Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  As for the girl: she looked exactly like a Kimberly. She had fair skin, straight blonde hair and long legs set off by an emerald shirtwaist dress of silk.

  But Emily had been expecting a gypsy, someone with dark hair and eyes and called Allana or Sabrina. "I look more like a medium than she does," she managed in an aside to the senator as they approached the girl for introductions. She stole a sideways glance at her companion and saw him frown. It occurred to her for the first time that she could push the skeptic thing too far with this man.

  Kimberly turned out to be as sweet as her name. She was remarkably attractive. She wore not a trace of makeup, only some pale lip-liner. Her porcelain skin and pale green eyes gave the impression of openness and naiveté, and nothing in her brief exchange with Emily changed that impression.

  "What a pretty necklace," said Kimberly, singling out the pinkish crystal that Emily wore. Her hand reached out, as Emily's had so often in the past week, to stroke the crystal.

  "Thank you," Emily said. "I bought it on a whim. I shouldn't have. I'm not at all the type for it, but you know how it is: you're feeling like you just ought to get something, and --" Emily felt a slight pressure from the senator's elbow and stopped mid-babble. What was she doing? No one in the room wanted to hear about her shopping spree.

  Except maybe Kimberly. "Oh, I know what you mean," she said in her gentle, childlike voice. "Sometimes I do that and I get home and I wonder what I was thinking of. Once I bought a live parrot --"

  "Kimberly -- should we begin, dear, do you think?" It was Mrs. Lividus, moving things along with a brusque but not unkindly push.

  "Oh, okay, Aunt Lois. Should I sit in the big chair again?"

  "Why don't you, dear."

  The girl nestled into an overstuffed armchair that had its back to an enormous brick fireplace. Emily and the senator sat side by side on a painfully hard horsehair sofa opposite. Mrs. Lividus stood behind them for the moment, while the two others sat on each side of Kimberly in oak spindle chairs. There was no table to rap, no trumpet to speak through. The professor from Harvard produced a writing tablet, the publisher a yellow pad. Emily jerked her head around to the senator, hoping for permission also to take notes, but he frowned again and shook his head imperceptibly.

  Disappointed, Emily turned her attention back to the girl. She had no idea what to expect. The senator had said that Kimberly was a trance medium---that disembodied voices might speak through a spirit "control" that took possession of her. Assuming the poltergeist felt like talking, would he speak through Kimberly directly, Emily mused, or did he have to speak through a control?

  Probably there's a certain protocol, she thought wryly.

  Kimberly laid her head back into the dark green armchair and became quiet. She let her half-closed eyes fall on Emily's rose crystal and murmured, "Pretty." Then her eyelids fluttered shut. Mrs. Lividus dimmed the lights, which put Emily instantly on the alert. Kimberly began to yawn repeatedly. Soon after, her body fell into a slump. Her breathing became heavy and even; she seemed to be asleep. Emily had an impression, nothing more, that a trickle of tears flowed down the girl's pale cheek.

  The lights dimmed even more. Emily strained to see. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the darker room, the lights were turned down yet again, forcing her to adjust again. It was distracting--and worse, disorienting. She felt drugged, but she'd taken no refreshment there. She tried to focus on something, anything--the paisley pattern of the oriental carpet. But it was no use; the paisley spiraled madly beneath her, a Persian maelstrom pulling her down, down into its depths.

  What saved her at last was a sound she knew well: the scratching of pencils on tablets. Yes, yes, notes! They were taking notes! Two men--educated men, rational men -- were taking notes! They were watching a girl take a nap and calmly recording their observations. She clung to the sound of the pencils as a drowning sailor would to a floating log, miserably grateful for its existence.

  And then the pencil scratching suddenly stopped, as a low moan came from the girl, followed by a voice -- a shockingly male and angry voice -- that said, "I'll damn well go where I please and do what I damn well want!"

  There was a pause, and then the man's voice again, now melancholy: "Merciful God ... I cannot stand it any more." And then a cry -- a piercing, blood-curdling cry that ripped through the hushed and darkened parlor. Kimberly shuddered and awoke.

