Wraith (4 page)

I could relate to the not-fitting-in part all too well. “What did you do?”

“I traveled around a bit. Mexico, L.A…I eventually settled in San Francisco for the longest amount of time. I missed the hippies though; most of them had cleared out a few years before, but I still found places to work on my art and read palms.” 

“You read palms?” I couldn’t even imagine the life she was describing, yet at the same time it all made so much sense. I studied her beads and her rings and the cowboy boots that she wore on her feet; Jeannie was a woman one couldn’t define easily. I leaned forward so she could reach my hand. She laid it flat, using her other hand to smooth out the flesh and began ‘reading.’

She ran a finger across my skin. “This is your heart line. Do you see how long and curvy it is? This means you freely express your feelings and emotions.” She cocked her head. “Then this one is your life line. It’s fairly straight and close to the edge of the palm—it means you’re cautious when it comes to relationships.”

“Is that a nice way to say I’m un-trusting?” I wanted to laugh at her comments and scoff at the practice, but I couldn’t. Her voice was so sure and her hands were so strong yet soothing when holding mine. I felt like I was in a trance.

“But your life line…do you see how it breaks here? That implies a sudden change in lifestyle.” Her fingers traced over the lines on my hand.

“You could say that, I guess.” My knee bounced. “With the move and all.”

Jeannie studied me and with her free hand she smoothed my hair, her fingers lingering at the ends. “Change can be hard, but it can also be the best thing to ever happen.” Her eyes hovered over my shoulder a little before refocusing on my hand. “Oh, and you have a fate line. Not everyone does. Yours is deep and joins your life line.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means you’re strongly controlled by fate. The theory is that you also develop aspirations early on, based on the idea you already know what direction you are headed. Do you think that’s true?”

I thought for a minute, letting her continue to rub my palm as she examined it further. Did I believe in fate? That the things going on in my life now were destined? I definitely didn’t feel in control of anything. “I’m not sure.” Wanting to change the subject I asked, “So you did this? Reading palms and selling artwork?”

Jeannie released my hand, causing her bracelets to slide together with a soft clink. “I did. I read palms, tea leaves. I read auras. A little bit of everything.

“Auras?”

“For a dollar, I would read the auras of tourists roaming about town. Everyone has a different color or shading around them. The colors mean different things. It can explain your personality or reveal the stress you’re under. The colors of your aura are also affected by the energies of other people. It’s common to have other people’s colors in your aura. It could be your family’s influence or just the spirits that surround us.”

Her words held a deeper meaning for me. It was as though Aunt Jeannie knew more about me than I suspected. She must have sensed the shift in my mood because her hand reached out to cover mine. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

She shrugged and brushed a loose strand of hair over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I thought you wanted to know.”

“Do you believe in this? These mystical and spiritual theories?”

Jeannie fixed me with a firm stare. “I do. They aren’t exact, but I do.”

“Have you read my aura?”

She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “I have. It was very strong and clear the minute I saw you tonight.”

Tonight. “What did you see?”

“Your aura was bright red. Like a halo of fire.”

I swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re emitting a strong sense of life force and survival. You are raw and passionate, yet full of anger and frustration. I would interpret it as you feeling overwhelmed by change.”

I blinked, absorbing the information. “Wow.”

She patted my bouncing knee. “Yeah, that’s a lot to carry, but…”

My eyes flashed to hers. “But what?”

“But I saw something else. Something different.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t get upset, but all of your fiery red was surrounded by black. Solid black.

“Okay,” I said. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. “Is this unusual?”

“Not exactly. Shadow auras mean that someone has issues relating to death. It could be lack of forgiveness or unresolved karma. Sometimes spirits find us and linger, coating us with their confusion.” Her description hit hard, forcing me to think of Evan and why he was sent to me. He always tried to present that he was there for me, to help me, but sometimes I thought it was more. That there was something else he needed to do.

“Do you believe in spirits, too? Ghosts?” I asked, before I lost my nerve.

“Absolutely.”

I felt ill. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her everything about what I’d been going through and about Evan, but I was afraid. I couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t go to my mother and I would go back to the shrinks and back on meds. I loved my Aunt Jeannie but I had learned this was something I couldn’t share. With anyone.

Panicked, I changed the subject, feigning curiosity I asked, “Who taught you how to do this? All of this?”

“My mother.”

Again, I was surprised, since no one spoke about my great aunt. She had some kind of history that was deemed inappropriate or shameful. A black sheep, indeed.

We stared at one another longer than was appropriate or polite. My mouth opened more than once, but in the end I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t reveal my secrets. It was as if she knew this, because in the next moment Jeannie leaned over and gave me a tight hug. “I love you, Jane. I see so much of myself in you from your nose, to your long, artistic fingers, to the worry that clouds your eyes. When you’re ready to talk, call me. Anytime. I’m always available to you.”

