Kindred Spirits (12 page)

Adam’s parents said it
would be okay for Adam to come over tonight to eat supper and study with me for
our history test. We did eat supper, but we’re not making great progress
studying for our history test, what with questions about Wilder’s history
weighing on our minds.

The real reason I asked
Adam over was in hopes that we could figure out some way to prove Harold
Buchanan’s guilt. And if Abigail showed up to talk with us, that would be even
better. Three heads are better than two, even when one head does belong to a
ghost.

“It’s just like the
Kennedy assassination,” Adam is saying, pointing to a page in the history book.
“The guy who everybody said was the murderer might not have done it, but how do
you prove it?”

“I don’t know,” I say.
“The only proof I have is what I saw in my head, and you’re right. To most
people that’s no proof at all.  Except maybe proof that I’m crazy.”

The
closet door swings open. “I heard talking,” Abigail says. “Oh, you have
company.

Hello, Adam.”

“Uh..hi, Abigail.” It
always takes Adam a while to relax and feel comfortable around Abigail. It must
feel weird to be having a conversation with a cloud of gray mist.

“So what are Holmes and
Watson up to this evening?” Abigail asks.

“Studying for a history
test.  Or trying to,” I say.

Abigail picks up my
history book and looks at it. “Why, this isn’t history! All these things
happened long after I was dead!” She frowns. “It’s strange to think that
history goes on without you.”

“‘I guess so,” I say.
“Abigail, I met the man who killed the Jameson sisters.  His name is Harold
Buchanan.”

“And when you met him,
you knew he did it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I knew. But
just ‘knowing’ doesn’t do much good when it comes to getting people to believe
us. People want proof,and they want to know the reason why somebody committed
the crime. We don’t have any of that.”

“And we don’t have any
way of getting it either,” Adam says.

Abigail perches on top of
my dresser. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

I close my history book.
“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Abigail says. “I
bet the only way you’ve tried to gather information so far is by asking
questions to the living. I bet you haven’t tried to ask questions to the dead.”
Abigail looks at Adam and me, enjoying the drama. “After all,” she says, “Who
would be better to talk to than the murder victims themselves?”

“But that’s impossible!”
Adam says. “You can’t just have conversations with dead people. Uh...I mean, I
know I’m having one right now, but Abigail, you’re different. These ghosts
can’t talk, or if they can, I haven’t heard them.”

“But
they can communicate in other ways, can’t they?” Abigail says. “They can make
knocking sounds, and they left a written message, didn’t they?”

Adam nods.

“My mother,” Abigail
says, twisting one of her ringlets, “was a spiritualist. That is to say, she
believed that the living and the dead could communicate with each other. She
had a sister, Eugenia, who died in childbirth, and when we lived up East, she
used to visit a medium who would help her communicate with Eugenia’s spirit.
Eugenia couldn’t talk, but she could make rapping sounds, and the medium would
ask her my mother’s questions and tell her to rap once for yes and twice for
no. Also...have you ever heard of automatic writing?”

“Is that when you just
write down a bunch of stuff without thinking about it?” Adam asks. “I write
most of my papers for school that way.”

Abigail smiles. “Not
exactly. Automatic writing occurs when a spirit possesses a medium’or at least,
possesses her hand and the medium writes down a message from the spirit. My
mother received several letters from Eugenia that way.”

“But how do you know the
medium wasn’t a fake?” Adam asks.

“I know,” Abigail says,
“because Mother was reunited with Eugenia after her death. Eugenia remembered
every conversation she and Mother had through the medium.”

“So you think we can
communicate with the Jameson sisters the same way your mom communicated with
her sister?” I say.

“Exactly,”
Abigail says. “We know they can rap and leave messages, so why not?”

Adam’s brow is furrowed.
“But evidence we get from ghosts is going to sound just as crazy as the
evidence we have because Miranda saw the murder in Mr. Buchanan’s memories. 
Nobody is going to believe us.”

“Well, not if you go around
talking about ghosts,”Abigail says, “although why people refuse to believe in
us is beyond me. What I thought was that the Jameson sisters might be able to
guide you to a source of evidence that people would believe.”

“It’s worth a shot, I
guess,” I say. “But where are we going to find a medium?”

