Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

  "There you two are!" Betty throws her arms around our shoulders and gives us a squeeze. "Isn't this great!" She looks up, and we follow her gaze to Willie's name proudly displayed above the hospital entrance. "Anyway, I'm glad I caught you both at the same time." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Ron and I are moving to Oregon."

  "What? No," I say. Betty is the first alive friend I’ve had, and I don't want her to go anywhere.

  “There're too many whispers," she says. "Whenever Ron and I go out in public, people stare at us. If I want to make a difference, I need to go somewhere else."

  "I completely understand," says Rosa. "You need a fresh start."

  "We all do," says Betty. "I'm thinking that I'll sell the house and stay out of Trucker forever."

  There's a business card in my briefcase with a handwritten note from my mother. Mom had said to give it to Betty the moment she talked about selling. "It's the best way to get business in Trucker," she had said. Can't argue with that.

  Guess this is the right moment.

  I hand the card to Betty. "Thank you," she says and tucks it in her purse. "Can I borrow you? Just for a moment."

  "Sure." I give Rosa a hug good-bye and follow Betty to her car.

  "The craziest thing happened to me." Betty presses a button on her key fob, and the trunk of her Escalade opens. "I had a dream last night. It was so vivid, and I talked it over with Aleena, and she said it was Willie sending me a message." She grabs a shoebox and opens it. "He said you need these." She pulls out a pair of slip-on checkered Vans. "These aren’t exactly what he said in my dream, but he mentioned something youthful without arch support. I hope you like them.”

  All I can do is laugh. “Thank you.”

  “He also wants you to have this." She holds out a manila envelope.

  I set the shoes down and unwind the red string that’s holding the envelope closed. Out slides a pink slip and the fancy BMW i8 key fob.

  "I-I-I can't take this," I say.

  "But you told me you got your driver’s license."

  She's right. I'd completed the test last month and drive around in my parents’ van—sometimes. They still mostly drove, but that's only because we have one vehicle.

  I turn the key fob over in my hand, unable to conjure up the ability to move my mouth.

  "Willie was quite specific in my dream about this one," Betty says. "He wanted you to have this car. He had so many, what am I supposed to do with them?"

  "What about Rosa?"

  "She knows, and she thinks it's a great idea.” She grabs me by the shoulders and manually turns me around. The car is parked on the other side of the parking lot. “Take it and enjoy!"

  "I don't even know what to say."

  "Don't say anything. Just live,” Betty boops my nose. "I'll be in touch once we're settled."

  We say good-bye, and I stand there in the parking lot, staring at my fancy space car.

  Mom is going to freak out.

  Speaking of Mom, my cell buzzes. I flip the phone open and press it to my ear. "I don't need a ride to The Gazette anymore," I answer in lieu of a hello. "I'm covered."

  * * *

  I make it to The Gazette in fewer than thirty minutes. This car is much more fun to drive when I know how to drive it. I park in the space farthest from the door, under a tree. Then I move it, not wanting to risk a bird or a leaf tarnishing the shiny exterior.

  It's early, and people are still slowly trickling into work. Brian isn't exactly firm on the nine o'clock start time.

  Leon from accounting whistles. "Is that your car?"

  "It sure is." I sling my jacket over my shoulder and lock the car without looking, feeling very James Bond.

  Beth from Sports holds open the door for me. "Dang, girl. Are you having an affair with a billionaire I don't know about?"

  "Not exactly."

  We walk to our desks. She sits across from me, and I place my briefcase in the bottom drawer.

  "Did you cover the dedication at the hospital this morning?" she asks.

  "I did. Is Brian here yet? I want to go over the notes with him." I peek over at his office, but the door is closed.

  "Not sure. Go check."

  I think I will.