I nodded, my eyes welling with tears that I wiped away before they could fall. “Thanks.”

She redirected her attention to the photo album, laughing and pointing out pictures that gave her a reason to share a story. From the corner of my eye I saw Evan emerge, taking a position in the shadows, letting me know he was there and I wasn’t alone. Tonight, that meant I not only had the support of my best friend, but from a member of my family, as well.

T
HE RAIN STARTED AFTER
Thanksgiving break, and it continued for weeks. This wasn’t really helping the foul mood I was in as I sat in the counselor’s office at school waiting for my bi-weekly meeting with Mrs. Crawford. While I didn’t exactly hate the meetings—I mean, it did excuse me from class—I felt guilty lying about my progress, which made it a waste of time for both of us.

When I arrived at the office, her door was closed, so I sat on the couch in the small waiting room and took out my book for English. The office door swung open a couple minutes later and I was stunned to see Connor. My stomach flip-flopped.

“Connor, take a seat while I fill out this form,” Mrs. Crawford called from inside her office. He eyed me and then the couch as if assessing his options before sitting at the opposite end, dropping his bag at his feet. Dried droplets of silver paint splattered his shoes and the fraying edges of his jeans. Had he been back to the ruins? I instinctively shifted closer to my side.

Mrs. Crawford called my name.

“Yes?” I asked, standing up and gathering my bag, skirting around his long legs which occupied the majority of the floor. I poked my head in her door, where I saw the top of her dark hair as she leaned over her desk.

“I need five minutes, okay?” She gestured to a form on her desk. “Wait for me out there.”

“Okay,” I said and turned back to the waiting room. Connor had shifted, taking up the majority of space on the couch. I decided to sit in the chair instead, pulling out my tattered, red-covered book to keep my distance.

“You know, I always thought in today’s world Holden would have been medicated and much less likely to go off the deep end.” His voice was always deeper than I expected, and as I peered at him over the top of my book I noticed again that the hair on his chin was thicker than on most boys my age.

“Excuse me?” Why was he talking to me?

“Holden Caulfield. I wonder what modern-day medication would have done for him.” A frown lingered on his lips, and again I wondered what he was implying. Did he know I’d been medicated? Was he referring to himself? After all, we were both in the counselor’s office.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to discern the meaning in his statement before shrugging, refusing to fall in his trap.

“It’s not easy when you see the world differently from other people. It scares them.” He continued conversationally. My heart started at his words. He was too close—always too close to the sore spot with me.

“Holden could be scary, and rash. Often, his reactions confused people. Plus, he was kind of a jerk.” I was tense and hostile, spoiling for a fight. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Connor stretched and brought his hands behind his head in the appearance of casualness, yet his eyes flashed blue and hot. “So you’ve heard the rumors, then? Which one? Juvie? Boot camp? Mental hospital?” He laughed. “No wonder you’re so skittish around me.”

Busted. I dropped my eyes to my book and pretended to read the swirling words in front of me. After a moment I dropped it to my lap, only to find him watching me,
again
. “Why did you copy my picture in art?” I asked.

“I didn’t.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you did. Why?”

Connor shook his head. “Ms. Anderson said draw a portrait of someone. I drew that guy.”

Dry-mouthed, I swallowed before my next question. “Where did you see him?” I wanted to know. I needed to know. Why was he doing this?

Connor dropped his hands and leaned forward on his knees. In a completely serious voice he said, “With you.”

A clammy sweat coated my hands and made the metal arms on my chair slippery. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did. In the classroom, in the hallway, on your way home from school. He’s probably outside that door. You want me to call him?”

No doubt it was a dare and I wasn’t sure what would happen if he followed through. Evan was around; he was always around, and this was just the kind of thing he would think was amusing.

Thankfully, Mrs. Crawford opened the door to her office, holding a sheet of paper, and stepped into the thick tension of the room, her brown eyes dancing between the two of us.

“Jane, you can go in. I’ll only be a minute.” I stood, my feet twisting in the straps of my backpack, and stumbled. Connor’s hands were on my shoulders before my knees hit the ground and I heard him murmur a low, “Careful,” as he helped me stand. I gave him a quick glance and an even quieter “Thank you,” before going into her office.

Mrs. Crawford walked behind me and repeated, “One minute,” before closing the door, leaving me and my heart alone to calm down. I sat in the chair facing her desk and put my book away. Mrs. Crawford was alright. She didn’t pry much, and we usually ended up talking about movies or books. I leaned over to get a better view of the photo in the frame on her desk of her and her husband. It was a photo of them at her graduation from Spelman College, and he was the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

My eyes flicked to the paperwork on her desk, a thick file—definitely thicker than the one I’d seen with my name on it. Glancing behind me to ensure the door was still closed, I nudged the file so I could see the hand-written name down the side.

