Believing

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Althea York is saying. She has kind eyes, Calla notices. And a welcoming smile.

  She’s sick, though, Calla thinks, and immediately wonders where that odd idea came from. It was a fleeting inspiration, just like the strange flash she had last weekend about her father and Ramona. But this makes less sense than that, even. Why would she get it into her head that a total stranger is sick?

  “Come on in. Willow ran to the store for me, but she should be back soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  She steps into the front hall and Willow’s mother closes the door behind her.

  “You can wait for her in the study,” she says, and leads the way. Every step she takes is an obvious effort, and she’s breathless by the time they reach the kitchen.

  Maybe she really is sick. Did Willow mention something about it? Calla doesn’t think so, but . . .

  “Are you thirsty?” Althea asks. “Can I get you something to—” She breaks off abruptly, her body stiffening and head jerking.

  Oh no! Is she having some kind of seizure? What do I do?

  “You lost your mother.”

  It takes Calla a moment to grasp Althea’s words and realize there’s nothing physically wrong with her. “Oh . . . yes. In July.”

  Calla is caught off guard, though she probably shouldn’t be surprised at this point that yet another stranger knows about Mom’s death. Funny how it’s almost harder to get used to a small town filled with gossips than a small town filled with spiritualists.

  “So, Willow told you?” she asks Althea.

  “No, I feel her here.”

  “What? You feel who here?”

  “Your mother. She’s with you.”

  FIFTEEN

  “My mother is here?” Calla’s knees go liquid and she reaches blindly for something to grab on to, her head spinning.

  “Here, sit down.” Althea York gently guides her into a chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, you didn’t . . . I mean . . .” She closes her eyes and tries to focus. There must be a chill, a sense that there’s a presence, the scent of lilies of the valley in the room, something she missed . . . and is still missing. Because . . .

  “I don’t feel her,” she tells Willow’s mother. “Why don’t I feel her?” The question comes out sounding like a pitiful wail, but she can’t help it.

  “Oh, honey.” Althea lowers herself into a chair with a faint groan of effort and takes both Calla’s hands in her own. They’re sturdy, warm, and reassuring. “Most people aren’t aware of Spirit touching in. It’s not—”

  “No,” Calla cuts in, distraught, “that’s just it—I am aware. I’m . . . like you. And everyone else here.”

  Althea’s eyebrows shoot toward her salt-and-pepper bangs.

  “I can see ghosts—I mean, spirits—and hear them and smell them,” Calla rushes on, “just like you can. Ever since I got here . . . or maybe before,” she adds hurriedly, remembering that first glimpse of Aiyana at the funeral. “It’s been happening ever since my mom died. But not her. I can’t see her. And she’s the only one who really matters.”

  Willow’s mom is silent for a moment.

  Then she says, “I can tell you that this doesn’t necessarily work the way—”

  Calla bites back a bitter Here we go again.

  But she’s so sick of it.

  She’s going to tell me it’s not like a telephone.That you can’t just place a call to someone on the Other Side and expect it to be answered.

  “—but,” Althea continues, seeing the look on her face, “I have a feeling you’ve heard that already. Right?”

  Calla nods.

  “And it doesn’t help, does it? When your heart is hurting and you’ve lost someone you loved, and needed, so desperately, and you’d give anything to have that physical connection one last time . . .”

  Has she lost someone, too? Calla wonders, watching her, hearing the note of pain in her voice. Lost them, and maybe even tried to find them again on the Other Side?

  Or does she just know what it must be like for me?

  “So, my mother’s here?” she asks, looking around the empty room, and Althea nods.

  “Can you see her?”

  “She looks like you.”

  Althea’s looking at something to Calla’s right side and she jerks her head toward the spot, only to find it empty.

  “Mom,” she whispers, and slips her hand from Althea’s to reach into the emptiness, as if she might suddenly be able to touch her mother.

  But she doesn’t feel her . . . not physically with her hand, not spiritually in the room. She doesn’t feel anything at all.

  Calla Delaney.

  That’s her name.

  The friendly woman in the café told him, so casually. “Oh, you mean Calla Delaney,” she said in response to his question. “Sure, she’s Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter. Pretty girl, tall, slim, with long, light brown hair—the spitting image of her mother, Stephanie, when she was that age.”

  “Do you know where Odelia Lauder lives?” was his next question, but by then, the woman’s less-cooperative friend had shot her a warning frown, and she promptly claimed that she didn’t.

  Which was ludicrous, of course, in a town that size. Everyone in Lily Dale knows everyone else—and their business. That’s apparent.

  All he had to do was stroll down the street and ask the next passerby where Odelia Lauder lived, and he was pointed in the right direction with a cheerful smile.

  “There’s a sign with her name on it hanging right over her door . . . you can’t miss it,” he was told.

  But when he got here—just a short time ago, under cover of darkness, after killing a few hours in a truck stop off the highway—there was no sign. Just a bracket with a pot of yellow flowers.

  So he’s been watching the house. Waiting.

  He keeps reminding himself that all he wants tonight, before he gets back behind the wheel for the long drive back to Ohio, is a glimpse of her.

