The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  “I’m not sure …”

  Mrs. Batch taps my knee. “I’ll wait. You do your thing.”

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  Mrs. Batch wants me to talk to the dead for her. Mrs. Batch, the mayor’s wife. Mrs. Batch who plays Mrs. Claus in the parade every year. Mrs. Batch who looks a lot like Mary, the See’s Candies lady.

  I’ve never summoned a spirit who has already transitioned, and I’m not exactly sure how that works. But Mrs. Batch is looking at me with hope written all over her face, and I don’t want to let her down. I’ve read about this in Reaching the Other Side, and I close my eyes and envision a door. There’s light around the door. Light so bright it almost hurts. “Peter,” I whisper. The door opens, and I feel the presence of a male spirit, but I don’t see anyone. It’s like the spirit who has been visiting me off and on over the last two days.

  “Peter is here,” I say. “He says, ‘Hey, there.’”

  “That’s wonderful! Now tell him that I found out about Susie Crimson and Dianna Waldron. He’s the devil, and I’ve never forgiven him.”

  “Um … okay.” Err … I concentrate on what Peter has to say to this. “You couldn’t have thought you were the only girl waiting for me. I needed options when I got home.” Wow, Peter is a jerk.

  “I knew it. I’ve waited almost forty years to tell you this—you are a pig!”

  A group of people walking by the pond gives us sideways glances.

  Great.

  “Er … um … maybe we keep our voices down,” I say.

  Mrs. Batch leans in so our shoulders touch. “You are a pig.” She smells like peppermint and spits when she whispers.

  Peter hears this and says, “At least I don’t look like … wow.” I clap my hand over my mouth. Not cool, Peter. Not cool.

  “What did he say?” she asks.

  “Nothing worth repeating.” I grab my purse. “Anything else?”

  “Hitler.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to speak to Hitler and give him a piece of my mind.” She rolls up the sleeves of her sweater and looks at me expectantly.

  Oh, geez.

  “Sorry.” I stand up. “How about you … um … make a list, and we’ll get together to discuss.”

  “What about Mussolini?” she hollers after me as I walk away.

  Evil dictators are where I have to draw the line … sure feels like I’ve been drawing a lot of lines lately. I should probably write these down. Just so I don’t draw the same line twice. You know, for efficiency sake.

  I stop at the crosswalk and wait for the cars to go by. Without meaning to, I exhale a massive sigh. There’s a gnawing pain in my stomach, just under my ribs. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m hungry or because I just admitted to Mrs. Batch that I’m a medium.

  I shouldn’t have contacted her fiancé. While I was up last night, dreaming of my medium sidekick, I came up with a script of what I should say if someone were to ask about Sheriff Vance’s comment yesterday.

  Concerned Citizen: Do you see dead people?

  Me: No.

  Obviously, I have a hard time sticking to the script. Dictators and cheating fiancés aside, my interaction with Mrs. Batch wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe Penelope was right—I shouldn’t hide my gift from anyone. But then I think about Sheriff Vance. The look on his face, the anger he felt, the brown-eyed child in his thoughts. Sure, Penelope was found, Ira confessed, she’s going to live, and I’m not going to jail, but this feels far from a happily ever after.

  Or maybe the gnawing stomach pain is from a bad Twinkie?

  Probably not, but it’s good for the soul to be optimistic once in a while.

  “Pssst. Zoe?” a male voice in my ear causes me to jump. I swivel around. It’s Mike. He has on dark glasses and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his hair and cinched tight. If he’s going for incognito then he’s missed the mark. This is Fernn Valley—everyone knows everyone, even when they’re wearing a sweatshirt and glasses.

  Also, his sweatshirt says Fernn Valley Softball Team #2 Handhoff.

  “What’s wrong, Mike?”

  He jerks his head for me to follow and walks away. I really don’t have the time, nor do I have the energy to deal with him. But I suppose I do owe him an apology for accusing him of attempted murder.

  And for spitting in his face.

