Page 61 of Ghosted
“Rude,” I say with a scowl.
He smiles, but it looks more devious than friendly. “Well, now we both get to have a one-track mind. See you out there, Alderwood,” he says with a salute before fading through the wall.
I take a breath to steady myself and press my cool hands tomy cheeks, hoping to dull the flush a bit. A knock at the door startles me, and I push myself away from the vanity.
I walk past the woman dancing from foot to foot outside the door with a muttered apology and weave through the crowd toward my sister. She’s waiting impatiently, arms crossed, a singular talon tapping quickly on her forearm. “There you are! I was about to send out a search party,” she says reproachfully.
“Sorry, I got sidetracked. I was talking to Aunt C and then I accidentally spilled champagne on a male model, and then Dean got all jealous, which was frankly very hot…” I trail off when I notice her expression darken further. “Oookay, never mind. Let’s get this show on the road.” I give her a meek thumbs up and then, with a glance around to make sure no one is watching, I slip inside the Medium Meeting Room.
THIRTY-FIVE
I watchas Mrs. O’Dell vanishes with a pop of light and smile a little to myself. Tonight has gone better than all of my past “medium meetings” combined. I’ve had three guests so far, and each has been able to make contact with the person they were trying to reach. No one has gotten angry. No one has had to sit in awkward silence while I call out into the in-between, trying to locate their loved one to no avail.
“Alright, Lilah, she’s gone. She wanted me to tell you that she hopes she won’t see you again for a very long time,” I say through the curtain.
Lilah laughs a congested laugh and says, “Thank you for this, Claire. It means the world to me that I was able to speak to my mom one last time.” I’ve gotten so used to being called Claire that I have to be careful not to look when someone calls out to another Claire on the street.
“I’m happy I could help. It seems you were her unfinished business, and now that you two have cleared the air, she’s freeto move on,” I share, knowing that it will bring her a bit of peace. I hear a little broken inhale and tell her to take her time. This is why I typically leave fifteen minutes or so between appointments, but tonight we’re on a tighter timeline.
Eventually, I hear her stand and she says one last goodbye before the door opens and a wave of noise from the party hits me. She shuts the door behind her, “The Monster Mash” dulled to a low hum once again.
I breathe a relieved sigh. Just with the readings and tips, I’ve already brought in over a thousand dollars. That alone will cover the cost of alcohol and the bartender for the night. And I still have two more to go.
Wren sends me a text letting me know the next person is outside. I gulp down the rest of my water bottle and reply, telling her to lead them in. When the typing bubbles on her side pop up afterward, I frown down at my phone. Wren is many things, but long-winded is rarely one of them.
Wren:
Heads up, your next client is Misha. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t push too hard or else he would have been suspicious.
Fuck.
I’ve had a few people come in who I regularly speak to, but none that I would consider friends. Even still, I’ve been extra cautious and used a voice changing device to disguise my voice. It comes with a little microphone and speaker, so while it works in a pinch, it makes things a bit clunkier. But doing this for someone I talk to and joke with on a near-daily basis? Just thinking about Misha being on the other side of the curtain makes my heart pump double-time.
I try to force myself to relax once the door opens with awhoosh. It snicks shut, and the chair on the other side of the curtain creaks as Misha settles in.
I say, “Hello, please, make yourself comfortable. What’s your name?” The voice I’ve chosen is an older woman’s voice that I modify with a slight Boston accent, with elongated vowels and dropped r’s.
“Hi, I’m Misha. It’s nice to meet you.” He pauses, looking for me to fill in my name.
“Claire,” I say.
“Claire. I’m glad to meet you,” his deep voice rumbles. A nervous sigh breaks through the silence of the room and he says, “Okay, I have to admit I’m scared shitless. Whether this works or not, I’m terrified.”
I reply, “You don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to. I’m not going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so you can always come back another time.”
He cracks his knuckles loudly and says, “No. I’ve been wanting to come see you for weeks, ever since I overheard Rae and Wren talked about you.” I flinch a little at my real name. “I need to do this because if I don’t, I’ll always wonder…” He trails off, and I fidget in my seat, wanting to move this along so he can get out of here that much faster.
“Let’s try then. Who are you attempting to contact? Can you tell me about them?” I ask.
Misha swallows audibly and begins to detail his uncle for me. “Ivan was a hard man in every sense of the word. I grew up without my mom, and my dad died when I was only six years old in a freak accident at work.” He takes a breath and continues, “My uncle Ivan, my dad’s brother, was the only living relative I had who was of age and had the ability to take me in, sohe did. He wasn’t happy to do it, but he did out of a sense of obligation. And, well—let’s just say he let me know how much of a burden I was.” He clears his throat.
I bow my head, tamping down the despair punching a whole in my gut on his behalf. I feel like I’m betraying him by not letting him know who I am. He’s baring some of his most painful scars for me, and I’m not even telling him the basic truth of my identity.
“Anyway, sorry. You don’t need the whole sordid backstory. I want to contact him. We had been doing a little better the last few years of his life. My moving out at seventeen really helped our relationship. But…We had a fight. A huge one, right before he died. He found out I was gay and just shut down. When I tried to get him to talk to me, we ended up blowing up at each other, airing out twenty years’ worth of issues. It wasn’t even about me coming out to him in the end. But I was so hurt and so angry that the last words I said to him were, ‘I hope you rot in hell forever you huge fucking asshole.’ And then he had a massive heart attack less than a week later. So. Yeah. If he’s around, I want to tell him that I didn’t mean it. I want to know that he’s found peace.”
My heart hurts for Misha. He’s such a happy person, I never would have thought he dealt with so much darkness. I’m at a loss for what to say, but I eventually land on, “I’m so sorry that happened to you. You know, you don’t have to make his afterlife easier if he couldn’t accept who you were. You don’t owe him that.”
He chuckles softly. “I know that. I’m in my thirties now and am pretty happy with where life is and who I’ve become. My husband is the love of my life, and I like this town. It’s just… The only regret I have is how I ended things with my uncle. He could have done better in a lot of areas, but he was still my only father figure for most of my life. I know he loved me, he just never knew how to show it. He and my dad weren’t raised with that kind of love. If he patted my back, I knew that meant ‘I love you.’ He had the emotional range of an outdated refrigerator.” We both laugh at that, although I keep mine silent.
