Twelve

TWELVE

We're conducting the séance in the living room. The fire is going, despite the fact that we need to keep the windows closed so we don't hear bugs screaming on the screens. We've turned on the air conditioner instead. We want warm and inviting, not a sauna.

Before we start, we try to settle in with a bit of conversation.

"We should tell a ghost story," Shania says. "Get us into the mood. Like last night, when Dr. Cirillo told us about his first big case."

"Uh…" Jin says, and his gaze goes to me.

We're here to summon my husband. That's not a ghost story. Not the sort meant for entertainment anyway. But Shania is practically vibrating with anticipation, and if I refuse, gently, she'll realize the idea is inappropriate and feel bad.

"We could do that," I say.

"Do you have one, Nic?" she asks.

I think of Patrice and flinch. Then I take a quick sip of my tea. "No."

"Jin? You're up."

"Me?"

She grins at him, and I can't help but smile. I'd worried she'd be too shy to be comfortable here, especially when Jin and I are good friends, but she started to relax at Jin's cocktail hour—the two of them sharing war stories about working in the medical field.

"Anything," she says. "Any experience that you've had that could be a little scary."

"Well…" He slants a look my way. "There was the time Nic offered to cook the turkey for Thanksgiving."

I whip a decorative pillow at him.

He looks at Shania. "I've never actually had a paranormal experience myself, but there was a story my grandmother told me."

"Yes!" she says, looking ten years younger as she pulls her feet up under her. "Grandmother ghost stories are the best."

"Okay. This is my maternal grandmother, who's Chinese. I'm not sure how much you guys know about Chinese ghosts."

"There's one that haunts bathrooms," I say.

He whips the pillow back. "That's Japanese."

"Whoops."

He looks back at Shania and Dr. Cirillo. "There are plenty of ghosts in Chinese culture. Beyond ancestral spirits, though, most of them aren't exactly Casper the Friendly Ghost."

"They are mostly considered malevolent," Dr. Cirillo says. "Which is interesting, because that hasn't been my experience with spirits."

"We grow them different over there," Jin says. "But there's one particular type called the chang. The way my grandmother explained it, a chang is a person who was killed by a tiger. They come back as ghosts doomed to help the tiger forever, by luring in more victims."

"That's not fair," Shania says. "It's punishing the victim."

"Well, I suspect the idea is that you might be pissed off at having been killed by a tiger, and so, being a ghost and not in your right mind, you want others to suffer the same fate. Anyway, that's the myth. Now here's the story."

He sips his tea before beginning. "My grandmother came to Canada when she was seven. They lived in Toronto's Chinatown, which made it easier, with both the language barrier and the culture shock. It was her first summer in Canada, and her parents didn't want her leaving Chinatown. They were very clear on that. But my grandmother made a friend, and one day the two girls decided to break the rules. They went deeper into the city and got lost. Then they argued. My grandmother wanted to try asking for help because it was getting dark. Her friend wanted to find the way back on their own. One of them stormed off, and they were separated."

Jin takes a shortbread piece and tortures us by eating it before continuing. "Night is falling fast, and my grandmother only speaks a few words of English, and she's in a strange city with no idea how to get home. She's wandering around, hoping to see a police officer or a Chinese person, but she's in a residential area, and it's completely quiet. She thinks of going to a door and knocking but… Well, the reason her friend didn't want to ask for help is that she'd had some bad experiences. My grandmother is too afraid to knock on doors. She's walking and trying not to cry when she spots a girl playing hopscotch in a driveway. As she's thinking of what to do, the girl sees her and waves, smiling and beckoning her over."

Jin stretches his legs and looks at the fire. "Is it warm in here?"

"Stop that," I say. "You're stalling."

He grins at me. "Fine. Okay, so my grandmother approaches the girl and tries—using sign language and her smattering of English—to explain that she's lost. The girl understands and—with a bit of charades—says that she'll get her parents to help. My grandmother said she could have cried from relief. She starts toward the front door, but the girl motions no, she needs to come in the back way. My grandmother knew that Canadian kids often use the rear door, so this made sense. Once she was back there, though, the girl led her through the yard and climbed the fence, indicating that was her house, the one behind."

"Okay, that's weird," Shania murmurs.

"That's what my grandmother thought. Still, she didn't know Canadian customs and maybe the other house didn't have a driveway to play in. So she starts to climb the fence. Then she stops. Or something stops her. She said she felt as if an invisible hand pulled her back. Then her insides went cold, and without even thinking, she turned and ran. She made it two streets and then spotted a police cruiser and flagged it down. She managed to tell the officers she was lost, but she also tried to tell them about the girl. She said she was certain something was wrong and the girl was in danger. Of course, the officers couldn't understand anything except the part about being lost."

Jin nibbles his shortbread, and I try not to glare at him.

He takes far too long eating that teeny bit of shortbread and then, of course, has to wash it down with tea.

