If You Must Know

by Beck, Jamie

  By the time I’d showered and dressed, the special guest had arrived. I hung back in the hallway, straining to listen, expecting that Mom might be talking about me.

  An older-sounding woman said, “Madeline, remember, I’m only a vessel. I can’t promise to summon anyone in particular but will pass along messages from those who want to be heard. Whoever comes through does so in love, so don’t be afraid. I’m going to close my eyes, and together we can pray . . . may this session be for the higher good.”

  What kind of nonsense was that? I crept closer.

  My mom said, “I’m picturing William on our wedding day—so handsome in his tux, before he got that potbelly that helped kill him.”

  Yeah, he could’ve lost fifteen pounds, but the cigarettes had nailed his coffin shut. That and maybe a little stress caused by the expense of Amanda’s “fairy-tale” wedding reception. All those flowers and champagne . . . for what? Whenever I finally got married—if I did—it’d be barefoot in the backyard with only my closest peeps and Mo, and a really funky dress. And hopefully I wouldn’t be facing divorce less than two years later. Not that that was her fault.

  “Please don’t say more. The less I know, the better. If I ask a question, yes/no answers are best. I’m not getting anything yet . . . or maybe . . . something about the number three?” the woman said.

  “Yes! We have three children.” My mom—who’d already broken the yes/no rule—sounded flabbergasted, but, seriously, anyone could look at the family photos to make that guess.

  No longer worried about making a “bad” impression, I barged around the corner and set Mo on the floor. He crouched while making unusual groaning noises. Completely different behavior from how he’d greeted Eli the other day.

  “Hello, ladies.” I wandered over to stand behind one of the dining chairs. Before my mom said anything, I stuck out my hand to the stranger with bottle-dyed red hair. Judging from her wrinkles, I put her in her late sixties. She wore casual, loose-fitting clothes. Multiple rings bedazzled her fingers. “Hello, I’m Erin, the youngest of those three kids.”

  “Hello, Erin. I’m Nancy Thompson.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I should be awed or at least recognize her name.

  “Nice to meet you, Nancy. Can I be part of this little séance?” I held a phony smile in place while she pulled a sour face at my choice of words.

  “I’m a psychic medium.” She stared at me, but I wasn’t about to genuflect. “We’re hoping to communicate with your father.”

  “Sit, Erin.” Mom must’ve decided that it’d be less embarrassing to let me participate than to argue. “Maybe William will show up if you’re here.”

  Whenever she acknowledged my special bond with my dad, I preened even though I suspected it had made her jealous at times. Not that my dad hadn’t loved her, too. He had. But he and I had laughed at nonsense jokes, hated brussels sprouts, preferred picnic tables to fancy restaurants—we simply clicked in ways that no one else in the family shared. “Great.”

  The look in Mom’s eyes warned me to behave, so I sat with my hands folded on my lap, wondering what other surprises I’d encounter in the coming weeks. Normally, I’d applaud her broadening her horizons, but this bizarre change in behavior made me a little nervous.

  “Fine. What do I do?” I turned to Nancy.

  She gestured widely with her hands. “First, get comfortable and think about your father. Picture him someplace meaningful.”

  Hocus-pocus in my book, but this would be one of those rare times I wouldn’t mind being proven wrong. I often felt my dad’s presence, or at least I’d found more stray pennies this past year than normal, which Lexi told me were signs from my dad that I’m valued. It’s amazing what we’ll believe when desperate.

  I closed my eyes; otherwise, my ability to concentrate would last about two seconds before Nancy’s bling distracted me.

  For some reason, the time I failed a middle school science test came to mind. Mrs. Smith had seated students by how well they scored on each test, with the first seat of the first row being the best score, and so on to the last seat of the final row. Needless to say, I’d spent most of that school year in the last two rows, but the time I landed in that dead-last seat had sucked big-time.

  My mom’s nonexistent sympathy hadn’t surprised me, nor had her suggestion that I beg Amanda to tutor me. As if my perfect sister lording her smartness over me would’ve actually helped or improved my confidence.

