Connecting

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  But Blue Slayton is the one who did kiss her, and who asked her to the dance. And that’s what counts, right?

  Right. And it’s really not that trivial. Calla has to have a normal life, right? Despite living in this crazy town surrounded by ghosts and people who can talk to them. Despite needing to know what really happened to Mom.

  “So is Blue, like, the star quarterback on the football team for the homecoming game?” Lisa wants to know.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but no. He doesn’t play football. He’s one of the best players on the soccer team, though.”

  And Jacy runs cross-country.

  She doesn’t say that part out loud. They’re not talking about Jacy; they’re talking about Blue.

  Funny, she’s actually been considering going to one of Jacy’s meets, but she hasn’t had a chance—or, okay, much motivation—to get herself to one of Blue’s soccer games.

  They’re playing away this weekend, but there’s a home match the night before homecoming. She definitely needs to go.

  Lisa asks a few more questions about Blue and the dance and what Calla’s going to wear.

  “Who knows? I’m clueless. It’s not like I have a closet full of stuff to choose from, or a mall around the corner, or any cash if there were one.”

  “Well, maybe your grandmother will take you shopping for a dress. Just don’t let her pick it out.” Having visited Lily Dale, Lisa’s met Odelia, with her red hair, cat’s-eye glasses, and preference for loud, mismatched wardrobe colors.

  “Ramona said she’d take me to the mall in Buffalo,” Calla muses aloud, watching Gert curl up into a purring ball once again. The cat keeps one green eye open and focused on the spot where Aiyana appeared—and disappeared.

  “Ramona?”

  “Taggart. My next-door neighbor. My friend Evangeline’s aunt, who’s raising her and her brother—I think I told you about them, right?”

  “Mmm . . . maybe.” Sounds like Lisa is losing interest. Or maybe she’s jealous.

  “Ramona’s great, and she said she’d take me shopping, and she’s going to treat me to a haircut, too, if I want. God knows I really need one.” Calla shoves her thick, overgrown bangs back from her forehead and glances in the antique mirror above the chintz sofa.

  Her long brown hair typically doesn’t require much care, but she’s definitely getting split ends from three months of neglect, and her streaks of gold highlights are fading fast here in generally overcast western New York State.

  It’s not just her hair that needs help after a month in Lily Dale. There are deep shadows beneath her wide-set hazel eyes, thanks to a string of restless nights. Her face is pale; the faint freckles that used to dust her nose are gone, thank goodness, but so is the healthy glow cast by the Florida sun.

  If she’s going to go to the homecoming dance with one of the most popular guys in the senior class, she’d better do something about the way she looks.

  “So this woman you barely know is taking you shopping and for a haircut? That’s really nice of her, especially now that you don’t have . . .” Lisa trails off.

  Your mom, she was going to say.

  That hard lump is back in Calla’s throat, aching so that she can’t find the words to respond, even if just to tell Lisa that Ramona Taggart isn’t someone she “barely knows.”

  For one thing, friendships form fast here in Lily Dale. For another, Ramona knew Calla’s mother well, having grown up right next door, just a few years younger than Stephanie. Calla has felt a connection to her from the moment they met—and to her orphaned niece, Evangeline.

  Lisa changes the subject, sort of. “So, when can you come down here? Let’s make a plan so I’ll have something to look forward to.”

  Again, Calla bristles, wanting to tell Lisa that this is no vacation.

  Instead, she says only, “I guess maybe I can come the weekend after homecoming, even though that seems way too far away. I’ll check with my grandmother and my dad and let you know, okay?”

  “Okay. But meanwhile, Calla . . . I feel like that place is really getting to you. Like you’re dwelling on too much of this dark stuff all of a sudden. Maybe you should just, you know . . . leave.”

  Calla, who mere weeks ago wanted more than anything to get the heck out of Lily Dale, shoots back, “Leave? No way!”

  Just the other night, she and her grandmother had that long conversation about why she needs to stay, and how Odelia is going to guide her, teach her how to handle this unwanted, obviously hereditary, so-called gift of hers.

