Page 33 of Ghosted
She purses her lips. “I mean, I’m guessing it’s like a muscle. You had to work on every other part of your gift before it came naturally, too. Remember when you first started seeing spirits and thought you were going nuts because you only saw flashes of them? I know we were both young, but I have such a distinct memory of you whipping your head around and staring into the corner of the room. I could literally taste your fear.”
“Wow, thanks for the memories,” I say and cross my arms, not sure how this fits into my getting laid.
“Calm down, Patrick Stump.” She gives me an eye roll so epic I can only see the whites of her eyes. “My point was, you eventually got better at it. Now you can see ghosts without even trying, as long as they want to be seen. I’m sure the physical stuff is like that too.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Maybe.”
“One way to find out,” she says, grinning maniacally. “I knew my advice would work. You should really listen to me more often.”
I huff a laugh and say, “Mmhm. You might want to think about that one time in sixth grade when you walked around with toilet paper coming out of the back of your pants all day until Emily Monroe finally told you. Give your head time to shrink, so you can fit through the door frame.” I scramble out ofthe room at the murderous glint in her eye. I like Dean and all, but I’m not quite ready to join him in the afterlife.
I dart around the corner and into the storefront. Wren wouldn’t claw my eyes out in front of other people… Right? I shiver and go hide behind Aunt Clarissa. She swats at me playfully. “You two. You realize you’re both nearly in your thirties, right?”
“A sister’s love is just as powerful as a sister’s hate. One can’t exist without the other, and I don’t think that’s something you ever grow out of. Look at you and mom,” I say, gesturing vaguely to her.
She frowns at me. “What about me and your mother?”
“You two fight like cats and dogs!” I point out.
We still talk about Thanksgiving 2006. It was an epic fight. Mashed potatoes were involved, and we found them everywhere for weeks afterward. I bet the new homeowners will still find mummified globs of potato in my parents’ old house.
The smoker’s wrinkles around her lips deepen as she scowls even harder. “Well, maybe if your mother wasn’t such an uptight?—”
“Hey, Bug!” my mom greets, entering the store with a chime of the bell above the door. “‘Rissa, how are you?” She ducks under the chandelier and meets us at the counter.
“Great, thank you, dear!” Aunt Clarissa squawks. She turns dagger eyes on me, and I’m not sure who I’m more afraid of in this moment: my aunt or my sister.
“Ready for this?” my mom asks, rubbing my arm reassuringly and searching my face for any apprehension. She reminds me of a general evaluating the war table, deciding if it’s time to attack or hold the line. We had a long conversation on the phone yesterday, and she told me about a million and one timesthat I didn’t have to do anything that made me uncomfortable. That, and that she would murder my aunt if she made me feel like I had to do this on her behalf.
“I am. I’m nervous, but excited too,” I say, patting her hand.
I turn my head and catch the tail end of a smug ‘I told you so’ look crossing Aunt Clarissa’s face. My eyes dart back to my mom, who looks like someone just took a dump in her high-fiber, low-sugar cereal.
I steer my mom away by the elbow and lead her out the door. “Here, you can hang out in my apartment until afterward. Remember, I don’t want anyone to know it’s me, so you can’t be hanging around cheering me on like I’m playing high school volleyball.”
“I resent that,” she grumbles as we climb the stairs.
When we get to the landing, I unlock the door for her and usher her inside. “Make yourself at home, but that doesn’t mean that you have to clean everything in sight,” I say, flipping on the lamp by the door for her. “I’ll send Wren up here, too, so maybe you won’t feel the need to break out the Swiffer.”
“And you know what? I resent that too,” she says, hooking her bag on the coat rack. “I thought you liked my cleaning,” she pouts.
“I do! But it makes me feel guilty that you don’t relax. Just watch some TV or something.”
“Relax? In this mess?” she asks, looking over my clean-adjacent home with a raised eyebrow. I can see her gaze catching on the dishes in my sink and the kitchen towel tossed on my island. She practically sprouts hives at my disheveled coffee table with last night’s puzzle and my latest attempt at knitting strewn over it.
“Well, on that note,” I quip, heading out the door. I marvelat the way my mom can make me feel eight years old again, shoving piles of dirty laundry under my bed and chucking stuffed animals in the closet to pass her random room inspections.
I head into the store and nearly collide with Wren. “Hey, Mom’s upstairs and she’s about to clean my whole place against my will. Can you go up there and make sure she doesn’t find my vibrators in her cleaning frenzy?” I beg.
She snorts and says, “Yeah, sure. You owe me one.” I nod in understanding, knowing she’ll come to collect sooner rather than later. My sister has never been one to let an opportunity go to waste. She breezes out the door, and I heave a sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about.
I snag my water bottle from behind the counter, salute Aunt Clarissa, who is fussing over the store’s sound system, and head to my Medium’s Meeting Room. Aunt C will be the one to greet customers, explain how the reading will go, and then send them back to me. I duck under the heavy velvet curtain and switch on my lamp. I notice the bundle of herbs and flowers tucked into a small vintage vase on the table. Rosemary and lavender perfume the air in a calming balm, and I mentally thank Aunt Clarissa.
Sniffles ringout behind the curtain, and a wet cough, followed by a honking nose blow explodes through the small space.
Get tissues for next time,I scribble onto my notepad.
“Caleb? Are you doing alright?” I ask gently.
