Connecting (11 page)

But the poor, grieving man deserves to know that someone has at least glimpsed his wife on the Other Side. That Betty hasn’t just disappeared into some black void. Maybe it’ll bring him comfort to know that she’s there, and that she showed Calla a house—presumably, the earthly home she and sweet, feeble Owen shared in their twilight years.

When a male voice answers the phone with an almost curt-sounding “Hello?” Calla assumes she’s reached the wrong number. Figures Odelia wouldn’t be as organized as it seemed there for a minute.

“I’m sorry,” Calla says, “I was trying to reach Mr. Henry . . . ?”

“This is he.”

It is?

He sounds more brusque over the phone than feeble and sweet, as he was in person. “Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Calla Delaney.”
Lovely as the lily,
she wants to add.
Remember?

Apparently he doesn’t, until she prompts, “Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter? From Lily Dale?”

“Oh! Calla. Right. What can I do for you?”

Might as well not mince words. “I’m a psychic, Mr. Henry, like my grandmother. And I know she couldn’t put you in touch with your wife, Betty, but I think I . . . um . . . saw her. Did she have white hair and gold glasses on a chain?”

There’s an audible gasp on the other end of the phone. “That’s her. What did she say?”

“She didn’t actually
say
anything,” Calla admits uncomfortably. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t, uh,
do
anything, either.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have called. After all, she doesn’t really have anything specific to share, other than having seen Betty and the house.

But maybe that will be enough. Mr. Henry is in the same boat she is. It might bring him comfort.

“I thought you’d just want to know that she’s alive and well . . . I mean, on the Other Side. And she’s still with you.”

There’s a pause.

Mr. Henry clears his throat. “Calla, my dear, you’ve made this old man very happy. I’d like to know more about my dear Betty. Let’s set up an appointment.”

“Oh, I don’t do readings,” she says hastily.

“I thought you said you were a psychic.”

“I am. . . I mean, I see things, but I don’t . . . you know . . . work. As a medium. I’m just . . .”

Just what? A kid? Confused? Sticking my nose where it doesn’t
belong?

No, she definitely shouldn’t have called. Didn’t she learn her lesson the hard way with Elaine Riggs?

“It would mean the world to me if you would just sit down with me for a short time and put me in touch with Betty,” Owen Henry says fervently. “Please. I have a few questions for her. Questions only she can answer.”

“But . . .”

“I’ll give you one thousand dollars if you’ll do this.”

Calla’s voice lodges in her throat.

One thousand dollars?

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she manages to croak.

Really, she can’t. It wouldn’t be right.

“Please. I’m begging you.”

One thousand dollars.

With that kind of money, she could definitely figure out a way to get herself to Geneseo and back. There must be a bus or something.

“Calla, you’re the only one who can help me,” Mr. Henry is saying, his voice sounding as if it’s going to give way to tears.

“All right.”

She has to help him.

But not for money.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “But you can’t pay me.”

“I insist.”

“I, um, insist that you don’t.”

Tempting as it is, that would be wrong.

“I just want to help you,” she tells him, “because I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

“All right, then. I’ll come right over,” he says eagerly.

“No!” she all but screams into the phone.

“No?”

“Not here. And not, um, today. I’m tied up.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tied up again.” She really is, with babysitting and working with Willow on her math.

“Thursday,” he says firmly. “Where shall we meet?”

She hesitates, then tells him she’ll meet him at the diner over in Cassadaga, about a mile down the road from the Dale. She can walk there after school. There’s always a chance that someone from the Dale might walk into the diner, but at that time of day, it’s pretty unlikely.

“You’re a lifesaver, Calla,” Owen Henry says warmly before hanging up, and she decides she might have done the right thing after all.

NINE

Wednesday, September 26
7:56 p.m.

“Okay, that was pretty good.” Willow leans back in her chair and stretches. “Want to take a break before we do the extra-credit stuff?”

“Definitely.” Calla slaps her math textbook closed and tosses her pencil aside. “Thanks for showing me how to solve that last problem to the second derivative. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get the hang of calculus.”

“You will. You said math was one of your best subjects back in Florida.”

“Yeah, but not here. It’s like I’m starting from scratch. And Bombeck is so tough, it doesn’t help.”

“Maybe it does,” Willow contradicts. “He’s tough, but he’s good. He’s not going to let you slide through, you know?”

“Definitely not.”

“Want another bottle of water?”

“Sure.”

“Come on into the kitchen. I could use something to eat—how about you?”

“My grandmother made the world’s hugest meal tonight,” she tells Willow as she follows her through the small, cluttered house. “Lasagna, meatloaf, mashed potatoes . . . I’m still stuffed.”

“Meatloaf
and
lasagna?”

“Yeah, she said she bought too much ground beef, so she made the extra into a meatloaf. I’m surprised she didn’t make hamburgers to go with it. She likes to eat. And she’s a great cook, even if some of her concoctions are a little . . . out there,” she adds, remembering the snickernoodles.

“Like my mom. She used to be a great cook, too, before . . .”

She got sick.

But she doesn’t say it, and Calla wonders why Willow never mentions her mother’s obvious illness. The perpetual lineup of orange plastic prescription bottles on the counter betray Althea York’s daily battle with whatever it is that’s shortening her breath and confining her to her bed during most of Calla’s visits.

Tonight, though, she’s surprised to find Althea in the kitchen, pouring hot water over a tea bag. Her enormous body is swathed in a light blue terry-cloth robe, and her short gray hair is standing on end.

