Lily Dale: Awakening (17 page)

Built in the 1880s, the wooden structure appears as untouched by modern upgrades as any other structure in Lily Dale, inside and out. The large rectangular panels around the perimeter walls have been opened to let in the evening’s damp chill. Calla’s toes are icy in her sandals, and she wishes she’d put on a sweatshirt under her light jacket. Her thin Florida blood isn’t used to these fluctuating temperatures, and she wonders if it ever feels like summer here.

She and Odelia settle into a pair of hard wooden seats in the front of the tiered room, which is slowly beginning to fill. Calla looks around, taking in the polished hardwood floor, the metal poles that stretch to the exposed rafters, the old-fashioned glass-globed light fixtures that hang low among them. Down front is a stage that holds little other than a row of unoccupied chairs to one side and a podium.

Odelia is busily carrying on a gossipy conversation with the middle-aged woman seated on her other side, leaving Calla free to watch people move into their tiered seats. They could be about to see a Broadway show or a concert for all their casual, chatty conversation. You’d never guess from the crowd’s overall demeanor that they’re here to be put in touch with their dead loved ones—assuming that’s why they’ve all ventured out to this drafty auditorium on a gloomy weeknight that feels more like November than August.

Pretty much everyone is casually dressed, including the mediums who are now taking the stage, settling themselves into the row of chairs there as an expectant hush falls over the room.

Calla can’t help but note that all but one of them is female and as plus-sized as her grandmother is, if not more so. The lone exception is a lanky African-American man sitting on the far end of the row.

“Hey, you’re here!” a voice whispers somewhere behind Calla, and she feels a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turns to see Evangeline slipping into a seat behind her.

Calla smiles briefly, first at Evangeline, who returns it, then at the pretty girl sitting with her, who doesn’t. Her mouth doesn’t even quirk when Evangeline introduces her, still in a whisper. “This is Willow York. She lives here. Willow, this is Odelia’s granddaughter, Calla.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Calla murmurs in response, though it doesn’t sound like the girl meant it.

Calla doesn’t want to feel intimidated by her striking dark hair and eyes, porcelain skin, and delicate bone structure, but it’s hard not to. She wishes she had taken the time to at least remove the elastic from her own hair and brush it out, or put on a little makeup to hide her dark under-eye circles. Oh, well. This isn’t a beauty pageant, even if Willow York looks as though she should be onstage somewhere other than here, wearing a Miss Something banner.

Wondering if she’s always this aloof, or just doesn’t like straggly-haired newcomers, Calla turns to face forward again as the session begins with a brief, meditative prayer.

Then the first medium, Debra, comes to the front of the stage and surveys the audience intently for a moment before seeming to zero in on someone behind Calla to the left.

“I’m back there,” Debra announces with a sweep of her hand, “and I have a white-haired man coming through—not gray, but pure white, and he has an awful lot of it. His name is Rod, or Rob, or maybe Bob—something like that. He passed very quickly, either falling from a height, or having something fall from a height onto him—I can’t tell which it is.”

Hearing a high-pitched gasp, Calla turns to see a woman with short blond hair, covering her mouth with both hands as the man next to her rests a supportive arm around her shoulders.

“Do you know who this is?” the medium asks unnecessarily.

The woman is nodding fiercely. “It’s my uncle Roger. We called him Uncle Rodge.”

Intrigued, Calla turns back toward Debra, who doesn’t look surprised at all.

“He worked at Home Depot,” the blond woman goes on, “and he was killed by a pallet of wood or something that fell from a high shelf.”

“It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes . . . that was almost two years ago. My aunt just got remarried last week.”

Debra nods, as if she already knew that. “He wants to tell her that it’s okay with him. That he wants her to be happy. He’s saying he always told her that she should get on with her life if anything ever happened to him, and that she didn’t believe he really meant it. But he did.”

“I . . . I don’t know if he ever said that.” Uncle Rodge’s niece is choked with emotion. “I’ll ask my aunt.”

“Do that. And give her the message, please. It’s important.”

“I will!” The woman sits down and tilts her temple against that of the man sitting next to her, who whispers something in her ear.