  Mike checks over his shoulders then ducks into the alleyway between the dry cleaner and the pharmacy. His bizarre behavior has me on edge. I look around just to be sure no one is fast approaching with pitchforks and flaming torches.

  Coast is clear.

  At least, it appears to be. “What I can do for you, Mike?” I ask as I step into the alleyway.

  There’s a deep V-shaped frown between his eyebrows. “Dude, how’d you know it was Ira?”

  “No,” I say, sticking to the script.

  Mike screws up his face into a big question mark. “No what?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  We do this for a while.

  “No …” He makes circles with his hand, urging me to finish my thought, and I give up. We can’t do this forever, and I got places to be, people to see, naps to take.

  “I had a hunch, that’s all,” I finally say.

  “You had a hunch it was Ira? Then why did you accuse me of hurting Penelope?”

  Good question. I blow out a breath and let my shoulders sag. “I assumed you had something to do with it.”

  “The truth is, you assumed right,” Mike says, and my stomach does that roller coaster lurchy thing. Mike just admitted he helped with Penelope’s attack, and, yet, I’m standing with him in an alleyway. This feels like a very bad idea.

  “Thanks … um … for letting me know,” I say, backing up. “I’ll just be … um … be on my way.”

  “Don’t go. Let me explain.”

  “No.” I turn to leave, and Mike jumps in my path to block me in. Panicked, I open my mouth, about to scream when he presses his fingers to my lips.

  “I didn’t attack Penelope,” his voice is fast and determined. “But I did know about the Instagram account, and I knew about Tag, and I knew Ira had been catfishing someone on DM. But I didn’t know it was Penelope.” He drops his finger and shoves his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I told him he should go for it last night, but I had no idea it would end this way.”

  Didn’t see that one coming.

  “Dude, we were so wasted,” Mike continues. “Ira was going on and on about this girl on Instagram. He said he was going to meet her and come clean, but he didn’t think she’d forgive him. The thing is, Ira is a little intense.”

  “A little intense? The man hurt Penelope with a … do you know what he hurt her with?”

  “Pocket knife,” he says, and we both cringe. “He asked me if he should go to her house, and I said he should. But I give terrible advice when I’m drunk.”

  There’s an understatement. “What you’re saying is that he didn’t plan on killing Penelope.”

  Mike shakes his head. “He was drunk and feeling overconfident and received some awful advice from an equally drunk friend. He went to Penelope’s apartment in Trucker since that’s where we were. She wasn’t there, so he drove to her parents’ house, snuck in her window to confess his feelings. Penelope freaked out—as anyone would—and called him some pretty terrible names. Dude snapped and pulled out his pocketknife.” He turns his attention to the ground. “That’s when he called me.”

  I take a step back. “What did you say?”

  “He asked me to pick him up from the train station around five o’clock, but I was still faded and told him no. He ended up walking home, stopping to grab donuts for the office on the way.”

  The pieces of the puzzle are finally coming together. “What time did he call?”

  “Dude called me at four. Based on what I’ve heard, by that time he’d already dragged an almost lifeless P
enelope through his yard and put her in his shed. Then he went and cleaned up her room, grabbed her stuff from Trucker, and went to buy the train ticket. I don’t know what he was thinking, but my guess was he was desperate because he thought he’d killed her. And he figured he could make it look like she ran off.”

  Aha! Seems I was right about it all—except who the actual perp was. I had that wrong. Which I suppose is the most important part. But in my defense, I’m still new to this.

  “If you see Penelope, can you tell her I’m sorry,” Mike says.

  I want to tell him not to be so hard on himself. I want to tell him it’s not his fault. I want to tell him he did nothing wrong. But the truth is, he knew about the catfishing and said nothing. And saying something—in this situation—would have changed everything.

  “I’ll tell her,” I say. “And what’s with the getup? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

  “No, not at all.” He pushes his hood back. “I still haven’t recovered from the food poisoning.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Those donuts were perfectly fine. The food poisoning is all up here.” I pat his head.

  “But I got sick.”

