by Jodi Picoult
Ross lifted a shoulder. “That’s a pretty big if.”
“Not really. You’ve been surrounded by ghosts your whole life. You just don’t know that’s what you’re seeing,” Az said. “Adio, Mr. Wakeman.”
He disappeared around the front of the house as the wind picked up. Ross shrugged into his jacket. He swallowed repeatedly, but could not get the taste of disappointment off his tongue. He told himself it was because Az had come, when Ross was hoping for a ghost. That it had nothing to do with the fact that Az had come, when Ross was hoping for Lia.
“I’ve had it!” the nurse cried, dropping the tray of pills. “I do not have to take this kind of treatment from a patient!”
Spencer Pike watched from his wheelchair, his hands folded in his lap. When he needed to, he could play the doddering fool well. He stared at a soap opera on the television set, feigning interest, as the supervisor approached.
She was a large woman with hair dyed the color of apricots. In his mind, Spencer called her Nurse Ratchet. “Is there a problem, Millicent?”
“Yes, there’s a problem,” the younger nurse fumed. “Mr. Pike’s verbal abuse.”
Ratchet sighed. “What did he say this time?”
Millicent’s lower lip trembled. “He said . . . he said I’m an idiot.”
“If I might interrupt, that’s not what I said.” Spencer turned to Ratchet. “I told her she came from a family of imbeciles. Not idiots. There is a difference, however subtle.”
“You see?” Millicent huffed.
“I only asked if she was related to the Cartwrights of Swanton. It’s a known fact that nearly half of that family tree grew up in state homes for the feebleminded.” He did not say what he had so politely refrained from telling even Millicent Cartwright—that given the number of times she’d mistaken him for one of the other rest-home patrons, she seemed genetically wired to follow in the footsteps of her kin.
Millicent shrugged out of the cotton vest she wore as an employee of the nursing home. “I quit,” she announced, and she walked out of the rec room, the heels of her white clogs crushing a rainbow of pills in her wake.
“Mr. Pike,” Ratchet said, “that was uncalled for.”
Spencer shrugged. People never wanted to face up to their own flaws. He ought to know.
In Dr. Calloway’s office, Meredith felt like a giant—too big for the tiny chairs and table, too oversized to fit in the gingerbread playhouse with the wooden slide, too awkward to fit small stubs of crayons between her fingers to color. Lucy, though, fit perfectly. Across the room and out of earshot, she lay facedown on an enormous stuffed frog, dressing one of Barbie’s anorexic friends.
“An isolated visual hallucination is rare,” the psychiatrist said. “More often, psychotic symptoms present as auditory hallucinations, or agitated behavior.” Dr. Calloway glanced at Lucy, quietly playing. “Have you seen any abrupt changes in her attitude?”
“No.”
“Violence? Acting out?” Meredith shook her head. “What about changes in her eating or sleeping patterns?”
Lucy hardly ever ate—skinny as she was, Meredith used to joke that her daughter photosynthesized instead—and as for sleeping, well, she hadn’t gone straight through a night in ages. “Sleeping’s a problem,” she admitted. “Lucy’s imagination runs away with her. She usually leaves the light on, and she gets herself so worked up about what’s in her closet or under her bed that the only reason she even gets to sleep at all is because she passes out from sheer exhaustion.”
“It’s possible that Lucy’s suffering from the same anxieties any eight-year-old might have at bedtime.” Dr. Calloway said. “And then again, it’s possible that she is seeing something in her closet and under her bed.”
Meredith swallowed hard. Her child couldn’t be psychotic, couldn’t be. Not Lucy, who would rather hop than walk; who read picture books to her stuffed animals; who had just mastered all the words to “Miss Mary Mack.” There was a truth in the back of Meredith’s head, as sharp and blue as a flame: You didn’t want her, once, and this is your punishment.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Just remember that eight is the age of Santa Claus and imaginary friends and make-believe. Children Lucy’s age are just beginning to separate fantasy from reality—and there’s a very good chance that whatever she’s envisioning is part of that process.”
