Her phone rang again, and she picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Ned. Is this a better time?”
“Yes. Brad was here, but he left.”
“Oh.” A few beats of silence. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier, but my plane got held up—some electrical failure in Chicago or something. But we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” Abby replied.
“Is tomorrow good? We can meet somewhere.”
A neutral place was probably a good idea. “Fine—what about Lexington? That place we had lunch, around noon?”
“Great.” Was that relief she heard in his voice? “See you then.”
She had a lot to tell him.
25
Abby spent Sunday morning filling in her family tree and printed out a tidy box structure. She was very proud of it. Saturday night, she had resolutely refused to think about Brad, Ned, or her family ghosts. She had found a stash of classic tear-jerker DVDs in a cabinet and had nestled into a fuzzy blanket with a pint of ice cream and indulged herself. It had been very cathartic. Certainly, she decided, her problems paled compared to those of some of the heroines she had watched.
She arrived early for lunch and found a table, nervously shuffling her notes. She looked up to see Ned approaching and studied him. He looked uneasy—why? She wasn’t, although she wasn’t quite sure why she was so untroubled.
“Abby.” He sat down. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You aren’t—I was early.”
Their glances met, and Abby found herself thinking, he knows. Wait a minute—knows what? What she was about to tell him, about her connection to the Reeds? And then she smiled. Yes, he knows.
“I’ve got something to show you.” She turned her family chart toward him. “But I think you’ve already guessed. Haven’t you?”
Ned gave the chart a cursory glance, and then he looked up at her. “Yes. You’re related to the Reeds. That’s what I assumed. It makes sense, given what you’ve seen with your more recent family.”
A waitress appeared, looking expectant. They gave a fast look at menus, ordered something randomly, shooed the waitress away.
Abby pointed at her chart. “The people—or things, or places—that I’ve seen, they’re all in a straight line. My great-grandmother, and Elizabeth, and the people in Concord, and Weston, and Wellesley—they’re all directly related.” She sat back triumphantly.
Ned was examining his fork carefully, without looking at her. “And what do you think this means?”
Abby felt as though he had just stuck a pin in her balloon. She’d been so excited by making the connection, by setting down the links on paper, that she hadn’t given much thought to why she was seeing these people. “I don’t know,” she said, suddenly depressed.
Ned was quick to catch the change in her tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rain on your parade. You’ve made amazing progress, considering you started with nothing just a few weeks ago. Some people take years to get this far. I can’t argue with your conclusion. And, yes, I did suspect there was a connection like this.” A smile flashed across his face, then disappeared quickly. “But . . . No, let me ask you a question. Do you want to take this any further?”
The waitress appeared, her arms laden with food, which she began to set down. Abby was glad for the interruption and sat back and gathered her thoughts. When the waitress had withdrawn again, she ventured, “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘further.’ But if you’re asking do I want to know why I’m being haunted by my family, the answer is yes, definitely.”
“Good.” Ned picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and chewed slowly. Abby wondered if he was stalling for time. When he had swallowed, he began again.
“Abby, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Abby felt a clutch of fear.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, first because I didn’t think it was relevant, and then later because I didn’t want to put any ideas in your head. I wanted you to work this out on your own, without preconceptions.” He stopped, as if unsure how to go on.
“All right,” Abby said cautiously. “But . . .”
He handed her a sheaf of papers. “I think this will help explain things.”
She looked down at a family tree much like the one she had assembled, its orderly boxes marching backward, branching. And then a name caught her eye: Reed. Paul Reed. Startled, she looked up at Ned. “You mean we’re related?”
Ned nodded. “Yes, about eight generations back. But that’s not rare. Most old Massachusetts families cross somewhere. You’ve probably got hundreds of relatives as close or closer than I am. But . . .”
And suddenly Abby understood where he was headed. “You see them too. That story about Johnnie—was he a Reed?”
He sat back in his chair and let out his breath. “Yes. His mother was our Paul’s sister.” The smile flashed again.
Abby sat stunned, sorting back through the times they’d spent together. “When did you first guess what was happening with me?” she said slowly.
“I’m not sure. Probably in the cemetery in Wellesley, when you were drawn to the stones.”
Abby digested that. “What do you see?”
“Fragments. Flashes of something. You know, I have to give you credit—you were much more open to this whole thing. Me—I’m a scientist, right? I look for order, logic, reason—and this business just doesn’t fit. After Johnnie . . . well, as I got older I fought it for a long time.”
“Did you go into science because of or in spite of this—what are we going to call it?”
“I don’t know—‘seeing’? Visions seems pompous. Visitations is worse—besides, that implies action on the part of the visitor, and from what you’ve said, you’re more of an observer. But, to answer your question, I’m not sure. Maybe I hoped that I could figure out what was happening and why. Or maybe I thought science would just drive it out of me. I don’t know.”
They both fell silent. Abby was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. She was thrilled to find that she was not alone. And then she decided that she was angry that Ned hadn’t explained things sooner, although she understood his scientist’s desire not to influence the experiment. She was reluctantly intrigued by what this all might mean.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t done research on this,” she said at last.
