The Long Way Home (12 page)

When Mike and Carson returned with the suitcases, the women got the tour of the house and discovered that of the three bedrooms, they’d be occupying two of them. Carson chivalrously gave up his room to sleep on the couch. Rita quickly nabbed Jazzy as a roommate, which left Marnie with Laverne. It was only fair, because Rita had been stuck with Laverne the night before, but that had been in a hotel room, a space with far more personal barriers than this room with the queen-sized bed. “What side do you want?” Laverne asked, and Marnie inwardly groaned. Jazzy and Rita’s room had two twin beds in a sports-themed bedroom. Upon seeing it she’d graciously let them have it, not knowing of course what the setup in Carson’s room would be.

“I’ll take the side by the wall,” Marnie said. “As long as you don’t care.”

“Whatever you want. I never sleep a wink, so it really doesn’t matter to me.” They’d been hearing about Laverne and her trouble sleeping for most of this trip. Ironic, because she was the only one who dozed in the car. “Getting caught up,” is how she put it, as if she’d gone days without sleep.

When they were washed up, teeth brushed, and in their sleepwear, the two women climbed under the covers. It had been a long time since Marnie had shared a bed with anyone. It felt odd. Laverne must have sensed her reluctance, because she took the pillow shams, punched them into cylinders, and positioned them down the center of the bed. “Now I have my side and you have yours.”

“Thanks, Laverne,” Marnie said. Maybe she was too hard on the woman. Laverne could be a little bit annoying, but she was a good soul. It wasn’t her fault that Marnie was a nervous wreck about this trip and that Laverne’s excitement about traveling out of the state rubbed her the wrong way. “Laverne,” she said after they’d turned off the lights and settled under the covers. “What do you suppose is the deal with Preston Place?”

Laverne yawned. Marnie heard the bed creak as she shifted position. “I don’t know.”

“It has something to do with Rita and her daughter, I got that much from what they said when you were in the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

“I find it kind of upsetting that they’re keeping things from us. I mean, we know that Jazzy’s psychic, so it’s not like that’s a mystery or anything. I just hate being left out.”

“I’m sure they’ll tell us tomorrow.” Laverne’s voice trailed off at the end. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I guess you’re right.” Marnie pulled at the edge of the sheet until the smooth cotton was against her chin. She took a deep breath, drawing in the clean smell of fresh laundry. “I just hate secrets. I guess it’s just a thing with me. Brian used to keep me out of so much. It made me feel like I wasn’t worthy. You know what I mean?” She waited for a response, but there was only the sound of loud breathing from Laverne’s side of the bed. In another minute, the breathing turned to snoring, an odd snoring like the popping of air from between closed lips. And then a gasp, and a minute later a muted snort. A barnyard of human snoring. It was familiar to Marnie, who’d heard the male version of these sounds every night for the first few years she’d been with Brian. She wasn’t a doctor, but she felt confident diagnosing this one.

Laverne had sleep apnea. No wonder she was always tired. Marnie would tell her in the morning.

In the other bedroom, Rita was too keyed up to sleep. She’d questioned Jazzy once they were alone, but wasn’t entirely happy with the answers.

“So, this voice you heard—you’re absolutely sure it was the same as the one you heard at the rest stop with the deer?”

“Yes, it was one and the same,” Jazzy said. “And yes, she said this was where we needed to be to find Preston Place.”

“And you got the impression it was Melinda?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Did she say anything about me?” Rita said, pressing on. “Did you get any other details?”

“Rita,” Jazzy said sternly, and for a second her tone reminded Rita of the way Melinda spoke when she thought her mother was prying into her business. “I told you what I know. If there was anything else, believe me, I’d tell you.”

When Jazzy was in the bathroom washing up, Rita called Glenn, thinking he’d find the news of the actual existence of Preston Place astounding. Instead, he reacted calmly. “I hate to say it, hon, but it could just be a fluke.” He didn’t want her to get her hopes up just to get them dashed, she knew that, but would it have killed him to have mustered a little more enthusiasm?

She tried to explain how uncanny it was that Jazzy heard a voice say the words “Preston Place” and had Beth confirm them, all in the space of a few minutes. “If you had seen it happen, Glenn, you would have been in awe. It was mystical. Jazzy and I are both convinced it’s Melinda. There’s something going on here, something bigger than anything I’ve ever experienced.”

He agreed then, but she sensed he was placating her. He was more concerned about the car. “I don’t like the idea of you staying with strangers,” he said. “Do you want me to fly out there tomorrow? I can rent a car at the airport, come get you, and deal with the mechanic myself.”

She said of course not, but then on second thought, told him maybe. She’d let him know. Car problems could be so frustrating. She always felt like an idiot when mechanics explained what was wrong, and she was never sure if she should nod like she understood or confess her ignorance and ask them to explain. Either way, the repair bill was the same. Having Glenn fly out and take charge might be comforting. He’d always handled anything with moving parts in their household. But it also might feel like a failure on her part. Her role in this trip, right from the start, was that of leader. It felt good to be in charge of something outside of her normal life. She needed to do this and do it well. Seize the day, and all that. “I’ll call you tomorrow when I know more about the car,” she repeated.

“All right, hon,” her husband said. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Good night.” Rita turned the phone off, feeling much better about being stranded somewhere in Colorado, in a house with complete strangers. She would sleep well tonight now that Glenn knew where she was. She knew that no matter where she was in the world, if she needed him, he would come.

