The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney

The Secret Life of
Sparrow Delaney

Suzanne Harper

Dedication

Contents

 

 

Chapter 1

It
was three minutes past midnight, and the dead wouldn't leave me alone. I pulled my pillow over my head to shut out the voices floating up from downstairs, but it didn't help. Tonight it was Grandma Bee, my mother, and my sister Oriole who were channeling messages from the Other Side.

First I heard Grandma Bee. “I see an older woman. She's short, a little pudgy, her dentures don't fit well, and she's squinting. Looks like she has a migraine. Hmm. And maybe a touch of indigestion.”

Then the voice of my grandmother's visitor: “That's my great-aunt Agatha! That's her to a tee!”

“Hmmph.” Grandma Bee loathes being interrupted. I can just imagine the irate glare she's leveling at her visitor. It's been months since we've had enough money to get my grandmother's glasses fixed, so they sit askew on her nose, one side held together with a large safety pin. The thick lenses magnify her eyes and make them look rather wild. The crooked tilt of the frames make her look slightly mad. The combination—plus Grandma Bee's death-ray stare—usually silences . . . well, everybody.

This woman, however, kept gushing. “I can't get over it! It's absolutely uncanny! You've described her perfectly!”

I knew what Grandma Bee would like to say: Of
course
I've described her perfectly. I am after all a
professional medium
. And your great-aunt is standing
right here in front of me
.

But it's not good business to snap at paying customers, so she contented herself with a louder
hmmph
and an irritable clack of her dentures before continuing. “Now I'm getting something else. . . . Oh, she says you're not using enough salt when you make her potato soup.” A note of boredom entered Grandma Bee's voice. She hates it when ghosts talk about recipes; she only deigns to turn on the stove when she wants to brew some of her homemade weed killer. “And she says to add some bacon grease, for heaven's sake. A little fat won't kill you.”

“Oh,
thank
you!” The visitor sighed happily at this seasoning tip from beyond the grave. “Would it be all right if I asked just one more little question? It's about the number of onions she said to use. . . .”

I threw my pillow on the floor and gave a huge, irritable yawn. Earlier in the evening I had sat at my bedroom window and peered down at tonight's visitors as they walked up our cracked front sidewalk. I counted five people, meaning that the reading should have lasted about two hours, but the spirits were very chatty tonight. We were closing in on three hours with no end in sight.

Unfortunately, I have always found it impossible to fall asleep until every stranger, living or dead, has left our house. This has led to many late nights and cranky mornings because my grandmother and mother have been hosting psychic readings—or, as spiritualists say, serving Spirit—in our front parlor since before I was born.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it wasn't just the ghosts that were keeping me awake. Tomorrow was my fifteenth birthday—undoubtedly the begining of a new and brilliant future!—and right after that was the first day of school. And this year the start of school was even scarier (and more thrilling) than usual.

The reason was simple: I had always assumed that I would go to Jamestown High School, just as my six (yes, count them,
six
) older sisters had. But some sort of redistricting plan was put into place last year. After all the lines had been redrawn, it turned out that I lived in a borderline area, so I could choose to attend either Jamestown High or a huge, recently consolidated high school thirty miles away.

Hmm, let's see . . . I could go to the school where my sisters had spent years making a, shall we say,
vivid
impression, and where I would attend classes with people I had known since kindergarten. Or I could go to a brand-new school and meet brand-new people and make a brand-new start on my life. What to do, what to do?

We had three months to decide. It took me about three seconds.

I was the only person in my town who chose the new school, mainly because nobody else wanted a forty-five-minute bus ride each morning and afternoon. I didn't care. I would have traveled twice as far to end up in a place where I didn't know anyone and, most crucially, no one knew me.

Because when you have a deep, dark secret to hide, a new beginning is a very good thing.

12:15
A.M
.

I stared at the ceiling. Through a quirk in our old house's heating system, the hushed voices on the first floor floated up into my attic bedroom with perfect clarity.

