Page 44 of I'll Be Waiting

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 saysthatgirl 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 somethingfor 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 mydrawers 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.

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