EIGHT
S
omething was different. Something had shifted. The air had a peculiar scent; the gray of the sky was darker punching against the bright white of the high clouds. Something.
What was it?
Eloise watched Finley go—the girl’s thin form crouched over the roaring machine, speeding away. That girl thought she owned the world; maybe she did. She didn’t believe that she could make a mistake, get hurt. Eloise envied her arrogance a little, even as she cautioned against it. As Finley turned the corner out of sight, Eloise smiled, in spite of herself.
It had been on the tip of her tongue, the thing Eloise wanted to say. “Finley,” she almost said. “Can you be late today? We should have a talk.” But she’d never found the courage to push the words out. What point was there, really? What good would it do?
Back inside the house, the old clock ticked, the floorboards creaked, the pictures of her family stared at her from the wall. All these things seemed real and solid, permanent. Of course, it wasn’t so. Everything tended toward breaking down, entropy. Time and gravity were immutable forces that pulled the world apart. If not for constant vigilance, the fabric on the sofas would mold and rot, the roof would start to sink, shingles and shutters would fall. The house would be a ruin one day. And that was right, as it should be. Nothing is forever.
Eloise took her bag from the hall table and headed out the door.
In the car, she drove down the road. So many years later, she never failed to remember the day Emily and Alfie died whenever she passed the place where the tractor-trailer drifted into their lane, forcing them all into a head-on collision. After which: Alfie and
Emily were gone; Eloise and Amanda were left to go on; and Eloise began to hear the dead—their voices, their stories. It had been a day like any other day, not the shade of any warning, not a tingle, not a sense of anything to come. Lives lost, lives altered from one moment to the next. Other people would have moved, left this place, at least not forced themselves to drive the same road every day. But Eloise was not other people. She didn’t want to forget, to move on. You didn’t have to do those things to let go.
She drove through town, past the Java Stop and Miss Lovely’s Bed & Breakfast. At the light, Jake, proprietor of Jake’s Pub, waved to her as he crossed in front of her car. She lowered her window to hear what he was saying.
“I can feel winter coming,” he said again.
“Me, too,” she said, smiling. “Have a good one.”
He smiled in that way they sometimes do afterwards, after they’d laid their problems at your feet, and she’d helped the best she could. Sometimes it was enough and they were grateful; sometimes not, and they were disappointed. But it was always awkward when there was nothing left to do but accept. Jake had asked her for answers about a woman he’d lost long ago. He’d given her a necklace, and Eloise had a dream. It was never easy to watch a big, strong man break down and cry, even though she should be used to it by now. Every time they saw each other now, Eloise and Jake, they each remembered that moment, when he cried and she held him.
She passed the yoga studio where some lithe women lingered chatting outside the door after class. Then past the hardware store and the community garden that a group of mothers had started in an empty lot owned by the city. Finally, she took the road out of town, toward Agatha’s.
It was a short drive. Agatha was outside what was now formally called The Hollows, but she was still part of the place. The old-timers knew that The Hollows was bigger than the modern town boundaries dictated. The Hollows went on and on, up into the hills. Just because some civil engineers decided to demarcate a proper line between towns didn’t make it so.
She drove along the quiet road, between the towering pines until she came to Agatha’s drive, and then she turned. She moved through the gate that stood open, took the long driveway up. When she arrived, she sat and watched the house for a minute. She had a feeling that her old friend would be out back. Why had she come? She couldn’t even say.
She didn’t bother walking up to the door but made her way around the side of the house. She had been right; Agatha was sitting out in the gazebo past the pool that used to gleam with bright blue water but was covered now. The house had gotten too big for her, a rambling old thing. But she stayed on.
I can’t leave here any more than you can
, she’d said once. And Eloise had bristled at this.
I can leave here whenever I want,
she’d thought then. But Agatha had been right about that, as she had been about so much.
“You’re here about Finley,” said Agatha as Eloise approached. “Among other things.”
“You must be psychic,” said Eloise. Agatha gave a little chortle at that.