  Over the last four months, Brian and I have worked on several articles together: the new stoplight off Valley Road, the Flower Carnival, and the town hall meeting. I haven’t actually written anything on my own, but it’s fine. Everyone has to start somewhere, and I’ll start anywhere Brian is. Sure we haven’t moved our relationship past the boss/employee stage. He did tell me that I looked nice yesterday, and last week we even had a non-work related conversation about cake: he likes carrot with cream cheese frosting. I know that’s not exactly a toe-curling exchange, but I can feel a shift in our relationship. His feelings may not be as strong as mine are, but they’re there. I know it. We’re just going to be one of those couples who baby-step their way to love. Which is fine by me. I can wait. Plus it’s a lot easier now that I don’t have a spirit following me around, vying for my attention.

  I pop a mint into my mouth and smooth out my hair. I'm wearing jeans, a pink blouse, and my new Vans from Willie. I don't want to deviate from my personal style, but now that I've entered the workforce, I can see how my closet could use a little updating.

  Apparently shoulder pads aren't in.

  Who knew?

  I knock on Brian's door and don't wait for an answer before I let myself in and …

  Ahhh!

  I screw my fists into my eye sockets, trying to erase the image.

  Brian is kissing a tall brunette with choppy hair. Her right butt cheek is propped up on the desk, and her right leg is wrapped around Brian's waist. It's like a car accident. I can't look away, but the visual makes me want to barf. No. No. No. No. No!

  I slam the door shut and retreat back to my desk, feeling a shiver down my spine. My breath huffs out in a cloud, and my fingertips go numb. I sink into my chair and look up.

  Behind Beth is a girl about my age with a gaping abdomen wound. She looks around the room in a panic. We lock eyes, and she flickers in and out. "What happened?" she asks in horror. "Where am I? What happened?"

  Oh, geez.

  Here we go again.

  The Medium Place Book #2 Preview

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don't panic, Zoe. You can do this. No sudden movements. No staring. No talking. But really, most importantly, don't panic!

  Okay, I'm feeling a little panicky.

  My stomach is doing that roller coaster-lurchy thing, and my fingertips are numb. Standing in front of me is a young woman in black yoga pants, a gray tank top, with an abdomen wound.

  Also, she’s dead.

  Last time a spirit appeared at The Gazette, he was a fit, thirty-something-year-old man in a dapper suit and shiny shoes. This woman looks like she walked straight off the set of a horror movie: her dark hair teased with twigs and leaves sticking out, a cut under her right eye, and mud smeared on her forehead.

  Frankly, she's freaking me out.

  "I heard Ira brought donuts," Beth says without taking her eyes off the computer. She's putting the finishing touches on her latest article—a recap of Fernn Valley's softball game last night against Trucker. "Do you want one?" She clicks save and smiles up at me, completely unaware of what's happening directly behind her.

  "I'll take a glazed if there's any left," I manage to say. "Thank you."

  "Not a problem. I'll be right back." Beth takes off her glasses and places them on the desk. I watch as she stands and adjusts her pants, tucks in the back of her shirt, runs a hand through her short hair, scratches her nose, and … holy crap. You're going to the break room not going to meet the Queen. Hurry up!

  I drum my fingers on my desk, waiting with a patient smile plastered across my face. Finally (hallelujah!) Beth deems herself break-room ready, pushes her chair in, turns around, and walks right past the spirit.

  Okay. Play it cool, Zoe.

  I retri
eve my cell phone from my briefcase. Word of donuts in the break room travels fast, and the newsroom is empty—thank goodness. I flip open my phone and place it to my ear, giving the illusion that I'm taking a call and not talking to myself—one of the many tricks of the trade. "I'm Zoe," I say as I approach the woman slowly. "What's your name?"

  She frantically surveys the room with quivering hands. “It's … Penelope. Wh-wh-what happened?" She looks down at her stomach. "I'm hurt!"

  "You're going to be just fine," I say as convincingly as I can. Truth is, I have no idea what’s happening.

  "I don't remember anything." Her breath quickens. "Why am I at The Fernn Valley Gazette? How'd I get here? Why am I here?"

  "Penelope, I know it's hard. But try to keep calm." I inch closer, the phone still at my ear.

  Beth returns. "Bad news. Mike took the last glazed. I brought you an old-fashioned." She walks through Penelope and slides a paper plate with my donut across the desk. "Did you hear about the Chief's visitor?" She licks frosting off her fingertips. "Everyone in the break room says she came down for the three-day weekend to—oh, shoot." She covers her mouth. "I didn't realize you were on the phone. Sorry."

