Wraith

by Lawson, Angel

  I refused to look up.

  I wouldn’t look up.

  There was no way I was looking up.

  I looked up.

  But what I saw wasn’t what I expected. He wasn’t looking at me or attempting to talk again. Connor’s eyes were glued to my portrait. The portrait of Evan I’d been working on for weeks. I’d finished the majority of his face and all of his wavy, light hair. I worked on his chin, trying to get the angle right, trying to accentuate the dimple at the bottom. I’d erased and reworked it dozens of times so far and was about to quit. Other than the chin, it was pretty good—fairly accurate.

  “Mr. Jacobs, please take a seat,” Ms. Anderson directed from her desk, causing an almost-frozen Connor to flinch.

  He moved as directed, but when he sat our eyes locked once again. To my surprise he mouthed the word, “Wait,” and reached for the thick piece of drawing paper on the table. After pausing to study it for a moment, he flipped it over so I could see. My hand flew to my mouth on instinct and I fought an overwhelming urge to vomit as blood rushed to my ears.

  Connor’s portrait was an exact replica of mine.

  I WAITED UNTIL AFTER dinner to call Ava. My room was tucked away on the third floor in the former attic space. Two dormer windows faced the backyard. My parents thought I was working on homework, and they were busy with their own nighttime routines. Although they would have been pleased I was on the phone with a friend, I doubted they would have approved of the topic. Closing the bedroom door behind me, I listened to the short rings.

  “Hello,” I heard a voice, older and male.

  “Hello, may I speak to Ava please?” I asked, using my polite, speaking-to-an-adult tone.

  After a bit of shuffling and calling in the background, Ava’s voice appeared on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me, Jane.”

  “Oh, Jane! I had no idea who would call my house. I usually only use my cell. What’s up?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that, umm…I had a question, about school; can you talk?”

  “Sure.”

  I paced my room, walking the narrow space from one side to the other, since the ceiling angled on both sides. “I, umm…well, really it’s about that kid Connor. I need to know more about him.”

  Ava giggled into the phone. “So you do like him. I knew it.”

  “No…no, I don’t. It’s just…” I sighed, not wanting to explain. “He followed me out of class today and…I just can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not.”

  Ava was quiet for a minute, but finally said, “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Why did he leave school?”

  “I told you, they sent him to some boot camp or wilderness program for troubled kids. I’m not sure exactly. There were a lot of rumors flying around at the time.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Everything was fine—just like it had always been, he was pretty smart and involved. He always had lots of friends and a couple girlfriends here and there. Then he just got weird. He was involved in a couple fights, bad ones, and then…”

  “Then what?” I held my breath.

  “Then one day he shattered every window in the house with a baseball bat and built a bonfire in the middle of the living room. His mother came home before the fire had fully formed and called the fire department and the police. We didn’t see him again until now.”

  “Wow.” He really was messed up.

  “Is he bothering you that much, Jane? He’s never bothered kids at school before, well, girls at least; the fights were with other boys. But if you’re scared, I guess I wouldn’t blame you for being worried.”

  I considered her words. I wasn’t exactly scared of him, not in the way she said, but her story definitely put it all in a different light. Why he was focused on me, though, and how did he know my secret?

  “No.” I sat on my bed, pulling my feet under my body. “No, it’s not that bad. Like I said before, it took me long enough to settle in and I just don’t want him to blow it for me. I think if I continue to ignore him, he’ll back off.”

  “Probably,” she said. “He was always generally nice and very popular. He’s smart and artistic. It was bizarre when he lost it last year, but who knows, maybe he was having some problems we don’t know about. His friends accepted him back fairly easily. I suppose the rest of us should as well.”

  Acceptance. It was the one thing I’d desired since our move. Evan was right. I should know better than to judge someone on rumors, but then again, something was going on with Connor Jacobs and he was trying to involve me now. I couldn’t deny that.

  “HERE,” I SAID TO my grandmother, pulling the plate of china out of her hands. “Let me set the table.” She reached in the cabinet for more plates.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “No problem,” I said, trying not to drop the stack of fragile fine china I carried in my hands. My mother’s mother, Bebe, was great. I’d always enjoyed her presence and even spent weeks with her as a child during the summer. She was fun and loved games and art. It was nice to be near her after such a stressful time. I wasn’t sure how much my mother had told her about the incident at school or the visits to the doctors, but when I arrived she wrapped me into a tight embrace and smoothed my hair like she had when I was little. I suspected she knew more than she was letting on.

  I carried the plates into the dining room and laid them around the table, mentally counting in my head the number of guests and seats. Between my parents, my grandmother and my Uncle John there should have been five. I held up the extra plate. “I think you gave me one too many, Bebe.”

  Bebe arrived into the dining room a moment later with a handful of silverware. “Oh, your Aunt Jeannie is coming for dinner—didn’t your mother tell you?”

