The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney

by Suzanne Harper

  The Secret Life of

  Sparrow Delaney

  Suzanne Harper

  Dedication

  For Virginia Duncan

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  It was three minutes past midnight, and the dead wouldn’t leave me alone. I pulled my pillow over my head to shut out the voices floating up from downstairs, but it didn’t help. Tonight it was Grandma Bee, my mother, and my sister Oriole who were channeling messages from the Other Side.

  First I heard Grandma Bee. “I see an older woman. She’s short, a little pudgy, her dentures don’t fit well, and she’s squinting. Looks like she has a migraine. Hmm. And maybe a touch of indigestion.”

  Then the voice of my grandmother’s visitor: “That’s my great-aunt Agatha! That’s her to a tee!”

  “Hmmph.” Grandma Bee loathes being interrupted. I can just imagine the irate glare she’s leveling at her visitor. It’s been months since we’ve had enough money to get my grandmother’s glasses fixed, so they sit askew on her nose, one side held together with a large safety pin. The thick lenses magnify her eyes and make them look rather wild. The crooked tilt of the frames make her look slightly mad. The combination—plus Grandma Bee’s death-ray stare—usually silences . . . well, everybody.

  This woman, however, kept gushing. “I can’t get over it! It’s absolutely uncanny! You’ve described her perfectly!”

  I knew what Grandma Bee would like to say: Of course I’ve described her perfectly. I am after all a professional medium. And your great-aunt is standing right here in front of me.

  But it’s not good business to snap at paying customers, so she contented herself with a louder hmmph and an irritable clack of her dentures before continuing. “Now I’m getting something else. . . . Oh, she says you’re not using enough salt when you make her potato soup.” A note of boredom entered Grandma Bee’s voice. She hates it when ghosts talk about recipes; she only deigns to turn on the stove when she wants to brew some of her homemade weed killer. “And she says to add some bacon grease, for heaven’s sake. A little fat won’t kill you.”

  “Oh, thank you!” The visitor sighed happily at this seasoning tip from beyond the grave. “Would it be all right if I asked just one more little question? It’s about the number of onions she said to use. . . .”

  I threw my pillow on the floor and gave a huge, irritable yawn. Earlier in the evening I had sat at my bedroom window and peered down at tonight’s visitors as they walked up our cracked front sidewalk. I counted five people, meaning that the reading should have lasted about two hours, but the spirits were very chatty tonight. We were closing in on three hours with no end in sight.

  Unfortunately, I have always found it impossible to fall asleep until every stranger, living or dead, has left our house. This has led to many late nights and cranky mornings because my grandmother and mother have been hosting psychic readings—or, as spiritualists say, serving Spirit—in our front parlor since before I was born.

  I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it wasn’t just the ghosts that were keeping me awake. Tomorrow was my fifteenth birthday—undoubtedly the begining of a new and brilliant future!—and right after that was the first day of school. And this year the start of school was even scarier (and more thrilling) than usual.

  The reason was simple: I had always assumed that I would go to Jamestown High School, just as my six (yes, count them, six) older sisters had. But some sort of redistricting plan was put into place last year. After all the lines had been redrawn, it turned out that I lived in a borderline area, so I could choose to attend either Jamestown High or a huge, recently consolidated high school thirty miles away.

  Hmm, let’s see . . . I could go to the school where my sisters had spent years making a, shall we say, vivid impression, and where I would attend classes with people I had known since kindergarten. Or I could go to a brand-new school and meet brand-new people and make a brand-new start on my life. What to do, what to do?

  We had three months to decide. It took me about three seconds.

  I was the only person in my town who chose the new school, mainly because nobody else wanted a forty-five-minute bus ride each morning and afternoon. I didn’t care. I would have traveled twice as far to end up in a place where I didn’t know anyone and, most crucially, no one knew me.

  Because when you have a deep, dark secret to hide, a new beginning is a very good thing.

  12:15 A.M.

  I stared at the ceiling. Through a quirk in our old house’s heating system, the hushed voices on the first floor floated up into my attic bedroom with perfect clarity.

  “May I come to you?” Oriole asked another visitor. (There are several ways that mediums can ask if a person would like to hear a message from beyond the grave. Some people say, “May I share your energy, my friend?” while others say, “May I enter your vibration?” The important thing, my mother says, is to ask. “It’s only polite, my darlings,” she always adds.)

  The sound of my sister’s voice brought her image in front of me as clearly as if I were sitting opposite her in the dimly lit parlor: She sits on a faded green couch, the perfect backdrop for her long silver blond hair. Candlelight flickers over her pale, luminous skin. She is gazing into the distance, an otherworldly look on her face. (She spent months practicing that expression and then ended up looking like Joan of Arc’s less stable sister.)

