Two

TWO

Seven Months Later

"This way," says the woman. She flaps her arms in what I presume is a welcoming gesture, but with her voluminous black robe she looks like a vulture about to take flight, red talons flashing.

As soon as Shania and I step into the hall, the reek of incense hits and my insides twist.

Fake. You know this is fake, so what the hell are you doing here?

Even as my brain screams that, a little voice whispers that I know it's not always fake. It is possible to reach beyond this world into the next.

Of all people, I know that.

I also know what can happen if you do.

An image flashes. Blood sprayed across a bush—

I shove that aside. That was two decades ago. This séance is about Anton, and I am not the least bit concerned about summoning my husband's spirit.

I follow the medium down the dim hall. Beside me, Shania fairly vibrates with excitement. Tiny and dark-haired, Shania has kohl-liner cat eyes that make her look much younger than her twenty-five years. So does the hope shining in her face.

I met Shania two months ago, at grief counseling, where I'd been assigned as a mentor to help her mourn the loss of her sister.

I can say I'm here for her. She desperately wants proof of an afterlife. But that's a lie, and I won't give in to it.

I'm here for me. Because I'm a damn coward who can't accept that her husband is gone.

As the medium— call me Leilani —herds us toward the room, Shania whispers, "This time we'll reach him. I know we will." She squeezes my hand, her skin hot against my clammy fingers.

We enter a tiny, windowless room. It looks like the den in my grandparents' house, complete with wood paneling and a stucco ceiling. Mystical abstract art on the walls seems to all be painted by the same amateur, maybe Leilani herself.

women and a man sit at an old table draped in a black cloth. All three are middle-aged, white, and nondescript enough that they could be related. Three pairs of eyes stare at me. Leilani introduces them as spirit helpers, but I know why they're really here. To gape at me. Nicola Laughton. The woman from the news. The woman from a viral story that rises from the grave every few weeks, which I know by the sudden surge of messages with titles like "Have you seen him yet?" and "I can help you contact him."

My life changed in one night. A winter storm, not even that bad, just earlier than usual. An asshole who wasn't letting a little snow slow him down. Faulty airbags in a nearly new car. Between the three, I went from giddy newlywed to grieving widow in twenty minutes flat. A private tragedy that should have damn well remained private.

Except it didn't.

One of those strangers milling around that night had recognized a story unfolding before them. Was it one of the Good Samaritans who helped get us out of the car, wrapped us in blankets, called 911? Or one of the ghouls who only stopped to gape?

It doesn't matter. Someone overheard me telling the paramedics that I had cystic fibrosis, just warning them as you would with any chronic condition, and suddenly, a back-page "One Dead in Highway Accident" became a front-page "Terminally Ill Newlywed Widowed in Horrific Winter Crash."

I'm not sure what enraged me more: the idea that having CF made me "terminally ill" or that the headline centered around me, when Anton was the one who'd lost his life.

"Man Dies in Crash" isn't a story. Not until someone hears that he married a woman in the late stages of a chronic illness and—plot twist!— she's the one now planning his funeral. I'm not even in the late stages of CF, but given my age, someone apparently decided I was.

That story would have made the front page, but it wouldn't have gone viral. It's the other one that counted. That night, when I'd said goodbye to Anton, people had overheard us talking. They'd heard his last words to me.

I'll be waiting.

One witness swore that after he said that, his spirit flowed from his body and bent to kiss the top of my head. They even took a damn photo—because that's what you do when you unintentionally eavesdrop on a stranger's dying words. You get out your phone for a picture.

In the photo, a white blur hangs over me. It's some kind of optical illusion—from the snow and the night and the headlights—but people see what they want to see. And what they want to see is the ghost of a dead man, standing over his "terminally ill" wife, reassuring her that he'll be waiting on the other side. For, you know, when she dies. Which will be soon. Aww. How sweet.

That's the story that went viral. That's also the story that brought every medium to my virtual—and sometimes actual—doorstep. I'm the perfect client, grief-stricken and financially comfortable enough to fork over cash for a séance, pathetically hopeful after that photo, and also minor-league social-media famous, guaranteeing publicity if they can contact my husband.

