Discovering

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I wasn’t, but . . . here I am.”

  She wonders if Jacy’s going to hug her in front of Peter. Nope. He stops short a few feet away, but shoots his foster dad a pointed look.

  “I’ll be in the other room,”Peter announces, and disappears discreetly.

  Jacy immediately puts his arms around Calla. He’s so familiar and comfortable, and she rests her cheek against the soft, plush cotton of his sweatshirt, inhaling the pleasant scent of laundry detergent and shampoo and toothpaste.

  “Why’d you come back? I hope you and your dad didn’t have a big blowout.”

  “No, it was kind of . . . the opposite.”She tells him about their conversation, then about the encounter with Jack Lauder, and finally, about her decision not to go away to school. She leaves out the part about Kevin.

  Maybe she’ll share that with Jacy later. Maybe she’ll keep it to herself.

  “I’m really glad to hear that, Calla. I know it’s almost a year off, but . . . I hate thinking about you leaving.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”He rests his forehead against hers. “What, you think I want to be apart from you now that we’ve finally figured things out?”

  Her heart is beating like crazy. “I don’t want to be apart from you, either. I mean, that’s not why I’m staying here— it’s not the only reason, is what I mean, but—”

  “Stop talking, Calla.”

  “What? Why?”she asks, dismayed by his terse tone.

  “Because when you’re talking, I can’t kiss you.”

  “Oh! I thought you were—”

  “You’re still talking,”he murmurs, and then his lips brush hers and she melts against him, glad to be home where she belongs.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Geneseo

  Sunday, October 14

  3:00 p.m.

  “We appreciate your talking to us, Miss Logan.”

  Laura nods, watching the portly Detective Lutz set aside the notebook in which he wrote down everything she said to him and his partner, Detective Kearney, in the last hour.

  “There’s just one last thing we need to discuss now.”

  Her heart sinks.

  All she wants—all she’s wanted since they contacted her yesterday afternoon, not long after she arrived home, shell-shocked, at the purple house— is to get this business over with. Only then can she move on.

  Move on . . . to what?

  Okay, so she has a lot to figure out.

  Starting with the fact that she apparently experienced an ongoing hallucination for most of her life.

  Maybe I’m crazy, just like Mother.

  Things like that run in families.

  Only, she isn’t my family.

  The whole thing would be easier for her to accept if Father Donald had turned out to be an imaginary friend— someone she totally made up.

  Instead, he turned out to be someone who actually existed . . .

  Long before she was born.

  Someone she never heard of.

  How can she possibly explain that?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Maybe it will, somehow, when she’s past all this other business involving Mother’s incarceration for murder.

  No . . . not “Mother.”

  She’s not my mother.

  The police confirmed that Sharon Logan illegally adopted Laura as an infant, from a teenaged couple named Stephanie Lauder and Darrin Yates. They confirmed, too, that Stephanie hadn’t been aware of the adoption, or even that it had been a live birth.

  The detectives also delivered the shocking news that Sharon Logan murdered both Stephanie and Darrin. The motive is unclear.

  But Laura, remembering Sharon’s constant paranoia and all the irrational talk about someone taking Laura away from her, can only guess that the woman’s worst nightmare had come true the day Darrin showed up on her doorstep. Sharon thought the truth would come out and she would lose Laura forever.

  Never mind that Laura was already an adult.

  In her delusional state, Sharon didn’t seem to realize Laura had grown up.

  Ironically, now Sharon Logan really has lost Laura forever.

  She’s not the only one facing a loss.

  Not only is Laura’s so-called mother not her mother—but her real parents, who, just months ago, were almost within her grasp— are now dead.

  Apparently, it was her father’s ghost that Laura saw that night in her apartment.

  Unless you dreamed it.

  What about Father Donald? Did she dream him, too? Every single time? Even when she saw him in broad daylight?

  Yet, if she did dream him . . . that doesn’t change the fact that he really did exist.

  I never heard of him, though.

  It just doesn’t make sense.

  Dreams . . . ghosts . . .

  What’s the difference? They’re both intangible.

  Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no chance of a fairy- tale ending for Laura. No chance of finding her long- lost family and living happily ever after.

  Sharon Logan robbed her of that, too.

  If you look hard enough, you can always find it.

  No.

  No, you can’t.

  Now what? she wonders, seeing the detectives look at each other, then back at her again across the dusty coffee table in the living room of the purple house.

  “Laura, your mother— Stephanie, your birth mother— had another child. Later in life, when she was married and living in Florida.”

  Another child . . .

  “She’s living now with her grandmother and her father in a town called Lily Dale, about a two- hour drive from here.”

  “Who is?”she asks, unable to register the meaning.

  “Your half sister.”

  Her half sister.

  She has a half sister?

  “Her name is Calla. She looks a lot like you. She’s seventeen years old. She wants to meet you.”

  Laura has a half sister.

  She looks a lot like Laura.

  Her name is Calla.

