Believing (18 page)

“No. He was here with me.” Paula looks at her son. “You didn’t see the man today, Dylan. You weren’t with Daddy.”

“No, Kelly told me about him last night, Mommy. When I was in my bed.”

Paula smiles tightly. “Maybe you just had a bad dream.”

Calla can’t seem to find her voice at all. Her pulse is racing.

“He’s a real bad guy, not a bad dream guy,” Dylan insists, “and he’s here, and Kelly says he’s going to get Calla.”

Paula looks helplessly at her. “Sorry. He must have heard me talking to Marty.”

Calla nods, not buying that for a second.

Dylan’s father is a medium. It’s hereditary.

He knows,
she thinks, watching the child, who is scowling now and flipping the pages of a library book.
He knows things, like I do. Maybe Kelly is his spirit guide and
—

“Calla?” Ethan cuts into her thoughts, thrusting a book at her. “
Walter
?”

She forces a smile. “Sure, Ethan. I’ll read the
Walter
book.”

Paula’s comment—and Dylan’s ominous warning—cast a major pall over Calla’s afternoon. As she trudges up the path toward her grandmother’s front steps, her legs brushing against an overgrown hodgepodge of late summer flowers in full bloom, she’s still not quite sure what to make of any of it.

“Calla!”

She turns, startled, and spots Evangeline waving from the porch next door, where she’s curled up with a textbook.

“Hey, got a minute? Or are you busy?”

“Supposedly.” Evangeline snaps the book closed. “But anything’s better than conjugating French verbs. What’s up?”

Calla makes a beeline for the porch, needing to get an expert opinion on what happened at Paula’s. She quickly explains, and Evangeline tilts her head as she digests the information for a long, thoughtful moment.

“The thing is, Calla, little boys have active imaginations. Especially Dylan.”

“I know. He has an imaginary friend.”
Or so he says.
“And, I mean, the other day, he decided he was a superhero and wore a dish towel tucked into the back of his T-shirt all afternoon. He wouldn’t talk to me unless I called him Captain the Brave.”

Evangeline smiles. “See? The kid definitely lives in a fantasy world. He probably overheard his parents talking about some guy who was snooping around here looking for you, and turned him into a bad guy.”

“Yeah. That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” Calla hesitates. “The only thing is, Paula said Marty just overheard that comment today, but Dylan said Kelly told him about it last night.”

“So what? He’s a little kid. They don’t keep track of time. He’s just confused.”

“I guess.” She shrugs. “What really matters is that someone was looking for me. Right? Which is freaking me out a little. Okay . . . a lot.”

“It was probably just another reporter.”

“But what if Dylan really did have some kind of premonition?”

“Come on, Calla.” Evangeline touches her arm reassuringly. “Even then, so what? What are the odds that it’s not just some snooping reporter?”

“Why would Dylan call a reporter a bad guy, though?”

Evangeline snorts at that. “Because not everyone likes reporters. Look at the paparazzi. They’re really nosy, and brazen, and—”

“And Dylan is five,” Calla points out. “What does he know about the paparazzi? You’re really stretching it, Evangeline.”

“I know. I’m trying to make you feel better. Guess it’s not working?”

“Guess not,” she says flatly, wishing she could snap out of this dark anxiety.

“Just hang in there until Saturday morning. You’ll come to my class with me, and you’ll learn how to meditate and—”

“Meditate? Evangeline, how’s that really going to help me? Dylan said the man is
dangerous
. That he wants to hurt me, and—”

The front door creaks open. She promptly clamps her mouth shut and looks up to see Evangeline’s aunt framed in the doorway.

“Dinner’s read— Oh . . . Hi, Calla.” Ramona peers more closely at her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You’re not fine.”

Calla and Evangeline exchange a glance.

“What makes you say that?” Calla asks Ramona, who shrugs.

Okay, stupid question.
Duh. She’s a psychic, remember?

“Want to talk about it?”

“No thanks,” Calla says quickly. “I’m good. Really.”

Not really.

But Ramona and Paula are friends. Calla doesn’t want Ramona to let Paula know how rattled Calla is by what Paula, and Dylan, said. Because, really, it’s probably no big deal. Her overactive imagination is just trying to make it into one.

Or maybe your own sixth sense is telling you something is wrong,
a little voice whispers.

“Well if you change your mind . . .”

“Yeah. Thanks, Ramona.” Turning to Evangeline and wishing they could have finished their conversation, Calla says, “See you in the morning.”

