Lily Dale: Awakening (19 page)

“One more week here, and I’m gone,” she returns. Unlike flirting with Jacy, with Blue it’s second nature.

“Or you could stay.” His bare leg brushes her bare leg under the counter.

She looks up at him and realizes it was no accident. He’s looking at her as if he really,
really
wants her to stay.

“You mean, live with my grandmother and go to school here?” For some reason, that idea doesn’t seem as ridiculous as it probably should.

“It’s a tiny school. You probably know half the senior class already.”

“I doubt that.” Though he, Jacy, and Evangeline—oh, and Willow—are among them.

“Well, you said you don’t know a soul in California. So you’re ahead of the game here.”

She tilts her head and smiles at him. She can’t help it. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”

“Want to get together tomorrow night for coffee and tell me your decision?”

He’s asking her on another date, she realizes—if you can call this a date. “Sure. Why not?”

As Blue pays the check at the register by the door, she stares absently at several posters taped in the window and wonders why she told him she’d consider staying in Lily Dale. She can’t do that. Her father would never let her.

Then again, she never would have expected him to let her come here at all. And it would solve his housing problem. The only affordable, livable place he’s found so far, with a good public school, is that place he checked out by the beach—but it turns out it isn’t even available until November.

Wait a minute—what if Calla stayed here for a few more months, started school in Lily Dale, then finished in California with Dad? That way, he could stay where he is for now and save money, and they could rent the beach house in November.

Excited about her plan, Calla is about to mention it to Blue. Then she blinks, startled to realize that a familiar face is smiling out from one of the sun-faded posters on the window.

It’s the girl she first saw in the garden at Odelia’s house that first night, and again, more clearly, the next morning in her kitchen. And watching the house from the street on yet another night.

Plastered above her photo is the word
MISSING.
Beneath is a phone number to call with information—1-800-KIDFIND— along with the details: Kaitlyn Riggs was last seen at a shopping mall near Columbus over six months ago.

But . . . that doesn’t make sense. She was here with her mother just a few weeks ago.

It’s an old poster,
Calla tells herself, heart racing.
She must have been found since then
.

But what about Mrs. Riggs’s tearful reaction when Walter brought up her daughter?

All at once, it hits Calla, so hard she clutches her stomach as if it were a physical blow.

When they were at Odelia’s that night, and again the next day, Calla never saw the woman even glance in her daughter’s direction, much less speak to her. It was almost as if she didn’t know she was there.

But I saw her
, Calla thinks, followed by,
Maybe I’m the only one who did
—
or could . . .

Because she’s a ghost.

Lying awake in her bed, Calla almost wishes she hadn’t thrown away the clock. She has no idea what time it is, but it feels as though she’s been tossing restlessly for hours, wondering about Kaitlyn Riggs.

She called the toll-free number that was on the MISSING poster and found out that the case is still open. Kaitlyn hasn’t been found. When the man who answered asked if she had a tip to report, she almost blurted out that she’d seen Kaitlyn in Lily Dale, New York. But she couldn’t do it. If Kaitlyn were really here, in the flesh, her mother would, of course, have seen her. She couldn’t.

So either Kaitlyn is dead, or she has a lookalike sister, an identical twin. There are two ways to find out: call Elaine Riggs—she’s listed; Calla called information in Columbus to make sure. Or she can check with Odelia, who will be able to tell Calla whether Mrs. Riggs was here alone or had a companion. A visible one, anyway.

Which is going to sound like one strange question. And might tip off Odelia that she isn’t the only one who can see dead people around here.

I’m not ready to admit that to her,
Calla thinks.
I’m not even ready to admit it to myself
.

But if Mrs. Riggs’s daughter is dead, she deserves to know. For closure. People need that.

As horrific as it was to have Mom die, it would have been far worse if she had just vanished . . . wouldn’t it?

Maybe not. If she had vanished, there would still be hope.

Who am I to take away Mrs. Riggs’s hope?

Who am I to get involved at all?

Suddenly, there’s an explosive slamming sound nearby. Calla gasps and bolts from the bed, clutching herself.