  She’s seventeen years old.

  And, Laura realizes, she’s the girl Sharon Logan attacked in Florida.

  “She . . . wants to meet me?”she echoes as the pieces fall into place at last. “Why?”

  Again, the detectives exchange a glance.

  “I guess it’s only natural,”Detective Lutz begins, “for her to want to—”

  “Blame someone for what happened to her, and to her mom?”

  “I don’t think that’s why,”Detective Kearney tells her. “You’re her sister.”

  Laura swallows hard. My sister. I have a sister.

  I’m not alone in this world after all.

  But what if . . .

  What if Laura agrees to meet her, thinking she’ll finally have a family after all— only to find out that Calla does blame her for what Sharon Logan did?

  Who needs that?

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  If you look hard enough, you can always find it.

  No, you can’t.

  You can’t find hope, or faith . . .

  You can’t even find the man who made that promise, because he doesn’t exist.

  Laura gets shakily to her feet. “Tell her that I can’t. Please.”

  Detective Kearney hands her an envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “Her contact information. In case you change your mind. You never know .”

  For a moment, Laura considers handing it back.

  But Kearney is right. You never know .

  Standing here in the quiet, empty house, facing an uncertain future without a friend in the world—this world, anyway— Laura tucks the envelope into her pocket.

  “We’ll be in touch again to follow up,”Lutz tells her as she ushers the detectives to the door.

  She shrugs. “I’ll b
e here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Both detectives shake her hand, and then they’re on their way, leaving Laura alone on the porch of the empty purple house.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Lily Dale

  Monday, October 15

  12:48 p.m.

  On a blustery day like today, Calla is certain she’ll find Jacy in the cafeteria, and she’s right.

  There he is, sitting in a corner with a book and a brown bag sandwich.

  Yesterday, they spent the whole afternoon together. He took her to a movie, and then out to Rocco’s in Fredonia for chicken wings. The date was a welcome reprieve from sitting around at home waiting for the phone to ring.

  They still haven’t heard back from the detectives, and Calla has been trying to accept the fact that her sister might never be found.

  “I have a feeling you’re going to meet her, though,”Evange-line insisted on the way to school this morning.

  “I wish I had that feeling,”Calla replied wistfully. “How is it that I can get premonitions about some things— things that don’t matter at all— and have no clue about what’s going to happen in my own life?”

  “You know why, don’t you?”

  Calla nodded. She did know, only too well, that intense emotion can act as a barricade to block a medium from seeing things about her own life.

  Now, as she heads for her usual table, her heart sinks when she sees Sarita there alone, eating a pear, her dark, close- cropped head bent over an open textbook.

  “Hi, Sarita. . . . Where’s Willow?”Calla had seen her in school earlier today, in first-period health class, red- eyed and withdrawn.

  When Calla asked her about her mother, she said simply that Althea is still in the hospital, and she hurried away to her next class.

  Sarita looks up, and her dark eyes are troubled. “She was called out last period. I’m not sure what happened, but someone saw her leaving school with her jacket and backpack.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Calla has a flash of Willow in a hospital room— frightened, crying over a sheet- draped corpse in the bed.

  “I’m sure it was about her mom,”Sarita says.

  Calla nods, but doesn’t mention what she just saw.

  There’s always a chance it was her imagination, and not an actual vision.

  Even though I know it was real.

  “Did you study for the chemistry test this afternoon?”she asks Sarita.

  “A little. I’m nowhere near ready. Nothing like cramming at the last minute.”

  “I’ll leave you alone, then,”Calla says, glad for the excuse to make her way over to Jacy after all.

  “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. Let me know if you hear anything more about Willow.”

  Jacy looks up as she approaches him, smiles, and pulls out the empty chair beside him.

  She puts down her tray but doesn’t sit. “Listen, Jacy . . . did you by any chance drive to school today?”

  Sometimes, in bad weather, his foster dads let him take one of their cars.

  “Yeah,”he says. “I did. Why?”

  “I have to ask you a huge favor. And you can totally say no.”

  He smiles faintly. “Can I totally say yes, too?”

  “I hope you do, but . . . it could get you into trouble.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need a ride down to Brooks Memorial Hospital in Dunkirk.”

  “I’ll wait here,”Jacy whispers, touching Calla’s arm as they step off the elevator in a hushed hospital corridor.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t think she’ll want to see me at a time like this.”

  “I’m not sure she’ll want to see me, either,”Calla says uneasily, wondering if it was a mistake to come.

  And not just because she’s cutting her afternoon classes to be here.

  It’s not as though she and Willow are old friends, or even particularly close friends, in the grand scheme of things. After all, Calla’s barely known her for two months, and Willow is the kind of person who keeps others safely at arm’s length.

  But back at school, pure instinct kicked in and this seemed like the right thing for Calla to do.

  Now . . .

  Not so much.

  “She needs you,”Jacy says simply, and squeezes Calla’s hand.