  But, thoughts racing and body tense from too much truck-stop coffee, he wonders if that can possibly be enough.

  “Is it some kind of . . . of block?” Calla asks Althea desperately. “Is that why can’t I find my mother? Why can’t she come through to me?”

  “Oh, honey, you just lost the person who was closest to you in the entire world, and your pain is so overwhelming— so damned huge, pardon my French, and all-encompassing— that it may be acting as a barrier, and you just aren’t open to—”

  “No, I am! I am open! I swear! My mother is all I think about sometimes. Reaching her . . . I think about it all the time. I look for her everywhere, and—”

  “But you’re grieving, Calla. You’re so young, and you have so much grief to process, such a tremendous amount of healing to do—that burden is more than enough for you to bear. When the time is right, and when you’ve had some time to heal and fully accept her passing—”

  “I do accept it,” she protests stubbornly.

  But it’s obvious from Althea’s expression that she doesn’t agree. Still, she doesn’t argue, saying only, “Your loss is so fresh, Calla. When you’ve had time to process it and get some perspective, I believe your mother will be able to come through to you.”

  “She will?”

  “I believe she will,” Althea says carefully.

  “Can you ask her for me?”

  “Her energy is gone and—”

  “You’re just saying that to get me off your back,” Calla accuses, and is immediately surprised at herself. It isn’t like her to talk to anyone this way, let alone an adult—and a virtual stranger.

  “No, honey, the energy is really gone.” Althea lays a chubby hand on her arm. “But you don’t need me to talk to her. You know that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can do it yourself. Anytime. You need to realize that.”

  “It’s not the same if I don’t know she can hear
me,” Calla says in a small voice.

  “She can.”

  “But I want to hear her, and see her.” And suddenly, she doesn’t know how she’s going to last until that class on Saturday morning.

  “I know you do. But when—if—your mom does come through to you, it might not be in the way you’re expecting. Keep in mind that you have to be open to anything.”

  “There have been a few times . . .” Calla gathers her thoughts, then goes on, “Lilies of the valley were my mother’s favorite flower. I’ve smelled that scent in a couple of places where it shouldn’t have been. Do you think that was her?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes Spirit makes itself known in unexpected ways. We might receive signs through symbols we don’t even recognize because we’re so busy looking for whatever it is that we expect.”

  “But if that’s how she makes herself known—through the smell of those flowers—why couldn’t I smell it right now?”

  “I wish I could answer that for you, Calla, but this isn’t an exact science. I can’t say that every time you smell lilies of the valley for the rest of your life, it’s your mother coming through to you, or that she isn’t with you when you don’t smell it. Just know that sometimes that may be how she makes herself known to you.”

  “But she made herself known to you by appearing.”

  Althea shrugs. “I’ve been doing this work for years. It’s like anything else. You have to work at it.”

  “I want to see her,” Calla repeats stubbornly.

  “I know you do. Just remember, physical manifestations aren’t the only way our loved ones make themselves known. In fact, sometimes, their visits are so subtle we miss them if we aren’t entirely receptive. And sometimes, they even come to us in dreams because we’re most open to their energy when we’re asleep.”

  “Dreams?” Calla echoes, her thoughts racing. She thinks about what Dylan said earlier, about seeing the raccoon man in his bed at night. Was that more than just a bad dream? And what about the recurring dream she herself has had about dredging the lake. Is Mom herself sending Calla some kind of message about the long-ago argument with Odelia?

  “So if you have a dream,” she asks Althea, “how can you tell if—”

  A door slams in the front of the house, and Calla clamps her mouth shut. For some reason, she doesn’t want Willow to walk in on this particular conversation. It feels too . . . private. Which is kind of ironic, considering she met Althea only about ten minutes ago.

  “Here you go, Mom.” Willow breezes into the kitchen carrying a white paper bag. “Calla! You’re here. Have you been waiting long?”

  “No.” Just long enough for a crash course in mediumship.

  “Good. The pharmacist is always slow, but I swear he took forever tonight.”

  Calla watches Willow hand her mother a receipt and a bag. Medication, obviously. For Althea.

  Because she’s sick, Calla realizes with a pang of regret. Really, really sick.

  Again, the thought makes no sense. For all she knows, Althea could be taking antibiotics for a sore throat, but . . .

  That’s not it.

  She feels Althea’s serious illness as suddenly and as surely as she’s felt other things she couldn’t possibly know. Things that turned out to be true.

  Watching mother and daughter exchange a smile, she’s overwhelmed by a sweeping, inexplicable sadness. She knows with a sickening certainty that Willow York is going to be in Calla’s shoes someday. Maybe not long from now.

  “So let’s get to it.” Willow turns to Calla. “Did you bring your stuff?”

  “I’ll let you girls do your thing.” Althea begins moving with obvious physical effort toward the next room. “I’m glad we met, Calla.”

  “So am I,” she says as casually as she can manage around the aching lump in her throat.

