Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

  "You were ninety-three years old," I repeat, because I don't think he's getting it.

  "Just tell me how I died so I can go," he snaps. His nostrils flare when he's mad.

  "Okay, okay." Not that any of this matters anyway. He’s not real. I’m only humoring my hallucination.

  I type in his information, and much to my horror, Google pulls up several articles. Most of which I can't open because of the parental controls my mom must have installed. I click on the only website I'm allowed to access, the local news station. Front and center is a picture of a wrinkled old man with large, droopy ears, bushy brows, and a frown. A little lower in the article is a picture of the same sharply dressed All-American Willie that's standing in front of me.

  Ahh!

  I shove the computer off my lap and scramble to my feet.

  "What are you doing, woman?"

  “You … you … you …” My back is pressed against the wall, and I'm frantically pointing at the computer. "You … you were real." How can Willie be a figment of my imagination if my imagination has never met him before? I don't watch the news. I don't read the obituaries. I don't socialize. There's no way I could have known Willie. The only time I ever saw him was at The Gazette before I was hit in the head.

  Before!

  Jabba hisses.

  Ah! My cat can see Willie!

  "Stop hyperventilating and get to work," Willie says, nostrils flaring. "Tell me how I died."

  "B-but. You're dead … that means”—I inch toward the only logical conclusion—“you're a ghost."

  "Tell me how I died!"

  "Okay. Okay." Okay. I pick up the laptop, still reeling from the realization that I'm not crazy, I just see dead people. Which doesn't make me feel any better about the situation. "Um … so, according to the article, you died … today. This morning, actually. It says you were influential in the space program?" I look to him for clarification.

  "I created part of the filter system. Patented the design. Made millions. Keep going."

  So I'm seeing rich dead people. Great. I wet my lips, feeling parched, and keep reading. "It says your wife confirmed that you passed away at home." I look up at Willie. "If you have a wife why don't you go bother her instead?"

  "Don't you think I've tried? No matter what I do, or how hard I concentrate, I can't leave you. It's like I'm stuck. You move, I move. You run out in front of a car. I run out in front of a car."

  "For the last time, I was in the crosswalk,” I say, feeling a bit annoyed.

  "Who cares? Now, how'd I die?"

  "Why do you need me to tell you how you died?”

  “I don’t know!” He throws his hat on the floor. “Don’t you understand? I’m still trying to figure out how death works. But I have this pressing need to find out how I died, and I lack the ability to find out. Now, tell me so I can get out of here! I hate Fernn Valley.”

  “You can say please.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay." I read through the rest of the article and … crud. "It doesn't say how you died. Just that you grew up in the Fernn Valley, died at home, and you were ninety-three."

  "That's terrible journalism."

  "Willie, maybe you were in great shape for being ninety-three years old. But all your internal organs were almost a century. You understand this, right? You died because you were old."

  Willie takes a moment to digest. "No," he decides. "There was nothing natural about the way I died. I can feel it. Someone killed me. I know it. You need to keep searching."

  Murder seems like a stretch, but I humor him. Only one problem. "I can't click on any of the other articles because of the parental controls. They're blocked."

  Willie gapes at me. Then he does his pacing, rubbing chin bit until he comes up with an idea. "Tomorrow morning, we'll go to the library, use the computer there, figure out how I died, then I'll disappear, and you can go back to your dull, sheltered, ugly life."

  As appealing as that sounds, we have two problems. "I don't have a car, and there's no way my parents will take me to the library without accompanying me. The library is sort of our thing. We check out books together."

  "You're killing me!" Willie explodes. "When I was your age, do you know what I was doing?" He doesn't wait for a response. "I was living in Mexico. No parents. No one was buying me ice cream, or driving me around, or changing my diaper."

  "Wait." I do the math in my head. "When you were my age wasn't World War Two going on?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Didn't you get drafted?"

  "It's not important. What's important is that we find out how I died and who killed me so I can get out of here." He rubs his temples. "Go to sleep, and tomorrow morning your parents can drop you at The Gazette. Then we'll sneak over to the library." He stalks toward the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'll wait in the hallway. Your cat gives me the creeps."