  “It’s fine.” I snap my cell shut and smile, which is really hard to do because Penelope has faded to a pale, translucent state. I'm new to this whole medium gig, and my experience is limited, but I've never seen a sprit do that before.

  The lights around the room flicker on and off several times. Everyone lets out a collective "ah, man!" as they come in from the break room to find black computer screens.

  "That was weird.” Mike walks over with a paper plate stacked with not one but three glazed donuts.

  Thanks, Mike.

  "Must have been an outage, I guess," says Irwin from the corner. "Good thing I saved my story."

  Oh, geez, now everyone is back at their desks, rebooting their computers. I need them all to leave again so I can get Penelope out of here. If only there were more donuts. In my four months of employment, I've come to learn that nothing clears the workroom faster than food. It doesn't even matter what kind. Chris from accounting brought in apricots from his tree last week, and it was like the freaking Hunger Games around here.

  Speaking of death, Penelope is putting two and two together. "Am I dead?" She spins around in a complete circle and holds up her hands, studying them as if she's never seen them before. "I-I can’t be dead. Is this a dream? It’s a dream, right? Yeah, this is totally a dream."

  I wish.

  “So, Zoe.” Mike leans against my desk, still holding his donut tower on a small paper plate. “You missed an epic game last night. We were down by two in the seventh inning when Ira crushed the ball into center field. Dude brought in three runs.”

  “Cool,” I say, not quite paying attention. Mike has barely uttered more than one word to me since I started working here. I’m not sure why he chooses now of all times to be friendly. Maybe he feels guilty for being a donut hog.

  “Is that Meathead Mike?” Penelope presses her nose up to his face. “It is! He works here?”

  If Meathead Mike is Mike Handhoff, then yes, he does.

  Here’s what I know about Mike: I’m not positive what his job title is, but he always looks busy; he’s in his early to mid twenties; he has a dark-coiffed mane and broad shoulders; he mostly wears white shirts; and he uses “dude” as a noun, verb, and adjective.

  Also, he’s still talking. “So what do you think?”

  “Um … huh?”

  “About the game. Epic right? Dude, we celebrated so hard afterwards I could barely get out of bed this morning.”

  “The game?” I try to keep my face stoic, which is hard to do considering there’s a spirit circling him.

  “Now I know I’m dreaming, because Mike is looking good,” Penelope says, nodding her head in appreciation.

  “Zoe? You okay?” Mike asks with his mouth full.

  Nope.

  "I think … um … I think that I need to use the restroom." I jerk my head, hoping Penelope will follow me.

  No such luck. She disappears and reappears in the parking lot. I watch her panicking outside the window. Good grief.

  “I, um … okay, now I need to make a private phone call." I slap my phone to my ear and hurry outside, around to the back of the building, where Penelope is holding her stomach.

  "This is the worst dream I’ve ever had!"

  “Penelope, this isn’t a dream …” I search for a way to tactfully tell her she has died. “The thing is … well, you’re dead.”

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t tactful.

  Penelope’s face blanches. It almost looks like she’s going to pass out. Then, as if making some sort of inner resolution, she peers up and narrows her eyes. “If I’m dead then why am I bleeding, huh?”

  "I don't know. But I have a feeling if you calm down you’ll get better." A total guess, but it makes sense.

  "Calm down. You want me to calm down? You’re telling me I'm freaking dead!" She runs her hands down her face. "I go to church. I pray every night!" She paces the length of the walkway, hands wringing. "I've dedicated my life to religion, and when I die I'm sent to The Gazette! Oh, no." She covers her mouth. "Is this hell?"

  "What? No!" Geez. The paper isn't that bad. "You're not in heaven, and you're not in hell. You're here because there is business you need to tend to before you can transition to the next phase. I'm going to help you."

  "I-I'm only twenty-one years old. Of course I have a lot of business left to do on earth! Like … living!"

  "Well, first things first. Let's get out of here because um …" I turn around. Everyone inside is gawking at me through the window.