She was smaller than she used to be, frailer. When Eloise had first known her, nearly thirty years ago now, Agatha’s power used to radiate off of her in waves. She was a big woman, always clad in tunics and scarves and flowy pants. Just her presence brought comfort; it energized. That was at the height of it, when the waiting list for her speak-to-the-dead business was three years long, when she traveled on her private jet to help law enforcement agencies, make talk show appearances, help families find their lost. The years had slowed her down. Toward the end, she saw fewer people, was able to do less, see less.
Eloise sat opposite Agatha, whose long white hair was tied back in a bun. She was dressed in white, a flowing tunic and linen pants. She fingered a strand of big black beads around her neck. From where Eloise sat, the beads looked like skulls, faces pulled taut in anger and sadness, fear, misery.
“We’re getting old,” said Agatha.
“Yes,” said Eloise.
The Whispers were usually quiet here, but today they were loud. Most people would hear the sound as just the wind in the leaves. But it was so much more, a million voices telling their stories, the full rainbow of human experience—birth and death, joy and grief, fear and love. Eloise had been listening for a long time now. Too long.
“It’s her time,” said Agatha. “She’ll take the seat of her power. Whether she wants to or not.”
Eloise felt a pang of grief. She didn’t want this for Finley, any more than she had wanted it for herself. Under that, there was a selfish current of relief.
“And me?”
Agatha looked at Eloise with eyes that were blue and knowing, her gaze expansive and forgiving.
“Ray wants me to come to San Francisco,” Eloise said. Even as the words were out of her mouth, she finally knew that she wouldn’t be going to him. She’d been putting him off since Finley came, thinking that it was Finley who needed her. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Finley thought she needed Eloise, but she didn’t, not really. She was just leaning on her, finding a balance she already had.
Poor Ray, he’d been waiting so long. There hadn’t been enough of her for him in the end. She’d never stopped loving Alfie, and there were so many people who had needed her help. There wasn’t anything but a sliver of her left over for Ray.
“But I won’t be going, will I?”
Agatha lifted a hand to Eloise, who took it.
Once long ago, Agatha had turned up on Eloise’s doorstep. She’d seen Eloise on the evening news, shortly after Alfie’s and Emily’s passings, and knew immediately that Eloise needed a visit. Eloise had been in the throes of despair, grieving, trying to understand what was happening to her. And Agatha, a seasoned medium with years of experience under her belt, had guided her with a firm and loving hand into the next phase of her life. If it hadn’t been for her friend, Eloise might have been consumed by misery. Still, Eloise always thought of herself as a bad student. So many things Agatha had tried to teach, Eloise never learned. Finley was already better at
those things—setting boundaries, saying when. Agatha was a vastly superior teacher for Finley than Eloise because she had, like Finley, grown into her abilities at a young age. They hadn’t been thrust upon her in midlife, in the wake of tragedy.
“You are a part of this place, Eloise,” said Agatha. “Like the tree in your yard, rooted deep into the earth, your branches reaching up to the stars.”
The Whispers reached a crescendo, then fell off, growing softer. They demanded that she listen.
And Eloise
had
been listening. She’d done little else, her life devoted to answering the call. She didn’t have any regrets. Sorrows, but not regrets. She closed her eyes and let the cool wind caress her. When she opened them again, Agatha was gone. Eloise was alone in the gazebo.
She sat there for she didn’t know how long, listening. And then finally, perhaps for the first time, she took the advice she’d just given to Finley that morning. She
heard
.
As Finley climbed off her bike, her cell phone chimed.
howz it goin freakshow?
Her brother Alfie.
id try to explain, but ur such a muggle u wont get it,
she typed back.
hangin with dead people cuz u can’t make frenz who breathe
at least my friends dont drag their knuckles on the ground and beat their chests
oo oo ah ah—seriously
its ok the hollows is a little lame. hows mom?
misses u. seems sad. seeing dad again.
Ugh. wus up w/u?