  “Probably a night of drinking mixed with deep fried dough.”

  “Oh ... ”

  We both force a chuckle, which is followed by an awkward pause. “Well …” I say.

  Mike nods. “I’ll let you go ...”

  “Um … sure.” I step to the side just as Mike does. He moves left just as I move left. Then I move right just as he moves right. We do this awkward dance for a while until he places his hands firmly on my hips to keep me in place and steps out of the way.

  I feel my cheeks turn red, and I’m not sure why. “Thanks,” I say, heading toward the sidewalk. Wait a second. One more question. “Mike? Why did you email me?”

  “Because I didn’t have your phone number.”

  “I know but why?”

  He shrugs. “To see how you were doing.”

  Oh. I feel a bit flattered. Except, “Did you look on my computer?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I saw Ira looking before I went home yesterday.” He gives an apologetic smile.

  He saw Ira looking at my computer and again said nothing! He’s unbelievable. Honestly!

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry about that,” he says, as if addressing my internal frustration. “I’ll work on being more vocal. See you later, Zoe Lane.” He strides out of the alleyway, and I watch him go, feeling all jittery. Mostly because my stomach is fluttering around like I swallowed a swarm of butterflies, and I don’t want to have fluttery feelings Mike Handhoff. First off, he knew about Ira and said nothing. Second, he isn’t Brian. And third, he wears his pants too tight.

  Also, he took the last glazed donut.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The atmosphere of Penelope’s room at Trucker Hospital is somber. The blinds are drawn, and Mr. Muffin is lying back in a recliner with his straw hat over his face, snoring. Mrs. Muffin is crocheting a scarf—a really long scarf. Her fingers move feverishly through the motions, loop and pull, loop and pull, loop and pull.

  Then there’s Penelope. She’s in bed with the blanket tucked under her arms, an oxygen cannula in her nose (I’ve read the entire Hot Doctors series—so I’m well versed in medical lingo), and machines beeping all around her. She turns her head slightly at the sound of my footsteps. Her face is void of recognition, and my heart sinks a little.

  Mrs. Muffin looks up startled and uses the railing of Penelope’s bed to stand. “This isn’t a great time, dear.” She says as she limps over. “She’s sleeping.”

  “No, I’m not,” Penelope says, her voice hoarse. “She can stay.”

  Mrs. Muffin hesitates then gives a slight nod of her head and limps back to her chair and the ten-foot-long scarf.

  “Can you get me purple Jell-O?” Penelope asks as soon as Mrs. Muffin’s butt lands in the chair.

  “I don’t think they have purple Jell-O here.”

  “I’ll eat if I have purple Jell-O.”

  Mrs. Muffin hesitates then uses the railing on Penelope’s bed to help herself up, again, and limps out of the room. Penelope and I are alone. Well, alone with Mr. Muffin who is deep into the REM cycle. I cross my ankles, still standing, and clasp my hands in front of me, unsure of what to say or do.

  “They don’t have purple Jell-O here,” Penelope says. “She’s been hovering, telling me to eat, but I don’t feel … ” She sucks in a breath through her nose and pushes it out of her mouth. “I feel … nauseated,” she forces the words out, and I remember—emetophobia. I looked it up last night—causes overwhelming anxiety pertaining to vomiting. The good news is—according to the internet—that it can be fixed by confronting challenging situations. I’d say being stabbed in the abdomen and undergoing hours of surgery would be considered challenging for anyone—let alone an emetophobic.

  But then again, I’m not a therapist.

  “My dad said you found me and that we’re, like, friends,” Penelope says. “I don’t get it. Are you, like, obsessed with me?”

  I suppress an eye roll. “No, actually I'm not."

  "Good, because Irky Ira was."

  "Perhaps you should lay off the nicknames."

  "Probably." She pauses to take a breath. “I had, like, the weirdest dream about you. We were in my room, and then we were in a car, and you were yelling at me.”

  I can’t suppress the eye roll this time. Of course she remembers our argument.