  I shook my head and set the plate on the white linen tablecloth. My Aunt Jeannie was really my mother’s cousin, but she was older and had always been more like her big sister since Bebe had helped raise her. I’d only met her a couple of times. She’s an artist in New York and traveled often. My mother and Bebe often told me we were similar in disposition and attitude, but I couldn’t see it. Images of her bohemian style and artistic life came to mind—what I would give to have her carefree attitude.

  “She should be here anytime,” Bebe continued, handing me the utensils, and squeezing my hand in the process. “Put these out and I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  I laid the shiny silverware out, fork on the napkin, knife and spoon to the right of the plate, meticulously working my way around the table. I glanced up and noticed Evan standing near the doorway.

  “I couldn’t resist coming to see you,” he said laughing. “I wish I was getting ready to eat turkey, dressing and all the rest. What kind of pie did your mother make?”

  Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder, before whispering, “Apple.”

  “Ugh, I loved apple pie. And pumpkin. And cherry.” I suppressed a laugh as he ran his hands over his belly and licked his lips in memory.

  “So what you’re saying is, you loved pie.”

  He laughed back. “I did. I was a growing teenage boy. I ate everything in sight.” He walked around the room, touching the antiques placed decoratively around the house. “I see why your mother moved to an older home. She must have missed all this.”

  During times like this it was hard to remember Evan was eternally sixteen. He had rare moments of maturity and insight. “Maybe. I think she likes the energy in an old home, but her decorative style is definitely more contemporary than my grandmother’s.”

  He paused in front of a wild, abstract painting in the center of the wall. “I don’t know…this one is rather bold.”

  I walked over to stand next to him and studied the vivid strokes and heavy paint. There were thick pieces of paper and words swirling around several nondescript forms that jumbled together so I didn’t understand what they meant. My hand moved forward and grazed the name etched into the bottom.

  Jeannie
Monroe.

  A voice startled me from behind, causing my fingers to withdraw. “I can’t help but touch paintings myself, even though they tell you not to.”

  I turned to find my “aunt” standing in the doorway. She was tall and thin, her hair streaked with gray, and she still wore it long and curly down her back. She was beautiful and elegant, even in a white T-shirt with a fluffy, knitted scarf at the neck. A long, denim skirt and suede cowboy boots completed her outfit, and I was immediately jealous at her ability to dress casual yet nicer than everyone else.

  “Aunt Jeannie! You surprised me!” I said, once I caught my breath.

  “Your mother said you were in here,” she said.

  Evan remained close, I could feel his presence. Although my heart slowed its pounding from being startled, I felt it pick back up when I looked at my aunt’s expression. Her brow furrowed and the corners of her eyes tightened in what I interpreted as confusion or concern as they flicked in the space Evan and I occupied.

  I forced a smile on my face and was relieved when I heard the boisterous laughter of my mother and grandmother in the kitchen. “We should see if they need help.”

  Jeannie hooked her arm through mine and together we moved through the doorway toward my family, leaving Evan behind.

  AFTER DINNER, I SLIPPED away from the adults for Bebe’s library. The high-ceilinged room off the front parlor was my makeshift bedroom when I visited. More than a library, it was a fascinating mixture of books, paintings, and collectibles. She collected pieces from all over the world and I loved staying in there.

  Evan had been gone since dinner, which was a bit unusual, but perhaps the family togetherness was more than even he could handle. He didn’t mention his family much, other than the fact he had two sisters and a mother who survived the terrible crash they had all been in. That in this accident he’d lost his life. I’d asked him about them before, names or ages, but he was hesitant, never offering anything tangible. His sadness was evident and it was clear that he missed them.

  I listened to music while flipping through a leather-bound photo book. Inside were photos of my mother as a child with her parents, doing the typical childhood activities, picnics, playgrounds, school dances, and birthday parties. My mother was ten years younger than Jeannie, and at a particular point in time my aunt made her appearance in the photographs as well. I studied one in particular when I heard a light rapping on the door.

  “It’s open.”

  “Can I come in?” Jeannie waited at the door. I made room for her on the couch

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, nudging the book with her hand.

  “Oh, just one of Bebe’s photo albums. Pictures of you and mom.” I tapped the white-trimmed square photo with my finger. They were at the beach, lying on towels in bathing suits.

  Jeannie sighed at the photo. “Oh what I would give for that body today. That bikini is quite small.”

  I squinted at the photo, considering the style of her 1970s bathing suit. “How old were you here?”

  “Twenty,” she said without hesitation. I raised my eyebrow and she caught it. “I remember specifically because that photo was taken about a month before I dropped out of school and moved to California.”

  My jaw dropped of its own accord. “You did what?”

  She laughed again, louder this time. “Yes, I suppose they wouldn’t tell you about that, huh?”

  I shook my head. No one had ever mentioned any of this to me. “What happened? Why’d you do it?”

  She closed the photo album and leaned against the couch cushion. “This town was too small for me. I wanted out, to see things, to do things. I loved my family, but I never belonged here.”

  I could relate to the not-fitting-in part all too well. “What did you do?”