“May I come to you?” Oriole asked another visitor. (There are several ways that mediums can ask if a person would like to hear a message from beyond the grave. Some people say, “May I share your energy, my friend?” while others say, “May I enter your vibration?” The important thing, my mother says, is to ask. “It's only polite, my darlings,” she always adds.)

The sound of my sister's voice brought her image in front of me as clearly as if I were sitting opposite her in the dimly lit parlor: She sits on a faded green couch, the perfect backdrop for her long silver blond hair. Candlelight flickers over her pale, luminous skin. She is gazing into the distance, an otherworldly look on her face. (She spent months practicing that expression and then ended up looking like Joan of Arc's less stable sister.)

“You have suffered a disappointment in love recently,” Oriole said.

The visitor caught her breath with amazement. Visitors always do, even though just about everyone has suffered a disappointment in love recently, depending on how you define
disappointment
,
love
, and
recently
. A few months ago a woman cried out, “Yes, that's right! My little dog Sammy ran away just last month!” I have yet to experience any disappointment in love, since I have yet to experience love in any form whatsoever. Still, I hope that when I do, it will be with a dashing, bold, and charismatic hero, not a disgruntled terrier.

“Your grandmother Rose is here. She says that you must keep thinking positive thoughts,” my sister said.

“Oh?” The visitor sounded skeptical of this vague suggestion.

“She also says that true love is on its way. Watch for a dark-haired man, perhaps someone who works in computers.”

“Oh!” That perked her up.

After a brief pause Oriole added, “Mmm. He
may
like to fish.”

“Oh.” Clearly this news was not so welcome.

“Rise above it,” my sister said on behalf of Grandma Rose. “He's not going to be crazy about your teddy bear collection either, but true love involves
compromise
.”

Earlier in the evening my grandmother and Oriole had asked me to join them, of course, just as I knew they would, and I had said no, of course, just as they knew I would. About every three months my family bands together and tries to persuade me to take part in a reading, using cool logic, sweet reason, or deliberate provocation, depending on personal style.

“Dear Sparrow, what are you afraid of?” my sister Dove will ask, her large gray eyes filled with sympathy. “Even if you don't get any messages, that doesn't mean you've failed. It just means you haven't succeeded . . . yet.” Dove has the round, pale face of a medieval saint and a sweet nature to match. That makes it hard to lie to her. But I do.

“I'm not afraid,” I always answer.

Lie number one.

“We could treat the readings as experiments,” my sister Wren says, her brown eyes sparkling at the thought of a project requiring massive amounts of time and organization. “I could chart all your hits and misses and compare them with various outside factors, like the age of the visitors, the weather, and what you had for dinner. Then we could make some hypotheses about when you're most likely to contact the spirit world.”

“No, thanks,” I always respond. “I just don't have much natural ability. I've accepted that.”

Lie number two.

“But Sparrow, I'm sure you'd find that you're extremely gifted if you would just put forth the slightest effort!” At this point my mother actually manages to focus her eyes on me, rather than the shadows and misty shapes that typically lurk on the edge of her vision. “You have to be! After all, you're the—”

And then the chorus from everyone: “—seventh daughter of a seventh daughter!”

My sisters usually roll their eyes a bit as they chant the phrase that has followed me since birth. When we were much younger, one particular sister (Raven, of course) would even give me a jealous pinch under the table.

I can understand their reaction. After all, I'm even more tired than they are of hearing that folktale about how the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is supposed to possess enormous psychic talent.

“That's just an old wives' tale,” I insist. “It doesn't mean anything except that you come from an extremely fertile family. I don't have any psychic ability at all. Nada. Zero. Zip.”

Lie number three.

“You can't escape your destiny, Sparrow Delaney,” my sister Linnet intones in a hollow, spooky voice. “It is your fate!”

Her twin, Lark, usually chimes in at this point with a dramatic whisper: “You
will
see dead people!” and then they both chortle wildly. Lark and Linnet are leggy, athletic blondes who are almost identical (Lark's eyes are bluish green; Linnet's are greenish blue). They agree on absolutely everything, including their shared opinion that they're the funniest people in the known universe.