  Chapter Three

  Communicating with the dead is exhausting, and I sleep through my alarm.

  "Zoe!"

  I stretch my arms, roll over, and fall back asleep.

  "Zoe!"

  I blink to focus. Mom is leaning over me. Her hair is extra permy, and she has blue eyeshadow covering her entire lid.

  "What do you want?" I throw the pillow back over my head. The room is too bright and my head hurts.

  "Dad said you start work this morning."

  "No, I don't," I moan, and my body goes cold. I peek out from under my pillow. Willie is hovering over me frantically pointing at my mother.

  Huh?

  Mom's eyes slide to the laptop at the foot of my bed.

  Willie pulls at his hair. "Get up and get ready for work, woman! We need to go to the library."

  “But—" I start to say, then think better of it. Talking to Willie in front of my parents is not a good idea. "Oh. No." I bring my hands to my cheeks. "I. Am. Late. For. Work. I. Need. To. Get. Up. I. Need. To. Get. Dressed. Oh. No."

  Willie slaps his forehead.

  I jump out of bed and accidentally step on Jabba’s tail, sending him ducking for cover under my desk.

  Mom follows me to the bathroom. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

  "I'm good." I close the door but can feel her presence on the other side. She's concerned. She thinks she should talk to a man … a man named Phil … then there's an S. Something with an S … I see an S. I can see an S burning in a pit of fire. "Ahhhh!"

  "What's wrong?" Mom tries to open the door, but it’s locked. "Zoe Matilda Lane, open this door right now."

  My breath hitches in my throat, and I wring my hands. I'm overcome with emotions: fear, anger, anxiety, menopause!

  "What are you doing?" Willie hisses.

  "I can read my mom's thoughts," I whisper in horror. "I can feel her."

  He shrugs like this is no big deal. Like hearing thoughts and feeling others' feelings is totally normal. "You need to calm that woman down so we can go," he says. "Also, you need to find her a new hairstylist. Did your people stop evolving in nineteen ninety? I’m almost a hundred, and I have a better style than her."

  My head is spinning. “How do I stop feeling her feelings?” I ask, still at a whisper.

  “How the hell would I know? I only talked to people with a pulse when I was alive.”

  Well, he’s of no help.

  I grip the edge of the counter and close my eyes. When I do this, I can more easily separate my feelings from hers.

  Gah! This is weird.

  Mom rattles the knob. Panic rises inside of me. "I am breaking down the door if you don't open up right now." And she means it. She's trying to remember where Dad keeps his sledgehammer when it dawns on her that she can use a bobby pin to pick the lock.

  Crud.

  I suck in a deep breath, blow it out slowly, and open the door. Mom is frantically trying to yank a bobby pin free from her head.

  "Tell her you saw a spider," Willie says.

  "There was a spider," I say.

 
; "You're sorry to scare her," Willie says.

  "I am sorry I scared you," I say, trying to sound less robotic.

  We stand there, mother and daughter, staring at each other. Mom wants to believe me, but her gut tells her I'm lying. She ultimately convinces herself she's being overly sensitive. "You have ten minutes before we need to go. I've left a muffin and an iron pill on the counter," she says and goes to her room.

  Willie is in my ear. "You need to keep it together, woman."

  "Leave me alone." I feel like I'm about to have a stroke, but I manage to brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail. In my room Willie is waiting for me. I open my closet and pull out a blue pantsuit and pink blouse.

  "Do you own anything not ugly?" He walks through my clothes. "Guess not."

  "It's a sensible pantsuit. Why are you so concerned about how people dress?"

  “Not people, just you. You’re way too young to dress so old.”

  “I do not dress … you know what? If you want my help, you’re going to have to be a lot nicer,” I angry whisper. “Got it?”

  “Fine. Wear the ugly clothes. I don’t care." Willie walks through the wall.

  This ghost is seriously testing my patience!

