“Geez,” CeeCee said, after I’d relayed this story to her and Gina—not the part about Lucia, of course, or the details about Becca’s wound. That would have been a violation of student-counselor—and mediator-NCDP—privilege.
“So basically what you’re saying is that this Kelly Prescott is the worst person in the world to be parenting a child.” Gina tugged on one of her short black dreadlocks. “Worst. Person. In. The. World. Got it.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe worst stepparent. She could just be having a hard time bonding with a kid who isn’t her own.”
I felt a little bad for Kelly, since I knew she’d dated Paul. If he’d treated her in any way like the way he was treating me . . .
That wasn’t any excuse for the way she was treating her stepdaughter, though.
CeeCee had sunk her chin into her hand and was regarding me dejectedly. “I’m good with kids, you know. But God forbid a guy—even an old dude like Lance Arthur Walters—would go for a girl like me. No, they always go for girls like Kelly. Girls with pigment.”
Gina had had to get up then because, true to CeeCee’s prediction—though her aunt was the only one in the family who professed to be psychic—customers had begun coming in, as it was after six.
So that left only me to say, “Oh, come on, CeeCee. You wouldn’t want to be married to some old rich dude anyway. Isn’t it better to wait until you can be with someone you actually like, and support yourself?”
“Like you, you mean? Yeah, well, too bad I don’t have your luck,” CeeCee grumbled, her tone only slightly bitter. Then her violet eyes widened. “Not . . . I didn’t mean—with your dad . . .”
I smiled at her. “No. I get it. It’s true. I am lucky, in a way.”
CeeCee didn’t mean I was lucky because my dad was dead. He went out jogging one day when I was very young, and never came back (at least, not physically. He hovered at my side spiritually for years, offering unsolicited advice).
CeeCee meant what happened after that.
I didn’t find out about it until after my college graduation. That’s when Mom told me she’d invested all the Social Security benefits the government had been sending to me in Dad’s name, in addition to my portion of his surprisingly hefty life insurance policy. Mom hadn’t needed the money to raise me, since she’d had a great job as a local television news journalist, and now she’d gotten herself named as an executive producer of my stepfather Andy’s dorky home improvement show.
Or maybe it wasn’t so dorky, considering it had gone into international syndication and you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing Andy’s big handsome face on the side of a bus, urging you to try his new brand of drill bits.
After I’d graduated from college, I’d inherited the money. Mom said I could do whatever I wanted with it, except spend it “on drugs, designer clothes, or a boob job” (which I found insulting: I don’t do drugs, designer clothes are for people lacking in fashion imagination, and my boobs are as amazing as my hair).
“And don’t even think about spending it on a wedding,” Andy had added. “I know you and Jesse want to get married soon, but we’ll pay for it.”
I’d decided the wisest thing to do was keep the money where it was, invested in a combination of bonds and blue chip stocks (it turns out there is something about which I’m almost as conservative as Jesse: finances).
I did cash in a little to use for grad school, and to rent my one-bedroom apartment in Carmel Valley, not too far from where my oldest stepbrother, Jake, had bought a house with the money he’d made off an entrepreneurial venture of his own, the house he shares with Jesse.
And of course when I found the perfect couture wedding gown (but with a vintage feel) while on a girls’ weekend in San Francisco with CeeCee and our mothers two summers ago, I’d thought it worth the splurge. It’s been sitting in my closet ever since, already fitted and ready to go.
Jesse, of course, won’t let me use a penny of it to help him with his debt. He has too much pride (or overprotective nineteenth-century macho man bullshit, as I like to call it, often to his face).
CeeCee was right: I am lucky—if you can call losing your dad at a young age lucky. Yeah, I lost him, but I still got to visit with him for nearly a decade afterward.
And now I support myself while working an unpaid internship at my alma mater.
But when Jesse and I get married next year, my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle. I’m not a sentimental girl, but that seems kind of unlucky. I’d give all the money back if I could have my dad alive again, just for a few hours.
Or Paul dead. Either one would be great.
“What about your career?” I asked CeeCee, trying to change the subject. “At least you’ve got your dream job. Not many new college grads can say that.”