  When my dad had come home from work, my mom had lamented my failure. Instead of issuing a lecture, he’d grabbed me from my room and gotten our fishing rods. We’d walked to the closest dock—the one at the end of Autumn Lane—baited our hooks, and cast the lines, sitting with our legs dangling over the edge, toes dipped in the water.

  Neither of us had been fishing seriously at that point, and we’d both known it. He had only brought me there for comfort. His sitting beside me saying nothing had been exactly the presence of love and acceptance I’d needed to help me face however many days it would be until the next test (and hopefully better results).

  With Dad it had rarely been what he said—but more what he didn’t say—that counted. In his quiet way, he’d let me know that that science test was only a drop of water in a giant ocean, and I shouldn’t give it any more significance than I did any other thing that happened.

  He’d been wearing his Ravens cap that afternoon. Why I recalled that detail, I couldn’t say.

  I popped one eye open to find Nancy’s closed. The chestnut hairs on her arms stood on end. Mo had curled into a ball, nose tipped up, alert and sniffing the air. Nancy’s rings must have mesmerized him. My mother’s eyes were closed tight. Her urgent desire to “reach” my father practically bled from her pores and intensified my discomfort with participating in this farce.

  “I’m getting something . . . the word ‘cast’ . . . ,” Nancy said.

  “William sold medical supplies!” my mother exclaimed, as if this were proof of anything.

  “Yes or no, please.” Nancy nodded, eyes now open. “Maybe William’s trying to tell us something . . . or warn us of an accident.”

  Oh no. That would not do. My mother already worried enough without paying for false red flags. “Nancy, can I ask a question?”

  She peered at me, her expression wary. “Go ahead.”

  I cleared my throat. “What do you charge for these readings?”

  “Erin!” my mom exclaimed.

  “I’m curious.” I shrugged and returned my attention to Nancy.

  “One hundred dollars per session.”

  My brows rose. “How long is a session?”

  “An hour.”

  “And you charge that even if you don’t say anything that can be directly attributed to the dead—something that can’t be discovered with a quick Google search?” That had been a little rude, but I needed to wake my mom up before she burned through hundreds of dollars to learn nothing we didn’t already know.

  Dad was dead. None of us liked it, but a dead man couldn’t help us solve our problems even if he could talk or leave us pennies. Plus he’d be plain pissed about the loan. If Nancy could talk to him, I hoped she wouldn’t deliver that message.

  “I’m a Lily Dale–accredited medium and only practice evidential mediumship.” Nancy glared—a lame stab at intimidation.

  That gobbledygook meant less than nothing to me, so I shrugged.

  Nancy brusquely turned to my mom. “Perhaps we should stop. Negative energy is not optimal.”

  Well versed in the “blame it on Erin” game, I waved both hands before I further aggravated my mother.

  “I’ll go.” I stood before being told to leave. “I’ve lots to do anyway, especially if I want to teach private yoga classes in the basement.” My mom’s head swiveled toward me, but I kept talking before she could say no. “Carry on. Say hi to Dad if you hear from him.”

  I took Mom’s silence as tacit approval of my yoga plans. As for her pursuing this thing with Nancy, we’d
discuss it later. A onetime roll of the dice seemed harmless enough, but if my mom was turning cuckoo, I’d have to tell Amanda and Kevin.

  As I passed behind Nancy, I caught a whiff of her perfume, which made me stop and lean close. “Ooh, you smell good. What are you wearing?”

  She looked skeptical, her brows knitted. “Tocca.”

  “Thanks!” I bounced away, calling for Mo to follow me to my new—old—room while looking Tocca up on my phone. Not a cheap fragrance, but I could research its notes to concoct something similar for my soaps. Maybe I’d call that line “Oracle.”

  I snickered at myself, ’cause, come on, that would be funny.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AMANDA

  “You’re early.” I glanced over Erin’s shoulder in search of my mother, whom I didn’t see.

  “Hello to you, too.” Erin handed me my mail, wearing what I’d first thought were neon paisley microshorts until closer inspection revealed a mishmash of brightly colored skulls. “I came early to gossip a little before Mom shows up.”