Abigail laughs. “Now let me think...who in this room has
the Sight and has a proven record of being able to talk to dead people?”
Abigail lays a cold hand on my shoulder. “You are a medium, Miranda.”

Abigail said we should
try to summon the Jameson sisters in whatever room in Adam’s house seemed to
have the most spiritual activity. Since the living room was out because we
couldn’t do anything there without Adam’s mom noticing, we decided on Adam’s bathroom.
Since hanging out in the bathroom was an unquestionably weird thing to do, Adam
put a movie in the DVD player in his bedroom, turned the volume up a little
louder than normal, and closed the bedroom door. That way, he said, if his mom
peeked upstairs she’d figure we were watching a movie instead of, say,
summoning the dead in the potty room.

We sit down at a little
card table we’ve set up in the bathroom. I’m sitting in a folding chair, but
because of limited space, Adam has to sit on the toilet. “I feel like an
idiot,” he says.

“That
makes two of us.” I set a sheet of notebook paper and a pen on the table and
light a white candle, as Abigail said we should do. I reach over and flip off
the light over the sink so that the room is dark except for the candle. “Okay,”
I say, “Abigail says we have to hold hands’”

“Um...well, you know that
if I hold your hand it doesn’t mean you’re my girlfriend or anything, right? I
mean, you’re a girl, and you’re my friend, but,”

“Adam, it’s okay. Go
ahead, hold my hands. I promise I won’t expect an engagement ring later.”

We hold hands across the
table, with the candle flickering between us. “Helen and Mildred Jameson,” I
say. “We summon you from the other world.”

Adam snickers. “That
sounded really cheesy like a bad horror movie.”

“Shh,” I say. “Helen and
Mildred Jameson, we know Charlie Thomas did not kill you. We know he is
innocent.”

As soon as I say “he is
innocent,” the candle’s flame waves from side to side like a breeze is blowing
it. Adam’s hands are starting to sweat. “We want to prove that Charlie Thomas
is innocent,” I say, “but we need your help. Can you hear me? Rap once if you
can hear me, but if you don’t mind, rap softly so Adam’s mom won’t hear it.”

For several seconds there
is nothing. Then there’s a soft knock on the table as if a fist lightly struck
it. Adam jumps and loses his grip on my hands, but I grab his hands tighter so
our connection won’t be broken.

I swallow hard. “Are you
the spirit of Mildred Jameson? One rap for yes, two for no.”

Rap. Rap.

“Are you the spirit of
Helen Jameson? One rap for yes, two for no.”

Rap.

“Th-thank you for coming
to us, Miss Jameson.” It’s hard to hold Adam’s hands because they’re shaking so
hard. “Miss Jameson, I think we know the answer to this question, but I want to
ask you just to make sure. Did Charlie Thomas kill you and your sister? One rap
for yes, two for no.”

Rap, rap.

“Okay, good. Now let me
ask this. Did Harold Buchanan kill you and your sister?”

Rap.

Adam and I both gasp.
When I can talk again, I say, “That was one rap for yes, right?”

Rap.

“I knew it,” I say. “I
knew it because I saw it in Mr. Buchanan’s memories. But Miss Jameson, we don’t
have any proof that will make people believe us. So if you can tell us anything
that might help us, we’d sure appreciate it.”

At first there’s nothing.
No rapping, no movement of the candle flame, no sign that Mildred Jameson is
still with us.

But then Adam lets go of
my hands, quick. “No!” I hiss. “Don’t break the circle!” But then I don’t say
anything else because I can’t say anything else. My mouth is sealed shut, and
so are my eyes. If there are any sounds around me, I can’t hear them.

And then it happens. My
mind clears. It feels blank and empty like a clean sheet of paper. For the
first time I can remember, my brain isn’t buzzing with other people’s thoughts
and feelings and with glimpses of what might happen in the future. Instead my
brain is floating, at peace, and I feel like I’ve fallen into a deep, dreamless
sleep except that I know I’m awake and sitting across from Adam.

Then,
just as suddenly as my mind cleared, it’s filled up again. Thoughts and
pictures and memories pour back into it just like my brain was an empty glass
that’s being poured full again. My eyes snap open, and I hear Adam saying,
“Miranda, are you okay?” and “You’ve got to see this!”

“I’m okay,” I say. “See
what?”