CeeCee snorted. “Oh, right. I’m finally full time at the paper, and they’ve stuck me on the police beat. Do you know what that’s like around here? Some old lady over on Sandy Point Way says this is the third day in a row tourists have taken pictures of the front of her house. She called the cops because tourists keep stopping in front of her beachfront bungalow to take photos of it! What does she expect them to do, not look at it? It’s her own fault, for living in such a freaking adorable house.”
“Be careful what you wish for, CeeCee,” I said. “You don’t want juicier crimes around here to report on, believe me. Speaking of the paper, I was wondering if you’d mind—”
“Oh, no,” CeeCee interrupted with a groan. “Not again.”
“—searching the archives,” I went on. “I tried to do it myself, but—”
“—the search function on the paper’s online edition only lists obituaries by last names,” she finished for me in a bored voice. “And you only have the first name. Or wait, let me guess: You don’t know what year the person died.”
“Um . . . both?”
“Really, Suze? Because I have nothing better to do all day?”
“CeeCee, I wouldn’t ask, if it weren’t really, really important. Her first name is Lucia, and I’m pretty sure she died in the state of California in the past ten years.”
“Oh, that narrows it down,” CeeCee said, sarcastically.
“She’s six to ten years old, tops. And I think she liked horseback riding, if that helps.”
CeeCee stared. “Wait . . . she’s a kid? Oh, Suze, I didn’t know. That’s terrible.”
I’d never explained my gift to CeeCee. Over the years, however, she—and my youngest stepbrother, David—had caught on. It had made my job a little easier, though the ludicrous story Father Dominic made up to explain Jesse’s sudden appearance in Carmel—that he was a “young Jesuit student who’d transferred to the mission from Mexico, then lost his yearning to go into the priesthood” after meeting me—nearly blew my credibility.
My mom and Andy fell for it, though, hook, line, and sinker. It’s amazing what people will believe if they want to enough.
“I know,” I said. “It’s so sad. Don’t you want to help now, Cee? Especially knowing you might keep the restless soul of a child from wandering aimlessly between life and death for centuries. And maybe even get to meet the man of your dreams, Mr. Lance Arthur Walters.”
CeeCee slammed down the lid of her laptop.
“Excuse me, but I thought I made it abundantly clear that I am not attracted to Kelly Prescott’s husband. What does he even have to do with any of this?”
I realized I’d just violated my mediator-NCDP confidentiality. “Uh . . . nothing. Sorry. I’ve had way too much caffeine. How’s Adam anyway? Have you heard from him lately?” I always used my most soothing tone, the way we’d been instructed to in our counseling practicum (part of our required core, worth three whole units), when bringing up CeeCee’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.
“Adam?” CeeCee laughed bitterly before folding her arms and slumping down in her chair. “Whatever. We hooked up a few times over the summer, and he said he was going to try to stay in touch, but that things were going to be super busy for him at school this year. And yeah, I get that he just made Law Review, and yeah, I’m happy for him. But it’s like he’s forgotten I exist. He never returns my texts or even likes my status updates anymore.”
She looked as sad-eyed as a puppy in one of those late-night commercials asking for donations for starving and abandoned animals.
“Well, he’s a jerk,” I said loyally, even though Adam was my friend, too, and there are always two sides to the story. “Screw him. But honestly, Cee, you can’t expect a guy to like all your status updates. Come on. If we held everyone to that standard, there’d be no hookups ever in the history of mankind. You know Adam. He adores you—”
CeeCee shook her head at me sadly. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. You found the perfect guy. You and Jesse don’t have a problem in the world.”
“Uh,” I said. Where to begin? “That is so far from true, CeeCee, I can’t even—”
Fortunately, at that moment, my cell phone chimed.
“I have to take this,” I said, getting up from my seat. I’d hoped it was the blogger, Shahbaz, since I’d given him my cell number in my e-mail, but it was someone almost as important. “It’s my mom. But hold that thought, CeeCee. I want to talk about this. Your feelings matter to me. They really do.”