  She can’t tell Lisa about the terrifying events that led up to the conversation, though. She and her grandmother agreed never to discuss with anyone what happened last Saturday night. Especially Dad, who would yank her out of Lily Dale immediately if he knew. The police promised to keep it out of the newspapers, for safety’s sake.

  So no one—other than Ramona, upon whose door Calla banged, hysterical, in the wee hours—had to know about the serial killer who decided to make Calla his next victim after she—with a little help from one of his victims on the Other Side—led the police to a teenage girl he’d left for dead.

  Even now, over a week later, she shudders when she thinks about what could have happened to her at his hands.

  But it didn’t happen. I’m all right.

  “I don’t know how you can stand to live in a place like that,” Lisa drawls on, “but if you’re staying, I just hope you can manage to get past all this dark stuff.”

  “I will.”

  “Call me when you decide what day you’re coming, okay?”

  “Okay,” Calla promises. “I’ll see you.”

  “Yeah. And, hey, don’t forget I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Calla returns, as always, before they hang up.

  Hugging herself as if that can possibly banish the hollow feeling inside, she goes back over to the window.

  The sky is blackening quickly beyond the leafy branches and gabled rooftops of Cottage Row. Calla turns her head, hoping to spot her grandmother attempting to beat the rain, hurrying home through Melrose Park from her afternoon mediums’ league meeting.

  No sign of Odelia, though; the street and park are deserted, as are quite a few of the shuttered, clearly abandoned pastel Victorian cottages across the green.

  Just a few weeks ago, with the official summer season still under way, the town was teeming with activity.

  Every July and August, people come from all over the world to visit the local mediums in search of their dearly departed or psychic counseling or spiritual healing. Then September rolls around, and not only does the steady stream of visitors cease—literally overnight—but a good many of the locals disappear as well.

  Not Calla’s grandmother. With maybe a hundred others, ODELIA LAUDER, REGISTERED MEDIUM—as the hand-painted shingle above her front porch refers to her—is a year-round resident of the gated little lakeside town whose claim to fame is being the birthplace of spiritualism and that remains almost entirely populated by psychic mediums.

  Spotting movement across the green, Calla realizes it’s not deserted after all.

  A man has materialized, walking slowly along the street, leaning on a cane. For a few moments, Calla isn’t sure whether he’s alive or dead—his wind-whipped overcoat and brimmed hat could be from another era.

  But having grown up in Florida, land of retirees, Calla realizes he might just like to dress in old-fashioned, formal clothes. A lot of elderly gents do.

  She watches him stop at a house across the street, look at the sign that reads REV.DORIS HENDERSON, CLAIRVOYANT.

  He hesitates only a moment before painstakingly making his way up the steps to the door.

  Watching him, Calla doesn’t have to be psychic to know Doris won’t be home. She’s at the mediums’ league meeting with Odelia and just about everyone else in town.

  Sure enough, after several knocks and a lengthy wait at Doris’s door, the man gingerly descends the stairs and shuffles on down the st
reet.

  He’s looking for a reading, Calla realizes, as he stops at the next house that bears a shingle advertising a spiritualist in residence. No answer there, either.

  Odelia’s house is next on his path, and sure enough, he’s heading deliberately—and with obvious effort—for her door, poor guy.

  When Calla opens it, he’s visibly relieved that the exertion wasn’t in vain.

  Tipping his hat to reveal a robust head of salt-and-pepper hair, he says, “Good afternoon, Ms. Lauder.”

  “Oh, I’m not her . . . I’m her granddaughter.”

  “Owen Henry.” He extends a surprisingly firm handshake for such a feeble-looking guy. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Calla,” she supplies.

  “Calla. Like the lily. And you’re just as lovely.”

  Standing here in her jeans and hoodie, she doesn’t feel as lovely as a lily, but he’s a charming old guy and she can’t help but smile and thank him.