“Let's just drop this, okay?” I always snap at this point. “It's about time we all gave up on the idea that I'm some kind of superspiritualist in training. I have never, ever, not even for a
split second
, seen a ghost!”

And that, of course, is the biggest lie of all.

Chapter 2

The
truth? I've been seeing spirits for most of my life.

Since the moment I was born, my grandmother has watched me with the sharp eyes of a carny barker, alert for any sign that I have inherited the family's psychic gene. Little does she know that her fondest hopes and dreams came true when I was only five years old. It was a sunny, cold morning in November. I was sitting on the kitchen floor while Grandma Bee hunted wildly through the refrigerator for a bottle of milk. She emerged holding a spinning top she found tucked behind an ancient jar of pickles. She handed it to me, said, “Here, entertain yourself for ten minutes,” and dashed down the street to the store.

I sat on the yellow linoleum in a shaft of sunlight and spun the top over and over again. Our house was always filled with noise and confusion and, most of all, people, so I remember feeling quite content to be by myself for once. When I finally looked up, I saw a plump older man sitting at the kitchen table.

His white hair stood up in damp little spikes that made him look like a genial hedgehog. (I later learned that this was a holdover from his earthly life as a baker, when he spent long days in a hot kitchen.) His blue eyes were wide with happy surprise, as if he had just seen a dozen firecrackers go off, showering the world with exuberant light. There was a dusting of flour on his white baker's jacket. I smelled cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, a scent that later let me know when he was about to manifest (and always gave me an instant, insatiable craving for doughnuts). In other words, if you had to be haunted by somebody, Floyd Barnett was, without a doubt, the person you'd choose.

He looked so happy to see me that I smiled and said hello. I don't remember being afraid or wondering how he had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He told me his name, and we talked until he heard Grandma Bee come in the front door. Then he put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and disappeared.

Grandma Bee must have heard our murmuring conversation because she entered the kitchen with an eager smile.

“Who were you talking to, honey?” she asked, a bright note of hope in her voice. “Did you see someone . . . special?”

But I didn't need my new friend's warning to know that I didn't want to share him with anyone. For once in my five short years of life, I had something that was all mine.

So I looked my grandma right in the eye and said, “Nope.” Then I went back to spinning my top.

Thus began my career as a serial liar.

12:37
A.M
.

The plastic numbers on my bedside clock flipped over with a loud click.

“Your grandfather wants you to know that he's happy and that he's watching over you.” That was my mother's voice, as warm and comforting as an old faded quilt. No wonder she's booked six months in advance. “I'm getting the date November twelfth. Does that mean anything to you? No? Well, keep that day in mind. Your grandfather is telling me that it will be a
most
auspicious day.”

I flopped over, trying to get more comfortable. Now my mother was asking someone else, “Does the name John mean anything to you? No? What about Joanna?”

I sighed and turned over again. Not only was tonight's reading keeping me awake, but the messages were boring, boring, boring.

People who don't deal with ghosts on a daily basis always imagine that the experience will be like the movies: lots of drama, special effects, maybe a cameo appearance by an evil entity or two. The reality is quite different. Like anything else, after a while the supernatural can become a bit . . . well, predictable.

Oh, there are occasional moments of high drama. We've had tearful reunions (the quintuplet who was thrilled to talk with his four siblings who had already Passed On; he confessed he'd been feeling a little left out). We've witnessed the healing of old estrangements (the woman who for twenty-five years hadn't spoken to her best friend—something about a missing ingredient in a cake recipe). On a few memorable occasions we've had profitable revelations, like the time a woman explained that she had hidden her emeralds in the basement deep freeze to keep them safe from burglars. Her husband rushed home, sold the earrings he found in the ice tray, and sent my grandmother 10 percent of the money as a thank-you present.

But most of the time the spirits say exactly what everyone thinks they should say: “Tell her I love her. Tell him I'm watching over him. Tell my family I'm still with them. Let them know that I'm all right.” That is all very reassuring and comforting, I know, but it does get tedious after you've heard it a thousand times.