CeeCee rolled her eyes and reopened her laptop. “You think I can’t tell when you’re using your stupid thera-speak on me? Say hi to Mrs. S from me anyway.”
My mom had kept my dad’s name, instead of taking Andy’s, because Simon was the name under which she’d become known professionally. More important, it’s my last name. It rocks.
On the other hand, de Silva rocks, too. If I changed my name when Jesse and I get married—if we get married, which was beginning to look less and less likely unless I figured out a way to stop Paul—I won’t have to change my initials, as CeeCee had pointed out, just add a de.
“I’ll tell her,” I assured her. “And thanks in advance for anything you can do regarding the, uh, dead kid situation.”
CeeCee gave me the finger, which caused more than a few people in the café to raise their eyebrows. You don’t often see an albino in an asymmetrical haircut giving a hot brunette the finger.
I was going to have to do better than a mere thank-you. A generous gift card to CeeCee’s favorite online store was probably going to be in order to placate her for this one.
I stepped outside the café—CeeCee’s aunt Pru doesn’t allow cell phone use inside the Happy Medium since she’s convinced the electromagnetic radiation they give off interferes with her psychic flow and also kills bees—and answered my cell. “Mom?”
“Oh, Suzie.”
My mother is the only person in the world who’s allowed to call me Suzie. When I was a kid, I didn’t like the name Suzie because I was a tomboy who saw dead people, and didn’t think a name ending in a babyish ee sound suited me. Then as I got older, it reminded me too much of the old song “Suzie Q,” which my dad liked to sing to me. It’s a perfectly good song, except for the part where my dad was dead, and hearing it always makes me a little sad for what might have been.
“How are you, honey? Listen,” Mom went on, before I could reply. “This isn’t really the best time. We’re at a shoot. But you sounded so frantic in your message. I hope there isn’t anything wrong.”
“Well, there is. I need to—”
“If it’s about Thanksgiving, Andy and I are still planning to be there next week. We’re staying at the Carmel Inn downtown, by the beach. Debbie says she’s making dinner, but God only knows how that’s going to turn out—I’m sure you remember the fight she and Brad had last time—so I managed to get a table for all of us at Mariner’s, just in case. Oh, did Jesse get that grant he applied for?”
“Uh, no,” I said. “Not yet. I didn’t call about Thanksgiving. I’m wondering why you guys didn’t tell me that you sold the old house to Slater Industries?”
“Slater Industries?” Mom sounded confused. “We didn’t sell it to Slater Industries. We sold it to a man named Mitchell Blumenthal. He seems like a wonderful—”
“Mitchell Blumenthal is the president of Slater Properties, a subsidiary of Slater Industries, which is owned by Paul Slater,” I interrupted her. I’d looked it up earlier in the day, after my computer was fixed. “I got an e-mail from Paul today saying his company bought the place. He’s got it scheduled for demo later this month.”
“Oh, honey, that’s terrible.” My mother sounded genuinely upset. “Are you sure? The same Paul Slater from your class? I didn’t think you two kept in touch.”
“Yes, I’m sure, and we don’t.”
Through the phone, I could hear hammering. Last time I’d watched Andy’s home improvement show, he’d been refinishing a Craftsman cottage in Santa Monica, but they don’t show episodes in order so I never know where they really are unless Mom tells me.
“Oh, dear,” my mother said. “That sounds terribly . . . aggressive.”
“Yeah, you think?”
“You know, I always thought Paul had a little bit of a crush on you, Suzie. But you never had eyes for anyone but Jesse. You didn’t even apply to a single out-of-state college, which I still think was a mistake. Not that there’s anything wrong with Jesse; you know Andy and I adore him, but when I was your age—”
“Mom,” I said, in a tired voice. “Paul Slater is a dick hole.”
“Oh, Suzie, really, must you use that kind of language? Sometimes it’s hard to believe we sent you to private school. And I know you and Paul had your rough patches, but I always felt a bit sorry for him.”
“Sorry? For Paul?”
“Yes. He was one of those kids who received plenty of money from his family, but no attention or love. He always seemed a bit lost.”