  Immediately Mrs. Lividus turned up the lights and went to her niece. Pressing her cheek to the dazed and tear-stained face of the girl, she murmured reassurances. The New Age publisher let out his breath in a rush, as if he'd been holding it all night. The Harvard professor nodded quietly to himself and resumed his note-taking. The senator was leaning forward with furrowed brows and his elbows resting on his knees, the fingers of his hands tented together, forefingers pressed against his lips, as he studied Kimberly in the arms of her aunt.

  And Emily? She saw everything in incredible detail. She missed none of it, from Aunt Lois's apparent distress at her niece's pain, to the chip on the Majolica plate that stood on the mantle behind them. It gave her mind something to do while her body remained frozen In place on the horsehair sofa. The temperature in the parlor seemed to have fallen thirty degrees; she had goose bumps on her arms.

  I don't like this, she thought. This is sick and unkind, to the girl if nothing else. She's obviously deeply disturbed.

  Mrs. Lividus had whipped out an enormous hanky and was handing it to the girl to blow her nose. She placed her substantial bulk between her niece and the audience, and that broke the spell for Emily. She turned her attention back to the senator, who seemed still entranced, and wondered: Why does he bother with this stuff? He's not old; he's not suffering from terminal disease. He doesn't lead a dull and hopeless life. He continued to amaze her. Here was a man with looks, brains, charm, money and power, who still needed to believe that after death we'd all truck merrily along in some slightly altered astral form.

  The senator turned just then and gave her an ironic and utterly charming smile. Her heart fell down to the floor and when she picked it up again, she thought it might be broken. She listened for the beat. Ta-thump ta-thump ta-thump. Nope. Everything was still okay. But the incident gave her a fresh new slant: of course he'd want himself to go on; how could he bear to see himself end?

  The senator locked his fingers and thrust them outward in a quick stretch. He stood up and turned to Emily. "I've seen enough. Have you?"

  Buy Emily's Ghost or turn the page to read Chapter 4.

  Emily's Ghost Sample Chapter 4

  Emily glanced back at the small group. Kimberly was pretty much out of her trance; the men were packing up their things. The séance was over.

  "Will there be tea and cookies?" she asked the senator with an innocent smile. She wasn't about to let him know that she'd been shaken by the event.

  His grimace was reasonably good-humored. "Don't be a snot. C'mon. Let's say good-night to our hostess." He took Emily by the arm -- she was very aware that it was the first time he'd ever touched her -- and guided her towards Mrs. Lividus.

  The girl's aunt was upset, or acting that way. Her brow was furrowed and she seemed distracted. "Oh, yes, Senator, hmmn, well, it was good of you to come," she said, almost mumbling the words. "I -- could I see you for just one moment, Senator?" she added in an earnest voice.

  The senator acquiesced and she took him aside, where the two spoke in quiet undertones. Emily was left to create small-talk with Kimberly. What could you say to someone who'd just been taken over by a demon, inner or outer? "At least it wasn't for long"?

  The Harvard professor and the New Age publisher were making no attempt at all to join them. Maybe they were all going out afterward to a late supper. Maybe they were Kimberly's handlers or agents or whatever. Maybe they were afraid of the girl; Emily was.

  So she treaded water while she waited for the senator. Afterward she remembered saying inane things like: "I hope this wasn't too much of an imposition." And: "Hav
e you been doing this for very long?" And worst of all: "I had a really interesting time."

  To everything that Emily said, Kimberly just shook her head in sad silence. At the end she fixed her pale, tear-stained eyes on Emily and said only, "I'm sorry."

  Puzzled and flat out of chit-chat, Emily decided to wait in silence for the senator. She saw him put his hand on Mrs. Lividus's shoulder and saw the elderly woman impulsively take his other hand in both of hers, clinging to it and murmuring emotional good-byes.

  Yep. The man had her vote. And probably a campaign contribution as well. These guys ran for office from one end of the year to the other. She wondered if there was a Political Action Committee for Psychics, and whether he'd ever taken an honorarium from them for a speech. An interesting angle for a story.