Downstairs my mother was still nattering on. “I see an older man with thick white hair. He's wearing a navy blue suit with white pinstripes—very snappy!” (She likes to describe people's clothes as a way of establishing their identity. After all, there are a lot of older white-haired men on the Other Side.)

“Oh, and I also see—”

“Please,” I said imploringly to the ceiling, “not the tie.”

“—a wide tie with palm trees!” she said, delighted.

I groaned. When my mother starts talking about accessories, the reading can go on forever.

“I'm also picking up, let's see . . . do silver cuff links make sense to you?”

Cuff links! Pretty soon she'd be discussing the polyester content of his socks! I was about to bury my head under my pillow in utter despair when I smelled smoky incense and heard a voice say, “I would not dismiss your mother's observations so cavalierly if I were you. You can learn much about a person from the cut of his jib.”

I sat up and saw the ghost of Prajeet Singh sitting in the lotus position on the rug. As always, he was nattily dressed in black pants, navy sweater, and starched white shirt. He's Indian—not as in Native American, but as in from the teeming subcontinent of India. He passed over in 1903, when he was only twenty-two years old, the unfortunate victim of a vicious monkey bite.

“I'm not dismissing it. I'm just begging that we postpone it to another day.” I protested, but I was smiling.

Prajeet's quite a dreamboat, with dark eyes, floppy brown hair, and a kind, flashing white smile. He showed up five years after Floyd came to visit. By that time I was quite good at hiding Floyd from my family, so I just added Prajeet to the list of secrets I had to keep.

He cocked his head to listen as my mother's voice floated up through the vent. She had finally exhausted her fashion commentary and was passing on messages from the spiffy dresser with the palm tree tie.

“He's smiling and happy—”

“And he wants you to know he's all right,” I chanted wearily. “Now if he would just go be all right someplace else and let the rest of us get some sleep—”

“Not a very gracious attitude, I must say, Sparrow,” a new voice said tartly. Professor Edna Trimble was shimmering at the end of my bed, accompanied, as always, by the brisk scent of liniment. She had been in her eighties when she Passed On and long retired from her career terrorizing students at an academically rigorous women's college. However, she still dressed in a tweedy, professorial way and wore her gray hair in a severe bun. Her wintry blue eyes eyed me sternly over silver-framed bifocals. “I really expect better of you.”

“I'm too tired to be gracious.”

She gave a disapproving sniff. “Even when utterly exhausted, one should always demonstrate common courtesy to others.”

I fell back on my pillows, knowing better than to argue. Professor Trimble appeared about a year after Prajeet and immediately began nagging me about my homework (sloppy), my posture (bad), my manners (careless), and my general attitude (poor). After her first alarming appearance I asked Prajeet, with some trepidation, if my bedroom would soon be crowded with ghosts, offering unwanted advice and commenting on whether I had made the bed.

“No, no, do not worry,” he had said. “You see, we three are your spirit guides. You have heard of such beings, have you not?”

I had, of course. Unlike friends or relatives who Cross Over and then come back with specific messages for their loved ones, spirit guides are assigned to watch over people here on Earth for longer periods of time. I had always found the concept comforting, although I began to revise that opinion after meeting Professor Trimble.

“So you're here to help me, right?” I had asked, just to be sure.

“Yes, indeed,” Prajeet had said. “Guidance, support, a helping hand, they are all part of our brief. We each have our little specialties, of course. Floyd, for example, is your gatekeeper, who has watched over you since birth. I have a certain humble talent for explaining metaphysical concepts. And Professor Trimble is here to, er . . .”—he had paused, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then continued diplomatically—“I suppose I should say she is here to make sure you fulfill your potential.”

“Oh.” I'm sure I sounded rather gloomy at this news. Even then I had sensed that Professor Trimble and I were going to have very different ideas about what fulfilling my potential meant.

“So why are you doing all this?” I had asked. “It sounds like a lot of work. I thought the afterlife was supposed to be kind of, I don't know . . . relaxing.”

