Relatively Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Why not? I think I’m beginning to see how this works. I wish there were more heirlooms—you know, things that I could be sure these people touched, held, owned. It might be an interesting test to see what else carries this . . . whatever.”

  “I’ll have to ask my folks—maybe they’ve got something in the attic. Or, of course, there’s their house. You might get something there.”

  “Your ‘friend’ never came back, did he?”

  “No, not after that first year.”

  “I wonder . . . Going back to the swan chair, the first time I sat in it, it was overwhelming. And I told you, when I went back to it and sat in it again, it was sort of muted. Maybe that’s just because I was expecting it, or I was more ready to handle it. Or maybe because whatever I was picking up is gone now. I’ve handled it since—I had to, when I moved—and I didn’t pick up anything. Maybe these things wear off, or maybe we can only absorb them once. So, anyway, yes—it would be interesting to see your family house, see if there’s anything there.”

  “Are you free on Thanksgiving? I’m sure Mom and Dad would be happy to have you. Unless you’ve got other plans?”

  “Well, my folks are in Maine, and I don’t have the time to make that trip for just a couple of days. No—I don’t have any plans, and I’d love to come, if you’re sure it’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your family.”

  “Abby, you are our family, even if we have to go back eight generations. And Thanksgiving is an event that should be shared. Please come.”

  She gave him a real smile. “I’d be happy to.”

  It was after seven when Abby got back to the Concord house, after Ned had dropped her at her car in Lexington. It had been a day full of strange and unexpected revelations, and Abby wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and chew over them. Her ringing cell phone interrupted her: it was her mother.

  “Hi, sweetie—I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check in with you about Thanksgiving?”

  Abby sighed inwardly. She hated to say no to her mother, but it was just too complicated at the moment. “I’m sorry, Mom—I just can’t take the time off right now.” No way was she going to mention Ned’s invitation. After all, she’d made her decision before he asked, hadn’t she?

  “I’m sorry too. I wish we could see you. And I know it’s hard to be alone during the holidays. Have you talked with Brad?”

  Subtle her mother wasn’t. “Yes, Mom. He came by to see me yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s over, Mom. It is not happening. I think he finally understands that.”

  Her mother sighed audibly. “Well, it’s your life, sweetheart. But he is a good guy.”

  “Mom, I’m not saying he isn’t. He just isn’t the guy for me.” She couldn’t believe that such a cliché had come out of her mouth, but she meant it.

  “So, what will you do on Thanksgiving Day? I hate to think about you sitting all alone, wherever it is you are.”

  “No, Mom. I’m going to have dinner with a friend and their family.”

  “Oh, that’s nice! Someone you met at work?”

  “No—someone I met in Waltham a while ago.” In a different lifetime.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good. I’m glad you have friends, anyway. It’s important to see people, get out.”

  “Mom, I do,” Abby said patiently. “I’ve got lots to keep me busy. Look, please don’t worry about me, okay? I’m happy. I’ve got a good job and a nice place to live and new friends, and everything’s fine. All right?” Unless you count the dead people. She still hadn’t made up her mind about them.

  “Whatever you say, dear. So, can we count on you for Christmas?”

  “Of course. I’ll see what I can work out.”

  “Well, I’ll let you go now, dear.” Having won a small victory, Abby’s mother had decided she could be magnanimous. “I’m sure you have things to do. Talk to me soon. Oh, I sent that package I mentioned the other day, so look for it in your mail. Bye!”

  Abby turned off her phone with a sigh of relief. She loved her mother dearly but she found her energy exhausting. It was interesting that the Reed propensity for psychic connection had skipped her mother entirely: Rebecca Kimball was largely oblivious to other people’s feelings.

  So she was off the hook for Thanksgiving and could go to Ned’s family’s celebration with a clear conscience. It was only after the fact that she realized she had not told her mother that the friend with whom she was spending Thanksgiving was a man. Why was that? she wondered. Probably because her mother would start asking all sorts of embarrassing questions, most of which she didn’t want to answer, or even think about. Ned was a friend, period. He was helping her understand something odd that was happening to her, that she really didn’t even want to try to explain to her pragmatic mother. And he was kind enough to take in a stray for Thanksgiving.

  Except that she and Ned hadn’t talked about what had happened when he touched her.

  27

  More than once during the week that followed, Abby thanked her lucky stars, or maybe her guardian angels, that she had her current job. She was busy from the time she arrived until the time she left, usually late.

  Ned did not intrude upon her week. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He had been so careful to let her find her own way, to come to terms with what was happening. Part of her remained angry that he hadn’t told her earlier that he shared her strange ability, which might have given her some comfort, but another part of her understood why he hadn’t. She needed to process this for herself, not accept someone else’s explanations. This odd link with the past was a fragile thing and needed to be nurtured. Or so she thought on some days.

  One day during the week, Leslie had popped her head in Abby’s door. “Hey, listen, are you doing anything for Thanksgiving? Because you’d be welcome at our house—if you can stand two rambunctious kids.”

  “Oh, thanks, Leslie. But I told Ned I’d have dinner with his family.”