  It’s late, past nine thirty, when Calla leaves Willow’s. Her head is spinning, filled with mathematical formulas and everything Althea told her—and then, of course, there’s what happened just now, when she remembered to ask Willow if she could check her e-mail before leaving.

  Calla, It was so good to hear from you. I really miss you and I’m glad you wrote back. Maybe if the weather’s nice one of these weekends I’ll come visit you in Lily Dale. It’s not that long a drive, and any excuse for a road trip in the new car, LOL

  Let me know.

  xoxo Kevin

  She didn’t answer it.

  Partly because she wasn’t sure quite what to make of it. Any excuse for a road trip? Is that vaguely insulting? Or just a sign that they’re now merely casual, buddy-buddy pals?

  And . . . let me know? Let him know what? If she wants him to visit?

  Does she want him to visit?

  The truth is, she longs to see Kevin again . . . but the old Kevin. She wants, more than anything, to go back to the way things were.

  Seeing the new Kevin would be just a painful reminder that those days are gone forever . . . wouldn’t it?

  On the other hand, seeing him—and revisiting the past— might actually help to cure that vague homesickness that pops up every now and then.

  Great. So which is it?

  As she crosses the quiet street to her grandmother’s small patch of front lawn, a familiar, nagging uneasiness creeps over Calla.

  Probably just because she’s out alone in the dark of night in Lily Dale.

  Yeah. And because some little kid said a bad guy is out to get you.

  She glances up to see that there’s no moon tonight. The sky is black and wisps of mist drift eerily in the yellowish glow above a nearby lamppost.

  Pretty spooky. She looks around, half-expecting to find Kaitlyn’s spirit hovering nearby, but it isn’t.

  Still, she has the distinct feeling that she’s not alone out here. That someone is watching her.

  Which is crazy.

  Are you really going to let a five-year-old put crazy ideas into your head?

  Heart pounding, she hurriedly climbs Odelia’s front steps, noticing she has yet to rehang the shingle with her name on it.

  Calla opens the door. Of course it’s unlocked, as always, and of course she finds herself thinking, as always, that her grandmother shouldn’t be quite so reckless.

  She slides the bolt behind her, and for the first time, doesn’t feel entirely secure even then.

  Through the window in the door, Calla looks out into the night. The glare from the porch light makes it impossible to see beyond, and she wonders if someone really is lurking out there, in the inky shadows.

  Someone dead? Or someone alive?

  Thinking of Kaitlyn, and Erin, she shudders and turns away. Stop freaking yourself out.You’re being ridiculous.

  The sound of the television from the next room is a normal and welcome distraction, and she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself.

  Okay. Good. Everything is fine. See?

  In the living room, she finds Odelia snoozing in her chair in front of a CSI rerun.

  Calla hesitates for a moment, wondering if she should wake her to say she’s home.

  Or . . .

  You can quietly go make a phone call without being overheard.

  Opting for plan B, she tiptoes past her grandmother into the kitchen, which is bathed in a cozy glow from the bulb beneath the stove hood. As Calla reaches for the phone, something darts across the room.

  That was her, Calla, suddenly appearing out of the darkness and disappearing into the house just now.

  He knows, without a doubt, that it had to be her.

  She looks just like the woman’s description.

  And she’s beautiful, like the others.

  Beautiful, and afraid . . . yes, like the others.

  But he found them, their pictures, by chance. Followed them, learned their routines, waiting oh so patiently to strike. And they fell for his ploy, believing, at least at first, that he was a police officer trying to help them. It was almost surprising, how easy it was to lure them in.

 
Then again, those girls didn’t have some kind of crazy sixth sense. They weren’t the least bit suspicious of him.

  This girl might be different.

  He was so startled to see her out here, alone in the dark, that he simply froze.

  You missed your chance. There she was, a few feet away, all alone on a deserted street. He could simply have reached out and— Yes, but it isn’t time.

  He’s known all along that he isn’t going to do anything tonight, no matter how badly his hands ache to grab her.

  He clenches them into fists, fighting the urge, knowing he can’t rush into anything on the spur of the moment.

  These things take time. He has to be in the right frame of mind. He has to have a plan. He has to be ready to cover his tracks.

  For now, he should be content to just watch her, to savor each moment, knowing that he alone controls her fate.

  “Gert! Geez, you scared the heck out of me!” Calla plucks the kitten from the kitchen floor and holds her close, stroking two fingertips over the soft fur between the delicate little ears. “I’m such a nervous wreck tonight. What’s up with me?”

  Gert rewards her petting with a purr that is surprisingly strong for a creature her size, and Calla smiles as she dials the phone.

  What an adorable kitten, she thinks.

  Which leads illogically to, What if Kevin and Annie broke up?

  Seriously. What if he came to his senses and realized he and Calla belong together and is trying to feel her out, wondering if she’d be open to hooking up again?

  She can’t keep wondering. She has to find out, so that she can either move on, once and for all, or . . .

  Or what?

  Get back together with Kevin?

  She tells herself that would be a terrible idea. For plenty of reasons.

  She just can’t seem to think of any off the top of her head.

  The phone is already ringing on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?”