  “I traveled around a bit. Mexico, L.A…I eventually settled in San Francisco for the longest amount of time. I missed the hippies though; most of them had cleared out a few years before, but I still found places to work on my art and read palms.”

  “You read palms?” I couldn’t even imagine the life she was describing, yet at the same time it all made so much sense. I studied her beads and her rings and the cowboy boots that she wore on her feet; Jeannie was a woman one couldn’t define easily. I leaned forward so she could reach my hand. She laid it flat, using her other hand to smooth out the flesh and began ‘reading.’

  She ran a finger across my skin. “This is your heart line. Do you see how long and curvy it is? This means you freely express your feelings and emotions.” She cocked her head. “Then this one is your life line. It’s fairly straight and close to the edge of the palm—it means you’re cautious when it comes to relationships.”

  “Is that a nice way to say I’m un-trusting?” I wanted to laugh at her comments and scoff at the practice, but I couldn’t. Her voice was so sure and her hands were so strong yet soothing when holding mine. I felt like I was in a trance.

  “But your life line…do you see how it breaks here? That implies a sudden change in lifestyle.” Her fingers traced over the lines on my hand.

  “You could say that, I guess.” My knee bounced. “With the move and all.”

  Jeannie studied me and with her free hand she smoothed my hair, her fingers lingering at the ends. “Change can be hard, but it can also be the best thing to ever happen.” Her eyes hovered over my shoulder a little before refocusing on my hand. “Oh, and you have a fate line. Not everyone does. Yours is deep and joins your life line.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means you’re strongly controlled by fate. The theory is that you also develop aspirations early on, based on the idea you already know what direction you are headed. Do you think that’s true?”

  I thought for a minute, letting her continue to rub my palm as she examined it further. Did I believe in fate? That the things going on in my life now were destined? I definitely didn’t feel in control of anything. “I’m not sure.” Wanting to change the subject I asked, “So you did this? Reading palms and selling artwork?”

  Jeannie released my hand, causing her bracelets to slide together with a soft clink. “I did. I read palms, tea leaves. I read auras. A little bit of everything.

  “Auras?”

  “For a dollar, I would read the auras of tourists roaming about town. Everyone has a different color or shading around them. The colors mean different things. It can explain your personality or reveal the stress you’re under. The colors of your aura are also affected by the energies of other people. It’s common to have other people’s colors in your aura. It could be your family’s influence or just the spirits that surround us.”

  Her words held a deeper meaning for me. It was as though Aunt Jeannie knew more about me than I suspected. She must have sensed the shift in my mood because her hand reached out to cover mine. “Are you okay?”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  She shrugged and brushed a loose strand of hair over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I thought you wanted to know.”

  “Do you believe in this? These mystical and spiritual theories?”

  Jeannie fixed me with a firm stare. “I do. They aren’t exact, but I do.”

  “Have you read my aura?”

  She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “I have. It was very strong and clear the minute I saw you tonight.”

  Tonight. “What did you see?”

  “Your aura was bright red. Like a halo of fire.”

  I swallowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re emitting a strong sense of life force and survival. You are raw and passionate, yet full of anger and frustration. I would interpret it as you feeling overwhelmed by change.”

  I blinked, absorbing the information. “Wow.”

  She patted my bouncing knee. “Yeah, that’s a lot to carry, but…”

  My eyes flashed to hers. “But what?”

  “But I saw something else. Something different.”

&nbs
p; “Tell me.”

  “Don’t get upset, but all of your fiery red was surrounded by black. Solid black.

  “Okay,” I said. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. “Is this unusual?”

  “Not exactly. Shadow auras mean that someone has issues relating to death. It could be lack of forgiveness or unresolved karma. Sometimes spirits find us and linger, coating us with their confusion.” Her description hit hard, forcing me to think of Evan and why he was sent to me. He always tried to present that he was there for me, to help me, but sometimes I thought it was more. That there was something else he needed to do.

  “Do you believe in spirits, too? Ghosts?” I asked, before I lost my nerve.

  “Absolutely.”

  I felt ill. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her everything about what I’d been going through and about Evan, but I was afraid. I couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t go to my mother and I would go back to the shrinks and back on meds. I loved my Aunt Jeannie but I had learned this was something I couldn’t share. With anyone.

  Panicked, I changed the subject, feigning curiosity I asked, “Who taught you how to do this? All of this?”

  “My mother.”

  Again, I was surprised, since no one spoke about my great aunt. She had some kind of history that was deemed inappropriate or shameful. A black sheep, indeed.

  We stared at one another longer than was appropriate or polite. My mouth opened more than once, but in the end I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t reveal my secrets. It was as if she knew this, because in the next moment Jeannie leaned over and gave me a tight hug. “I love you, Jane. I see so much of myself in you from your nose, to your long, artistic fingers, to the worry that clouds your eyes. When you’re ready to talk, call me. Anytime. I’m always available to you.”

  I nodded, my eyes welling with tears that I wiped away before they could fall. “Thanks.”