Not sure what to make of what just happened, Calla watches Debra close her eyes as if she’s concentrating on something. It could be just an act, she supposes. The medium might have done her homework in advance. An accidental death at Home Depot would probably have made the papers.

But that was two years ago . . . and how would Debra know the victim’s niece would be here tonight? Nobody took names at the door. Everyone here is anonymous.

All right, so if Debra didn’t research the blond woman in advance, maybe she just made a series of lucky guesses. Lots of elderly men have white—not gray—hair. Some even have a lot of it, though many are balding. And the name—something that sounds like Rob, Rod, or Bob, all fairly common—leaves it pretty open, considering that it could have been interpreted as a first name or a last name or even a nickname. Anyone who lost a white-haired Rob, Rod, or Bob—or anyone with a name remotely similar—at some point in his or her life might have claimed the so-called spirit as his or her own.

Then again, Debra nailed the cause of death. Wouldn’t it have been safer for her to guess a heart attack, if she were guessing? Or something even more vague, like “something involving the chest area,” which could be a heart attack or cancer or even a blood clot.

Yet Debra chose to be specific: he either fell from a great height or something fell on him. Bingo.

Calla listens with interest as Debra zeroes in on her next message, for a pair of elderly sisters holding hands in the second row. It’s from their late mother, who wants them to know that she’s doing just fine on the other side, and that there’s something wrong with the car one of them drives.

“She’s saying you need to have the tire pressure checked, or the oil—something like that,” Debra advises as the sisters exchange worried glances and promise to oblige.

Finally, Debra spends a long time trying to find out who in the audience is connected to the spirit of a teenage boy who died in a car crash. There are initially a number of takers, but the number dwindles as the details of his life and death emerge, until at last there’s a young girl who barely knew him but was a couple of years behind him at the same school.

“He wants you to get in touch with his mom and tell her it wasn’t her fault. He should have been wearing his seat belt. She always told him that, and he didn’t listen. He wants her to know that he’s okay.”

The girl nods, looking upset. “But why would he come to me?”

The medium shrugs. “You never know who you’re going to get when you come here. Sometimes the last person you would ever expect to hear from is just waiting to pounce— forgive the expression—because they know you’re coming, and they seize the opportunity to get their message delivered to their loved ones using you—and me, for that matter—as the messenger.”

The girl seems satisfied with that explanation. Calla is, too . . . which bothers her somewhat.

This is all making so much more sense now, seeing the process in action. But does that mean that she’s actually one of them? That she could, with training, do what they do?

I’d be afraid to see spirits all around me all the time.

Yet that thought is swiftly chased from her mind by another:
I’d be able to help people, the way Debra just did.

She glances around at the people who just received messages. All seem contented, as opposed to the wary expressions worn by some of their seatmates who are still hoping for a reading.

It’s a gift
, Calla acknowledges as Debra takes her seat to a smattering of applause.

People come here to Lily Dale searching for some connection to their lost loved ones. She, of all people, can relate to their anguished sorrow and longing. That some of the bereaved seem to find comfort here should give Calla hope. Not just for her own grief, but for her gift—if, indeed, she does have one.

But what about me? What good is this gift if I can’t even use it to find Mom?

The next medium steps up quickly to take Debra’s place. As she begins questioning a section of audience members on the opposite side of the room, Calla begins to feel as though she’s being watched. Her breath catching in her throat, she turns her head slowly, expecting to see, once again, the shadowy figure of the woman who’s been haunting her.

Instead, she spots Jacy Bly. He’s leaning against the door frame, arms folded, and he doesn’t look away when she catches him looking at her. She does, though, feeling her face grow hot. She hasn’t run into him since the other day, when they went fishing together.

Then again, it’s not like she’s spent much time walking around Lily Dale. The weather has been crummy, and she’s pretty much been holed up in Odelia’s house.

Feeling a jab in her shoulder from behind, she turns to see that Evangeline is motioning with her head in the boy’s direction. “That’s him.”

“What? Who?” she whispers back, pretending to be clueless.

