Apparition (12 page)

“Sorry to be so nosy. I really like your dad, that’s all. But you seem young for reassessing your life already.”

“Hey, you’re never too young for a mid-life crisis. The sooner the better.”

“Do you miss Chicago?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s a great place—for Halloween costumes, especially.”

“What? Oh my God. It’s been bugging me, this feeling that we’ve talked before. Your eyes or something. When did you figure that out?” I’m totally floored. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.

“At the party.”

“No! Are you serious? How did you know?”

“I don’t know. I just did. Must have been your eyes or something.” He’s teasing again, smiling at me across the table. “And that otherworldly aura you have.”

I smile back, thinking I should somehow have known that the mysterious Bob Marley twin was Kip. I admit he isn’t as awful as I’d feared. “So why were you at that party, really? You didn’t know anyone there, did you?”

“I didn’t get the feeling you knew anyone either. Anyway, I told you: Brad’s mom. She works with me, and she suggested I go. I really thought she might be there. She’s hot. But turns out she’s also heartless. Yeah, it was pretty bad. I left not long after you did. You were my last reason for staying.”

“Sure.” I laugh at that. “So when did you move up here?”

“In August. I lived on campus last year, and my lease was up. Before that, I lived at home with my mom and my stepdad, and I really didn’t want to move back. They’re both university profs.” He grins again. “You know, you ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry! But wow, living with two profs—that must be interesting.”

“Yeah, sometimes. Sometimes not. Anyway, my dad grew up in Grey County. He moved south and met my mom, then moved back here after the divorce. I was only ten and I went with Mom. So this was a chance to get to know my dad better. I mean, we’ve visited each other over the years, but that’s not the same.”

“And what’s it like living with him now?”

“He’s even crazier than I expected.” He thinks about that a beat, then adds, “I like him.”

“Well, it’s nice that you have both parents in your life and they both … uh, love you. My mother is dead. My father’s dead too, in a car accident when I was four.” I suddenly realize that I sound self-pitying. I don’t want to.

He looks at me for a moment before he responds.

“I’m sorry. That sucks.” He takes a sip of his beer, probably trying to think of a way to change the subject. “I’m also an only child, so I’m kind of overvalued. Actually, I’m lying. There was another child, a baby girl who died.”

“I know. Your dad told me.”

“He did? I’m surprised he would mention that. Crib death. It
wasn’t great. My dad was wrestling with a few demons after that. My parents broke up a couple of years later.”

“What do you mean by demons?”

“Nothing much.” He’s cringing a little now, like he said too much. “Yeah, well, he used to drink quite a bit. Sorry, Dad,” he mutters.

I laugh. “Honestly, I won’t tell on you.”

“But he’s been clean and sober, as they say, for six years. And he’s fine.”

“Are you going to go back to university next year?”

“That’s the plan.”

The waitress comes by to see if we’d like anything else. Kip asks if I’ll share a plate of fries. I hesitate, fries being fattening and all, then say, “Sure.”

“So enough about me,” he says as the waitress leaves. “Tell me all about you.”

“Nothing to tell.” I’m starting to feel more relaxed. “Grey County, born and bred. Mom was from just south of here. Dad was from the city. I live with my grandmother Joyce, and my two brothers. My older brother, Jack, he’s great. Crooked nose, good heart. My younger brother, Ethan, is a pain. That’s about it, really. So what do you study at university?”

“Well …” He pauses, a look on his face I can’t read, then continues. “I’m into classical Greek literature. But I’m not sure I’ll stick with it.”

“Really? Why not?”

“If I want to go any further with it I’ll have to learn to read classical Greek, and as my mom likes to warn me, it’s not exactly the fast-track to a paying job these days. She says it was okay for her generation but those days are gone.”

“Ah. So what else are you interested in?” I take a risk. “Ghosts, like your dad?”

He laughs. “Not really, no. I’m what you’d call a skeptic.”

“Oh. Does that mean you don’t believe in anything?”

“You make it sound so negative. There are things I believe in.”

“But not ghosts.”

“Not really, no.” He looks straight into my eyes when he says that, but I don’t flinch or anything. It’s because I’m not surprised. I could kind of tell he didn’t buy into his dad’s obsession.

