Silent Echoes

by Carla Jablonski

  “Is that going to be enough?” Melanie fretted.

  “I had a snack before the library,” Lindsay said.

  “Are you sure? I’m going to make us some spaghetti; do you want some—”

  “The kid knows if she’s hungry,” the Husband interrupted, reopening the refrigerator. “Hey—what happened to all my beer?” He slammed it shut and faced Melanie. “Did you finish all my beer?”

  Melanie put her hands on her hips. “If you had come home on time, when you said you would, instead of going to KC’s—”

  Lindsay scurried to her room and shut the door before the inevitable fight began.

  Sitting at her desk, she reached for the phone to call Tanya, then stopped herself. How could she talk to Tanya? Chitchat would be impossible and asking about everyone at her old school too depressing.

  Yelling began down the hall. Lindsay didn’t wait for things to escalate; she just got up, walked into her closet, shut the door, locked it, and slid down into her now-familiar crouch.

  “Don’t be afraid,” a voice said. “Let me help you.”

  Lindsay’s mouth dropped open and her back slammed against the closet wall. The voice! It was the same voice!

  “I want to try to help you, but you must talk to me,” the voice said. “It’s all right. I’m on your side. I won’t harm you.”

  Lindsay slumped, wishing it was true, wishing there was someone she could talk to, spill it all to, someone to come and fix everything.

  “I wish someone would help me,” she murmured. “But how?”

  “By talking to me,” the voice replied.

  If only… The voice was so soothing, so calm, it drowned out the shouting and chaos outside the closet door. “You really don’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” the voice answered. “I’m here to listen.”

  Lindsay leaned against the wall of the closet and shut her eyes, letting herself give in.

  “She’s falling apart, and I don’t know what to do,” Lindsay said, the truth of her own words hitting her hard.

  “Your mother?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” Lindsay whispered. “I’ve seen her bad before, but not like this. Usually she gets it together before she goes totally out of control. But this time…”

  “Because of this new man she married?” the voice asked.

  “Because of me.” Lindsay’s voice was tight. “I went away. I’d never been away from her before. I think…I think she can’t be alone or something. I was gone for more than two months, and I guess she couldn’t hack it. So she hooked up with him.”

  “Do you…Is it your mother you’d like to reach? To talk to?” the voice asked gently. “Is that what you’d like me to try to do?”

  “You?” Lindsay snorted. “Yeah, right. That would be perfect. Get in her head and say, ‘Dump the guy’!” She laughed bitterly. “Maybe she’ll listen to you, ’cause she sure isn’t listening to me.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I have to get her away from him. I just don’t know how.”

  “If she loves him…”

  “How could she love a guy like that?” Lindsay demanded. Then she remembered the stories her mom had told her about her dad. Her mom didn’t have the best judgment when it came to guys. “I guess I’ll have to be around more. But what’s that going to mean about school? And science club? I just don’t know….” Her voice trailed off. The only way she could think of to get her mom away from Carl was to spend more time with her herself. “Does that mean I won’t be able to go away to college?”

  “I—I don’t know,” the voice replied.

  “She’s blaming the subway for why she doesn’t want to go to work. As if that were the real problem.”

  “Subway? What’s that?”

  “You don’t know what a subway is?” Lindsay asked. “The New York City subway. You know, trains, only they go underground. My mom is bugged because there are always service interruptions on the weekends. I wish she would go back to making jewelry. She’s really good at it.”

  “Your mother is a jeweler? That’s extraordinary!”

  Lindsay shut her eyes, letting some of her anger, her fear drain away and allowing the empty space to fill up with memories of the soldering iron, the twisting metal, the geometric designs she’d draw and that her mom would turn into brooches. When she was younger, most kids thought her mother was the coolest. And sometimes she even was. Lindsay began to talk, to make it real, those moments she and her mom had shared. The adventures they used to have together—at least when the drinking was under control. Maybe she could still save her mom. Maybe this was just a phase….

  “I wish we’d stayed in Brooklyn,” Lindsay said. “I liked it better there.”