“But if it keeps up?”
“Then I’d recommend starting Lucy on a low dose of Risperdal, to see if it makes a difference. Let’s just wait and see.”
“Okay.” Meredith watched Lucy begin to braid the doll’s hair. “Okay.”
Ross wasn’t hungry, so he didn’t quite understand why he’d come to the town diner—an establishment that had been around as long as Comtosook, passing like a plague through a chain of overweight, crochety owners who all believed that grease was a gourmet seasoning. Not that this seemed to affect business: when Ross arrived, every table and counter stool was taken. Settling against a mirrored wall to wait, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “Sorry,” the waitress said, turning the moment he flicked on his lighter. “We’re smoke-free.”
It seemed ridiculous that an establishment whose menu catered to early heart attacks would be so hypocritical, but Ross just tucked his Merits back into his jacket. “I’ll be around back,” he told the waitress. “Can you save me a table?”
“That depends.” She smiled. “Will you save me a cigarette?”
Now, five minutes later, he leaned against the Dumpster behind the diner and lit up, letting the smoke curl down his throat like a question mark. He crossed his eyes a little and watched the tip glow.
He should have brought a jacket—it was easily ten degrees colder back here. Temperature fluctuations like this were becoming customary in town, and its residents seemed to have turned a corner—instead of fearing these anomalies, they unpacked their winter boots and mittens, and left them beside their beach towels and suntan lotion, because either one might be called for. The best thing about New Englanders, Ross thought, was that when they finished complaining they swallowed fate like a dose of medicine—unpleasant in taste, but ultimately, something you’d get through all the same and be better for it. Ross pressed his shoulders against the dark metal wall of the Dumpster, stealing the heat it had trapped. Head bent, he tossed the rest of the cigarette away.
“You didn’t even finish that.”
He turned around. “Lia.”
Ross would have known she was behind him even if she hadn’t spoken; the scent of flowers was in the air. She ground out the butt with her loafer, her fingers fluttering at her sides. She was wearing her polka-dotted dress again, this time with a beaded cardigan, as if she were embarrassed to be seen in the same clothing and wanted to freshen it up.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Lia said.
Her words didn’t match her stance; she looked ready to bolt. There was something about her—something helpless, boxed-in, that seemed familiar to Ross. “I’ve been looking for you, too.” As he said it, he realized how much this was true. He had been searching for Lia in the reflection of store windows, in the cars that pulled up beside him at traffic lights, in line at the drugstore.
“Did you find your ghost yet?”
“Not my ghost,” Ross clarified. “A ghost.” He got to his feet, smiling. “Why were you looking for me?”
Lia spoke in a rush. “Because . . . I didn’t get to tell you the other night . . . but I look for ghosts, too.”
“You do?” This was such an unprecedented, enthusiastic response that it took Ross by surprise. Most people who believed in paranormal phenomena admitted it grudgingly.
“I’m an amateur, I suppose, compared to what you do.”
“Have you found anything?” Ross asked.
She shook her head. “Has anyone?”
“Sure. I mean, beyond spirit photography and mediums, there’s been research from Princeton and the University of Edinburgh. Even the CIA did valid
studies on ESP and telepathy.”
“The CIA?”
“Exactly,” Ross said. “The government even concluded that people can get information without using the five senses.”
“That isn’t proof of life after death.”
“No, but it suggests consciousness is more than something physical. Maybe seeing a ghost is just a different form of clairvoyance. Maybe ghosts aren’t even really dead, but alive somewhere in the past, and . . .” Ross’s voice trailed off. “Sorry. It’s just that . . . most people think what I do is crazy.”
“I get that a lot too.” Lia smiled a little. “And don’t apologize. I’ve never met a scientist who doesn’t get all excited about his work.”