Do I sound angry? I am angry. I'm pissed off at that driver, at the car manufacturer, at whoever shared those stories, at whoever took that picture, at the phony mediums preying on my grief. But the person I'm angry at the most?

Me.

Because I keep falling for the con artists. Because I am smarter than this, stronger than this, wiser than this. Or I should be. Yet here I am in another medium's house, paying to be tricked and gaped at by strangers.

Worse, I'm here after swearing to everyone that I won't do this again. I'm like a junkie sneaking away for her fix, and I am ashamed.

I am so damned ashamed of myself.

I've never been what you'd call meek. Dad always said I plow through life, and there may have been some mention of a bull and a china shop, implying that my "plowing" comes with the strong possibility of destruction. But when I enter Leilani's lair, I am as meek as can be. Gaze downcast, greetings murmured, praying my face isn't bright red with shame and embarrassment. I'm sure it is—the perils of being the pale and freckled kind of redhead.

I take my seat, and Shania slides in beside me. I offer her a smile that I try—really try—to make genuine. She deserves better. She deserves a mentor who can help her move past her sister's death. But how am I supposed to help her do something I can't do myself?

I know all the platitudes. Cherish the memories. Be thankful for the time you had with them. They would want you to be happy. All true. Anton would be horrified to see me in this room. But this is where I am.

Leilani lights candles and lowers the lights. She doesn't turn them off. The candles aren't strong enough for that. But the illusion of a séance by candlelight is all that matters. The illusion of the whole thing is all that matters. A proper séance must look as if we wandered into a nineties movie-set séance, complete with candles, incense, a black-clad medium, and a Ouija board. Don't forget the Ouija board.

What do you mean Ouija boards aren't traditional spiritualism? You're saying they were created by a novelty company for parlor games? Fie on you and your easily confirmable data.

Once the candles are lit, we hold hands and Leilani sends out an invitation for Anton to join us. It's a very pretty invitation, all curlicues of words, verbal calligraphy that would have Anton scratching his head: Does she mean me? What does she want me to do? I don't get it, Nic.

Just say something, damn it. Tell a joke and get the punch line wrong, as usual. Whistle Green Day and My Chemical Romance songs so off-key that only I recognize them.

Just say hi.

That's all, Anton.

Say hello.

Tell me you are out there, somewhere.

Tell me your last words weren't blind and empty reassurances.

Tell me you are waiting.

As Leilani continues, I let the sarcasm and cynicism roll off me. There's no point in asking for help contacting Anton if I refuse to listen.

Find my breath. Clear my mind. Focus on the sound of Leilani's voice. Forget what she's saying and focus on her voice, low and rhythmic.

It only takes a few moments, and then I am where I need to be. Calm and just slightly outside of myself. Aware of the heat of Shania's hand, of the smell of candle wax cutting through the incense, the tick-tick-tick of…

Is that a metronome? I peek. Yes, there's an antique metronome by Leilani's elbow. That makes me smile and relax a little more. Anton had a metronome on his desk. It was his form of meditation, for times when his work as a mathematician got too stressful.

I loved to sit in his office and start up the metronome while I waited for him to solve whatever problem gripped his mind.

Tick-tick-tick.

I can see him hunched over his pages, scribbling furiously, reading glasses on.

Reading glasses before forty? I say. That's what you get for straining to read teeny-tiny numbers without good lighting.

That's a myth, Nic.

Mmm, not so sure.

He's writing and frowning and writing more. There's a laptop and a desktop computer nearby, but he likes to work by hand.

Luddite.

Tick-tick-tick.

Hair falls over his broad forehead. I catch a few silver hairs and smile smugly. About time. I've had them since I was twenty-five. Never dyed them out. I'm too damn proud of having lived to see gray hair.

Anton rests the tip of his pencil in his mouth.

Going to get lead poisoning, I say.

The amount of lead absorbed—

Don't math on me, Novak.