  But she knew the issue wasn’t simply a matter of geography. And no matter how hard she worked the problem, she couldn’t figure out an equation that didn’t have impossible results.

  Six

  “Get off me,” Lindsay murmured, pushing at the weight crushing her. “It’s so hot.”

  She shifted and came fully awake. The shark she was wrestling in her dream was her coat, the tropical surroundings created by the hot, close space. She had fallen asleep in her closet again.

  She opened the door and crawled out. What was she thinking? She was too old to have imaginary friends, yet she’d spent the night cramped in her closet, making herself feel better by talking to some pretend person.

  Hang on. Chills rushed through her when she remembered she hadn’t been the only one talking—she had heard the voice talking back. Clearly enough to know it was a girl—probably about her age, with a southern accent and named Lucy.

  She whirled around, frozen in the center of her room, gaping at the open closet. What did it mean to hear voices? Didn’t it mean something bad—seriously bad? Either she was talking to a ghost, as in, those things that didn’t really exist, or she must be—

  No. She put the thought out of her mind and dressed for school.

  Lindsay walked briskly to school, running equations in her head, letting a + b take up all available space. She left the house so quickly she arrived long before the first bell. Her feet took her straight to the library.

  History of science or civics, she thought, standing in front of the stacks, trying to decide which aisle to pick. She smirked. How Schrödinger’s cat of me. One aisle or the other, one universe or another. She glanced at the clock. One hour. Get going.

  She moved down an aisle, running her fingers across the book spines. She slowed down en route to the history section, pausing in social sciences. Her hand hovered over a psychiatry reference book.

  She quickly turned away from the shelf full of titles like Common Signs of Mental Illness and The Schizophrenic in the Family and scurried away as if she was being chased. She turned down another aisle, momentarily disoriented despite her intimate knowledge of the Dewey decimal system.

  The religion section. Talking with Angels appeared at eye level. She slid the gold-and-blue book off the shelf, ran her hand over the faux-illuminated cover, looked at the beatific faces, the halos, and lowered herself to the floor.

  Lindsay read hungrily about people hearing the voice of God, about conversing with angels, and remembered suddenly Joan of Arc and Joan of Arcadia, Touched by an Angel, and the holiday perennial, It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Is that what’s happening to me? she wondered. Am I having a religious experience?

  She returned the book to the shelf, uncertain. The voice she had heard didn’t seem like that of an angel, more like that of a kid like her. Their conversation hadn’t been very spiritual—mostly Lindsay had vented and rambled; the voice had agreed and sympathized. Sometimes the voice asked for clarification, like when Lindsay ranted about the subway system or talked about hanging out in Central Park or the boring crap she was studying in history class.

  She knew the bell was going to ring soon. She went back to the psych section and stared at the books. Her heart pounded as she pulled out a reference book of symptoms
and found a listing for hearing voices.

  Under schizophrenia.

  Her body went cold.

  A patient may experience hallucinations, both visual and auditory. Voices may give instruction, berate the patient, control the patient’s behavior.

  Lindsay slammed the book shut.

  “Lindsay?”

  Lindsay’s head whipped around. The librarian, Ms. Winston, stood at the end of the aisle.

  “Didn’t you hear the bell ring?” Ms. Winston asked. “You need to get to homeroom or you’ll be marked absent.”

  “Right,” Lindsay said shakily. “Right.”

  After school, Lindsay returned to a blissfully empty apartment. She didn’t know where Melanie and the Husband were, but she welcomed the time alone—the quiet to try to figure things out.

  She stood in the center of her room, holding her jacket, staring at the closet. It loomed before her, threatening and huge.

  “Ridiculous.” She strode the few feet and flung open the door. Grabbing a hanger with shaky hands, she hung up her jacket. “It’s just a stupid closet.”

  “Hello? Can you hear me? I can hear you.”

  Lindsay froze, then stumbled backward out of the closet. She slammed it shut, then pushed a chair in front of it. Heart pounding, she ran into the living room and flung herself onto the sofa.