  Mrs. Lividus let the two of them out with a warm smile and a friendly good-bye, and despite everything, Emily found herself liking the woman. She said so to the senator as he walked her in near darkness to her Corolla.

  "Lois Lividus isn't actually Kimberly's aunt," he explained, "but a second or third cousin by marriage. She's Hungarian, and in her village she was considered to be something of a psychic healer. She was the first to recognize Kimberly's so-called abilities. When she came back East from her visit with Kimberly's family in California, the girl came with her."

  "Kimberly's parents didn't mind?" asked Emily, incredulous.

  "They minded," the senator answered cryptically. "Watch your step here," he warned.

  Almost as soon as he said it Emily tripped on a rock and fell forward. The senator grabbed her and kept her from going head over heels; she ended up more or less in his arms. Emily had considered a dozen different endings to the séance, but she hadn't considered this one. She felt herself blushing furiously -- both because of her clumsiness and his nearness -- but in the light of the two-watt bulb that bleared over the entry door it was impossible to read the senator's face.

  "All in one piece?" he asked in a whisper that she thought was more polite than husky.

  "Sure. Sorry. Dumb." So. I no longer can form sentences. This was interesting. Was it Kimberly who'd addled her brain, or the rock?

  He released her. She hated herself for feeling disappointment when he did. "Now comes the real trickery-- getting out of here," she quipped, mostly for something to say.

  "Just fall in behind me; I've done battle with this driveway before. And, look--can we have coffee somewhere? You're looking shaky on your pins, and you've got a long ride home. An evening like this can be a little unsettling."

  "In every way," she admitted, and then instantly regretted it.

  "Yes. Well." The silence, like the darkness, loomed between them. "There's a coffee shop not far from here," he said at last in a softer, lower voice. "Will you follow me to it?"

  "Thanks," she answered in a voice as soft, as low. "I will."

  Emily got in the Corolla and bumped and bounced her way out the drive behind the senator's BMW, all the while thinking, What just went on here? Anything? Yes. No. Or maybe; it was the kind of night where anything was possible. She had to smile: in sixty minutes she'd gone from fearing being abducted into a cult to wondering if one of the most eligible single men in America was coming on to her.

  "In your dreams, girl," she said aloud, with a laugh. She was letting herself get tangled in the house's cobwebs. By the time the senator pulled his car onto the dirt-and-gravel parking lot of the Time Out Café, she'd vowed ten times over to resist the man's spell and come down hard. She owed it to the taxpayer.

  The Time Out was one of those little diners with vinyl tablecloths and polyester lace that always seem to be located next to a John Deere dealer. It was clean, cozy, and empty. With less than an hour to go before closing, the owner was refilling the ketchup bottles and packing Sweet 'N Lows into the pressed-glass sugarbowls that were standard issue at every table. They took the table farthest from the counter, which wasn't very far, and the senator held up two fingers. The owner nodded and brought them two coffees. Emily wondered whether the senator had been there before.

  "Well, what did you think?" the senator asked as soon as they were left alone. "Self-hypnosis? Delusion? Hallucination?"

  "Mine or hers?" asked Emily, peeling away the top of a creamer packet.

  He looked impressed that she'd done her homework. "Touché," he said with a smile. "But no, I don't think I'd ever consider you the type to have a fantasy-prone personality."

  "You probably don't mean that as a compliment," she countered with an even look.

  "I do and I don't. I was hoping you'd walk in to the séance with a really open mind--"

  "I did!"

  "Do you think so? I watched you as we went through the house. You were like a kid at a carnival. Nothing would've pleased you more than to have had a table levitate. You'd have been all over it, looking for cables."

  "I consider myself a reasonable skeptic," she replied with dignity.

  He sighed. "I suppose it's a sign of the times," he added, sitting back in his chair. "A hundred years ago people would've run from a haunted house. Now everybody wants to spend the night."