That night Jazzy was awakened by the sound of her grandmother’s voice calling her name. She sat up in bed and looked around, having momentarily forgotten where she was. She rubbed her eyes, let them adjust to the dark of the room, and listened intently, but only heard Rita breathing softly in the other bed, her sleeping form lit by the moonlight coming through the slats in the blinds.

“Grandma?” She said the word aloud, more out of habit than necessity. The dead could hear her thoughts as well as her voice. She verbalized the word more for herself than her grandmother, having learned from past experience that thoughts are slippery things. To the living, spoken words had shape and meaning.

She knew her grandmother had arrived when she sensed a familiar energy enter the room a moment later. Jazzy felt a sense of happiness and completion at being reunited with the one person who truly understood her. At times like these she was glad to be psychic.

She pushed the covers away and pulled her knees to her chest, hugging herself physically. “Hello, Grandma.” It came out as a whisper, but the truth was, she was holding back; if she were alone, she’d have shouted the greeting. Ever since Scarlett Turner offered her a job and said she’d serve as her mentor, Jazzy had yearned for her grandmother’s advice and hoped she’d have the opportunity to ask. She never took these spiritual meetings for granted. Each one was a gift because she never knew if it would be the last.

Jazzy, my darling.

Jazzy felt a light touch on her head, a typical affectionate gesture from her grandmother when she’d been alive. “What should I do, Grandma? Should I take the job with Scarlett Turner in New York?” she asked quietly, getting straight to the point. In the other bed, Rita turned over in her sleep. Jazzy hoped she wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t want anything to break her concentration.

Do you want to work for Scarlett Turner?

“Maybe, but I don’t know anyone in New York and…” Why was Grandma answering a question with a question? Jazzy needed her opinion. “I’m not sure. I just want to do the right thing.”

For someone who’s psychic, you don’t use your intuition nearly enough
. Grandma conveyed the words in a teasing manner, but Jazzy wasn’t in the mood for being teased.

“Grandma, seriously, tell me what to do.”

I can’t tell you what’s right for you. You have to decide that for yourself.

“Really? You won’t tell me?” Jazzy said, frustrated. This was especially out of character for her grandmother, who, when alive, loved to give advice. All of Jazzy’s life she’d instructed her on everything from how to make a bed (hospital corners!), to how to shake hands (look the person in the eye), to the best way to keep a house tidy (put things away as you go along). And now, for something this important, she was totally bailing on her?

Oh, darling, only you know what will make you happiest. Follow your heart.

Again with the fortune cookie advice. Jazzy sighed. “Okay, Grandma, if you say so.”

Remember, when the universe aligns it does so for a reason. There are no coincidences.

What in the name of all that is glorious was
that
supposed to mean? Jazzy opened her mouth to ask, but even as she did, realized that their time together was over. The hazy form that was her grandmother was dissipating. Jazzy felt her spirit retreat in the same way you feel someone get up from the seat next to you on a bus, even if you’re engrossed in a book and don’t look up. “Wait, Grandma!” she whispered frantically.

Follow your instincts, Jazzy. You’ll do fine
.

And then she was gone and Jazzy was alone, sitting in the middle of a bed in a strange house. What did it all mean? A pressure headache began to form behind her eyes, and she ran her fingers through her hair to try to relax. Tears welled up in her eyes and a small sob escaped her throat.

From the next bed, she heard the rustling of covers followed by Rita’s voice. “Jazzy? Are you okay?”

She drew in a deep breath before answering. “Yeah, I just can’t sleep and I’m getting a headache. Sorry if I disturbed you.” She leaned over and ran her fingers over the space above her ears in small circles. The motion alleviated the pressure, but as soon as she pulled her hands away the pain was the same as before.

Jazzy hadn’t really disturbed her. Rita had been awake the whole time, and had caught snatches of her whispering. The girl was talking to her grandmother, from the sounds of it. It wasn’t such an odd concept to Rita. She talked to Melinda on a regular basis.

“I have some Excedrin PM in my purse.” Rita sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. Jazzy blinked from the sudden brightness.

“Oh, you don’t need to—”

“Nonsense. I have it right here.” Rita grabbed her purse off the floor and rummaged through it for a minute before pulling out a white plastic container. “This will fix you right up.” She handed it over and Jazzy accepted, opening the lid and shaking it until a blue pill popped out.

“One?”

“The directions say two, but one usually does it for me. How bad is your headache?”

Jazzy considered. “Not too bad. It just started.”

“Take one,” Rita advised. She reached back in her purse and pulled out a small plastic bottle of water. “It’s lukewarm, but unopened.”

“Thanks.” Jazzy took it from her outstretched hand. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Not to worry.” Rita waved a hand to indicate it was nothing. “I was a mom for twenty-three years, I’m used to it.”

“You’re still a mom,” Jazzy said. “Nothing can take that away from you.”

Rita sighed. “That’s nice of you to say, and I know you’re talking in a spiritual sense, but the truth is someone took it away from me. Davis Diamontopoulos killed my daughter, and all I have left is her memory and the sad thought that her life was not fully lived. He not only took Melinda’s life—he destroyed mine and my husband’s too.” She could tell she’d upset Jazzy, but she couldn’t help it. The platitudes no longer worked. Rita didn’t want to hear that Melinda was an angel who would never grow old, or that at least she and Glenn had the blessing of a daughter for twenty-three years. Some people never have children; that’s what one well-meaning woman told her recently when they’d met up at the post office. Well, too bad for those people, but how dare someone minimize her loss. “That’s just the way it is,” she said. “She’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Jazzy handed back the bottle of water. “I think we should both get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a big day.”