  Shaking, she forced herself to take long, deep breaths. “It didn’t happen,” she murmured. “I imagined it.”

  Pressing her hands onto her tense, tight stomach, she crossed to the phone and dialed.

  “Hey, Tanya. It’s me, Lindsay.” Her voice was almost normal, a little pinched, but the tears rolling down her face would never be suspected—the nausea was well hidden.

  “Lindsay! I’ve been meaning to call, but start-of-school stuff kinda got in the way, you know?”

  Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. “I know.” It came out as a whisper.

  “My computer fried itself, so I couldn’t even IM,” Tanya complained. “I feel so unplugged. Sorry if you’ve tried to e me.”

  “That’s okay.” Good, she had more voice now. “Listen, it’s Friday. How about I come over and we can really catch up? I bet I can get Melanie to let me spend the whole weekend.”

  Need, desperation, hope—they all collided inside her. She pressed even harder on her stomach, willing it to unclench.

  “Oh, man! I can’t this weekend,” Tanya said. “I have a debate team meet tomorrow, so I have to go to a practice tonight, and then the girls are hanging after.”

  Lindsay nodded, even though Tanya couldn’t see it, but she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Lindsay? You there?”

  Lindsay cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah.”

  “You can come to the meet if you want, but I thought I’d spare you.” Tanya laughed.

  “Nah, I’ll skip it.”

  “Lindz. Everything okay?”

  “Sure. I—”

  “Oh, hang on.” Lindsay heard noise in the background, then Tanya came back on. “Sorry, I gotta go. Gotta get to practice.”

  “Later.” Lindsay hung up quickly, then sat for a long time, just holding the phone.

  Seven

  “That color is simply beautiful on you, my dear.” Mrs. Van Wyck tugged at a ruffle on the green silk gown Lucy was modeling in the upstairs sitting room, part of her suite in the Van Wyck mansion.

  “Gorgeous,” Colonel Phillips agreed.

  Lucy gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress fit her perfectly, and the hair ornaments in the elegant coiffure designed by none other than Madame Lily sparkled in the lamplight. Finally, she thought. A wardrobe that truly suits me.

  Bridget bustled in, carrying a large bouquet of yellow roses. “For Miss Phillips,” she announced.

  “Put them with the rest,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the credenza overladen with floral tributes, testimony to her triumph.

  Astonishing how a world can change overnight. True to his word, Mr. Grasser had taken out a tasteful ad in the newspaper, describing a new sensation, the charming—and discreet—medium offering sittings in the privacy of the home of the respected society matron, Mrs. Van Wyck. He’d carefully and effectively leaked the word that Lucy had predicted the surprising outcome of the election, a rumor substantiated by Miss Carlyle, Mr. Hanover, and Mr. and Mrs. Holden. Mr. Von Clare and Gloria Buren’s arguments at fashionable dinners and cocktail parties over whether or not Lucy was a fraud intrigued the younger set and only furthered the cause.

  Lucy hadn’t been able to contact the spirit again, but she had such a good memory of their two long conversations, she was still able to provide ample and exciting material. She was a little worried about how long she’d be able to keep doing it, though.

  The first night, there were ten people—noteworthy either for their wealth or their connections, all handpicked by Mr. Grasser. These first sitters were allowed to experience the genteel southern belle’s spirit contact without charge.

  The second night, there were fifteen.

  The last five nights it was standing room only in Mrs. Van Wyck’s séance room, despite the new charge of admission, split between Mr. Grasser and Colonel Phillips. The last four mornings, invitations to parties, to balls, to dinners arrived. Dressmakers sent their cards, offering their services if Lucy would agree to wear their gowns in public places; presenters invited Lucy to attend their productions. The last four afternoons flowers and gifts appeared. Mr. Grasser advised Lucy on how to respond—which, to Lucy’s frustration, was always with a polite refusal. All the while, Colonel Phillips chortled, charmed, and schemed.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Mr. Grasser stepped into the suite. “You look lovely,” he told Lucy.