  “Ah, the plot thickens.” Leslie eyed her speculatively. “His folks are interesting, his mom in particular. Sorry—that sounds like I’m putting her down, which I’m not, because I really like her. She’s a fascinating woman, very talented, but you might not sit down to eat until ten o’clock—she had a tendency to lose sight of the pesky details of the real world, like how long it takes to cook a turkey.”

  “I’d forgotten that you used to know them. Ned asked if I was going to my family’s, but they’re in Maine and I really don’t want to drive up there right now, so when I said no, he invited me. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.” Leslie looked unconvinced. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun. And their house is great—1750-something, if I remember right. So, how’s the schedule for the school holidays shaping up?” And then talk drifted to job-related things.

  Ned called Friday night. “Abby? Are we still on for Charlestown tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “No, uh, other events this past week?”

  “You mean have I ‘seen’ anyone else? No, it’s been quiet. But then, I haven’t been anywhere new.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll come by around ten tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  Crisp, businesslike. No nonsense. She was looking forward to tomorrow, looking forward to seeing a new place, one she’d heard a lot about. And, a niggling little voice inside added, looking forward to spending time with Ned? Ridiculous, Abby told herself firmly. She had just extricated herself from one relationship and she was definitely not looking for another one.

  The next morning, Ned once again appeared promptly. Abby was waiting at the door.

  “How far are we going this time?” she asked as she set the house alarm, locked the door and walked toward Ned’s car.

  “Probably an hour, depending on traffic. Charlestown is just the other side of Boston. Where Bunker Hill is.”

  Abby settled herself into her seat. “One more
place I haven’t seen. I wonder where else these ancestors of mine wandered to?”

  Ned pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. “You’d be surprised. We think we’re a mobile society, but in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, people traveled around quite a bit. Take Phineas, for example. He landed in Weymouth, held property in Plymouth, where he got married, and then packed up and headed for Charlestown. He and his wife Mary had eight kids, and the kids ended up in—let me see if I can get this right—Long Island, Cambridge, Charlestown, Cohasset, Rhode Island, and Connecticut, all before 1700.”

  “Wow,” Abby responded. “And you keep all this in your head?”

  “Hey, I’ve been doing this for a while. You get to know these people, in a way. And I find it interesting, how and why people moved around.”

  “Does this, uh, ability of ours only work with lineal ancestors?” Abby asked.

  “I think so, but we can keep looking for others if you want. I could have it wrong and you’ll see a lot more people. I just know I haven’t.”

  The drive passed quickly and pleasantly, their conversation firmly rooted in their shared family history. Abby marveled at the breadth of Ned’s knowledge, which made her feel pathetically ignorant. She was surprised how quickly they passed Boston; they crossed a large bridge and took the exit for Charlestown. After traveling over surface roads, Ned pulled into a restaurant parking lot. Abby looked at him. “What are we doing here?”

  “Look.” He pointed across the parking lot and Abby saw a cemetery enclosed by a high iron fence atop a stone wall.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yup. That’s the oldest cemetery in Charlestown.”

  “Looks like people around here don’t care much about it.” From what Abby could see, it was surrounded by clearly modern buildings, with a busy four-lane street on one side. It was far from idyllic. It also appeared to be inaccessible. “How do we get in?”

  “Follow me.” Ned led the way past a senior-citizens center and down a dead-end street. They came to a gate, which sported a heavy-duty chain and a sturdy padlock.

  “Great. Now what?”

  “We climb.”

  “What?”

  “See, there, where the wall and the fence meet? We can climb through there.”

  “You sure this is legal?”

  “Well, I haven’t investigated the law too closely. But I’d say we weren’t the only ones to figure that out, if the wear on the fence is any indication. And I’m willing to bet that our motives are purer than those of most visitors here, based on what they leave behind. Come on.”

  He clambered up on the brick wall and squeezed through the gap between the fence and the gate, dropping down inside. Abby followed more slowly but found that it wasn’t difficult to slip through. Once on the ground, she turned to face the cemetery, centered on a low, nearly round hill, and studied the tombstones. They were old, that was clear. They had been here for a long time—although possibly not in their current arrangement, which resembled nothing she had ever seen in a cemetery.

  She looked at Ned, beside her. “You’ve been here before? And you know what we’re looking for?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here. You’ll find him.” He strolled off along the perimeter of the hill.

  She gave his retreating back one last look, then set off slowly toward the center. Why did she think Phineas would be near the top? There was no apparent order to the stones. But she didn’t question her path as she walked up the hill. And it was easy: there was Phineas. Or his stone, its inscription as clear as the day it had been cut, the death’s head grinning with square teeth, its wing feathers still sporting the marks of the chisel. Phineas had died in 1680, a long, long time ago. Abby knelt in front of the low stone and smiled. Hi, Phineas. She reached out a hand, traced the letters of the inscription with a slow finger. She shut her eyes, but caught only wisps. Had his son Aaron, her ancestor, come here to bury him? Or to pay tribute to his grave? Probably. What about Phineas’s wife? Or had she died before him? In any case, the residue here was faint: not many Reeds had come to mourn Phineas, or at least none who had cared about him and grieved for him. Abby listened for a moment. This place was surrounded by a busy city; the nearby highway carried a steady stream of traffic. If she turned her head, she would see the top of the Bunker Hill monument, marking a battle that took place nearly a century after Phineas’s death. Had she had relatives at that battle? Descendants of Phineas?