  Great.

  "Wait right here," I say, my cell still at my ear. "I'll be back."

  I clap my phone shut and rush inside, feeling a bit unsettled. There’s a hushed silence as soon as I enter the workroom, and everyone puts their heads down, pretending to be engrossed in their work.

  Well, everyone but Ira, who follows me to my desk. "Who were you talking to?"

  "There's um … an emergency at home.” I grab my briefcase and go to turn off my computer then remember that I never turned it on. “My dad is … sick."

  "Really?" Beth rolls her chair over. "I just spoke to him. We have an offer on my house. I'm meeting your parents after work to sign the papers."

  Well, shoot. "Um, it's recent … food poisoning. Yeah, it’s food poisoning. Came on suddenly, and he’s super sick."

  Beth's dark eyes grow in diameter. "When I spoke to him he was at Butter Bakery. He must have gotten food poisoning from there."

  "Butter!" echoes several voices.

  "Where'd you get the donuts, Ira?" someone else asks.

  "I bought them from Butter this morning," squeaks Ira, a young guy with birdlike features and curly hair. He's over obituaries and "The Squirrel of the Week" article. When you live in a town of fewer than 800 people, you have to get creative with the news.

  Side note: it used to be squirrel of the month, but I suggested it be weekly—because I'm innovative like that.

  Beth inspects her donut. "I thought they were day-old."

  "Dude, my stomach feels weird." Mike dumps his plate into the trash.

  "I feel fine." Beth tears off a chunk of deep-fried dough and pops it into her mouth.

  Everyone else quickly discards donuts into the trash.

  "We should run a story about this," says someone.

  "I think I'm going to be sick," says someone else.

  "Should we call the health department?"

  "I'm going to vomit!"

  "I swear the donuts are fresh," Ira says in a panic. "I-I bought them this morning."

  Oh, for heaven sakes.

  This is precisely why you don't lie.

  The Chief's door opens and out walks a slender woman with a brown choppy haircut and legs for days. Everyone watches as she glides across the floor and out into the lobby.

  Beth leans over and whispe
rs, “I heard that’s his girlfriend. She lives in Portland. According to Mike, their relationship was getting rocky, and she came to win him back."

  "Yeah, I think it worked." Right before Penelope arrived, I'd walked in on Brian—the editor-in-chief, and the slender, choppy-haired girl making out. Which wouldn't have been a big deal if I weren't totally and completely head-over-heels-I-want-to-have-your-babies in love with Brian Windsor.

  Not that he's completely aware of my feelings.

  Brian steps out of his office and adjusts the bottom of his shirt. He's a little older than I am, has black-rimmed glasses, gray eyes, dark hair, freckles across his nose, and he smiles without showing his teeth. Also, he's gorgeous. "Can I speak with you?” he asks me.

  Penelope is still outside the window, holding her stomach, and she appears to be counting.

  "Err, I don't have time. I need to go home."

  "Me too," says Mike, stifling a burp. "Food poisoning. Don't eat the donuts in the break room." He rushes to the bathroom.

  Geez. The power of suggestion is … well, powerful.

  "I'm not feeling so good either, Chief," Beth says. "I should probably go home." She grabs her purse and winks at me as she passes by.

  Gah! I need to call Dad and tell him he has food poisoning.

  "Are you sick, too?" Brian asks me.

  Um … "Yes. I. Am. Very. Sick. Gotta. Go."

  Penelope appears in front of Brian, and the lights flicker again. "I can't wait anymore!"

  "Zoe? Are you okay?" Brian steps forward with his arm extended. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  He has no idea.

  "Zoe?" Brian tries again. "Zoe?" He waves his hand in front of my face.

  I look from Penelope to Brian and back again.

  "Is this about Vanessa?" he asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

  Vanessa?

  His girlfriend's name is Va-ness-a?

  Really?

  In most every romance novel I've ever read (and I've read a lot), the other woman's name is always Vanessa. Granted, in this case, Vanessa is not technically the other woman since she's the girlfriend. I guess I'm the other woman, except we’ve had almost zero physical contact.