Apparition (24 page)

“Kip … um, has had a little accident,” I say, trying to sound normal. “Just want to find him a cold cloth for his neck.”

“Ahh.” In the hallway light, Joyce is looking steely-eyed at Kip. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

He tries to protest but she insists on taking a peek under his collar. “That must hurt,” she says.

She gestures for us to join her in the kitchen, and Morris and Kip take seats at the table. She leans against the counter, arms folded across her chest. I’m pretty sure she’s furious but she seems really controlled. I reach into a drawer for a freshly laundered dishcloth and soak it under cold water. I wring it out and hand it to Kip, who smiles a thanks at me and very gently wraps it around his neck.

“So”—Joyce looks at Kip—“how did that happen?” From the tone of her voice, I’m not sure she’s expecting the truth.

“Well, a dumb accident really,” Kip says. “There was this rope hanging in the barn. I was up on a beam, trying to take photographs for Dad’s farm collection—old barns, outbuildings, that kind of thing—and I … uh, tripped. Tripped and fell, got tangled up in the rope. Just the way I fell, I actually got my head caught in a loop and … uh, damn near hanged myself. Just stupid bad luck.”

“No kidding,” Joyce says, a little flatly. “I guess you can’t be too careful in old, abandoned places like that. There’s no shortage of bad karma in that barn.”

Morris raises his eyebrows.

“Mr. Dyson?”

“Call me Morris.”

“Okay, Morris. You were going to say something?”

“Yes. I could use a smoke. Would you join me out on the back porch?”

“Well, why not?” she says, taking a jacket from a hook on the wall.

Morris rises from the table, gingerly, and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. He takes a quick glance at Kip and me, then follows Joyce out the door. “Trying to quit,” I hear him say as the door slams behind them.

Through the kitchen window, we watch them walk to the far side of the porch. Joyce pulls two cigarettes out of her pack and hands one to Morris. She takes out a plastic lighter and lights hers, then hands the lighter over. They turn toward the paddock and lean on the wooden porch rail, their backs to the window.

Kip and I look at each other across the table. His face is pale now, his hair super-messy and his mouth slack like he’s in shock. For a second he reminds me of a little kid. Then he gives me a weak, quivering smile.

“Holy crap. I feel like I just went through some initiation ritual. For a satanic cult.”

“Well, I think you passed with flying colours,” I try to joke, but then the fear washes over me again and takes my breath away. I have to hide my face for a minute. It’s too awful to imagine how that could have ended.

When I look up, Kip is focusing on his hands, which he’s placed palms down on the table before him, like he’s trying to steady them. Then he says in a low voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. About ghosts, I mean. But that was …” He searches for the right word. “Very convincing.” He glances up at me, his blue eyes bloodshot. Then he quickly looks away, shaking his head and swearing under his breath.

We sit in silence for a few seconds. I’m thinking about how badly I wanted to prove to him that ghosts exist. But not like this. I look at his hands and I’m embarrassed to realize that I have such a strong
desire to touch him right now. To put my arms around him. Finally I reach out, but only to brush my fingers lightly along his knuckles. Then I draw back and put my hands in my lap.

“If we hadn’t got you out of there in time, I would never, ever have forgiven myself.” I look up at his pale face. “Never.”

His hand slides, palm up, along the table toward me. I don’t hesitate to place my hand in his, and we sit quietly and wait. Feeling his warm touch is such a relief, I try not to think about anything else. When we see Morris and Joyce turn and walk back toward the house, our hands release. They bring with them a gust of chill wind that smells of cigarette smoke.

Morris slumps into the chair beside Kip and me. He looks awful.

“Morris and I had a chat about the barn,” Joyce says. She turns to Kip. “Beer?”

“Sure,” he says, surprised. “Thanks.”

She walks over to the fridge and gets him a beer, flipping the cap off with an opener, then grabs one for herself and a couple of cans of cola for Morris and me. I watch Kip take a gulp from the bottle. Morris reaches out for his can of pop, his hand still shaking slightly. Then he looks at Kip and me.

“I’ve told Joyce everything we know about the history of the barn. About the four suicides leading up to Jack’s fall. And our suspicions about Jack’s fall.”

My jaw drops. I can’t believe it. He looks at me and raises a hand, gesturing that it’s okay.

