Gilda gave Summer a thumbs-up sign, not wanting to admit that she was focusing more on not throwing up than on the dramatic scenery that surrounded her.
“It’s amazing out here, isn’t it?” The car emerged from the forest, and Summer careened along a cliffside stretch of road where the ocean sparkled far below.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m starting to feel carsick,” said Juliet. “Can you drive slower?”
For once, Gilda was grateful that Juliet hadn’t hesitated to complain.
“Sorry!” said Summer. “My friends always say I drive too fast.”
When they arrived at the beach, both Gilda and Juliet felt awed and intimidated by Summer, who lived up to her name in every way: she wore a yellow bikini and a thin, gold belly chain that showed off a perfect tan the color of light brown sugar; she had an enormous beach towel decorated with a giant pineapple; a fake diamond glinted from her pierced navel; she smelled of coconut suntan oil. Compared with Summer, Gilda suddenly felt ludicrous in her oversized, heart-shaped sunglasses and the zebra-print bathing suit that emphasized her snow-white skin—an outfit she had formerly considered stunning. Juliet concealed herself in an oversized T-shirt and an enormous, floppy hat that covered most of her face.
“My gosh, you two are as white as ghosts!” Summer gushed. “I’ll have to show you how to use self–tanner next time.”
“We’re going for a vintage look,” Gilda joked. “Kind of 1940s.”
“Why would you want that?”
The three spread out their beach towels on the sand, and Summer whistled as a group of tanned, sinewy guys walked by. The boys smiled at Summer and waved. “Are those guys cute or what?”
“Nice butts,” said Gilda, thinking that Summer would appreciate this sort of comment.
“You said it,” said Summer. “I have a boyfriend, but I still love to look. You know what I mean?”
“Same here,” said Gilda.
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” Juliet blurted.
“How do you know? I could have a hundred boyfriends for all you know.”
Juliet shrugged. “I just know you don’t have a boyfriend, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m sure all the boys are going to be crazy about you chicks next year in high school!” said Summer, who was now staring at the group of young men who had placed their beach towels strategically close to her on the nearly empty beach.
Juliet stared at the ocean as if in a trance, then suddenly flopped down and seemed to fall into a dead sleep.
“I’ll be right back,” said Summer.
Gilda watched as Summer stood up and boldly walked over to say hello to the group of guys who watched her approach with frank appreciation for her svelte silhouette. Summer touched her hair and then convulsed with giggles at something one of the young men said. She was obviously in her element at the beach.
Gilda reflected that she herself had thus far shown very little talent for flirting with boys, and that she had never been much of a beach lover. For one thing, she always ended up sunburned, and if someone was going to get stung by a jellyfish or a stingray, the chances were good that it would be Gilda. Crowded beaches were sometimes interesting because it was possible to overhear gossipy conversations, but today—a Wednesday—Stinson Beach was silent and vast.
Gilda suddenly remembered a summer trip her family had taken to the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes next to Lake Michigan. Her father had recently learned that he was sick, and for the first time, he didn’t roll down the largest sand dunes or throw Gilda in the ice-cold water and then dive beneath the waves, pretending to be a shark that chomped her on the ankle. Instead, he sat on the beach and gazed out at the water.
“Sorry, kiddos,” he said. “Your old pop is feeling poorly today.”
“That’s okay,” said Gilda. “The water’s freezing, anyway.”
Her father perused a brochure about the sand dunes. “This is interesting,” he said, and read aloud: “‘Hikes around the area may reveal ghost forests—places where migrating sand dunes buried trees and then moved along, leaving only deadwood behind.”’
Gilda had been intrigued by the term ghost forests and the idea that the windblown dunes could move from place to place as if they were living creatures.
But something about ghost forests seemed to make her father sad. “It’s really true,” he said. “When you consider the big picture, we’re really just here for a moment.”
Feeling very small under the open sky, Gilda decided to distract herself with a productive activity, so she pulled her notebook out of her beach bag. She was planning to use her experiences at the Splinter mansion to write a novel with a few new plot twists added: for example, instead of discovering Mr. Splinter’s habit of sleepwalking in the tower, there would be a very violent ghost who would actually murder either Juliet or Mr. Splinter just before a glamorous sleuth named Fiona Sparks (based on Gilda herself) stepped in to solve the mystery.