  “Thank you.” Lucy fluffed the soft tendrils around her face.

  “Your audience awaits,” Mr. Grasser said.

  Lucy and her father followed Mr. Grasser and Mrs. Van Wyck downstairs to the séance room, brilliantly lit with candles. Mr. Grasser had gained Mrs. Van Wyck’s permission to decorate the room to better enhance the ethereal nature of Lucy’s performance, so chiffon and gauze were draped over the dark portraits, and fresh flowers bloomed around the room like a garden.

  Lucy still began the séance with table-rapping, for, as Colonel Phillips had warned, there was danger in deviating from the formula. But the table used now was quite small, and the sitters didn’t join her there. Chairs were placed in rows so that the séance room seemed more auditorium than salon.

  Mr. Grasser opened the tall double doors and a wave of sound washed over Lucy; dozens of people talking. As Mr. Grasser strode to the front of the room, the din diminished to rumbling murmurs. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to an evening you’ll never forget. I present Colonel Phillips and his extraordinary daughter, Lucy.”

  Colonel Phillips crooked his elbow, and Lucy slipped her arm through his. They walked down the aisle together. As always, she didn’t look at the sitters; she simply glided serenely forward as if angels were guiding her. Indeed, that had been how her entrance was described in a newspaper yesterday by “an unnamed source” who sounded remarkably like her father’s pal Peabody. Peabody had become Mr. Grasser’s helper, setting up seats, researching potential sitters, dropping off cards, even arranging flowers and candles. Colonel Phillips had gotten him the position in order to thank him for the introduction to Mrs. Van Wyck. Neither had foreseen what a success that evening would turn out to be.

  The attention of the audience warmed her. She was aware of how the candlelight enhanced her looks, set the gown shimmering, the jewels glittering. Thankfully, in the last week of three meals a day, her skin had already lost its sallow color and her hair had new luster. She settled herself at the small table in front of the room as her father took his position standing beside her. Only now did she allow herself to view her audience.

  Lucy’s heart hiccuped as her eyes landed on a handsome face in the front row. The young man looked to be around her own age
, perhaps a few years older, with the sheen of someone born to wealth and privilege. His light hair glowed golden in the flickering light; his soft mouth was like something she’d seen on a Cupid in a romantic painting, his eyes deep-set and knowing. He held her gaze directly, and she felt her cheeks flush. She dropped her eyes to her lap.

  What brought him to the séance? Lucy glanced back up and saw that there were men on either side of the handsome stranger: one was around his age, also good-looking, though less expensively dressed, and the other was an elderly gentleman who was already asleep. Don’t snore, Lucy warned the old coot silently.

  “My friends,” Colonel Phillips crooned, “I’d like first to dispel the idea that we are doing anything evil by beginning this evening in prayer. Please, everyone shut your eyes and take the hand of your neighbor. This will help create the energy needed to summon the spirits here.” He clasped his hands behind his back as Peabody lowered the lights.

  Lucy demurely ducked her head so that everyone in the room might follow her lead. Once she felt the lamps lower, she snuck a peek at her father from under her lashes.

  His fingers crossed, signaling that everyone had done as instructed. She gripped the stick hidden in her dress.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for your guidance as we delve into mysteries only you can understand. Accept our humble awe and allow us this night to speak only to the good and God-fearing, and protect us from any that may intend us harm. Amen.”

  Using the group’s rousing “amen” to cover the sound, Lucy quickly positioned the stick under the edge of the table.

  “What you will hear, through my daughter,” Colonel Phillips said, “are words from the other side. Perhaps a message to one of you, perhaps a description of the Summerland, perhaps some nugget of information about the past, the present, or even…” Here he paused dramatically. “The future. What you do with this information is your own concern.” He let those words hang in the air, with the subtle suggestion that there might be profit in coming to see the latest sensation. “If time, and the spirit, permit, we may be able to take specific questions, but I cannot make any promises.” Colonel Phillips still received information about the sitters from the Blue Book and from Peabody, just in case such a display should prove useful. “And now, we must have absolute silence.”