A scientist. Had Ross ever been called that? It set off fireworks of feeling inside him—pride, astonishment, fascination. Certain that anything he did was going to ruin this moment, he reached for a cigarette as a delay tactic, and offered one to Lia. Her hand rose like a hummingbird, then darted behind her back. It had hovered long enough, however, for Ross to notice the thin gold band she was wearing.
And there went his world, crashing down again.
“He won’t know,” Ross said, meeting her gaze.
Lia stared at him. Then she took a cigarette from the pack and let Ross light it for her. She smoked like she was swallowing a secret—this was a treasure to be hoarded. Her eyes drifted shut; her chin rose to expose the line of her neck.
In that moment it did not matter that she was someone else’s wife; that she was still looking over her shoulder; that whatever few minutes Ross had with her would only be borrowed. This might well have been the beginning of a mistake, and even that could not prevent Ross from letting her leave just yet. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” he said.
She shook her head. “I can’t—”
“No one will find out.”
“Everyone comes to this diner. If he knows I was with you . . .”
“So what? Then you’ll tell him the truth. We’re two friends, talking about ghosts.”
Wrong answer. Lia paled visibly, and Ross saw right through to her fragility again. “I don’t have friends,” she said quietly.
No friends. And you’re not allowed to have a cup of coffee, and you have to sneak out in the dead of night. Ross could not even conjure a mental image of this tyrant who dominated Lia so completely. In today’s world, what husband would do such a thing? What woman would think so little of herself to let it happen? “What if I cover your head with a paper bag and tell everyone you’ve got leprosy?”
She fought a smile. “I can’t drink coffee through a paper bag.”
“I’ll ask for a straw.” Lia was weakening, he could see it in the sway of her knees. “One cup,” Ross pleaded.
“All right,” she agreed. “One cup.” She took a long drag of her cigarette, her throat contracting as her eyes pinned him. “Have we met?”
“Two nights ago.”
“I meant before that.”
Ross shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, but he felt as if he’d known her forever. Or maybe he wanted to know her forever. Was there a difference?
He wanted to ask her why she was afraid of her husband. He wanted to ask her what had brought her to the diner today, at the same exact moment that Ross had come there. But he was afraid that if he said anything at all, she would disappear like the threads of smoke that hung between them.
“Do you really think there’s a ghost there?” Lia asked.
“On the Pike property? Maybe. If it is an Indian burial ground.”
“An Indian burial ground?” Lia seemed stunned by the idea. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you know much about the area?”
“I’ve lived here all my life.”
“And there’s never been anything to suggest that the land might have once been part of an Indian settlement?”
“Whoever told you that is making it up.”
Ross considered this. It was entirely possible.
“But this Indian . . . it isn’t your first ghost,” Lia stated.
“It will be, if it ever shows up.”
“No, I meant, this isn’t the one that made you want to look.” She ducked her head, her hair swinging forward to cover her face. Her part was crooked at one spot in the back, as if her hand had jumped while holding the comb. “My mother died the day I was born. She’s the one I try to find, sometimes.”
He realized then that Lia’s acceptance of the paranormal was not born out of open-mindedness, but—like his—out of desperation. That what he recognized about her was, quite simply, the same pain he saw in himself.
Lia held out her forearm, pushing away the sleeve of her sweater, where a web of scars netted the flesh. “Sometimes I have to cut myself,” she confessed, “because I’m so sure I won’t bleed.”
It had been so long since someone understood. “My ghost,” Ross said, his voice swollen and unfamiliar. “Her name is Aimee.”
Once he had started, he could not stop. He spoke of the things he loved about Aimee—the ordinary ones, like the wide pool of her smile; and the others, like the spot where her elbow was always rough and the way she could not pronounce the word “drawer.” He spoke of the flash and fury of the accident, without any of the particulars that would only break him apart all over again. He spoke of what it felt like to learn that some mistakes were made in indelible ink. He spoke until his throat was raw and all his grief had been laid at Lia’s feet like an offering.