  I get dressed in my non-ugly pantsuit and stand in front of the mirror while I button my blouse. If only I were starting a real job, with real people, and real money today. My mood falls at the thought. Twenty-four hours ago, I stood in front of this mirror while getting ready for my interview. Mom was sitting on my bed, trying to convince me that I didn't need the job at The Gazette. That I could continue helping them manage listings. “You’re a talented writer,” she had said. “We could even put you on the payroll.”

  I’m not sure how they could pay me. It’s not like real estate in Fernn Valley is exactly booming. They barely make enough to cover their expenses as it is.

  Had I known I'd be hit by a car and harassed by a ghost, I may have taken her up on the offer, though.

  * * *

  Mom, Dad, Willie, and I drive to The Gazette in silence. The only feelings I have are my own—which is quite nice. Mom is reading through a contract, and Dad's holding tight to the steering wheel like he's afraid it might fall off. I shift my focus to the window and watch the trees go by as we take the dirt road into town. Fernn Valley is a quaint community with brick buildings and brightly colored awnings, wide streets, and medians filled with grass so green it almost hurts your eyes. Nearly every house and business has an American flag proudly hung outside. In the center of town is Earl Park, named after Fernn Valley's founder, Earl Fernn. It reminds me of the setting from a sweet romance story: large willow trees, beveled walkways, a beautifully constructed gazebo, and a pond with a family of ducks that fly in every spring.

  Across the street from the park is The Gazette. A two-story brick-faced building with a red awning and an American flag waving in the wind. Dad pulls up to the curb, and I grab my briefcase and slide open the door. Dad cuts the engine and starts to get out.

  "What are you doing?" I ask in a panic.

  "I want to take a picture of you on your first day of work in front of the building," he says while holding up his camera.

  "Um … er … no. Please don't."

  Mom turns around in her seat. "It's for your scrapbook, honey."

  Oh, geez. I can't deny my parents the pleasure of documenting their only child's first day of work, but I also can't deny my parents the blissful unawareness of the fact that their only child is conversing with the dead.

  Also, I’m twenty-three not seven.

  It takes a bit of convincing, but Dad finally agrees to take the picture from the inside of the car.

  "Pumpkin, you feeling okay?" Dad asks from behind the camera.

  "Yes," I say in a rush.

  Dad frowns. "You look tense. If you're not feeling up to it, you can call in sick. I'm sure they'll understand."

  "Why would I not feel up to it?"

  Dad lowers the camera. "Because you were hit by a car yesterday."

  Oh, right. That. I completely forgot. Now that I think about it, my back does hurt, and my neck, and my arms, and my legs, and my feet. But there's no time to dwell on my limbs—I have a ghost to get rid of.

  Per Dad's request, I say, "Cheese." Willie leans over and smiles for the picture. This is by far the most bizarre experience of my life.

  "Before you go”—Dad reaches into his pocket—“this is for you." He places a silver pen into my hand with Lane engraved on the side. "My dad gave this to me on my first day of work. I've been saving it for you."

  Great. Now I feel guilty.

  "Thank you, Dad. I'll take great care of it." I tuck it into my inner jacket pocket, step outside, pull the van door closed, and walk slowly toward The Gazette, pausing a second to wait for my parents to drive off so I can make a swift U-turn and head to the library. Except they aren't moving. I stop at the door and wave. They wave back. Willie waves. I wave some more, and I realize they aren't leaving until I am inside the building. Great.

  I pull on the door a few times until I remember you must push. Once I'm safely inside, Dad starts the car. I watch with my palms and forehead pressed against the glass of the door, waiting for them to disappear out of my sight.

  "Ms. Lane?" a voice comes from behind.

  I spin around and accidentally smack Brian Windsor in the stomach with my briefcase. “Oh, my gosh. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. Are you okay?" I ask.

  "I'm o-okay." He plays it off, but I can tell he's in pain by the lack of color in his cheeks and the way he's hunched over mumbling profanity under his breath.

  "You just nut-punched your fake boss." Willie shakes his head. "I feel for the guy. A briefcase to the balls hurts." He shudders at the thought.

  "I didn't nut-punch anyone,” I say.