“Of course I have. But this is the sort of thing that gets filed under ‘cranks and crazies.’ Careful scientific research is conspicuously lacking.”
“Didn’t there used to be some sort of research center at Duke?”
“Still is—the Rhine Research Center. They’ve been around for quite a while, and they’re fairly well respected. But they tend to focus on parapsychological phenomena, mostly ESP and psychokinesis. Stuff in the here and now, not the past. Once you start sniffing around ghost hunters, things get weirder. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying they’re all quacks. But they’re not exactly scientific, either.”
Abby realized she hadn’t touched her food, so she picked up her sandwich and started in on it. She finished several healthy bites before she was ready to speak again.
“Well, cousin, where do we go from here?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There are probably still some facts that we can fill in. But I’d like to try some experiments, if you’re willing.”
“What, drive aimlessly around Massachusetts hoping that six times great-grandpa calls out to me from beyond the grave?” Abby decided she was feeling better than she had for days.
“Not exactly. But there are other sites, particularly cemeteries, where we can prove your—our—ancestors have been. I’d like to know how you respond to them.”
“What about you? Haven’t you tried that yourself?”
“Of course. But I’d love to have corroboration from your experience.”
“What, a data set of two people? This isn’t going to turn into some sort of sexist thing, is it? You know, women are intuitive, sensitive�
�so I’m much more likely to be a good receiver?” Abby demanded.
Ned held up both hands in protest. “No way. But based purely on empirical observation, I’d say you’re seeing more, and more strongly, than I have—at least since my friend Johnnie disappeared.”
“Maybe we’re just more open to it when we’re young—everything is newer then, and we don’t just write it off as crazy. Although I never used to see anything when I was a child, and I lived with odds and ends from my great-grandmother and grandmother until I left for college. Why didn’t they affect me then?”
“Abby, I can’t tell you. Maybe you just weren’t tuned in to them. Maybe it took extraordinary circumstances—moving up here where you had no friends, trying to find a job, having problems with your relationship—to make you receptive, to break down your own resistance. Maybe you simply weren’t ready before.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Abby shook herself and sat up straighter. “Okay, where? When?”
Ned looked ridiculously pleased. “Well, for the cemeteries, sooner rather than later—it’s already getting cold. Somehow I’d guess that if you’re freezing your tail off, you’re going to be less likely to pick up messages from the beyond. I won’t even mention snow.”
“Makes sense. Okay, you’ve got more details on the family history—where should we go?”
Ned turned her chart so they could both see it. “You’ve already picked up something from William back through Ephraim, here.”
“Wait,” Abby interrupted. “Ephraim owned the Weston house?”
“Yes. Actually it was his father Paul who built it. Ephraim was forced to sell it when his father died broke. It sounds as though you saw both of them there.”
“And they were sad or angry.” And then another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Once again, Ned noticed. “What?”
“Everything I’ve seen, or everyone—it’s been at times of strong emotions. Deaths, funerals. Even joy, from my great-grandmother when she held my grandmother as a baby. I’m not seeing ordinary daily activities, I’m connecting with them when they’re really stressed out, just as I am. So I’m not likely to run into any of them quietly reading a book in the parlor.” She sat back triumphantly.
Ned stared at her. “I think you’re right,” he said wonderingly. “They leave a trace only under extreme conditions—that makes a strange kind of sense.”
“If any of this does,” Abby said cheerfully.
Ned looked up at her and smiled again. “If you want to test this further, then cemeteries are definitely the place to go. Funerals and burials are always sad events for the family and draw lots of relatives. Here’s what I suggest.” He traced a branch of his family tree with his index finger. “I say we go back, to Aaron. He’s buried in Cohasset.”
“Where’s that? Don’t forget, I haven’t been around here very long. And apparently I didn’t inherit any mental road maps.”
“Cohasset’s south of Boston, on the water. Nice place. You up for it?”
“You mean now?”
“Sure. It’s a nice day, and we’ve probably got another three hours of light.”
“Can I finish my sandwich first?” she asked plaintively. And as she chewed, she realized that Ned had said nothing about what had happened last weekend. Did she want to bring it up? No, she decided. Let’s take care of the ghosts first.
26
The drive from Lexington to Cohasset took just over an hour. Abby was relieved that Ned was driving. Apparently her intuition, if that was what it was, worked only within a short range: she had no intuitive compass. Navigating any large distances in the Boston area still dismayed her. Ned drove carefully, just over the speed limit.
It was nearly three when they left the main highway for local roads toward Cohasset. But before they reached anything that looked like a town, Ned turned and pulled over beside a fairly large cemetery. Looking across it, Abby could see that it was bounded by water on at least two sides.
He turned off the car. “This is it.”
She turned toward him. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”
“Find Aaron Reed. He’s there.”
“What am I, a hunting dog?” Abby grumbled. “You’ve been here before.”