“I think mythology’s more real,” he says.

“Mythology? I saw the movie
Troy
with Brad Pitt. You believe in that kind of thing?” I can’t believe I just mentioned Brad Pitt.

“Well, in a way, I guess. Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Homer—those guys.”

“They sound exotic.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool. And interesting. I’ll give you an example. Have you ever heard of Prometheus?”

“Kind of. Maybe.”

“Okay, well, Prometheus is famous for pissing off Zeus, the king of the Olympian gods, because he went behind Zeus’s back and gave early humanity a few special gifts to help them survive, just when Zeus had decided he’d rather let them die out ’cause he thought they were such duds. Those gifts were what gave humans a leg up, so to speak. But Zeus was pretty pissed off, as I said, so for punishment he chained Prometheus to a rock on the edge of the world, with an eagle picking out his liver on a daily basis.”

“That’s nasty.”

“Well, eventually Hercules came by and freed him.”

“Phew!”

“I’m simplifying. But what’s interesting are the gifts. The best-known is fire—Prometheus steals fire and brings it to humans. Which comes in very handy for heat, light, barbecues. But a lesser-known gift is hope. You know how Prometheus created hope? He took away
people’s ability to see into the future, including their knowledge of how and when they were going to die. According to Greek mythology, people’s lives—and their deaths—are all predetermined. Knowing when they were destined to die filled people with resignation. But when Prometheus took away that foreknowledge, they were free to hope for the best. That’s what ‘Prometheus’ means—‘foreknowledge.’ So instead of feeling discouraged by the knowledge of their deaths, humans started seeing life in a more promising way. Blind hope.”

“You’re right. That
is
interesting.”

“Yeah, so basically they were better able to get on with living their lives because the future was unknown. Now, here’s another neat thing: in Greek mythology the afterworld is called Hades, and there’s a river there called Lethe. It’s the river of forgetfulness. When people die, they take a dip in it so they can forget the life they just left behind.”

I nod. It’s a lot to think about.

He continues, “So taking away people’s knowledge of the future lets them get on with living. And taking away their memory of the past lets them get on with being dead.”

“So dead people have no memory.” I think about that for a moment. “But ghosts seem to have a memory. At least some memory. Curious. Maybe it’s memory that makes them a ghost.”

“I wouldn’t know. You’re the ghost expert.”

“You really don’t believe in ghosts at all? Even when you’re alone in an old, spooky mansion after midnight?”

“Uh, let’s just say not yet. But either way, I prefer zombies.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, I forgot. Jesus was a zombie.”

“Well, only after Easter. More like a zombie than a ghost, anyway. I mean, if you had to choose. That’s why he had that Doubting Thomas apostle stick a hand in his side wound after he was ‘resurrected.’ You know what I’m talking about, right? Gospel of John?
It was to prove he was still flesh and blood, not just a ghost. You may have noticed that the Bible isn’t big on ghosts. Or even spirits or souls. Those ideas belong more to other religions. Pagan religions. And Shakespeare.” He grins at that, like he finds it amusing.

“And don’t forget Hollywood.” I grin too. “So do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt. I can’t believe I just asked that. It’s like I had a moment of insanity or something. “I mean, not that it makes any difference,” I add quickly. “I was just curious. I was thinking that if she lives in Chicago, you know, you must miss her. I mean, none of my business. You don’t have to answer that.”

“Wow, there’s a non sequitur. But it’s a relief that it doesn’t make any difference and I don’t have to answer.”

“Non what? Is that Greek?”

“Latin. It’s when something doesn’t quite follow. Comes out of nowhere. And to answer the original question: not at this exact moment, no.”

“You make it sound like you had one only an hour ago.”

“Jeez, have you ever thought of a career in interrogation?”

He looks mildly uncomfortable, which makes him seem even cuter. I decide it’s worth the effort trying to keep him that way. He must have to beat girls off with a stick.

“Okay, my turn,” he says. “How about you tell me about Matthew?”

Now it’s me who’s caught off guard. I don’t know what to say.

Kip’s face goes a little red. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I’m really sorry he died. And the way he died. I can’t imagine. I’m … I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s okay. Not much to say.” A flood of feeling, as though I’ve had a little break from it and now it’s high tide again. “He was … special.”