Finally, he continues, "So they took my grandmother home, and she told her parents about the girl, but they thought she'd just gotten spooked. The poor English child had been trying to help, and my grandmother misunderstood. Two weeks later, my grandmother is with her mother and a neighbor who's been using the newspaper to teach them both English. There, on the front page, is a picture of the girl my grandmother saw."

Shania sucks in an audible breath.

Jin continues, "She was on the front page because the police had just arrested a serial killer who'd murdered two young girls. The girl in the picture was one of his victims."

"Damn…" I say.

"My grandmother was beside herself, thinking she had the chance to save that girl. Then the neighbor, who can read the whole article, asks whether she's sure the girl she saw was the blond one in the photo, not the brunette. Absolutely sure? She was. The woman stares at my grandmother… and then says that girl has been missing for a year. And all the police found of her was her bones."

"So she'd been dead…" Shania begins. "She was dead before your grandmother saw her."

"A chang," I murmur. "Someone killed by a predator, who then lures other victims to their deaths."

"Yep," Jin says. "My grandmother was convinced that's what she encountered. The spirit of the first victim, who was doomed to lead other little girls to her killer."

Shania shivers. "And if she hadn't gotten a bad feeling, she would have been the next victim."

"That is a fascinating account," Cirillo says, leaning forward. "Might I ask you for details later?"

"You'd need to ask my grandmother."

Cirillo pauses, and Jin lets out a laugh.

"No, I'm not telling you to contact her ghost, Doc. My grandmother is still alive. Ninety-two and sharp as ever. She remembers every bit of that story. Whether she'll tell you is another matter, but I can ask."

Cirillo thanks him and makes a few notes before announcing it's time for the séance.

I'm sitting on the sofa. No one is beside me. That's Anton's spot. It would feel more natural if the others were in the armchairs. Instead, they've brought in kitchen chairs so they can pull right up to the table where Cirillo is working. That leaves me at an awkward remove, feeling half like an observer and half like an experimental subject.

I don't argue. I get what Cirillo is doing. Jin and Shania are here to assist him. Conduits and welcoming faces. I'm the main attraction.

Come sit on the sofa with me, Anton. Curl up by the fire. Just the two of us.

I've been to a lot of séances in the last eight months. I'd rather not say how many. More than five, less than twenty. Most have a very standard routine that calls to mind Victorian spiritualism. Sit in a circle. Hold hands. Light candles. Maybe burn incense. Set out something for the spirit to communicate through, whether it's a Ouija board or an old-fashioned spirit board or a pad of paper and a pen, should the medium be seized by the urge to start "automatic" writing.

Except for the semicircle of three people around a table, this is different. There is only a single candle, which Cirillo explains is to detect drafts in the room. If the room is drafty, that would explain sensations of cold or breezes. There are also mechanical devices to measure everything from room pressure to temperature to motion. Those allow for quantifiable proof of environmental changes. A microphone is set up, too, though it's for amplifying sound rather than recording it.

All this is very rigorous, reminding us that Cirillo is a man of science.

The other items are the ones that remind us that this is a ritual intended to reach beyond science. These are the items I brought. Touchstones to Anton's life.

A row of three small framed photos sits on the table. The first is Anton as a child at Disneyland with his parents. The second is him in his twenties, skiing with friends. The third is us partying after our wedding. Three stages of his life. Three happy memories.

In front of each photo is a memento from that time of his life. A gold medal from a math competition. The key to his first apartment. His wedding band.

And in the middle of the table… the wooden box that contains his cremated remains.

I'm supposed to get comfortable on the sofa, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable. I'm dressed in clothing I'd worn the first time I came here with Anton. It'd been early enough in our relationship that I'd forgone the vacation-certified sweatpants and comfy sweaters, instead opting for my clubbing jeans and a cashmere sweater that hugged what few curves I had. Under it I'd worn some of the undergarments I'd rush-bought when it seemed like a good bet that our next dinner date would end in bed. It's not like my drawers had been full of granny panties and shapeless graying bras. Just because I hadn't dated in a while didn't mean I was celibate. But I wanted to go the extra mile for Anton.

Now I'm wearing those jeans and that sweater and even a sexy matching bra and panties. I'm sitting demurely on one end of the sofa with my legs tucked under me, but I still feel as if I'm sprawled here like an offering.

Come get me, big boy. You know you want to.

The others don't notice anything amiss. To them, I'm just curled up in the corner of the sofa, primly waiting for my dead husband to pay a visit.

"Anton Novak," Cirillo says. "We'd like to welcome you to join us this evening. Nicola is here, and she's waiting for you."

Oh, yeah. Come on, big boy. I'm ready and waiting.

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing, but I know Anton would definitely see the humor in this, and if I actually said that, he'd be more likely to respond—with a laugh and a lewd comment—than he would to Cirillo's polite invitation.

