living room, kitchen, dining room, half-bath on the first floor and then two bedrooms and a full bath upstairs. As I paused in the foyer, I heard footsteps, but they weren’t coming from this staircase.
“Kennedy?” The cellar door slammed and I whirled around to find Mama standing there, a package of frozen chicken wings in her hand, tears still streaming down her face.
I stared at the closed door. “Were you in the basement?”
“I was just getting the chicken wings for dinner,” Mama said quickly.
Confused, I cocked my head to the side. “I thought you said the freezer broke? Didn’t you have to call a repairman?”
Mama blushed and chewed her bottom lip. “I did. It’s all fixed!” she said in a sunny voice, beaming unnaturally at me.
“You let the repairman in yourself?” If my jaw could hang any lower, it would be in the basement with the fixed freezer.
Mama waved her hand in front of her face and tittered nervously. “Of course, Kennedy! Don’t be silly! I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself!”
I raised my eyebrow and wondered if Mama hadn’t been ordering mood altering prescription drugs from Canada. Her behavior was downright unusual. I was about to comment when I heard the sound of the mailbox being opened and shut.
“Oh, it sounds like the mail is here!” Mama sang out as she sashayed across the threadbare dining room rug. “Can you go get it, Sweetpea?” She pushed open the salon doors that led to the kitchen.
I stared after her as the doors swung for several moments before settling down. Could the guy she was communicating with online be the freezer repairman? I found myself wondering as I turned on my heel to get the mail. I made a mental note to get a hold of Mama’s computer and check her browser history. I was certain that she would be clueless as to how to erase her history.
The Dead of Summer Page 9