  "Blame it on Stephen King," she answered, laughing. "He's made fans of us all." She was liking the senator a lot just now. For a believer, he was awfully tolerant of her mocking ways.

  She was liking the senator for another reason as well: he was looking at her over the rim of his coffee cup with eyes so crystal-blue that it made her ache to have to look away. But she couldn't just gawk at him like some political groupie. So she looked away.

  "I have another possible explanation of the girl's behavior for you," she said, making a process of adding a sixteenth of a teaspoon more cream to her coffee. "Couldn't she have been telepathizing what was going on in one of the men's minds, yours or the others? Couldn't one of you -- say it was you -- have felt stuck at the seance and been in a hurry and been thinking the things that Kimberly then picked up and said, in that ... that voice?"

  "You believe in telepathy?" the senator asked, surprised.

  She shrugged. "A limited form of it, sure. One of my brothers always knew exactly when I was mad, and why. Another one of them never had a clue. The others fell somewhere in between. It's my opinion that telepathy is all a matter of degree."

  "How many brothers do you have?"

  "Four. All registered to vote in New Hampshire, so don't be getting any ideas." Despite herself, she favored him with her most winning smile. He was so hard not to favor.

  "Do I dare ask how many sisters you have?"

  "Zip," she said, careful to keep it just as light. "My mother and I used to have to huddle together a lot."

  "But you don't any more?" He guessed the answer even as he tried to stop the question.

  "Can't. She's not around any more." Emily sounded cold-hearted and flippant -- anything but how she felt, which was devastated, even now, two years after her mother's death. Her mother was her best friend and ally in the world, and her mother was no more. If ever there were a reason for believing in ghosts, it would be Agnes Bowditch.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It was stupid of me to press."

  "Oh, that's all right," she answered in her breezy way, trying to cover her hurt. "I'm not going to vote for you for completely other reasons."

  He winced at that. The best defense was a good offense, she told herself; but it brought her no comfort.

  There was a very awkward lull; she took it as her responsibility to fill it. "I saw a mildly telepathic girl sitting in a chair tonight," she said. "What did you see?"

  He made a funny here-goes-nothing face which she kind of liked, and began in a roundabout way to explain why he was a flake.

  "You have to understand that the nature of channeling has been very consistent across all cultures through all of recorded history. And you have to accept that there is a strong desire in all of us for the irrational to triumph."

  "I'm not sure about all of us," she felt obliged to argue.

  "Tru
st me," he said. "Even you. In the broadest sense, channeling involves any form of focusing creative energy. Artists channel. Poets channel. Physicists channel. Rocket Scientists channel."

  "And California Dreamers named Kimberly channel." Emily was losing interest in the discussion. She hated vague, mystical talk. Who, what, why, where, when --that's what she was after. Facts. That's what she'd been taught in journalism school.

  "Okay, so my plumber channels. Senator, why did you go there tonight? Why do you care about this channeler or any other channeler?"

  He pushed his chair back from the table, balancing it on its hind legs. Emily knew a thing or two about body language, and she didn't care for the distance he was suddenly putting between them. He's not going to tell me a damned thing about himself, she thought, disheartened.

  "You want a story," he said at last. "Okay. Here's a story." He looked away, staring over the café curtains into the night beyond.

  "Once upon a time there was a young couple very much in love, and with everything to live for. He was a rising force in politics. She was a beautiful and accomplished pianist. No one thought the marriage would last, and yet for ten short years the two were incredibly happy. They lacked only one thing, a child, and in the tenth year the woman became pregnant. Now they lacked nothing."

  "But in the tenth year as well, something in the heavens fell out of alignment," he said in a baffled, wondering voice. "The man came down with a stupid, unnecessary attack of appendicitis. He was rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. It was no big deal. But the wife didn't believe that. All she knew was that she had to be at her husband's side. So she cancelled a concert appearance in Denver and on her way to the airport, she was killed in a car accident." He continued to stare out the café window. "She was so fiercely determined to come," he said softly.

  Emily had seen the facts of his life on microfiche, but they had not torn her heart the way he had just now. "I'm so sorry, Senator--"