So I let myself smile, and I let my thoughts wander into the ridiculousness of this setup, and that's what relaxes me. I imagine Anton really there, flopping onto the sofa and lifting my feet onto his lap.

All this for me? You shouldn't have.

My smile grows, and my shoulders relax as the tension seeps out. I keep picturing Anton there, how he'd look, how he'd react.

Where's the whiskey, Nic? I come all this way, and you aren't even offering me a drink?

The professor guy is very serious, isn't he? I feel like I'm in school. Should I sit up straight? Pay attention?

As Cirillo talks, I conjure Anton until I can feel the solid weight of him under my outstretched legs and the heat of his hand on my calf. I hear his voice, the cadence and the undercurrent of laughter. Yet there is not one second where I think he's actually there. This Anton is fully woven from memories, and in that he is real, but I don't hear a word or see a movement that doesn't come from my head. No whisper at my ear. No squeeze on my shoulder. Nothing.

He is being summoned, and the air around me sits dead and heavy and silent.

It's the same for the others. Neither Shania nor Jin jumps or looks sharply to one side or reports seeing or hearing anything.

When Cirillo touches one of the devices, tapping the screen, I look over.

"Nothing, right?" I say.

"No, actually…" He trails off and checks the other devices.

"Dr. Cirillo?" I say.

"This one might not be working." He picks up a device. "It's giving me an unusual reading, while the others aren't moving and I don't sense—"

He stops abruptly, gaze swinging left.

I bite my tongue against an immediate question, not wanting to interrupt, but Shania says, "Doctor?"

He snaps his attention to her, his expression dark enough that she shrinks back.

"I didn't mean—" she starts.

"No, it's fine. I'm just…" His gaze goes left again.

"Dr. Cirillo?" I say. "If you want us to be quiet, say so, but you also told us to report anything we sensed."

He taps that one device again, harder now, fingernail click amplified by the microphone, making us all jump. He snaps it off and gets to his feet.

"This isn't working," he says.

"The device?" I say. "Can't we proceed without it?"

"I mean the summoning. It's not working and…" His gaze slides sideways again. "I would like to stop."

"Do we have a choice?" I say.

He starts shutting down his devices, each with a firm click or smack on the button.

"Guess that answers my question," I mutter. "Did we do something wrong, Doctor?"

"Davos," he says. "My name is Davos, and I have asked to be called that."

I glance at Jin.

"Maybe, Doc," Jin says, "if you want us to be comfortable calling you by your first name, you should stop reminding us that you're in charge of this experiment by shutting it down without explanation, when you have clearly seen or heard something that you don't want to explain, despite chiding Nicola to share her experiences."

"Nicola is the reason we are here. She ostensibly wants to contact her husband."

"Ostensibly?" I push to my feet. "If we make contact with Anton, Davos, I will fall on my knees crying. I will write every glowing recommendation you want, no matter how it makes me look, out of sheer gratitude for you giving me what I desperately want."

"No matter how it makes you look," he repeats. "Your attitude toward this speaks volumes, Ms. Laughton. You are blocking this summoning, and to me, that means you don't really want it."

"Doctor…" Jin warns, rising.

"Blocking?" I throw up my hands. "How am I blocking? I was sitting there thinking of Anton, imagining him with me. If that interferes, then okay, I was blocking, but not intentionally."

" Would that interfere?" Jin says.

Cirillo runs his hands through his hair and exhales. "No. It's the best thing you can do."

I glare at him. "So I'm not blocking you?"

"Maybe not."

"‘Maybe'?"

"I've been doing this for nearly twenty years. I can tell when something is blocking. I sensed something that told me to shut this down."

Shania says carefully, "Whatever spirit you sensed told you to stop?"

"I worded that poorly. Whatever I sensed, which was likely not a spirit, made me decide to shut it down. What I sensed was wrong. I can't explain better than that." He looks at the photos and mementos and waves a hand across them. "Is there a chance that isn't his medal? Or that's not his old key?"

"As far as I know, they're legit. The ring obviously is. It matches mine, and it's inscribed. If you're concerned, we can remove the medal and key and try again."

"Tomorrow," he says. "This session has been disrupted."

Gotta love the use of the passive tense there. This session has been disrupted. Not that he disrupted it.

Did he really sense something? Or did the malfunctioning device unsettle him and he mistakenly thought that sensation came from outside himself?

All I know is that I'm pissed off, and I want to tell Cirillo he was out of line, but I can't afford to send our medium stomping off in a snit. We can't do this without him.

"I'm going to read in the other room," I say. "I'll see everyone in the morning."

Jin's questioning glance asks whether I want company. I shake my head with a look I trust he'll interpret correctly. I'm in a mood, and it's best to leave me alone.

I take my leave of the others, grab my book from the end table, and walk away before I say anything I'll regret.