“Were you two a couple?” he asks.

“You mean a ‘couple’ couple? I was working on that. Interrupted.” There’s a long silence, broken only by the sound of a plate of french fries being dropped onto the table. The plate just sits there. Awkwardly.

Finally he jumps in. “Well, whatever you had, it sounds special all right.”

The way he says that makes me wonder if Morris told him about our barn visit. About Matthew’s ghost.

“Seriously,” I ask, “why don’t you believe in ghosts?”

“They just don’t make sense to me.”

“Does the truth always make sense to you?”

He laughs. “Good point. Well”—he reaches across the table and pats my hand—“let’s just say, I believe you believe.”

I pull my hand away, feeling irritated.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I’m thrilled that you and my dad are teaming up. Almost as thrilled as he is. I think it’s going to be fun.”

That’s disappointing, somehow. I’m pretty sure
fun
isn’t the right word for all this. “There’s nothing fun about the Telford barn.”

“No. No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Another minute of awkward silence.

“Well, we’ve covered quite a lot of personal ground,” Kip says, suddenly sounding all professional. “Shall we move on to business? Research for Morris?” He pulls out a handwritten list on a piece of paper.

“Okay, sure,” I say, grateful for the shift in tone.

“Fry?”

“Sure.” And we both take one.

“These are all the people who’ve owned the Telford farm.” He flattens out the list beside the plate of fries. He takes out a pen and follows the names as he reads them out loud. “There have been only four registered owners since the land was first sold to William McGrath,
a Scottish immigrant, and his family in
1888
. McGrath—together with his wife, Margaret, and three children, William, Sebastian and Judith—built the farmhouse, which was registered in
1889
. In
1912
the property changes hands, passing on to the younger son, Sebastian. Maybe the eldest son, William Junior, died young? Sebastian McGrath had a wife named Mary and four children—daughters named Frances, Dorothy and Cordelia, and one son, William. The next owner is registered in
1946
, a Thomas McCleary. He married Linda and had three children, John, Mary and Daniel. And the most recent owner, Hank Telford, bought it from McCleary in
1966
. He and his wife, Sarah, had two children: Paul—that was Dad’s friend—and Emily.”

While he’s talking, with his eyes on the paper between us, I steal a glance at his face. Dirty blond, that’s what my mother used to call that hair colour. A little wavy, a bit messy, and there’s a shadow of beard on his chin and cheeks. He has nice cheekbones. His nose is maybe a little long. Well … perfect, really. There’s a scar on his chin. You can see it through the stubble. And he does have a nice smile. Too bad about his attitude.

“That’s all we know about the place so far. Dad wants us to track down anything suspicious in old newspapers or in records relating to either the property itself or the family members of the owners. I guess what we’re looking for are things that connect somehow with what has happened recently. Mysterious deaths, that kind of thing?”

“Hmm, okay. So let’s review what we know so far: Matthew Sorenson and Paul Telford died in that barn. Both suicides, both suspicious. And Matthew said there are at least two other ghosts there with him, a red-haired guy and someone he only described as crying.”

“Got it.”

So weird the way he doesn’t believe in ghosts but then takes my word for something a ghost told me. What’s with that?

“Oh, and just for the record: I asked my dad, and Paul didn’t have red hair.”

“Then maybe he’s the one who was crying,” I suggest. “So where do we start?”

“Well, how about I report back to Dad? Tell him how you and I have really hit it off. So well, in fact, we’ll probably end up eloping to Vegas.” He gives me a wink and I have trouble keeping a straight face. “I’ll see if he’s managed to set up a visit with Mr. Telford. He’s hoping we can go along with him.”

“That sounds fine. I think.” He’s a charmer, all right. Maybe he’s a psychopath? Aren’t they supposed to be charming? I take another french fry. “So what else have those ancient Greeks taught you?”

“That you can’t fight fate.” He grins at me.

Yikes. I can feel myself blushing.

About twenty minutes later, we step outside the pub onto the sidewalk. The November sun is already setting. I tell Kip I’m heading off to the hospital to join my grandmother. Just then, Morgan and Brittany come round the corner, and their faces totally brighten up when they see me with this strange hunky guy.