  “Yes, you did," Brian huffs out.

  "Oh." Oops.

  Brian drops onto the couch positioned below a black and white picture of Fernn Valley and puts his head between his knees.

  “Oh, no." I stutter around, not really sure what to do. "Should I get a heat pack?"

  Willie takes a seat beside Brian and puts a protective arm around him. "Are you crazy, woman? You don't put heat on throbbing testicles."

  "How would I know how to treat injured testicles?" I ask.

  Brian grimaces up at me, and I want to die. I cannot believe I just said testicles in front of Brian. I want to crawl under the couch and never return. Of all the people in the world, why did my briefcase have to crash into him.

  Brian may be sheet white, but I have a feeling I'm tomato red.

  "I'll be fine." He manages to roll upright. Willie is at his side, his face full of concern.

  "Are you sure?" I ask. "I'm so sorry. You scared me, and I-I … I’m sorry."

  "Don't worry. I'm fine." He pauses to catch his breath. "What are you doing here?"

  "Um." Good question. One I don't have an answer to. I look to Willie for help.

  "Say you came to inquire about advertising for your parents."

  Oh, that's good. "I came to talk about advertising for … um … my parents' real estate business. They … um … need a bigger ad."

  Brian adjusts his glasses, keeping one hand on his stomach. "Bigger than the full-page ad they already run?"

  Oh, crap!

  I mean … crud. Stupid Willie is rubbing off on me.

  Crap or crud. Either way, I completely forgot about my parents’ weekly advertisement in The Gazette, and now Brian is staring at me expectantly with those gray eyes, and I don't know what else to do.

  So I do what I do best.

  Disappear.

  I pull open the door and take off down the sidewalk.

  "Ms. Lane, wait!" Brian calls after me, but I don't dare look back. I keep my briefcase swinging at my side, feet moving so fast Mrs. Clark from the beauty salon steps outside and asks if I'm training for a speed-walking competition.

  "No!" I say and keep going until I'm able to turn down
the alleyway between the dry cleaner and pharmacy. There's a pile of crates, and I take a seat and wait for my breath to return.

  Willie makes a W with his arms. "What was that about?"

  "Nothing." I open my briefcase and take out my walking shoes, still struggling to catch my breath. If I die right now at least I'd know how I went.

  Cause of death: extreme mortification.

  "First you nut-punch the guy. Then you take off," Willie says. "Did you not learn how to socialize in school?"

  I slip on my sneakers and place my pumps into my briefcase. "I was homeschooled."

  Willie rolls his eyes. "There's a shocker."

  "That's it." I stand up. "Stop treating me like I’m an idiot with no feelings!"

  Mr. and Mrs. Batch peek around the corner. Mrs. Batch is chewing on a donut, and Mr. Batch has a pipe hanging out of his mouth.

  "Now you've gone and done it." Willie shakes his head. "Might as well drive yourself to the loony bin. Oh wait, you don’t have a car."

  "Shut up," I hiss.

  Mr. Batch steps forward, squinting at me. Mr. Batch is the mayor, and Mrs. Batch owns the antique shop. They play Santa and Mrs. Claus in the Christmas parade every year.

  I fidget with my fingers until I'm struck with a brilliant idea. I grab my cell phone from my briefcase and hold it to my ear. "Shut up … That’s right … Wait, can you hold on a second?" I cover the receiver and look at Mr. and Mrs. Batch. "I'm sorry to be so loud." I smile sheepishly.

  Mr. Batch pulls the pipe from his mouth, a slight expression of concern on his face. "You’re the Lane kid, right?" His voice is rough, like there's a baseball size of phlegm stuck in his throat.

  I nod, my hand still covering my phone.

  “Huh." He returns his pipe to the corner of his mouth. “Okay, then. Be sure to keep it down. This is a nice quiet town, and we intend to keep it that way."

  "I will. Thank you, Mr. Batch." I smile until he turns around and walks back to wherever he came from.

  I just about pass out.

  "The phone idea is genius," Willie says. "But why don't you have one of those smart phones?"