  “You have suffered a disappointment in love recently,” Oriole said.

  The visitor caught her breath with amazement. Visitors always do, even though just about everyone has suffered a disappointment in love recently, depending on how you define disappointment, love, and recently. A few months ago a woman cried out, “Yes, that’s right! My little dog Sammy ran away just last month!” I have yet to experience any disappointment in love, since I have yet to experience love in any form whatsoever. Still, I hope that when I do, it will be with a dashing, bold, and charismatic hero, not a disgruntled terrier.

  “Your grandmother Rose is here. She says that you must keep thinking positive thoughts,” my sister said.

  “Oh?” The visitor sounded skeptical of this vague suggestion.

  “She also says that true love is on its way. Watch for a dark-haired man, perhaps someone who works in computers.”

  “Oh!” That perked her up.

  After a brief pause Oriole added, “Mmm. He may like to fish.”

  “Oh.” Clearly this news was not so welcome.

  “Rise above it,” my sister said on behalf of Grandma Rose. “He’s not going to be crazy about your teddy bear collection either, but true love involves compromise.”

  Earlier in the evening my grandmother and Oriole had asked me to
join them, of course, just as I knew they would, and I had said no, of course, just as they knew I would. About every three months my family bands together and tries to persuade me to take part in a reading, using cool logic, sweet reason, or deliberate provocation, depending on personal style.

  “Dear Sparrow, what are you afraid of?” my sister Dove will ask, her large gray eyes filled with sympathy. “Even if you don’t get any messages, that doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means you haven’t succeeded . . . yet.” Dove has the round, pale face of a medieval saint and a sweet nature to match. That makes it hard to lie to her. But I do.

  “I’m not afraid,” I always answer.

  Lie number one.

  “We could treat the readings as experiments,” my sister Wren says, her brown eyes sparkling at the thought of a project requiring massive amounts of time and organization. “I could chart all your hits and misses and compare them with various outside factors, like the age of the visitors, the weather, and what you had for dinner. Then we could make some hypotheses about when you’re most likely to contact the spirit world.”

  “No, thanks,” I always respond. “I just don’t have much natural ability. I’ve accepted that.”

  Lie number two.

  “But Sparrow, I’m sure you’d find that you’re extremely gifted if you would just put forth the slightest effort!” At this point my mother actually manages to focus her eyes on me, rather than the shadows and misty shapes that typically lurk on the edge of her vision. “You have to be! After all, you’re the—”

  And then the chorus from everyone: “—seventh daughter of a seventh daughter!”

  My sisters usually roll their eyes a bit as they chant the phrase that has followed me since birth. When we were much younger, one particular sister (Raven, of course) would even give me a jealous pinch under the table.

  I can understand their reaction. After all, I’m even more tired than they are of hearing that folktale about how the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is supposed to possess enormous psychic talent.

  “That’s just an old wives’ tale,” I insist. “It doesn’t mean anything except that you come from an extremely fertile family. I don’t have any psychic ability at all. Nada. Zero. Zip.”

  Lie number three.

  “You can’t escape your destiny, Sparrow Delaney,” my sister Linnet intones in a hollow, spooky voice. “It is your fate!”

  Her twin, Lark, usually chimes in at this point with a dramatic whisper: “You will see dead people!” and then they both chortle wildly. Lark and Linnet are leggy, athletic blondes who are almost identical (Lark’s eyes are bluish green; Linnet’s are greenish blue). They agree on absolutely everything, including their shared opinion that they’re the funniest people in the known universe.

  “Let’s just drop this, okay?” I always snap at this point. “It’s about time we all gave up on the idea that I’m some kind of superspiritualist in training. I have never, ever, not even for a split second, seen a ghost!”

  And that, of course, is the biggest lie of all.

  Chapter 2

  The truth? I’ve been seeing spirits for most of my life.

  Since the moment I was born, my grandmother has watched me with the sharp eyes of a carny barker, alert for any sign that I have inherited the family’s psychic gene. Little does she know that her fondest hopes and dreams came true when I was only five years old. It was a sunny, cold morning in November. I was sitting on the kitchen floor while Grandma Bee hunted wildly through the refrigerator for a bottle of milk. She emerged holding a spinning top she found tucked behind an ancient jar of pickles. She handed it to me, said, “Here, entertain yourself for ten minutes,” and dashed down the street to the store.

  I sat on the yellow linoleum in a shaft of sunlight and spun the top over and over again. Our house was always filled with noise and confusion and, most of all, people, so I remember feeling quite content to be by myself for once. When I finally looked up, I saw a plump older man sitting at the kitchen table.