“She already knew something was going on, so there was no point in trying to cover things up. We didn’t get into this looking for trouble, but now it’s serious. We’re trying to solve a mystery before someone else dies, and there’s no ordinary way to deal with it. We can’t just file a complaint with the police, or dial 911 for help.”

He turns to me. “Joyce believed me when I told her we didn’t bring Ethan into this and have no idea how he tracked us there. But her bigger concern is you, Amelia. Your grandmother doesn’t want you having anything more to do with the barn, and I agree with her.”

My jaw clenches. There’s a silent tension in the kitchen, and finally Joyce speaks.

“I told Morris I don’t believe in ghosts. If he does, that’s fine, but he’s got no business involving a sixteen-year-old girl in his ghost hunting. Especially you, Amelia, given your history of … apparitions. I’m not going to stand by while you get sucked back into an obsession with dead people. That’s not the way to get on with your life.”

I knew it. I knew it would come to this. I’m looking down at my hands, balled up in fists on the table before me.

“Joyce”—I’m struggling to control myself—“it’s not like that. It’s not Morris’s fault. And it’s not my fault. It’s not something I can just stop. It’s … it’s not going to stop.” I feel like exploding at her. “This is the way I am.” It’s all I can do to get the last words out.

Kip reaches across the table and takes one of my fisted hands, holds it in his like he’s trying to warm it. I keep my eyes on his hands as they go blurry.

“Amelia,” Joyce says calmly, “just because I can’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I realize that. But I don’t want you taking chances in dangerous situations. And seeing ghosts, whether they’re really there or not, is not good. It’s not good. Even if you’re sane now, it’ll drive you mad eventually. I do not want you going back into that barn. Is that understood?”

As she says that, Ethan walks into the room and everyone at the table seems to straighten up. Morris clears his croaky throat. I yank
my hand from Kip’s and quickly wipe my eyes. When did he come downstairs? How much has he heard?

“I’m thirsty,” he says, as though nothing unusual is happening. He doesn’t even look at us. He walks over to the fridge and takes out a carton of milk, all eyes on him. He takes a glass from inside the nearby cupboard, and we all sit in awkward silence as he drinks, slowly, like he’s just killing time.

Finally Morris asks, “What grade are you in, Ethan?”

“Nine.”

“Ah. Then you might know the daughter of a friend of mine. Jessica Nielsen? Is she in your class?”

“Yeah. I think so.” He finishes his milk, then hoists himself up on the counter by the sink, legs dangling, making himself comfortable, like he’s not going anywhere. He’s gazing around the kitchen as if it’s terribly interesting. Joyce raises her eyebrows and turns to Morris.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to be getting back into town. It’s been nice meeting you face to face.” She turns to Kip. “I do hope you take care of that neck.”

Kip catches my eye as he reaches for his coat on the back of his chair, and he leans in, saying in a low voice, “I’ll call you.” I wish he didn’t have to go.

Joyce and Morris have stood up but I stay where I am, feeling too weak to move.

“Amelia asked me about an old gal you were trying to track down,” Joyce says, like she’s making small talk. “She thought she might be in one of the local nursing homes. Did you ever find her?”

“Oh yes, we did. Dorothy Ross. We found her in Williamsford. It turns out she’s someone Amelia met before, from that reading program for seniors. Yes, she was very helpful. Lively gal for eighty-eight. She goes by the name Dee.”

“Dee? Funny she’d call herself that. In the old days, the nickname for Dorothy was Dot.” Joyce shakes her head. “Now that’s a name you never hear anymore.”

Our jaws drop in unison. Ethan looks over at us with a smirk and says, “Everybody knows that.”

J
ack’s come home. What a relief! It is just so nice having him back in the house. When Joyce and Ethan went to the hospital to pick him up, I stayed behind doing some last-minute cleaning. To celebrate his arrival, I made a big brunch for everyone. Joyce had done a major grocery shop, so we had bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and toast and pancakes. Brunch is a tradition in our family, something my mom used to do on special occasions. It was a success, more or less. Only one egg broke on the kitchen floor, and one pancake fell behind the stove. The sausages got a little burnt and had to be put out on the back porch till they stopped setting off the smoke alarm. They had a kind of charcoal crust but they were still declared to be “perfectly edible.” The scrambled eggs turned out great. The bacon too. Everyone likes it crunchy anyway.