  “There was a car accident and a DustBuster?” Penelope looks off into the distance.

  I say nothing and let her continue.

  “There was brown and …” Her eyes meet mine. “It was so vivid.”

  “That’s because I’m a medium, and your spirit visited me.”

  “Oh, really,” Penelope says with mock astonishment. “That’s interesting.” She reaches for the nurse call button, and I grab her wrist.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” I say, reading her emotions. She’s convinced I’ve come to finish her off. “Your spirit appeared to me while you were trapped in Ira’s shed. Which is how I was able to find you.”

  Based on Penelope’s expression, she thinks I’m off my rocker.

  Maybe I am. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Penelope I’m a medium. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe I should just leave right now. But I can’t. I can’t because Penelope’s mother is here. I can feel her presence, but I can’t see her. Much like the unnamed spirit who followed me around yesterday. Much like Mrs. Batch’s unfaithful fiancé. Perhaps, if a spirit has already transitioned, they don’t appear to me in human form. They speak to me telepathically.

  This realization is equal parts remarkable and strange.

  I’m still holding Penelope’s wrist. “Your mother is here,” I say.

  Penelope’s eyes are searching and glossed over with unshed tears. She wants so badly to believe me, but the rational part of her brain is making it hard.

  “She wants you to know that she’s so proud of you. She saw your setup at the paper show today, and your work is lovely.”

  Penelope blinks, and a single tear trickles down her cheek. “H-how’d my art get there?”

  “They found your pieces in Ira’s house, and Quinn took them to Portland this morning and made sure they were displayed and ready for tomorrow …” Wow, even I didn’t know that. Way to go, Quinn.

  “Queenie … I mean Quinn, did that for me?”

  “Of course. And your mom was there, just as she is here right now.”

  “You can really see her?”

  “I can feel her. She wants you to continue to follow your passion. She wants you to be kinder to Michelle, and she wants you to stop romantic relationships with strangers on Instagram.”

  Penelope gives a reluctant nod of her head. “Anything else?”

  “Just that she loves you.”

  It’s a tender moment, until Penelope asks, “Have you ever seen the movie Ghost?”


  “I know where you’re going with this, and the answer is no.”

  “But if my mom went into your body, then I could give her one last hug.”

  It’s a sweet gesture. But Penelope’s mother doesn’t want to enter my body. Which is good, because I don’t want her to, either.

  “Your mom says you need to rest.” I let go of Penelope’s wrist, and she looks up at me with tired eyes. “Get better.”

  “I will,” she says with a yawn. “And, Zoe?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for calling you Looney Lane.”

  “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

  She smiles then closes her eyes.

  I blow out a breath and wait a few minutes, watching Penelope sleep. She’s alive, her art made it to the show, and she connected with her mother. I’d say my work here is done.

  I tiptoe out of the room, not wanting to wake Mr. Muffin or Penelope and check over my shoulder one last time. Mr. Muffin tilts up his hat and eyes me, apparently perplexed. Crud. Had he woken during Penelope's and my exchange?

  I don’t want to ask and hurry down the hall toward the elevators, slapping the call button. When the doors part, I step inside without looking first.

  “Hello, Zoe Lane.”

  Ah! I jump back in horror. Sheriff Vance is standing alone in the elevator with his fingers looped in his belt.

  Crap.

  I turn to leave, but the doors close before I can get out. I’m trapped in a six-by-six box with Sheriff Vance. I press the button for the first floor, and we ride down in deafening silence, the tension so thick it’s palpable. Goose bumps erupt down my arms and legs, and my heart is beating so loudly I swear the sheriff can hear it. When the doors part, I jump out of the elevator so fast you’d think it was on fire.

  Sheriff stays in the elevator, arms crossed, face forward. The doors slowly close, and up he goes.

  The unknown spirit returns. I can feel her standing right beside me, though I can’t see her. I slide my phone out from my back pocket and place it to my ear. “Who are you?”

  A friend.

  I walk to my car, the phone still at my ear. “Why are you here?”