  His white hair stood up in damp little spikes that made him look like a genial hedgehog. (I later learned that this was a holdover from his earthly life as a baker, when he spent long days in a hot kitchen.) His blue eyes were wide with happy surprise, as if he had just seen a dozen firecrackers go off, showering the world with exuberant light. There was a dusting of flour on his white baker’s jacket. I smelled cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, a scent that later let me know when he was about to manifest (and always gave me an instant, insatiable craving for doughnuts). In other words, if you had to be haunted by somebody, Floyd Barnett was, without a doubt, the person you’d choose.

  He looked so happy to see me that I smiled and said hello. I don’t remember being afraid or wondering how he had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He told me his name, and we talked until he heard Grandma Bee come in the front door. Then he put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and disappeared.

  Grandma Bee must have heard our murmuring conversation because she entered the kitchen with an eager smile.

  “Who were you talking to, honey?” she asked, a bright note of hope in her voice. “Did you see someone . . . special?”

  But I didn’t need my new friend’s warning to know that I didn’t want to share him with anyone. For once in my five short years of life, I had something that was all mine.

  So I looked my grandma right in the eye and said, “Nope.” Then I went back to spinning my top.

  Thus began my career as a serial liar.

  12:37 A.M.

  The plastic numbers on my bedside clock flipped over with a loud click.

  “Your grandfather wants you to know that he’s happy and that he’s watching over you.” That was my mother’s voice, as warm and comforting as an old faded quilt. No wonder she’s booked six months in advance. “I’m getting the date November twelfth. Does that mean anything to you? No? Well, keep that day in mind. Your grandfather is telling me that it will be a most auspicious day.”

  I flopped over, trying to get more comfortable. Now my mother was asking someone else, “Does the name John mean anything to you? No? What about Joanna?”

  I sighed and turned over again. Not only was tonight’s reading keeping me awake, but the messages were boring, boring, boring.

  People who don’t deal with ghosts on a daily basis always imagine that the experience will be like the movies: lots of drama, special effects, maybe a cameo appearance by an evil entity or two. The reality is quite different. Like anything else, after a while the supernatural can become a bit . . . well, predictable.

  Oh, there are occasional moments of high drama. We’ve had tearful reunions (the quintuplet who was thrilled to talk with his four siblings who had already Passed On; he confessed he’d been feeling a little left out). We’ve witnessed the healing of old estrangements (the woman who for twenty-five years hadn’t spoken to her best friend—something about a missing ingredient in a cake recipe). On a few memorable occasions we’ve had profitable revelations, like the time a woman explained that she had hidden her emeralds in the basement deep freeze to keep them safe from burglars. Her husband rushed home, sold the earrings he found in the ice tray, and sent my grandmother 10 percent of the money as a thank-you present.

  But most of the time the spirits say exactly what everyone thinks they should say: “Tell her I love her. Tell him I’m watching over him. Tell my family I’m still with them. Let them know that I’m all right.” That is all very reassuring and comforting, I know, but it does get tedious after you’ve heard it a thousand times.

  Downstairs my mother was still nattering on. “I see an older man with thick white hair. He’s wearing a navy blue suit with white pinstripes—very snappy!” (She likes to describe people’s clothes as a way of establishing their identity. After all, there are a lot of older white-haired men on the Other Side.)

  “Oh, and I also see—”

  “Please,” I said imploringly to the ceiling, “not the tie.”

>   “—a wide tie with palm trees!” she said, delighted.

  I groaned. When my mother starts talking about accessories, the reading can go on forever.

  “I’m also picking up, let’s see . . . do silver cuff links make sense to you?”

  Cuff links! Pretty soon she’d be discussing the polyester content of his socks! I was about to bury my head under my pillow in utter despair when I smelled smoky incense and heard a voice say, “I would not dismiss your mother’s observations so cavalierly if I were you. You can learn much about a person from the cut of his jib.”

  I sat up and saw the ghost of Prajeet Singh sitting in the lotus position on the rug. As always, he was nattily dressed in black pants, navy sweater, and starched white shirt. He’s Indian—not as in Native American, but as in from the teeming subcontinent of India. He passed over in 1903, when he was only twenty-two years old, the unfortunate victim of a vicious monkey bite.

  “I’m not dismissing it. I’m just begging that we postpone it to another day.” I protested, but I was smiling.

  Prajeet’s quite a dreamboat, with dark eyes, floppy brown hair, and a kind, flashing white smile. He showed up five years after Floyd came to visit. By that time I was quite good at hiding Floyd from my family, so I just added Prajeet to the list of secrets I had to keep.

  He cocked his head to listen as my mother’s voice floated up through the vent. She had finally exhausted her fashion commentary and was passing on messages from the spiffy dresser with the palm tree tie.

  “He’s smiling and happy—”