By the time he finished, she was crying. “Do you really believe that you can love someone very much, very very much, even though you’re a world apart?”
The words were torn out of her; Ross knew better than to believe this question came from his pain alone. “How can I not believe it?”
She started to back away. “I need to go.” Ross instinctively reached for her—and just as quickly, just as automatically, Lia moved out of range.
“Lia, tell me what he’s done to you.”
“He adores me,” she whispered. “He loves a woman who doesn’t really exist.”
Whatever Ross had been expecting as evidence of mistreatment, this was not it. Could you love someone so much that, even without meaning to, you hurt them?
Lia brushed the edge of his sleeve, the tears on the tips of her fingers leaving a patch of cold. “When you find Aimee,” she said softly, “you tell her how lucky she is.”
By the time Ross lifted his head, she was walking away. There were questions writhing inside him: What could she possibly have done that made her feel so unworthy of her husband’s affection? And if Lia loved him, why did it seem to be breaking her heart?
Ross had not meant to upset her. He’d only wanted her to understand that she wasn’t alone. “Lia,” he called out, hurrying after her, but she only glanced over her shoulder once and began to walk faster. Her cigarette butt smoldered on the sidewalk.
“Hey.” The waitress he’d spoken with earlier stuck her head out the diner’s back door. “You still looking for a table?”
Ross followed her inside. He was ushered to a booth that hadn’t been cleaned yet. As he slid into the banquette he handed her one of his cigarettes, as promised.
She laughed, tucked it into her sleeve, and wiped down the tabletop. “You flying solo today?”
He glanced out the window. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
The waitress scooped her tip across the table. She pocketed the bill and the quarters, snorting at the penny that was left behind. “It always pisses me how people think I’m a piggy bank,” she muttered. “Like I’d want this in my pocket any more than they do.”
“A hundred of them will get you a cup of coffee.”
The waitress jingled her apron. “And a hernia.” She slid the penny toward Ross. “Heads up. You keep it, for luck.”
As she disappeared to get him flatware and coffee, Ross picked up the coin. He flipped it in the air, caught it, spun it on its edge. It wasn’t until after the penny fell, hea
ds up once again, that he noticed it had been minted in 1932.
That afternoon Ross mentally listed what he knew about Lia: Each time she’d run into him, she seemed painfully shy. She was fascinated by the supernatural, but was afraid of her own shadow. Freedom, for her, came at night. She was married to a man whose love kept her in a box.
And, oh, she had been broken. She hid it well, but Ross knew from personal experience that once you had put the pieces back together, even though you might look intact, you were never quite the same as you’d been before the fall.
Ross fast-forwarded through the tape he’d recorded a few nights ago, replaying the conversation he’d had with Az Thompson. The problem was, he was more interested in the mystery of Lia Beaumont than the question of whether or not this property was haunted.
He had never collected on that cup of coffee she’d agreed to have with him.
Ross scraped the edge of the remote against his stubbled chin. There wasn’t a damn thing worthwhile on the tape. What would he tell Rod van Vleet?
The telephone rang, jarring him out of his reverie. He grabbed for the receiver before it woke Shelby and Ethan. “Hello?”
There was no one on the other end, but the connection was there. Ross could hear it, couched in soft static. He cradled the receiver against his shoulder. “Lia?” he murmured.
It was her; he would have bet everything he owned that it was her. She might not be able to meet him, but she knew where to find him. This was her way of letting him know.
Ross did not hang up. He fell asleep with the phone nestled against his ear, the first true sleep he’d had in days, thinking as he drifted off that he had not realized how very exhausted he was.
Thousands of years ago, the Abenaki had ranged from the northwest of Vermont to the southeast, as well as western Massachusetts, parts of New Hampshire, and even Quebec. They called the area Nd’akina, which meant Our Land. Their tribal name, Abenaki, meant People of the Dawn. They referred to themselves as Alnôbak, or human beings. At one point, they numbered forty thousand.