  “Is your grandmother home? I’m afraid I’m in need of her services to reach someone very dear to me.”

  Ordinarily—especially after what happened to her Saturday night—Calla wouldn’t freely admit to being alone in the house, but this guy is obviously harmless. And in emotional pain, judging by the sad expression in his eyes.

  “She’s not here right now. Sorry. But if you want to leave me your phone number, I can have her get in touch with you and set up an appointment.”

  He brightens and offers a heartfelt, “Thank you. I’m desperate to get in touch with my wife, my sweet Betty.”

  As he says the name, a vision flashes into Calla’s head. Just a quick glimpse of an elderly woman with a puff of white hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses on a chain.

  Betty?

  She doesn’t dare mention it. Not after what happened the last time she got involved with one of Odelia’s clients, Elaine Riggs.

  After taking down the man’s name and phone number, she sends him on his way.

  Then it’s back to moping around until her grandmother comes home at last, about a half hour later. Thank goodness. It’s hard to stay glum with Odelia around.

  Today, she has on a bright pink-and-white polka-dotted raincoat that clashes with her dyed red hair and purple cat’s-eye glasses, along with green rubber rain boots covered in yellow polka dots.

  Calla, who was once mortified by her grandmother’s wardrobe style, now knows exactly how Odelia’s mind was working when she pulled together the outfit. The theme is polka dots—who cares about clashing colors? Not Odelia, who’s also wearing red lipstick and toting a teal canvas bag. And—surprise, surprise—she’s carrying on an animated conversation with . . . nobody.

  At least, nobody Calla can see.

  In any other town, the casual onlooker might decide her grandmother is in obvious need of a psychiatrist.

  Here in Lily Dale, no one bats an eye at conversations with invisible partners.

  Watching her grandmother throw back her head and laugh heartily at whatever it is the spirit is telling her, Calla can’t help but grin.

  Thank God for Odelia.

  “Happy Monday,” she calls cheerfully from the hall a minute later, shutting the door behind her. “I beat the rain, but just barely. What’s new?”

  “Someone came by for a reading. I told him you’d get back to him. He was a widower, and he’s really desperate to reach his wife.”

  “Aren’t they all,” Odelia murmurs, shaking her head as she pockets Owen Henry’s contact information. “How was school?”

  “Fine,” Calla says automatically.

  Hmm, come to think of it, how was school?

  Let’s see, she got an A on her social studies test, an A– on her art project, and a D on her math quiz.

  Okay . . . not so fine.

  Odelia appears in the doorway. Her coat is gone, and Calla isn’t surprised to see that she’s wearing a navy-and-white polka-dotted blouse with her jeans, which are cuffed at the knees—the better to show off the rubber boots, naturally.

  “I just saw Patsy Metcalf at the meeting,” she tells Calla, “and she asked me if you’ll be at her beginning mediumship class again tomorrow morning.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What do you think? I said absolutely. I told her to enroll you for the rest of the course.”

  “Gammy, I don’t know if I want—”

  “Remember what we talked about the other night? I told you I’m going to help you learn how to use your psychic abilities responsibly, and you’re going to start with Patsy’s class,” Odelia says firmly, and steps around the book on the floor on her way to pet Gert.

  Funny, Calla’s mother would have stooped to pick it up. Most people would, actually.

  Not Odelia. She’s not the most meticulous housekeeper in the world, and her house is jam-packed with more stuff than any human being could ever use in one lifetime—not that Odelia believes in anyone having just one lifetime.

  As her grandmother scoops the kitten into her arms, Calla leans over to pick up the book, then stops short.

  It’s one she checked out of the local library a few days ago, a thick, musty-smelling volume on the history of Lily Dale.

  “What the heck is this doing down here?” she wonders aloud.

  Odelia glances at it. “What is that?”

  “My library book. I had it upstairs, on my bookshelf. Did you borrow it?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did it get down here?”

  “Miriam? Did you do that?” Odelia calls good-naturedly.

  No reply.

  “What did she say?” Calla asks.