I smile and keep reaching for that image of him, constructing it until I see the whole of his office, right down to—

"Janica."

The name whispers up from my left, and I stiffen. That's not my name. It used to be, once upon a time, but it's not now, and no one in this room knows me as anything but Nicola.

I look at Leilani, but she's still invoking Anton.

I imagined it. Imagined hearing my old name. Imagined hearing it in Anton's voice, because he knew it, though he never called me that. Only my mom called me Janica, while sighing that everyone ignored the lovely name she'd picked for me, in favor of the boyish diminutive, Nic.

But might Anton use that name if he reached out? So I know it's really him?

I shake it off, making Shania glance over, worry clouding her brown eyes. I smile reassuringly and focus on the metronome again.

Tick-tick-tick.

Anton in his office, working out a problem. Finally, with a start, he realizes I'm there.

What time is it? he says.

Finish up.

Sorry. I lost track of—

Finish. We have time.

All the time in the world.

"Janica," the voice whispers. "Careful…"

The hair on my neck rises. I seem to hear Anton. Isn't that what I'm here for? So why am I stiffening, my heart picking up speed, panic rising?

Because it can't be him. Because I'm imagining—

Something moves, a shape caught just in the corner of my eye. I startle, and Leilani's soothing voice stops.

"Nicola?" she says.

There's nothing there, and I'm not even sure what I thought I saw. A sensation of movement. I sensed…

I blink hard.

"Continue," I say, my voice croaking.

"I don't think I need to," Leilani says. "He's here. I sense him."

A soft whisper has Shania jumping and one of the observers gasping softly.

"Nic…" The name swirls around me. The voice says something else, but it's garbled, indistinct.

"Anton?" Leilani says. "Am I addressing Anton Novak, husband of Nicola Laughton, who is here with me today?"

"Yes…" The word comes as a hiss. Then more, still garbled like two radio stations coming in at once.

"Anton? We're having trouble—"

Cold air snakes over my bare calves.

Shania jumps and squeaks. "Did anyone else…?" She claps a hand to her mouth. "Sorry."

"Did you experience something, dear?" Leilani asks.

"Cold air. I felt—"

"I did, too," the male observer says.

"There!" one of the women says. "Did you see that?"

"The candle flames wavered." Shania's hand tightens painfully hard on mine. "Nic, he's here. Anton's really here."

I look at Shania's shining face, and I want to smile at her and say that yes, Anton's here. If he's here, that's proof of an afterlife, proof that her sister is somewhere and Shania can move on with her own life, confident in the knowledge that she will see her sister again.

Part of me wants to be the person who can do that.

The person who can lie to make others feel better.

The person who doesn't have to face the truth. Always.

I extricate my hand from Shania's. Then I stand and walk to where the candle flames had flickered. They're on a small cabinet, nestled between two statuettes of Egyptian deities. I lift one statuette.

"What are you doing?" Leilani says, stumbling to her feet.

The statuette only moves a couple of inches. Enough to reveal the tube running into it. An air tube that runs out the side, right at the level to make the candles flicker. Then I bend, hiking my skirt past my knees to get low enough. Another tube runs along the bottom shelf of the cabinet. That's where the blast of cold air came from.

I don't say anything. I just look at Leilani, and she flinches before setting her jaw.

"I don't know what you think you've found," she says.

"Shall I say it out loud?"

I walk back to the table. Then I pause, remembering which direction the voice had come from. The one that called me Nic.

There's another yard-sale-quality cabinet right behind the chair where I'd been sitting. Where I'd been told to sit. I find the speaker hidden in a picture frame. I turn the frame around so everyone can see the small speaker. I don't say anything, and no one else does either.

The other voice, the one that called me Janica, came from my left, right at my ear. I look around that area, but I don't see where a speaker would hide and, honestly, I don't expect to. No one in this room knows me by that name. That voice, then, I must have imagined.

I tap the picture-frame speaker as my gaze meets Leilani's. I still don't say anything. I could sneer that I know my husband's voice. I could roll my eyes at her for using tricks I've seen a half-dozen times. I could even rage at her for preying on my grief.