It was a wonderful family meal, a true celebration. Joyce seemed quite emotional, toasting Jack’s return with orange juice. I wasn’t that hungry but it helped take my mind off what happened yesterday, at least for a short while. I loved seeing Jack smiling at the table again.
And Ethan ate enough for all of us. You’d think he hadn’t eaten in years.

Ethan seems quieter than usual, despite Jack coming home. I guess he’s sensing that something serious happened yesterday, though I can’t see how he picked up very much. Thank goodness he only showed up after the worst of the drama.

Me, I’ve been so grateful to have Jack to focus on. I woke up this morning with a shock of adrenalin, my hands flying up over my chest like I was falling, my heart pounding. I couldn’t remember the dream, only yesterday’s nightmare. How the ghost in the barn almost killed Kip.

At the back of my head, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened to him. What almost happened. It made me realize something: from what I’ve seen of the ghost world, it’s a poor substitute for this one. If you really care about someone, death is still the worst possible thing. And sometimes, when you imagine someone’s death, you find out just how much they mean to you.

I hated it when Kip had to leave yesterday. I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. I’m hoping to get over to their house this afternoon for a few hours. We have a lot to talk about. When he and his dad left, it was in a kind of stunned silence. I watched them through the living-room window, Morris with his arm around Kip in the driveway.

Kip called later to say he was worried about me. How crazy is that, when he was the one who almost got killed? But he said he was feeling better. I wanted to tell him how relieved I was to hear that, how much it meant to me, but it was hard to find the right words. “Kip,” I began, and there was this awkward silence, but he cut in gently, saying, “Amelia, I know.” Then he said he and Morris have been asking themselves just what happened to send the ghost into orbit. It was almost as if playing Mrs. Ross’s tape set it off. And that’s
the biggest question on their minds: Did Mrs. Ross leave out the most important part of her story?
Her
part?

A few hours later Joyce mentions that she’s got some more shopping to do in town, and as much as I dread being alone with her in the car, I ask if I can bum a lift. As it turns out, we drive into town mostly in silence. It’s pretty awkward but it’s better than talking. She lets me out in the mall parking lot and I walk downtown, turning east at the hardware store, toward the Dyson house.

It’s Kip who opens the door, surprising me with a big bear hug. It feels wonderful having his arms around me, my face against his neck, my chin on his collarbone. He’s only wearing a T-shirt but he feels warm. He smells good, too. I let out an involuntary sigh, which I hope he doesn’t hear, and feel myself go kind of limp. I don’t want him to let me go. When he does, I sway slightly before straightening up, a little embarrassed, and say hello. I have to force myself to snap out of this trance. It was just a friendly hug, after all. But wow!

“Dad’s downstairs in his cave. I’m pretty sure he’s been awake most of the night.”

“I know I was. How’s the neck?”

“Better. I’ll live.”

“Good. You’d better.”

We head through the kitchen, past the counter and sink full of dishes, and downstairs through the basement door. “Watch your step,” says Kip.

“Watch your head,” says Morris from down below. “How are you, Amelia? I felt bad about just leaving you yesterday. Are you holding up?”

He’s sitting on the couch. A bunch of handwritten papers are on the table in front of him, along with an empty coffee cup. The cameras
are nearby, at his feet. I don’t think he ever did get a shot of anything. He looks even more haggard than usual, his dark grey hair pointing every which way and big bags under his eyes. Both he and Kip look rough and unshaven, except in Kip’s case that looks pretty hot. Morris just looks unhinged. He invites me to sit down and Kip remains standing, leaning against the door frame. I take a seat on the couch.

“I’m okay. But I’m sorry I was such a baby yesterday. Joyce just pushes these buttons with me, and I don’t know, I want to bawl. I’m sorry about melting down. Kip’s the one who almost got lynched.” We both look up at Kip, standing and shuffling his feet. He looks agitated. But why wouldn’t he?

“I hear you didn’t sleep much last night either,” I say to Morris.

He smiles and shrugs. “I’ll admit it was pretty … well, frightening at the time.” He’s still looking at Kip. “But I think some good came of it. Straightened out my back.” He touches an ear to a shoulder and winces a bit. “Better than a chiropractor, pulling on that damn rope.” His deep, gravelly voice still manages to sound as laid-back as a cowboy watching over a herd of cattle.