What on earth
was
that? She fumbles for the lamp, terrified. Finding the switch at last, she blinks in the blinding light. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust, and she feels trapped, heart racing, wondering if she’s even alone in the room. At last, she looks frantically around and sees . . .

Nothing.

Not at first, anyway. Everything is as it should be, not a thing out of place or even disturbed.

Except . . .

Oh.The picture.

One of the frames on the dresser has toppled forward. She knows they were all upright earlier because she looked at them all, right before she went to bed. It’s become a habit; she’s comforted seeing her mother’s face, even though she’s so young in the photos.

But how could it move? The window is closed. There’s no fan, nothing stirring in the room. There’s no reason the picture would topple over in the middle of the night. No
earthly
reason.

As she listens to her own breath, coming hard and fast, she begins to sense that she isn’t alone in the room right now.

“
Are you here?” Calla whispers—to whom, she doesn’t know. But someone’s here. For some reason, the realization isn’t frightening. Unnerving, yes. The skin on the back of her neck is prickling. But there’s nothing menacing about whatever—whomever—is here.

“Mom?” she whispers, looking around, hoping to catch a glimpse of . . . someone.

There’s nothing. This ghost, if there is one—
and there is
— isn’t going to materialize.

“Mom? Are you here? Are you trying to tell me something?”

Her breathing growing more shallow, Calla reaches a trembling hand slowly toward the frame. She knows even before she turns it over which picture it is.

The one at the prom, with the boy Calla thought looked so familiar but never has been able to place.

“Oh, that’s Darrin,” Ramona says immediately, looking at the framed picture in her sunny kitchen. “Yeah, your mother went out with him for a while. Odelia couldn’t stand him.”

“Really?” Calla asks, trying not to sound too breathlessly concerned. “Why not?”

“Odelia said he gave off negative energy. She was right. I felt it too. We all did.”

“
All
. . . who?”

“A lot of people around town. You know. Darrin was just . . .
trouble
. You could sense that from a mile away. Well, the rest of us could, anyway. But not Stephanie.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. . . . Love is blind?” Ramona offers with a feeble shrug, handing the picture back to Calla. “She just wouldn’t give him up. Not even after her mother told her she had to.”

It’s hard for Calla to imagine laid-back Odelia being that strict.

“Want some Pepsi?” asks Ramona, opening the fridge and peering inside.

“No thanks,” Calla says, thinking it’s kind of early for Pepsi. So early she’s surprised Ramona didn’t bat an eye when Calla popped up at the door at this hour—seven thirty—and asked if she had a few minutes. She merely said, “Sure, come on in,” and mentioned that Evangeline and Mason were still sleeping. She seemed to sense Calla wanted to speak to her alone.

Ramona pours herself a tall, fizzy glassful, then sits at the table and pulls out a chair, patting it for Calla.

“Where is he now?” Calla asks, sinking into the seat, still clutching the picture.

“Darrin? I don’t know. He got into drugs—that happens sometimes around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people I’ve known, especially teenagers, aren’t comfortable with their sensitivity. It can be a frightening, isolating feeling to discover that you have an awareness of spirit energy.”

Yeah, no kidding.

“Unfortunately, some people tend to self-medicate with drugs or alcohol as a means of escaping what they can’t accept.” Ramona sounds like she’s reciting from a medical journal.

“So what happened to Darrin, exactly?” Calla asks, to keep her on track.

“He was spiraling pretty badly, last I knew. But that was years ago, before he . . .”

“Before he what?” Calla prods impatiently when Ramona trails off. She can’t help but be frustrated that she’s discovered so little about her mother’s forbidden love, whom she still believes she might have seen somewhere before . . . if only she knew where that might have been.

Ramona looks her in the eye. “Before he disappeared.”

“He
disappeared
? What do you mean?”

“One day, he just vanished, and nobody ever saw him again.”

Calla’s jaw drops.

“His parents thought something terrible must have happened to him,” Ramona goes on conversationally, turning back to the easel. “So do I, actually. Maybe he was dealing, and not just using, and a deal went bad . . . who knows?”