“Lost? He seems to know exactly where he’s going.” And what he wants. Namely me.
“I think he wanted to be part of our family,” Mom said. “Only not exactly your brother, if you know what I mean.”
“Ew,” I said. “Gross. And even if that’s true, it doesn’t explain why he thinks bulldozing our old house to build a ten-thousand-square-foot freaking McMansion over it would make us like him.”
“No, you’re right,” my mother said with a sigh. “But I suppose to him, even negative attention from you is better than no attention at all.”
“Huh,” I said, thinking about this. “That could be true.”
My mom was good to come to for advice. I couldn’t tell her everything, of course, because she’d freak out. Things like tears in the fabric of the universe, ghosts, or ancient Egyptian curses were not her milieu.
But she understood people.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “This is going to upset Andy and the boys so much.”
“The boys? What about me? It’s upsetting the hell out of me.”
My mother sighed again in a weary way. “Suzie, really, do I have to keep telling you? If you expect to be taken seriously at your job, you have got to clean up your language—”
“Sweet crippling Christ, Mom,” I said. “I’m not at work right now. And I keep telling you, it’s not a job, it’s an internship. They’re not even paying me.”
“Well, I’m sure there are a lot more paying jobs for school counselors here in LA than there are up there. Forget the house. Why don’t you move down here? You can live with Andy and me. Jesse can join you when he’s done with his residency, and if you two are really set on getting married, you could buy a nice little condo. It would be so much easier for me to visit my future grandbabies if they were right here in town than—”
It was going to be interesting to see what kind of grandbabies she’d have—if any—if I didn’t meet Paul and he really did bulldoze 99 Pine Crest Road.
“Look, Mom,” I interrupted her. “We can talk about all that later. I have to go now.”
“All right, Suzie. I’m sorry about the house. But honestly, we had to sell. Andy and I were never there, and neither were any of you. And that place was too big to maintain as a vacation home. And so drafty. You’re going to laugh, but you know, sometimes I could have sworn it was haunted.”
This almost made me choke on my own saliva.
I never thought I’d be thankful for an interruption from CeeCee’s crazy aunt Pru. “Suze? Is that you?”
“Oh, hi, Pru,” I said to the long-haired woman dressed all in purple who’d wafted up. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Is that CeeCee’s aunt?” my mother asked in my ear, sounding nostalgic. “Please tell her hello from me.”
“Uh, my mom says hi, Prudence,” I said, lamely waving the cell phone in CeeCee’s aunt’s direction so she’d understand my mother was on the phone.
“Wonderful. Do tell your mother how much I enjoyed the latest episode of Andy’s show,” Pru said. As usual, she had on an enormous floppy hat, as well as long silk gloves, in order to protect her skin from damaging UV rays, even though the sun had long since slipped behind the trees. Like CeeCee, Pru, suffered from albinism. Unlike Cee, Pru fancied herself in touch with the psychic world. “He’s really doing wonders with that new house.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll tell her.” CeeCee’s aunt was endlessly kind, but a bit of a whack job. True to form, she had a prediction for me.
“Oh, Suze,” she called from the doorway of the coffee shop.
“Yes?”
“The child,” she said.
I glanced around the outside of the shop, which was as whimsically decorated as the inside, festooned with twinkling fairy lights and wrought-iron café tables and potted shrubs.
“What child?” I asked her. There were no children in sight. It was twilight, and getting a little chilly. Only an extremely bad parent would allow their kids to run around outside the Happy Medium in the semidarkness. “There’s no child here, Prudence.”
“No, not here,” Pru said. “The one you know from school.”
What the hell was she talking about?
“That child is lost, and very frightened, and in so much pain,” she went on. “And lost children in pain can sometimes be very cruel. Like wild animals, you know? They lash out and hurt others, sometimes without meaning to. But sometimes on purpose, too.”
Then she smiled her happy, dazed smile and went inside the shop.
I stared after her, remembering too late that occasionally Aunt Pru’s predictions actually came true.
“What was that all about?” my mother asked.
“Nothing.”
I hoped.