  “Me? But I’m—”

  “Look, she needs someone. And you’re the only one who knows what she’s going through. Go ahead.”

  Calla takes a deep breath and starts down the corridor toward Althea York’s room. Nurses, orderlies, and doctors stride past her in both directions. She half expects someone to stop her—half wishes someone would— but no one gives her a second look.

  Medical personnel aren’t the only ones here.

  There are spirits, too.

  They’re everywhere, all ages, from all walks of life. Some are wearing hospital gowns, others wear street clothes from another era.

  Glancing into one room as she passes, she sees a wizened elderly man lying motionless in a bed, yet also standing beside it, staring down at his body as a gray- haired woman weeps over it and a priest gives last rites.

  He looks up, catching Calla’s eye, and flashes her a broad grin.

  He’s happy, she realizes, startled. He’s dying . . . or has just died . . . yet he looks like he’s just won the lottery.

  Unnerved by the strange sight, she moves on to Althea’s room, footsteps slowing as she nears the open doorway.

  She stops just short of it, hearing the steady beeping of medical monitors and muffled sobbing.

  I can’t do this.

  Willow is about to lose her mother. Who is Calla to barge in there in some misguided effort to comfort her?

  Her own pain is still so raw that she can feel hot tears springing to her eyes and emotion clogging her throat. Like Willow needs this.

  “There you are.”

  She looks up, startled to hear a voice directly beside her.

  A woman is standing there, wearing a white nurse’s uniform and cap and the kindest smile Calla has ever seen.

  Puzzled, Calla looks over one shoulder, then the other, assuming the nurse is talking to somebody else . . . but the spot behind her is empty.

  “Are you . . . talking to me?”

  The nurse nods. “We’ve been waiting for you to get here, Calla. She needs you.”

  “Who does?”She must be mistaken, thinking she’s talking to somebody else.

  But she said my name . . .

  How does she know my name?

  “Willow . . . Althea’s daughter. You’re her friend. Go ahead . . . go hold her hand. Be with her. We’ve been waiting,”she says again.

  Calla swallows hard, wipes at her teary eyes with her sleeve, and forces herself to cover the last few steps to the threshold.

  There, she hesitates and looks back to ask the nurse how she knew Calla was coming.

  The spot where she stood is empty.

  Doctors, orderlies, and nurses continue to bustle up and down the corridor. But the nurses are wearing green scrubs.

  Not old-fashioned white uniforms with caps.

  Slowly, she turns back toward the room.

  Althea’s large form is lying in the bed covered with a white sheet drawn up to her chest. She’s connected to beeping machines through a series of tubes. Her breaths are coming harshly, with a long pause between each one.

  Willow is at her bedside, clutching one of her mother’s hands in both of hers, crying softly. In the window, over her shoulder, white confetti is swirling.

  It takes Calla a moment to realize what it is.

  Snow.

  My first snowfall.

  For a moment, she stares at it in wonder. Then Willow looks up. “Calla!”

  Calla opens her mouth to speak but can’t find her voice.

  �
��You’re here. . . . I can’t believe you’re here. Thank you so much.”

  I do belong here.

  She hurries across the room to Willow. “Is she . . . ?”

  “Her body is shutting down.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “They called me at school. It could be any time now.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  Willow’s eyes harden. “At work. He said he’d try to come by on his lunch hour, but . . . he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he’s on his way.”

  “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see . . . her.”She sweeps a hand toward her mother.

  Looking at Althea, Calla is filled with sorrow.

  Then she realizes that Althea isn’t just lying in the bed. She’s standing beside it, too. Looking younger, and healthier, than Calla has ever seen her.

  The body in the bed is technically still alive, she realizes— but now it’s like an empty house whose residents have packed up and moved on. Althea’s soul has already left. She’s free.

  Their eyes meet, and Althea flashes a radiant smile. “Thank you, Calla.”

  “For what?”

  Willow looks up. “What?”

  “What?”

  “Did you just say something?”

  She can’t hear or see her mother, Calla realizes. She doesn’t realize her spirit has already left her body. Should I tell her?

  Remembering how helpless and frustrated she herself felt the long- ago day when Althea saw her own mother and she herself couldn’t, Calla decides against it.

  Willow is too emotional right now.

  “Thank you for being with her, Calla.”Althea is bathed in white light now, growing more ethereal by the second. “You’ll help her. Take care of her.”

  She nods, unable to speak for the monstrous lump in her throat.

  As she watches, Althea disappears into the light.

  In that instant, the beeping gives way to an ominous, steady tone.

  “No,”Willow sobs. “Oh, Mommy, no.”

  Calla can only hold her, cry with her, knowing only too well the pain that lies ahead.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Lily Dale

  Monday, October 15

  7:35 p.m.

  “How is she?”Odelia asks anxiously, waiting at the foot of the stairs when Calla descends after leaving Willow in her bedroom.

  “She said she just wants to be alone.”

  “That might not be the best thing.”