But Gilda’s pen seemed strangely stuck. She couldn’t come up with her usual flow of fictional ideas. Instead she wrote a letter:
Dear Dad:
I just wanted you to know that I solved my first psychic investigation. I think you’d be proud of me.
I’ve been wondering: do ghosts exist even when nobody’s around to see or hear them? Or do people “create” ghosts with their won minds?
Balthazar Frobenius says that “ghosts are real to the person who sees them, and therefore they are real.”
On an unrelated note, I can see why some people become “beach bunnies”: you don’t have to think about things or even talk when you’re on the beach. You just sit here and feel good about being alive.
When Summer, Gilda, and Juliet returned to the Splinter household, they were greeted by a small commotion in the back of the house. Workers perched on tall ladders pried boards from the windows of the tower. On the ground, Rosa and several other short Latina women surrounded a priest who murmured a prayer in Spanish while making the sign of the cross in the air and sprinkling holy water on the ground. Rosa’s lips moved silently as she crossed herself.
Mr. Splinter leaned against the angel fountain and observed the scene with a worried expression, as if he were watching a dangerous circus act.
Wearing her bikini top and a beach towel wrapped around her midriff, Summer approached the group in the backyard. “We’re back from the beach!” she declared nonchalantly, causing both of the men on ladders and the priest to eye her bikini-clad figure with wary interest.
“Did you have fun?” Mr. Splinter asked politely. “Stinson Beach can be lovely at this time of year.”
“It was nice,” said Juliet.
“Did you go swimming?”
“Gilda tried,” said Juliet, “but it was too cold for me.”
“Well, our renovations have begun,” said Mr. Splinter, gesturing toward the tower. “Juliet, tomorrow we can go inside and decide what to do with the paintings.”
“I was thinking that we could try taking some of them to a gallery downtown,” Juliet suggested. “I mean, Melanie probably would have wanted them to be seen by people. Besides, the portraits all go together.”
“We could try that,” said Mr. Splinter.
Juliet stared at the tower thoughtfully. “And then we could keep part of the tower as a real art studio, but we could make it much nicer than it is now…’. Or maybe the room on the bottom floor could be turned into a breakfast nook.”
“Cute!” Summer declared.
“I know; we should add a new door leading to the interior of the house so you don’t have to go outside to get in. Oh, and one of the rooms could be a reading room—a room with a window seat with velvet pillows.”
“Oh, that sounds fab!” Summer gushed.
Mr. Splinter stared at his daughter, thinking that it was unusual to see Juliet become so visibly enthusiastic about anything. “I don’t see why we couldn’t do those things,” he said. “Sounds like you have some great ideas.”
&n
bsp; “If you’ll excuse me,” said Gilda, “I’m going to go take a shower. I have sand in my nooks and crannies.” She had once been appalled to hear her grandmother use this phrase following a trip to Lake Huron, but now she took a certain delight in saying it herself.
Gilda retreated to the house, feeling sticky and sunburned. She was glad that Juliet was excited about renovating the tower, but she also suspected that her cousin was the type of person who would now be fascinated by swatches of wallpaper and shades of paint—interests that Gilda did not share.
Nearly two weeks had passed since Gilda and Juliet had found their way into the tower. While the days of browsing in quirky boutiques and this latest beach outing had been fun, Gilda sensed that her visit at the Splinter household was growing a bit stale. The mystery of the haunted tower had been solved, and it seemed that a spell had been broken. There had been no further evidence of Melanie’s ghost, and while the girls occasionally heard Mr. Splinter wandering through the house at night, they no longer heard the eerie sound of his footsteps ascending the tower staircase.
Gilda felt ready for a new location—a new mystery.
Or maybe I’m just homesick, she thought.
26
Going Home
The cabdriver threw Gilda’s heavy suitcase in the trunk.
“Well, I guess this is good-bye,” she said.