  “She didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, actually, she was just here a few minutes ago.”

  Odelia raises a dyed red eyebrow. “You saw her?”

  “Sort of. I caught a glimpse of someone flitting by out of the corner of my eye, over there.” She gestures at the doorway.

  Odelia nods approvingly. “That’s how it is, in the beginning. Sooner or later, you’ll begin to see them more clearly.”

  Calla wants to remind her that she already has seen—and spoken to—apparitions.

  But then she might be tempted to mention Aiyana, and she still isn’t ready to share that with her grandmother. Not until she knows more about what might have happened to her mother.

  Part of her reasoning is that Odelia, who has already warned her not to get involved in criminal cases, would be livid if she thought Calla was disobeying her orders, especially after what happened the other night.

  The other thing is . . .

  Well, Mom and Odelia didn’t get along, and she isn’t sure why. Out of a sense of loyalty to her mother, Calla needs to keep some things private for now.

  “I’m going to go see if we have anything I can whip up for dinner,” Odelia says, and heads for the kitchen with Gert in her arms.

  As she picks up the book, Calla glances at the yellowed pages.

  When it fell, it opened to a map of Lily Dale.

  A mark jumps out at her—a circled X, made in old-fashioned sepia-toned ink.

  She recognizes that it would be located in a wooded area near the pet cemetery and a woodland trail that leads through the Leolyn Woods to Inspiration Stump.

  The first time Calla heard that an old tree stump, now encased in concrete, marks Lily Dale’s most hallowed ground, she rolled her eyes. Leave it to the New Age freaks to pay homage to a nondescript hunk of cement.

  Was that blatant disdain really only a few weeks ago?

  Now she’s been to the stump, buried deep in a grove of ancient trees, fronted by rows of benches as though it’s a solitary performer on some eerie primordial stage. During the season, it’s where the audience, hopeful of making contact with lost loved ones, gathers to be read by the mediums.

  Maybe the constant collective wave of grief and longing contributes to the highly charged atmosphere there.

  Or maybe it’s something more mystical, more otherworldly than that.
r />   “Do you want me to find that spot?” Calla whispers to Aiyana, wherever she is. “The place marked on the map? Is that why you dropped the book?”

  The only answer is a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening boom of thunder and the rattle of rain on the roof as the storm moves in.

  Leolyn Woods?

  It’ll have to wait.

  THREE

  Wednesday, September 19

  6:52 p.m.

  “Win some, you lose some . . . Guess I won’t be making that again.”

  “Hmm?” Calla looks up to see her grandmother watching her pushing the remainder of her dinner around on her plate.

  “Either you didn’t like the pasta, or you aren’t hungry.”

  It’s a little of both, actually.

  For a moment, the only sound is the steady dripping from the gutter outside. The storm took a while to pass.

  Calla clears her throat, not wanting to hurt Odelia’s feelings. “It’s just . . . when you asked me if I thought snicker-noodles sounded good, I thought you meant cookies.”

  “No, those are snickerdoodles,” her grandmother says with exaggerated patience, “and even I wouldn’t feed you cookies for dinner.”

  No, but she would concoct a dish consisting of boiled spaghetti coated in some kind of peanut butter sauce and tossed with cut-up chunks of Snickers bars.

  “Don’t worry . . . I didn’t like it either.” Odelia stands and picks up her own plate, which even she didn’t scrape clean for a change. “I was thinking it would taste kind of like those sesame noodles I had once at a Chinese restaurant.”

  “It might have—maybe without the candy bars.”

  “I know, but you seem so down today, I figured a little chocolate with your meal couldn’t hurt.”

  Calla smiles faintly, carrying her own plate to the garbage can and dumping in the contents. “Usually I love your made-up recipes, Gammy.”

  “Well, every chef has an off night. Just like every psychic. And usually, I have a pretty good idea about these things, but tonight, I have no clue. . . . Are you sure you’re okay?” Odelia asks again. She must have asked a dozen times as they ate—or pretended to eat, anyway.