Instead, I just look at her and say, "I expect a refund."

When I glance at Shania, I falter. The disappointment on her face stings, but the resignation is worse. She's accompanied me to three séances, and she already knows this is what she can expect. The decent mediums admit they can't make contact. The charlatans pull this shit. And most of them are charlatans.

I can feel bad for not letting Shania believe in this one, but that would be patronizing. She isn't a child. She'd seen through the last one before I did. She might have been fooled here temporarily, but that would have passed, and she'd have been rightfully pissed off with me for playing along.

When I look over, she's already on her feet, her glare fixed on Leilani.

"I trusted you," Shania says to Leilani. "I let you convince me to bring Nicola. If you haven't transferred back her money before we reach the door, you'll have one-star reviews on every site by sundown."

That's my Shania. I smile at her, and she mouths an apology. I wave it off and put my hand against her back, guiding her from the room. No one tries to follow us. We walk through the tiny house… and make a wrong turn at the kitchen.

"Kinda ruins the whole storming-out thing when we can't find the exit," I whisper.

Shania gives a strained laugh. Then she whispers back, "I am so sorry, Nic. I know you were trying to quit, and I talked you into it."

"I'm a grown-up, Shania, and part of being a grown-up is, sadly, that no one else gets the blame for my shitty choices. Oh, there's the front door. Whew. What do you say to a midafternoon sugar splurge? I saw one of those fancy artisanal ice cream places on the drive in."

I pull open the door. "My treat, but only if you promise not to apologize…"

I trail off. There's a pickup parked in front of the small house. Parked illegally, which is why I didn't take the spot. A blond woman in jeans and a pullover perches on the truck's front bumper, while a dark-haired guy in a sport jacket leans against the front panel, arms crossed over his chest.

"Shit," Shania whispers.

"Yep."

Shania surges forward, boot heels clicking down the concrete steps. "Libby. Jin. I am so sorry. This is my fault. I talked her into it."

"No one talks Nic into anything," Libby says, straightening. "Trust me. We've all tried. If she agrees, it's because she already wanted to do it. Like visiting another spiritualist after promising she'd quit."

"How'd you find me?" I ask as I walk over.

Jin lifts his cell phone with the Find My Friends app displayed. "Forgot to turn it off this time, Nic. You're slipping."

"Or she wants to get caught," Libby says, using her psychologist-in-session voice.

I roll my eyes at her. No, I do not want to be caught. I might seem calm, but inside, I'm cringing like I'm eight again and Mom found chocolate-bar wrappers in my pocket after I'd forgotten—again—to take my enzyme pills with me. And after I swore I never had snacks if I forgot the pills.

I look from Jin to Libby. From my one best friend to the other. From my brother's husband to his ex-wife. And, yep, that's as complicated as it sounds, but Keith has good taste in partners. It's probably his one redeeming quality.

Okay, fine, Keith has lots of redeeming qualities. I just happen to prefer hanging out with his spouses. And I definitely prefer having them show up, because they know the shame is punishment enough. If Keith were here… Well, my older brother has a knack for making me feel like I really am eight again, sneaking those chocolate bars.

"I am sorry," Shania says.

I wag my index finger at her. "No more of that. I messed up, and I'll take my licks, which apparently won't come with ice cream." I look at them. "I suppose it's Nicola-intervention time?"

"It is," Libby says. "If you want to meet us after your ice cream, that's fine. I'd just need to ask Keith to pick up the kids at school and look after them for an hour. Which is not a bad idea. Hayden is in a mood. Twelve years old and already sulking like a teen." She takes out her phone. "Yep, I'm definitely calling Keith, whatever you decide. Then we can hold the intervention over drinks."

"You go on," Shania says. "I'll catch a cab and see you at group tomorrow."

"No, I'm driving you home." I turn to Jin. "Meet me at my place. You can drive Libby and me to the bar, so I can have a couple of drinks. I have a feeling I'm going to need them."