  I suspected this newfound desire was more about escaping our mom after fifty-odd hours of living together than about talking to me. Especially as I’d grown increasingly unhinged with no word from Lyle or Stan. On TV, PI work happens in a snap. In real life, not so much.

  There’d been lows—in the quiet of the evening—when I’d considered driving over to Mom’s. Even the awkward tension there might be preferable to sitting alone, staring at photos, and kicking myself for having been so trusting. Each day Lyle remained in Florida with Ebba was changing me. I felt a shift, deep down, like the turn of a screw. A permanent hardening that I couldn’t be sure was better for me or worse.

  “Okay, but I’m in the middle of getting dinner ready.” I backed up to wave her in.

  Erin kicked off her shoes by the door. “I thought you were making spaghetti.”

  “I am.”

  “Don’t you just boil water and open a jar?” Her quizzical tone proved she wasn’t joking.

  Her disinterest in cooking puzzled me, yet she existed fine on granola cereal, canned soups, sandwiches, and eggs. Lucky for her Max hadn’t been particular about his diet.

  “I’m making a homemade ragù.” Meatballs slow cooked in the sauce, along with some pork ribs, hot sausage links, onion, and plenty of garlic. A go-to comfort food.

  As she made her way down the hallway, Erin grabbed her chest. “It smells so good. I love you!”

  That made me smile. With everything else going downhill, I soaked up any affirmation. “Hopefully, its taste will live up to your expectations.”

  Erin scrubbed one hand along the shorn side of her head. “Want me to clean lettuce?”

  I hesitated. There is a proper way to clean lettuce: first you chop it into small pieces, then rinse and dry it with the spinner and crisp it in a metal bowl with paper towels to absorb any remaining water. Keeping the lettuce crisp also requires making sure that diced cucumber, tomatoes, and onions are placed at the bottom of the bowl, beneath the cleaned lettuce, so the liquid in those veggies doesn’t make the lettuce soggy. Unfortunately, I’d seen Erin make a salad. She rips the lettuce in a haphazard fashion and leaves too much water on the leaves, then dumps everything on top with a dash of salt! But between questioning my perfectionism and the more crucial issues on our figurative plates, I didn’t want to be a jerk about the salad.

  “Sure.” I tossed the mail on the counter. “There’s romaine in the refrigerator.”

  Based on her expression, one might think I had sprouted a third eye. I supposed I didn’t often accept her help.

  I could admit to being particular, but I took care of my own needs and never asked others to meet them for me. A week ago, the idea that my habits might’ve driven Lyle away had crushed me. Now a silent rage slithered up my spine.

  Erin located a knife and the salad spinner. She tossed the lettuce onto the cutting board while blurting, “Did you know Mom’s paying a medium to talk to Dad?”

  “What?” I dropped the wooden spoon into the pot of sauce I’d been stirring.

  “Yup.” Erin nodded while chopping. “I’m not sure what she expects Dad’s ghost to do, but she’s flushing what little money she has left down the toilet.”

  I closed my eyes, absorbing that blow. Erin hadn’t meant to take a jab at me, but we both knew why Mom’s finances were strained. “Did you tell her to stop?”

  “I told her the ‘medium’ didn’t impress me, but that just made her more determined to enjoy it. Anyway, I’m not pissing off my new landlord by telling her what to do a second time.” Erin cringed, shaking her head. “But you could probably get away with it.”

  The downside of being Mom’s favorite: both Kevin and Erin relied on me to approach her with anything controversial. “Level with me. How bad is it?”

  “Not horrible.” Erin rinsed the basket of torn leaves before giving the spinning device a half-hearted pump. I suppressed the urge to take it from her and wring the lettuce dry. “I mean, she’s a little forgetful. Repeats herself more than usual. She misplaced the car keys once—left them in the fridge beside the milk. It took us an hour to find them. I found a fork in the garbage can yesterday. But she hasn’t burned the house down or fainted again.”

  Keys in the fridge? Forks in the garbage? Plenty of mothers suffered “mommy brain” hiccups, but ours wasn’t chasing toddlers. “Should we call a doctor?”