“An excellent question, my dear Sparrow!” he had said with delight. “The answer is quite simple. Helping others enables us to advance to a higher spiritual level on the Other Side, just as it does here on Earth.”

“Really? What's the next level? Do you get promoted to angel or something if you do a good job?”

But apparently even Prajeet couldn't (or wouldn't) reveal all the secrets of the universe at one go. He had just smiled a little and said, “Ah, well, the universe offers many mysteries to unravel—but not tonight, I think.” And I could never get him to utter another word on the subject after that.

I rather liked having spirit guides, even if I did have to be careful to talk to them only when no one else was around. But shortly after that conversation I began seeing other ghosts, ghosts that definitely weren't interested in achieving a lofty spiritual goal through unselfish assistance to others. No, they wanted
me
to help
them
. They would come up to me anytime, any place—in my bedroom, on the front porch, at the dinner table, in study hall, at the bus stop. The only place that seemed to be off limits, thank goodness, was the bathroom. I really didn't want to have to deal with spirits in the shower.

“They're everywhere!” I had complained. “Like flies at a picnic!”

“More like moths to a flame, honey,” Floyd had answered.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Professor Trimble said, “that you have an extraordinary amount of psychic talent.”

“That's ridiculous,” I'd said, uneasy. “If I'm so talented, why didn't I show signs of it before now?”

“That was my doing,” Floyd had said, pleased with himself. “You remember when I first came to you? You were already demonstrating all four kinds of psychic ability, but you were such a little thing. I knew we had to take it slow, so I didn't let other spirits approach until you were ready. It's like baking a soufflé. You don't want to overbeat the eggs, or it won't rise. You don't want to keep opening the oven door, or it will fall. You don't want to—”

“I have four kinds of psychic ability?” I had interrupted. Floyd's baking metaphors tend to be long and elaborate. Plus they make me hungry.

Prajeet held up one finger. “Clairvoyance. The ability to see spirits.” He held up another finger. “Clairaudience. The ability to hear spirits.” Two more fingers. “Clairsentience, the ability to feel or sense the presence of spirits. And clairgustance, the ability to sense smells or tastes associated with a spirit. Most mediums have only one such gift. It is quite rare indeed to possess all four.”

“Oh.” That did sound overwhelming.

Professor Trimble had nodded austerely. “It will require discipline and work and many hours of study for you to learn to control your abilities.”

That had sounded daunting.

“Fortunately,” she had added smoothly, “we are here to help you.”

That
had sounded terrifying.

Now, as I listened to a reading that was heading into its fourth hour, I didn't feel overwhelmed or daunted or even particularly terrified. I just felt very tired. As an experiment, I closed my eyes to see if I would miraculously fall into a dreamless sleep despite the ghosts in my bedroom and the people downstairs. . . .

“Sparrow! Wake up!” Professor Trimble snapped.

I pretended to snore.

“I know you're awake. I want to talk to you,” she said. “I notice that you have once again turned down a perfect opportunity to begin fulfilling your potential.”

I opened one eye. “Excuse me?”

“You could be downstairs right now, instead of lolly-gagging about in bed—”

“Lollygagging? It is
after midnight
! And it's not healthy,” I added piously, “for adolescents to get less than eight hours of sleep a night.”

Professor Trimble narrowed her eyes. “This is not about losing sleep, Sparrow. It's about offering people hope, comfort, and a connection to the world of Spirit. But most of all, it is about accepting—no,
embracing
— your destiny.”

If I had learned only one thing from four years of arguing with Professor Trimble, it was this: how to keep my mouth shut. So I bit my lip to keep from saying something I would seriously regret and settled instead for reciting the words that had become my mantra: “I do not want to be a medium!”

“You keep saying that,” she replied tartly. “I'd like to know what kind of life you think you
do
want.”

“Anything else,” I said. “Anything at all. I mean, I could be an accountant in Santa Fe, or a pastry chef in Paris, or a real estate agent in Sandusky, Ohio, or—”