Summer gave Gilda a perfume-laden hug. Rosa kissed her cheeks and handed her a paper bag. “A hot tamale,” she said. “There is no good food at the airport.”
Juliet handed Gilda an envelope. “You can open it in the cab,” she said.
“Okay.”
Gilda gave Juliet a careful hug. She now looked much healthier than when Gilda had first met her, but her body still felt fragile and insubstantial, as if her skeleton were made of bird bones. “Thanks for that letter,” she said.
“Don’t thank me,” said Gilda. “That letter was from your aunt.”
“Then how do you know about it?”
“I’m a psychic investigator, that’s how.”
Juliet smiled. “Let’s write each other this year.”
“Sure.”
“I have to go visit my mother in San Diego next week, so I’ll definitely write you when my stepsisters start driving me crazy.”
Through the rear window, Gilda watched the soaring tower and ornate façade of the Splinter mansion disappear as the cab descended a steep hill. When she could no longer see the house, she opened the envelope from Juliet.
Juliet had drawn Gilda wearing her séance outfit. In the red velvet evening gown and dramatic makeup, the character in the picture looked very eccentric and fierce. I’m sure I’m better-looking than that, Gilda thought. Still, she had to admit Juliet had captured a likeness.
Under the illustration, Juliet had written a note:
When Mrs. Joyce picked her up at the Detroit airport, Gilda felt a surge of happiness as she smelled the familiar odor of stale cigarettes and rubbing alcohol in her mother’s car. Her mom wore shorts and looked very freckled from the sun.
“Looks like you lost weight,” said Gilda, thinking that something looked different about her mother, but she couldn’t quite identify what. Was it just her imagination, or had her mother become prettier while she was away? And was she actually wearing mascara for a change?
“Oh, I may have lost a couple pounds,” said Mrs. Joyce, maneuvering her way through the airport traffic. “My new resolution is to exercise more. Anyway, I missed you! It wasn’t like you not to write lots of letters!”
“I got kind of busy.”
“So—tell me about it!”
“Well,” said Gilda, not knowing where to begin, “Mr. Splinter’s house is huge.”
“I remember hearing that it’s like a mansion,” said Mrs. Joyce.
“It is,” said Gilda. “And in the back of the house, there’s this tower like something out of a fairy tale.”
“How interesting,” said Mrs. Joyce. “What does Lester use the tower for?”
Gilda hesitated. “Well, he had been using it to store his dead sister’s belongings for the past ten years. She was a painter, and Juliet and I discovered that it was full of her artwork.”
Mrs. Joyce gave Gilda a sidelong glance. It was a look she used when she suspected that Gilda might be embellishing the truth. “That sounds a little creepy,” she said cautiously.
Gilda realized that it would be impossible to make her mother understand everything that had happened in San Francisco. Besides, the more information she gave, the more her mother would ask questions about things like parental supervision, respecting rules, and whether she had worn a seat belt while riding in Summer’s convertible. Maybe it was better to keep the details of her first psychic investigation secret for the time being.
“And did you make friends with Mr. Splinter’s daughter?” Mrs. Joyce asked.
“Of course I did,” said Gilda. “I mean, she wasn’t very nice to me at first, but we eventually became friends.”
“It must be hard for her, living so far away from her mother.”
“I don’t know,” said Gilda. “I don’t think she gets along with her mother very well.”
Gilda thought about Juliet, who was now on her own in the vast rooms of the Splinter mansion. She wondered if Juliet felt lonely without her.
Through the car window, Gilda observed the industrial landmarks that lined the highway leading toward Detroit—sprawling factories, a giant rubber tire the size of a building, billboards advertising clubs with “live, dancing girls!” After San Francisco, Michigan seemed flat and mundane—a place where adventures rarely happened—but Gilda was nevertheless grateful to be home. The imposing surroundings of the Splinter mansion had been exciting, but she realized that she loved the pleasant security of riding in her mother’s familiar old car. She loved her mother’s freckled legs, thong-clad feet, and even the telltale whiff of cigarette smoke that lingered on her mother’s clothes.
Then a disturbing thought suddenly made Gilda sit up straight in her seat. “Hey!” she shouted.