“Calla, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks . . . how are you?”

“Just fine.” Althea nods decisively, double chins wobbling.

And really, she doesn’t appear to be at death’s door.

Still, every time Calla sees her, she senses illness radiating from Althea, along with the sorrowful knowledge that her days are numbered.

She’s never mentioned it to Willow, though. She just feels a silent kinship with this beautiful girl who may or may not realize that she and Calla will someday have far more in common than schoolwork.

It’s like Willow’s going to be joining their sad club, Calla thinks—not for the first time. A club that includes Evangeline Taggart, Blue Slayton, Jacy Bly, even Donald . . . almost all the kids she’s met here in Lily Dale are bereaved one way or another, just as Calla is.

Quite a few of her friends back home have divorced parents, but there’s nothing like this.

Is it mere coincidence that Lily Dale seems to draw far more than its share of those who have lost their closest loved ones?

The longer she’s been here, the more certain Calla has become that there are no coincidences.

“Would you like some tea, girls?” Althea asks, still holding the steaming pot. “It’s jasmine.”

“I will, thanks, Mrs. York. It smells good.”

“I’ll get it. Mom, you go back and lie down.” Willow takes the teapot from her mother’s hands and takes two more cups from the cupboard.

“I’ll lie down in a minute. For now I’ll just sit and visit with Calla.” Althea sinks into a chair at the kitchen table as though she doesn’t have the strength to make her way out of the room just yet. “How’s the math homework going tonight?”

“It’s . . . going,” Calla tells her. “I don’t know what I’d do without Willow.”

Hands clasped around the hot mug, Althea inhales the fragrant steam and nods. “She’s a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without her, either.”

Willow smiles faintly and plants a kiss on her mother’s head, then sets a cup of tea in front of Calla and sits down with her own.

They talk about tea and homework and the weather, and Calla can see that Althea is getting wearier by the second, though she tries to keep up a good front.

“Come on, Mom.” Willow pushes back her own chair.

“You should go rest. Let’s go. Calla, I’ll be right back.”

“It was so nice seeing you, Calla,” Althea says. “Come again soon.”

“Oh, I will, unfortunately.” She forces a laugh. “You’re going to be pretty sick of me by the time the semester is over, if I don’t get the hang of this calculus stuff.”

She tries not to notice how heavily Althea leans on her daughter as Willow walks with her toward the doorway.

With tears in her eyes, Calla thinks of her own mother. What she wouldn’t give for the chance to walk beside her again, even knowing—as Willow must—that their days together were numbered.

Back at home, Calla is completely absorbed in the math homework she and Willow couldn’t finish, when Odelia knocks on her bedroom door.

“Calla? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Uh-oh.

Did she find out, somehow, about Calla’s plan to meet Owen Henry tomorrow?

“Sure,” Calla says with a gulp. “Come in.”

“I hate to interrupt you when you’re doing your homework . . .” The door opens with a loud creak and Odelia sticks her brassy red head into the room.

She doesn’t look irked. That’s a good sign.

“I brought you a snack,” Odelia says amiably, and it’s all Calla can do not to heave a huge sigh of relief.

“Thanks.”

“Ants on a log. Your mother always loved it.”

“Ants . . . ?”

Odelia sets a paper plate on the desk, and Calla is relieved to see that it contains celery sticks filled with peanut butter and dotted with raisins.

With her grandmother, you just never know.

She’s still not hungry after that huge supper, but it was so sweet of Odelia to bring her a snack that she probably should at least attempt to eat it.

“I just got off the phone with Ramona,” Odelia says as Calla crunches into a piece of celery, “and I need to talk to you about something.”

“Ramona?” Calla stops crunching. “What happened?”

“No, nothing
happened
. Why?”

She breathes a silent sigh of relief. “Just the way you said it, I thought . . .”

“Honey, you’ve got to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Worrying.”

Calla opens her mouth to protest, but her grandmother cuts her off with a wagging index finger, sporting an iridescent purple manicure. “I know you worry all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” Calla mutters halfheartedly, and her grandmother shakes her head, bending over to squeeze Calla’s shoulders.

“The way you jump every time the phone rings, like you’re expecting it to be bad news . . . after everything you’ve been through, I understand why. But it’s not good for you.”

Calla stares at her calculus problem, wishing Odelia would go away.

Or maybe that she could find the words to agree with her grandmother’s assessment of her mental state, and tell her about the various warnings she’s received lately. She could even ask Odelia for help.

Help? Like what, a shrink?

She doesn’t need a shrink to figure out that her anxiety stems from the trauma of losing her mother so suddenly and violently, or from people warning her that she herself might be in danger now. Maybe she was never exactly happy-go-lucky in the old days, but she sure didn’t worry about disaster striking on a daily basis.

“I promised both of us that I’d take good care of you if you stayed here,” Odelia says. “And I wasn’t just talking about getting you into Patsy’s class. I’m here for you, whatever you need. You know that, right?”

Calla nods, pretending to be looking over her calculus problems.

Odelia reaches down, cups Calla’s chin, and turns her head so that she can’t help but meet her grandmother’s gaze.

“What?” Calla asks.

“Just making sure you’re listening.”

“I am.”

“Good. So here’s the other thing. When I talked to Ramona, she said she’s taking you to get your hair and makeup done on Saturday before the dance.”