“Yes, I have. Look, Abby, this isn’t a test, and there’s no pass or fail. I just wondered if you could find Aaron here, and if you did, how you would react. I don’t expect you to behave like a trained seal. Believe me, I don’t think of this as some sort of cute party trick. Just give it a shot, all right? If you get cold, we can go.”
Abby gave him one more doubtful look, then climbed out of the car. Whatever else she might think, this cemetery was a beautiful place, for the living or the dead. In fact, she was willing to bet that if there weren’t a cemetery sitting here, building lots would be going for an easy six figures. She walked toward the gate and surveyed the layout. Was it cheating to head for what she could tell were the oldest stones? No, Abby, give this a chance. She shut her eyes.
At first she could hear the sound of the few cars that passed on the road, the wind in the trees, a chain saw somewhere in the distance. She tried to empty her mind. And then, without conscious thought, she opened her eyes and started walking. The cemetery was well spread out, with plenty of space between the stones, and she caught glimpses of water as she moved through them. Who had called cemeteries “gardens of stone”? It seemed apt. She walked by a curious row of mausoleums, carved into a hill, and kept going, toward a small rise in the center of the cemetery. And then she stopped in front of a close-set row of old slate stones. The Reeds, father, son, grandson, and their wives, all lined up, facing the sun sinking behind her.
I’m getting better at this. Abby wasn’t ready to touch the stones. Instead, she sank down and sat in front of the eldest, Aaron. Her ninth great-grandfather, if she remembered the chart correctly. He had died in 1736, and had been born in the middle of the century before—over two hundred and fifty years ago. And his family had had his name carved in stone, and here she sat in front of him, drawn here by something she couldn’t explain. Feeling slightly foolish, she asked silently, Aaron? There was no answer. Well, what had she expected? That he was going to sit up and chat with her? It didn’t work like that.
Abby got to her knees, casting a shadow over the face of the stone, and reached out a hand to touch it. The world dissolved.
It was the Wellesley cemetery all over again. Many voices; no single voice. Men, women, children. The space she saw around her was more open, few stones interrupting the long grass. She tried to keep the connection yet analyze what was happening at the same time. She could not decipher words, or maybe they all blended together. But, she realized, what she sensed was emotion, a sort of distillation, layers accumulated over time, of the sorrow that had emanated from the mourners of the past. These dead were not trying to reach out to her, to communicate with her, somewhere in their distant future; no, they were very much in their own moment, and they were sad, angry, frightened, lost. This was a place of farewells.
Abby lost all track of time. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, eyes shut, when Ned laid a hand on her shoulder; she had not even heard him approach.
“Abby? Are you all right?” His voice was gentle.
She opened her eyes. The sun had sunk lower, and her shadow lay across the stone. “Yes, I’m fine.” She looked for one last long moment at Aaron’s marker, then scrambled to her feet. She realized she was cold, and her knees were stiff. “Let’s get back in the car and I’ll tell you about it.”
Silently, they made their way back out of the cemetery. Ned opened the door for her and she climbed in. He got in the other side, started the motor, and turned the heat on high. He still hadn’t spoken. Abby sat back in her seat and sorted through her impressions.
“I think that I’ve confirmed it, what we talked about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what I’m seeing are not exactly ghosts. They are
from the past, but they’re not traveling into the present. It’s more like I’m picking up traces they’ve left behind. And since this is where they buried the people they loved, mostly it’s sad. Sometimes angry. And it’s all mixed together over time, like a soup, because people have been coming here, burying their family here, for a very long time.”
Ned chuckled. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. But I see what you mean.”
Abby went on slowly. “The thing about the swan chair was . . . well, first, it was a lot more recent, so what I got from it was less muddled. Maybe these aftereffects fade over time, or after a certain number of downloads, kind of. But what was so confusing about sitting in the chair the first time was that it was a mix—both joy and grief, all muddled together. But looking back at it now, I think that was because it was two different experiences, overlapping somehow. You know, joy at the birth of the baby that lived and sorrow for the baby who died. But I couldn’t disentangle those two experiences then. What do you think?”
“I think the idea makes sense,” he began slowly. “I guess I’m more comfortable with the idea of some sort of residuum, something left behind, than with thinking that there are souls, or some other kind of integral being, wandering around through time and space.”
They both fell silent. Abby felt tired, but not unhappy. This was beginning to make sense, in its own way. After several minutes, she ventured, “Well, what now?”
“We’ve got one more generation to check out. Not today—it’ll be dark by the time we get back to Lexington, and we’ve got to work tomorrow, right? And I don’t suppose you can get any time off yet. Which brings us to next weekend.”
Abby was getting impatient. “Where do you want to go?”
“Charlestown. Back to the beginning.”
“Ah. You mean Phineas Reed.”
“Exactly. You found Aaron and his descendants here. I suppose we could wander around Cohasset and see if you find anything else, but that’s a pretty long shot—I have no idea if anything the Reeds built or lived in is still standing, or where to look. But we know Phineas was buried in Charlestown. You game to try it? He’s the earliest Reed we can prove in the area—heck, in the country.”
Relatively Dead Page 20