“Who knows? It seems like
someone
would know,” Calla mutters, “with all these psychics around. I mean, isn’t that what you people do?”

She’s conscious of her phrasing, knows that she’s deliberately using
you people
to set herself squarely across the line from Lily Dale’s psychic population. She can’t help it. She’s feeling cranky again. You’d think that all these people with their special powers would know what happened to Mom’s old boyfriend—or at least would be able to bring Mom through to Calla.

That’s why you’re so angry. Admit it. You’re frustrated that you’re here in a town where supposedly nobody is really dead, and you still can’t reach Mom.

“You mean, do people around here have the ability to find missing persons?” Ramona asks, unflustered by Calla’s attitude. “Some have done that, sure.”

Calla thinks about Kaitlyn Riggs.
Am I really going to pretend I never saw her?

“I’m sure Darrin’s parents tried to find him that way, but for whatever reason, they didn’t. It isn’t foolproof,” Ramona points out.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Maybe.”

“But wouldn’t you know? Wouldn’t his parents know, if they’re mediums?”

“Nothing is more powerful than the bond between a parent and a child.” Ramona’s hazel eyes bore into Calla’s. “There are some things a parent might not want to see, or accept.”

She nods, thinking not of Kaitlyn now, but of her own mother. If she hadn’t seen Mom with her own eyes, lying there in a pool of blood, she might never have believed she was gone. There was no denial in the face of that evidence, though.

“I should go,” she tells Ramona abruptly. “I have . . . stuff to do.”

“Sure. But listen, anytime you want to talk about your mom, I’m here. Okay?”

Calla nods, then flees.

Outside, alone, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. Try as she might, she can’t block the memory of her mother’s corpse from her mind’s eye. Nor can she erase her troubling questions about what happened to her.

Accidents might happen to everyone, but Mom falling down a flight of stairs?

Okay, so if it wasn’t an accident, what’s the alternative?

Calla never allows herself to think past that crazy question, or consider why she alone seems to be wondering about it. The police aren’t suspicious. Dad isn’t suspicious.

And I’m not, either. I can’t be. I won’t let myself be.

So why can’t she completely accept it, as everyone else did?

I just can’t. Especially now that I know I might actually be psychic.

What if her vague, nagging suspicion is intuition, and grounded in reality?

It might mean Mom didn’t just die. Somebody killed her.

Again, Calla casts a thoughtful look at the boy in the picture. Darrin.

“Hello?”

Calla is so shocked to hear Kevin’s voice that she nearly drops the phone.

She shouldn’t be, though. She called his house. He lives there. Why wouldn’t he answer the phone? If she had been thinking straight, she might have prepared herself for that possibility.

But she hasn’t been thinking straight, upset about her growing misgivings about Mom’s so-called accident. She has no proof. Just a hunch. If that’s what you call it in Calla’s case.

“Is . . . is Lisa there?”

“Calla.” He says her name softly. “Hi.”

“Is Lisa there?” she repeats, pressing the phone hard to her ear with a trembling hand.

“No. She’s out with my mother. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No.” It comes out as a half sob. “I mean, yes,” she says in a small, shaky voice.

“No, you aren’t. What’s going on?”

“It’s just . . . I’m homesick, I guess,” she says in a rush. And it’s true. Homesick for Kevin, for her mother. For what can never be again. Homesick. And terrified.

“I know how that feels,” he says unexpectedly. “I was really homesick last fall, when I first got to Cornell.”

“You never told me that,” she murmurs.

“Yeah. Well, it didn’t last for too long. I got used to the dorm, then I got busy with classes and I started meeting people . . . it got better.”

Meeting people. Like Annie.

“Please tell Lisa I called?” she says tightly. “Thanks. Good—”

“Wait . . . guess what? My parents got me this car to take back to school.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they didn’t really want to. Mostly because they didn’t want me driving from Florida to New York alone.”

Maybe you can take Annie with you,
she wants to say. Despite everything else she has to worry about, it kills her to think of him driving around with another girl in the passenger’s seat.