Ssdd
come on
all good—school, soccer, board—livin the dream
nothing weird?
i wish.
no you don’t
tell rainer I said hey
Finley’s brother Alfie was three years younger than she was and her opposite in every way. His hair was as sunshiny blond as hers was midnight black. He was big—tall with broad shoulders—where she was tiny. And he was totally normal, not a hint of any ability. He wasn’t even especially intuitive. He was the good boy—never in trouble, never causing their parents any grief—did well in school, total jock, competitive skateboarder. Alfie Max Montgomery was their mother’s favorite child. But Finley didn’t blame her for this. Alfie was Finley’s favorite, too. He was a soft place in a family full of hard angles. He was even nice enough to go by Alfie when he really wanted to be called Max—a way better name for a skater punk.
Finley always thought
her
name was a living symbol of how badly her parents got along, even in the early days. Her given name was Emily Finley Montgomery; her mother had insisted on naming her after Finley’s deceased Aunt Emily. Phil was totally against it, something about the cyclical nature of existence and
One Hundred Years of Solitude
—bad juju. There was a big fight, which ended in the compromise that they’d give their baby both names and let her choose when she was old enough. Finley was three when she made her choice. She didn’t want to be named after a dead person.
Same deal with Alfie; Amanda wanted to name her son after her father; Phil wanted Max—because it was a cool name. Both children bore Amanda’s last name; she’d kept her last name in the marriage and felt her children should have it, too. Another thing that drove Phil crazy.
“After I carried them in my body for nine months, delivered them naturally, and breast-fed for a year—why in the world would they get
your
last name? Because of some anachronistic idea of paternal lineage? Grow up, Philip.”
Control, control, control. That was Amanda’s thing.
If she misses me
, Finley thought (with a little twinge of guilt),
it’s only that I’ve escaped her grasp.
Of course, that wasn’t quite true or entirely fair, but Finley didn’t want to think about her mother right now.
She stuffed her phone in her jacket pocket and walked up the drive to Cooper’s office as a golden patina of early afternoon light
broke through gunmetal clouds. The house had a bright red door with a gold knocker, an autumn wreath. On the stoop sat a chaos of brightly colored ceramic pots.
She walked past the home, following a discreet sign tucked in the shrubbery that read:
JONES COOPER PRIVATE INVESTIGATION
. A small structure, which looked to be adjacent to the larger house, had two doors—glossy black with brushed nickel handles. The one on the left read
MAGGIE COOPER, FAMILY AND ADOLESCENT THERAPIST
.
Finley had been to enough therapy that she suppressed a shudder. Endless hours on couches, Dad stone-faced, Mom crying, therapists who thought they were dealing with a standard-issue troubled child, not even realizing how far out of their depth they really were. That feeling of being totally misunderstood by every adult around her had stayed with her.
She knocked on the other door, and after a few seconds Jones Cooper opened it for her and she stepped inside. There was a small foyer, with desk and chair that looked as if they had never been used—a spot for a secretary or an assistant. She followed Jones through another door, into a room that was nearly blinding in its blandness. White walls, beige carpet, desk, computer, phone, and couch—that was all, a totally utilitarian space.
“Ever think about decorating?” she asked. He motioned toward the couch and she sat.
She thought she saw the shade of a smile, but it was quickly gone, as if it hadn’t been there at all. He pointed to a picture of his wife and son that sat on his desk in a simple wood frame. “I’ve got that.”
“It’s all just kind of, I don’t know,
beige
.”
“It works,” he said, with a shrug. “I haven’t had any complaints until now.”
She nodded, looking at the carpet, which was not beige but dove gray, out the window, everywhere but at him.
“I guess you’re not here to talk about my decorating skills,” he said. “Or lack thereof.”
What
was
she doing here?
“I’m not like my grandmother,” said Finley abruptly. She realized
that she was wringing her hands and tried to stop, tucking them beneath her.
“Okay,” he said.
He leaned back in the chair behind his desk, put his hands behind his head, fanning his arms out like the wings of a cobra. He had her in that stare. Not unkind, but seeing everything.
Note to self: Don’t bother bullshitting Jones Cooper.