  “Not yet. I mean, she is sixty-two. Maybe forgetfulness is normal at that age.”

  Maybe. I hardly trusted my judgment lately, nor would I want to insult Mom by suggesting that she was losing it.

  “Are you two getting along?” I hadn’t meant that to sound patronizing. Although a minuscule part of me felt threatened by the idea of Erin winning Mom over like she had Dad, I wanted only to make sure Mom wasn’t beating her down.

  “Well, she’s letting me offer yoga lessons in the basement.” She screwed up her face. “Actually, that alone proves she’s not herself.”

  Wow. Even when we were teens, Mom didn’t want our house to be the hangout house. She’d had enough of other people’s kids at her job. If Erin and I had been more compatible, that probably wouldn’t have bothered me. But being discouraged from inviting people over had made socializing harder for me—a shy person who didn’t get invited everywhere.

  “You’re teaching at the house?” I’d never been able to keep up with my sister’s plans, mostly because she didn’t plan ahead. “Did you get fired from Give Me Strength?”

  “No, I didn’t get fired.” She shot me a peeved look. “I can manage both. The more money I make, the sooner I can find my own housing.” She then barked a surprised laugh. “I just figured out why Mom isn’t stopping me from teaching in the basement.”

  Normally, that kind of realization elicited a snarky aside, but Erin had a decided lightness about her. Single at her age and basically homeless, yet nothing troubled her for long. I could use a dose of whatever ran through her blood.

  “You seem pretty cheerful, all things considered.”

  “I’m saving money. I’m helping with Mom. I’ve made plans to make more money.” She planted her hands on the counter, lettuce abandoned and wilting beside her. “Things are moving in a good direction, as long as I don’t get sidetracked.”

  “Sidetracked by what?”

  “More like by whom.” She drummed her fingers against her lips. “I keep thinking about Eli.”

  “The guy who bought Dad’s records?” I still thought of them as Dad’s, not hers.

  She nodded. “I saw him this week. He was coming out of the post office when I was heading in. He offered to watch Mo while I shipped my packages, then we talked for a while.”

  “Did he ask you out?” Her ability to move on from Max without skipping a beat mirrored Lyle with Ebba, making me hot.

  “No. I must be losing my touch,” she joked before making an exaggerated pout. “Did I tell you he’s a songwriter? Or he was . . . he’s taking a break.
”

  That sounded awfully familiar.

  She wagged a finger. “I told you already, he isn’t like Max. He’s a real songwriter. He’s written songs for Brad Peyton.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” She nodded proudly despite having had nothing to do with it. “I think something bad happened to him, though. When I asked him about where he got his inspiration, he made a vague reference to having lost it. Then he mentioned having spent a year wandering around Asia. What do you think that all means? Addiction? A bad breakup?”

  “Well, if he’s nursing a broken heart, you could end up with one of your own. Be careful.” It struck me then that I’d never seen her heartbroken—except over Dad’s death. That had slowed her to a crawl, leaving her listless and puffy-eyed for months. She’d clung to Max like a life raft when, for most of her life, boyfriends had come and gone without much drama.

  To me, that was only possible if she’d never let them all the way into her heart. If that were true, then despite what we’d both been told all our lives, perhaps she was the smarter one. I’d give anything to numb the violent pain of my torn heart. To not despise the fool in the mirror.

  “You’re probably right, although what-ifs don’t usually worry me.” She sighed and dumped the lettuce out of the strainer and into the bowl. “I did decide to leave a batch of soaps—a mix of lemon, sage, and bergamot—on his porch today. I also left my upcoming yoga class schedule and Mom’s address. I mean, I owe him something for how Max robbed him blind.”

  I slapped my palms to my cheeks, which were as hot as the pot of ragù and probably twice as red. “You did not.”

  “I did.” She grimaced. “What can I say? Change is hard. I can only repress so many impulses before I blow.”

  “Won’t you be embarrassed if he doesn’t call or show up?”

  “A little, but then again, if he doesn’t respond, c’est la vie. I’m curious about him and what’s got him so blue. If he’s on a journey of self-improvement, maybe we can help each other along—as friends.”