Connor Jacobs.

Anxiety rippled through my body, because although I wasn’t the kind of girl that poked her nose into other people’s business, this was too good to pass up. I used my pinky finger to flip the brown folder open and read the first page.

It was a letter. From Brookhaven Hospital in North Carolina. Under the name of the hospital I saw the phrase:
Ill-health, of body or of mind, is defeat. Health alone is victory. Let all men, if they can manage it, contrive to be healthy! - Thomas Carlyle

My eyes scanned the rest of the page. It was a letter about Connor’s release from the hospital the month before and some information about medication and required counseling sessions with Mrs. Crawford.

Unwilling to press my luck, I shut the folder and straightened it on her desk before moving back to the chair. I hadn’t heard of Brookhaven Hospital and was intrigued. What had Connor just said about him and rumors? Juvie and mental hospitals? I inched out of my seat to look again but heard the door knob wiggle and sat back down in a rush.

“Sorry about that,” Mrs. Crawford said as she moved around the desk to her own seat. She picked the folder up and opened a drawer in the file cabinet behind her, sliding it in before shutting it and opening another one and extracting what I assumed was my own. “Are you okay?”

“What? Why?” I asked, flustered at her attention.

“You just look a little pale,” she said. “Well, not anymore, now you are red as a beet!” Her comment of course made my face turn even redder.

“Oh,” I said, trying to think of something, “I don’t know, just tired maybe.”

“How was your break?” she asked, while scooting back to face me.

“Good. We went to my grandmother’s.”

I examined Mrs. Crawford and her creamy brown skin and caring dark eyes. She wanted to help, but that question—the simple question about my break—made me think of Aunt Jeannie and her stories. Before I could stop myself, the truth was twisted and I realized once again how alone I really was.

M
RS. CRAWFORD RELEASED ME
when the bell rang. She thought I’d made progress. No public episodes, my grades were acceptable, and I even had a friend. No one needed to know I still saw Evan. No one did know, except maybe this odd boy Connor, but he saw Evan, too. Which meant I wasn’t crazy. Right?

The hallways were crowded with students laughing and gossiping. Through the crowd, I saw Connor standing with a group of seniors, near the trophy cases. Two were the boys from the lunch room, Trey and Michael something-or-other, but this time a couple of girls also stood nearby. One of them had wiggled her way close to Connor, and from the look on his face, her advances were welcome. I moved closer and recognized the girl. Allison Morgan.

Gross.

He had a shoulder pressed against the case, but his body angled into hers. I looked down, embarrassed that the sight of him, smiling down at this other girl, caused a pang in my chest. It was stupid. I didn’t like him. I couldn’t help but notice he seemed relaxed and happy. The tension from earlier was gone. The sarcastic expression was nowhere to be seen.

Keeping my eyes away from the group, I passed by, feigning disinterest. I was jostled from behind and my gaze moved upward in reaction, meeting Connor’s over the top of Allison’s head, whom he’d been smiling at moments before. I dropped my eyes again and pushed through the crowd, but not before seeing the faint lines of a smirk forming on his lips.

“I
LIKE THIS ONE,” I
said, pointing to the tall, rusted sculpture.

Ava’s eyes followed my finger and tilted her head to the side. “I’m not sure. Religious themes always make me nervous.”

We moved to the next artist and studied the enormous piece located in the middle of the room. It was a collection of bicycle parts, lawnmower blades, and pieces of rusted, metal shingles that had been painted vivid colors. It was fashioned into a makeshift crucifix, and although it was void of any actual victim, there was a thorny halo of barbed wire at the top and thick metal railroad spikes on the sides and bottom.

I needed a tetanus shot just looking at it.

I bent over to read the small plaque affixed to the stand: Maurice Woods. The artist was an 84-year old steel worker who used his experience as a welder to make art when he retired.

Ava and I spent the afternoon combing the rooms at the museum, looking at the Outsider Art exhibit. All of the pieces in this show were from local artists, primarily in sculpture, paintings, and metalwork.

“So I had this idea, and wanted to see if you would be interested in helping me.” Ava said this while we stood in front of an old gas station sign now decorated with hundreds of bottle caps.

“What kind of idea?”

“Well, my mother does volunteer work at a women’s shelter downtown, and during the holidays the kids aren’t at school and hang around the shelter all day, getting bored or in trouble. I thought maybe we could go down there one day and make Christmas gifts or something with them.”

“The women’s shelter? For homeless women?” I asked.

Ava shook her head. “It’s a battered women’s shelter. But most of them have children also. They stay there while they find jobs and move on with their lives and stuff. I thought it could be fun, and you know we’re required to do ten hours of service work a quarter.”