“This.” He points to the
sheet of paper on the table. The whole page is filled with words.

“Did...did I write this?”

“Yep,” Adam says. “With
your eyes closed.”

I pick up the sheet of paper which is perfumed with a
flowery smell it didn’t have before, and I look at the neat schoolteacher’s
handwriting which looks nothing like mine.

“So it worked, did it?” Abigail
says as soon as I walk into my room.

“It worked.” The sheet of
paper is in my hand, and I give it to her and flop down on my bed.

“You look exhausted,”
Abigail says. “But it’s no wonder. Acting as a medium can be quite draining. So
you wrote this in a trance?”

“Yeah. I guess you could
call it that.”

“Hm,” Abigail says,
frowning down at the paper. So it’s a letter from Helen Jameson to Harold
Buchanan. Interesting.”

“Oh, it’s interesting all
right,” I say. “But it’s still not proof. It’s another piece of evidence that
came right out of my bizarro mind, and the only thing it’s going to prove is
that I’m a big loony.”

“But Miranda,” Abigail’s
tone is gentle, “this letter didn’t come out of your mind. It’s from Helen
Jameson.”

“Well, you believe that,
and I believe it. But most people seem to be under the impression that dead
people can’t write letters.” I punch my pillow in frustration. “So we’ve got a
letter that explains everything, but nobody will believe it. I don’t even know
what to do with the thing!”

Abigail
looks at me like I’m not too bright. “But it’s obvious what you have to do with
it. It’s a letter from Helen Jameson to Harold Buchanan.”

“Yeah? So?”

Abigail places the letter
in my hands. “So you have to give it to him.”

“This isn’t going to be
good,” Adam says as we go through the hospital’s double doors. “The last time
we visited Mr. Buchanan, he didn’t exactly invite us to come back.”

“And why was that, do you
think?” I say. “Could it be because he knows we know he did it?”

Adam shakes his head.
“Miranda, since I met you my life’s become lots more complicated.”

I punch his shoulder.
“But it’s less boring, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is, but I don’t
know...today ‘boring’ sounds pretty good.”

We stand outside Mr.
Buchanan’s room. When his eyes focus on us, the truth of what he did tears
through me again, and it’s hard not to double over like somebody just punched
me in the stomach.

“You...again?” Mr.
Buchanan wheezes.

“Yessir,” I say. “We
won’t bother you for long. We just wanted to bring you something...a letter
from a friend of yours.”

Mr.
Buchanan doesn’t want to talk to us, but it’s clear I’ve captured his
curiosity.

“Who’s it from?” he asks.

I walk toward the bed and
hold out the letter. Mr. Buchanan takes it in a pale, trembling hand, then to
my surprise, holds it up to his nose. “Evening in Paris,” he says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Evening in Paris,” he
says, “the perfume. A...a friend of mine used to wear it.” He squints down at
the letter. “And this is her handwriting! Where...where did you find this?”

I don’t want to get into
the whole automatic writing thing, so I just say, “We found it in Adam’s house.
He lives in the old Jameson place.”

Mr. Buchanan drops the
letter like he’s afraid it will burn him.

“Don’t you want to read
it?” I say.

“The medicine I take...”
Mr. Buchanan says,“I can’t focus my eyes well enough to read.”

I pick up the letter. “Do
you want me to read it to you?”

“Well,” Mr. Buchanan
sighs, “you already know what it says, so I suppose I might as well know, too. 
Go ahead.”

“Close the door, Adam,” I whisper. I pull up a chair
beside Mr. Buchanan’s bed, Adam closes the door, and I start to read:

My dear Harold,

How strange it is that
I should call you ‘my dear’ after what happened! But I suppose you find it
stranger still to be receiving a letter from me all these years after my death.

I want you to know
that I have never stopped loving you, even though I have never been quite able
to forgive you. Don’t misunderstand me. I have forgiven you for killing my
sister and me.

What
I haven’t been able to forgive is the fact that you made an innocent boy pay
the price for what you had done. A whole community, all the colored people in
Wilder, paid a terrible price, too.

Charlie T was just a
child when he went to prison. He was a middle-aged man when they finally set
him free, and while he managed to get some of the same things out of life that
you did’nt, loving wife and a son’he never did get over what was done to him.