“Oh, wait, Calla?” Ramona stops her as she turns to leave. “Before I forget, I talked to your grandmother earlier about taking you with Evangeline and me when we go to the mall one day next week. I was thinking you might want to shop for some new outfits, maybe stop in at the salon for a haircut, my treat. Want to come?”

“Do you really have to ask? Of course she does!” Evangeline answers for her. “Right, Calla?”

Actually, shopping and salons are the last thing on her mind right now.

Then again, she does have babysitting money to spend, and she really does need warmer clothes and a haircut.

Plus, shopping with Ramona and Evangeline will definitely be more fun—and more productive—than shopping with Dad.

Still, it won’t be the same as shopping with her mother.

I miss you, Mom. I miss you so much.

Aloud, she tells Ramona halfheartedly, “Thanks. That would be fun.”

“Good.”

Looking at her, Calla has another flash of some inexplicable link to her father.

Come on. Dad and Ramona?

No way,
she tells herself again, and heads back toward her grandmother’s house.

Strolling to Willow’s after one of Odelia’s creative stir-fry dinners—this time, a surprisingly good mixture of pork, peanut butter, rice, and bean sprouts—Calla’s feeling much better.

She just spoke to her father and mentioned to him that she’ll need computer access for a school project.

“Cal, I can’t afford to buy—”

“No, Dad, I know,” she cut in. “I have an idea, though. What about Mom’s laptop?”

He was silent for a minute.

She held her breath, willing him to agree.

“It’s back in Florida,” he said slowly. “Even if you wanted to—”

“Lisa wants me to visit her. She even sent me an airline voucher. I can go down, and get the computer while I’m there,” she pointed out. “You left the keys to the house with the Wilsons.”

He didn’t argue. He just said he’d think about it, and she left it at that, not wanting to push too hard.

But something tells her she’s going to get her hands on her mother’s computer files in the near future . . . and that somewhere among them, she might find a clue.

For the time being, though, there’s nothing to do but to roll up her sleeves and tackle the math worksheets with Willow. It’ll almost be a relief to think about the kind of problems that can actually be solved—and in specific steps, no less. So different from the other kinds of problems she’s dealing with lately.

Her father’s comment about college last weekend really made her think about next year—about whether she’ll be able to get into the schools that topped the list she and her parents had always discussed.

Is that even what she wants, though?

Now that Mom isn’t here to motivate her and Dad is a continent away, Calla isn’t sure. She does know what Mom would have wanted for her. She’d have been so proud if Calla went to an Ivy League school.

Do I want that? Can I possibly get in?

And can we even afford it if I did?

It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll be accepted into a top school with a failing math grade, so she’d really better get her butt in gear now. It might already be too late.

As she climbs the steps to Willow’s front porch, her train of thought continues to bounce around: Ivy League,Cornell . . .

Kevin.
Why did he decide to get in touch out of the blue?

Blue.
So he’s still interested in her? Is he going to ask her to homecoming? What about Jacy?

Jacy.
He was so sweet, bringing her a lunch.

The door opens and her train of thought slams into a brick wall.

An unfamiliar woman is looking out at her. Oops.

“Oh, I’m sorry . . . wrong house.” Calla backs away from the door, wondering how she managed to make that mistake. Well, that’s what she gets for daydreaming about guys: Kevin, Blue, Jacy.

Wait a minute.

This
is
the right house, she realizes, seeing the street number on the porch pillar.

“Are you looking for Willow?” the stranger asks. “I’m Althea.” At Calla’s blank look, she clarifies, “Her mother.”

What?
How is that possible?

The woman in the doorway is the polar opposite of Willow York. Physically, anyway. Her gray hair is short and frizzy, and her face, propped on several chins, is plain. She’s morbidly obese, her tremendous arms, legs, and torso crammed into a snug-fitting navy velour sweat suit.

“I . . . um . . . it’s nice to, uh, meet you,” Calla stammers. She would have expected Willow’s mother to be as drop-dead gorgeous as she is—and remembers her earlier assumption that she’d be a doctor or lawyer or banker, like the parents of her schoolmates back in Florida, instead of a medium.

Yeah, just as she originally expected Willow to be snobby and standoffish. Remembering that first day in the cafeteria, when she was surprised to see Willow rescue Donald Reamer and his dropped lunch tray, she feels a stab of guilt.

Come on, Calla.
If being in Lily Dale has taught her anything, it’s that she should never, ever, EVER subscribe to preconceived notions. Her own or anyone else’s.

“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.