“That’s Jacy Bly,” Evangeline hisses. “Remember I told you about him?”

“Oh . . . right. We met,” she admits at last, and is relieved the moment it’s out.

“You did? When?”

“I ran into him at the lake the other day, and he, uh, showed me how to drop a fishing line.”

Evangeline looks a little dismayed, but she says only, “What did you think of him?”

“He’s so quiet. I don’t know . . . he was nice.”

“Yeah. He is nice.” Evangeline shrugs.

Does she think I’m interested in him? Maybe I should tell her I’m not. Only . . .

Calla slips another glance in his direction and finds him still watching her, as though they’re the only two people in the room.

Only maybe I am.

Unnerved, she shifts her attention back to the medium doing the reading—at least, she tries to. Every time she sneaks a look at the doorway, she expects Jacy to be gone, like an apparition that may or may not have been there in the first place. But he’s still there. And he keeps catching her looking.

I should stop,
Calla thinks, but she can’t seem to help herself. Evangeline was right. There’s something magnetic about him.

Once, when she hastily shifts her attention away from Jacy, she finds herself looking unexpectedly at another familiar face. It’s Elaine Riggs, from Ohio. She doesn’t see Calla, though. She’s focused on the medium onstage, and she looks hopeful. Calla wonders where her daughter is tonight. Hopefully she’s not casing Odelia’s house again, especially with the door unlocked.

The next medium, a man named Walter, takes the stage. Calla remembers her conversation with Jacy and realizes he’s one of Jacy’s foster dads.

Watching him in action is fascinating. He’s even more accurate and specific than most of the other mediums were, and he delivers his messages with an air of gentle, sympathetic concern.

“I’m getting something for an Eileen . . . Ellen . . . something like that. It’s about a child, but . . . this isn’t her name. It’s the mother’s.”

Nobody says anything.

“I’m seeing a red Buckeyes shirt,” the medium goes on, and someone calls out immediately. Calla turns to see that Elaine Riggs is standing.

“I’m from Ohio. But my name is Elaine—not Eileen.”

The medium pauses, seeming to listen, then asks, “Do you have a daughter?”

A sob escapes the woman as she nods.

“I’ve got a male spirit here, and he’s telling me something about your daughter. He’s showing me a white paper shopping bag . . . the kind with handles. Like from a department store . . . do you know what this means?”

“I think so.” Elaine’s shoulders are shaking with emotion and tears are pouring down her cheeks. Why is she so upset?

Is her daughter really a thief? Calla wonders. A shoplifter or something? That would explain the shopping bag, she decides, pleased she’s getting the hang of how this works.

“Spirit is saying you’ve been upset about something involving your daughter. He wants you to know he’s with you . . . this is
not
your husband, though.”

“No, my
ex
-husband is alive.”

“I feel like this is an older man. It could be your father.”

“Yes. Daddy passed away last year.”

No wonder she’s so emotional. Calla would be a wreck if her mother popped up here without warning.
I wish she would, though.
. . .
I so wish she would.

“He’s with you,” the medium assures the woman again. “He keeps saying that. He really wants to bring you comfort.” He pauses, his eyes closed tightly, like he’s meditating. “He’s showing me a rock.”

“A rock? What . . . what do you mean?”

“It’s just . . . a rock.” Walter frowns. “And there’s a house.”

“What kind of house?” Elaine asks, almost sounding panicky. “What does it look like?”

“No, it’s . . . not a real house. It’s a child’s drawing. One dimensional. Door in the middle, two windows, chimney with curly crayon smoke . . .”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Walter appears lost in the vision, shaking his head slowly. After a minute, Elaine asks, “Is he . . . is he saying anything else? Is he showing you anything else?”

“No. His energy is fading. I’m sorry . . . I’m being pulled over here now.” The medium is off to the opposite side of the auditorium, to someone else, leaving Elaine crumpled, disappointed, in her seat.

Calla watches her uneasily. She can’t help but wish there were something she herself could do. Or, yes, she almost feels as if there’s something she’s
supposed
to do. To help Elaine. Which is odd, because she’s not even sure why Elaine is here.