  She opened her eyes again. Ned was following the erratic paths between the tombstones, stopping now and then and bending low to read an inscription. She watched him while he was unaware of her scrutiny. Why was she here? How had they come together, and why? As if sensing her eyes on him, Ned chose that moment to look at her, and smiled. It was a singularly open, happy smile, and Abby’s heart turned over. This unexpected sensation was followed quickly by a spurt of panic: what was she thinking? He came closer and stopped on the other side of the tombstone, facing her.

  “You found him.”

  “Yes. You said I would.”

  “I knew you would. Seen enough?”

  “For now.” I can always come back, if I want to. But she had learned what she needed. She followed Ned back down the hill to the point where they had climbed in. He went over the fence first. As he climbed, Abby turned around for one last look at the cemetery, with the sun setting behind it. She sighed and turned to climb back over the wall.

  From this side, it was a longer jump down. Ned was taller than she was, and had had no trouble. Standing below her, he extended a hand to help her down, and she took it.

  The shock was even stronger this time than the last. Their hands linked, she felt as though she had plugged into an electrical circuit as the jolt passed through her entire body. For a moment, there was a cacophony of voices, a flashing jumble of images in bright color, shutting out the world; and then the chaos coalesced into a single entity: Ned.

  He released her hand and she came back to the real world, on her feet but still reeling. Her breath came in short gasps, and her knees wobbled. With one hand, she grabbed the fence railing for support. Ned had not moved, and Abby raised her eyes to his face.

  “You felt that,” she said, in a near whisper. It was not a question. He nodded, watching her intently. She had no idea what to say. There was no way she could dismiss what had just happened with a flippant remark. She couldn’t ignore it. And he had felt it too, whatever it was.

  She drew a shaky breath. The sun was sinking, and she was getting cold. She felt as though she had been struck by lightning, but they couldn’t just stand there staring at each other like idiots forever. He wasn’t helping at all.

  “Ned, I . . .,” she began.

  “No,” he said gently. “Not now. Let’s go someplace quiet and warm and safe and talk about this like two rational humans, if we can. All right?”

  She could only nod.

  28

  They went back to the car and drove. Ned concentrated on navigating through detours and construction, back to the main highway, the bridge, Boston. Abby was grateful for his silence, because she was trying hard to impose some sort of order on her chaotic thoughts. Or maybe it was feelings? Whatever it was, she had never felt like this before, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. After a while, she realized that they had cleared Boston and were headed west.

  “Where are we going?”

  Ned glanced briefly at her. “I’ll take you home, if that’s what you want.”

  “I . . . we need to talk about this. At least, I do.” She wasn’t even sure what “this” was—Phineas and all his descendants? Or what had just happened between them at the cemetery? And how were they connected in the here and now, if they were?

  “Your place?” His eyes were on the road, his tone carefully neutral.

  “Fine.” Abby was acutely aware that, at that moment, nowhere felt like home. She was unmoored, unattached. The Concord house was the only place she was remotely familiar with, and it seemed better than a
public place like a restaurant. Or than Ned’s home, which she hadn’t even seen. She needed a sanctuary, someplace where she could think things through. But she couldn’t do this alone, because the problem wasn’t only hers. If it was a problem. Hell, she had no idea what it was.

  By the time they reached Concord, Abby felt calmer. Ned had not intruded on her thoughts, for which she was thankful. They pulled into her driveway in half dusk. He turned off the engine and looked at her mutely. Abby smiled tentatively and said, “Come on.” She got out of the car, heading for the front door, and he followed. Carefully she unlocked the door, shut off the alarm system; he followed her in and closed the door behind them. The house was quiet, cool, impersonal. And they were alone.

  Ned handed her a stack of mail he had retrieved while she was wrestling the door open. Abby recognized her mother’s sprawling handwriting on a mid-sized padded envelope. She grabbed it quickly, grateful for some kind of diversion. When he raised an eyebrow at it, she said, “It’s from my mother—she said it was another family thing.” She wrestled with laying it aside or opening it immediately. She really wanted to know what was in it but she didn’t want Ned to think she was stalling. Even though she was.

  “Go ahead, open it,” he said with a slight smile. “You know you want to.”

  “Thank you.” She peeled the tape back from the envelope and pulled out a small box and a note from her mother.

  I found this in with your grandmother’s things—I’m pretty sure it came from her father. I thought you might be interested.

  That was all it said. Standing in the hallway, Abby turned the box over in her hands. Small, rectangular, a little heavy for its size. The box was wrapped with bubble wrap, and when Abby pulled that off, there was a piece of rough string holding the top on the box. She untied that and opened the box to find an old-fashioned silver-plated pocket watch. She reached for it and . . .