Mrs. Joyce slammed on the brakes, causing the car behind her to honk loudly. “What’s wrong? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“I almost forgot to ask: HOW WAS YOUR DATE?!”
“Young lady, you are not to yell at me ever again while I am driving!”
Gilda scrutinized her mother’s face and was annoyed to detect the quiver of a half smile. Clearly her mother had had fun on the date.
“It was okay,” said Mrs. Joyce. “He’s nice. I think you’d actually like him.”
“I doubt it,” said Gilda sulkily. She felt as if someone had just given her a hard shove. The highway beneath the car now seemed bumpy and coated with slippery grease. She obviously couldn’t assume that everything would be the same at home. “Well,” said Gilda, “does your new boyfriend have a name?”
“His name is Fred Pickens.”
Gilda stared at her mother. “You’re going to be Mrs. Pickens!“
“Of course not! Who said anything about marriage?”
“There’s no way I’ll ever change my last name,” Gilda declared. “And if you have a wedding, you can find a bridesmaid from some other family, because you won’t be seeing me in a big pink dress with a bow on the butt.”
Gilda’s mother sighed. “I knew you’d overreact. Am I not allowed to have any friends? Any companions?”
“You certainly don’t need boyfriends. You have your rewarding career and two kids. That’s plenty.” She knew she sounded like a spoiled brat, but she couldn’t help herself.
Her mother lit a cigarette. “See what you’ve done? I had actually cut way down on the smokes, and now you’ve got me started again.”
“I guess old Fred doesn’t smoke, huh? No ciggies for Mr. Pickens. No sirree!”
Mrs. Joyce ignored Gilda’s comments and turned on the radio to a “lite rock” station that somehow made Gilda feel even more irritable. When she had left San Francisco, Gilda had felt
like a real psychic investigator—a young, attractive woman with an intriguing, secret career. She was someone who had helped solve a mystery—someone with a glamorous future ahead of her. Now everything had become instantly banal.
As Gilda contemplated the unappealing idea of Fred Pickens, she suddenly missed her father terribly. I’ve reached the point where I can go for days without thinking about Dad at all, Gilda thought. Then at certain moments, I miss him so much, you would think he had just died yesterday.
Gilda’s mother pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and stubbed out her cigarette. “Gilda,” she said, “I know you miss your father.”
Sometimes her mother seemed almost psychic. Maybe it was genetic.
Gilda attempted a nonchalant shrug, but instead, her lip quivered uncontrollably.
Her mother reached over to give Gilda a hug, and Gilda’s head collided clumsily with her mother’s T-shirt. Her eyes felt like giant sea sponges. Where were all these tears coming from?
When Gilda pulled away a minute later, she left a large wet patch on her mom’s blue shirt. She suddenly felt like an enormous toddler.
“Look,” said Gilda’s mother. “Nobody is ever going to try to replace your father.” She brushed a lock of damp hair from Gilda’s face. “Nobody could possibly replace him. But that doesn’t mean there will never be room to care about other people, does it?”
Gilda wiped tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. Even her hair was wet. A numb clarity was settling in her mind. Things are going to keep changing, she thought. Getting over Dad’s death was just the beginning. Now her mother might have a boyfriend named Fred Pickens, and Wendy Choy probably wouldn’t be the same after spending the summer at camp, and the truth was that her father was never, ever coming back, no matter how many letters she might write to him, no matter how many psychic investigations she might perform…’.
“It’s just”—Gilda sniffed—”sometimes I wish we could just stop.”
“What do you mean?”
Gilda wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. On one hand, she herself wanted to grow up more quickly and have exciting adventures, but she also wished desperately that she could freeze time in some way so that everyone around her stopped changing. It seemed that as time moved forward, people only drifted further and further apart. “Lately it just seems like everyone’s so busy with their jobs and boyfriends and everything,” Gilda continued, “and I’m afraid we’re just going to forget about Dad completely. That’s what happened to Juliet’s family, you know. After her aunt committed suicide, they got rid of all her belongings and decided that they would never talk about her again!”
Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator Page 20