Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(15)

Yes, and read cookbooks on the toilet beforehand.

“You can entertain yourself, right?” Odelia asks.

Remembering at last to pose the question that’s been nagging her throughout dinner, Calla replies, “Definitely, and I was wondering . . . where’s your computer?”

“My computer?” Odelia snickers. “I keep it with my Porsche.”

“What?”

“Honey, I don’t have a computer.”

“You don’t?” Uh-oh.

I should have known, Calla thinks. But then, how could she have? Her grandmother is a virtual stranger, and Calla had no way of knowing that Lily Dale would be so . . . old-fashioned.

If only she’d been able to talk her parents into buying her a laptop for her birthday in April, instead of just an iPod. Not that she doesn’t like her iPod, but a lot of good it will do her now, when it comes to staying in touch with her friends back home.

This is just crazy. How is she supposed to live through a full three weeks without e-mail and the Internet?

“I thought you had your own computer,” Odelia says. “I remember you being on it in your room an awful lot when I was down there.”

“I do have one, but it’s a desktop.” Seeing Odelia’s blank look, and wondering how anyone in this century can be so clueless, she clarifies, “It’s not portable—not a laptop.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

A shame? It’s a crisis, as far as Calla is concerned.

Really? A crisis?

Ashamed of her reaction to what really amounts to an inconvenience in the wake of a true crisis in her life, she forces herself to say, “It’s okay, I’ll just learn to live without being online for a while.”

“I guess you don’t have any choice. Sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay. At least I’ve got my cell phone.”

Odelia hesitates, as though she wants to say something about that. Then, thinking better of it, she shrugs and goes upstairs, humming what sounds suspiciously like OutKast’s “Hey Ya!”

Calla listens. It is OutKast’s “Hey Ya!” Not exactly the most current song, but at least it’s from this century. Now, if Odelia could just update herself on technology as well . . .

Shaking her head, Calla takes her cell phone from her pocket. Calling Lisa will make her feel better. Wait until she hears about—

Huh? She raises the phone closer to her eyes and frowns. No service?

Maybe it’s because she’s in the house. She takes the phone out onto the front porch and checks again. Still nothing. Not in the street, either, or halfway down the block.

She returns glumly to the house. Now what?

There’s always her iPod . . . but if she listens to music, she’ll find herself thinking. And if she allows herself to do too much thinking these days, her thoughts take her to dark places. She’ll wind up crying again. She doesn’t want to start crying, because she might not stop.

She’ll have to keep her thoughts occupied, then. For now, she’ll find something to read and take it out to the porch. She brought along a couple of books from home, but she’s too lazy to go upstairs and get them.

Too lazy? Come on.

All right, she’s . . .

Well, not exactly scared. Just a little . . .

Spooked.

Did she see a ghost earlier, upstairs? Did she see one in the cemetery that day? Will she see one again now?

Does she even believe in ghosts?

No. Of course not.

She is, after all, the daughter of a very practical banker who wasn’t big on abstract thinking. Mom didn’t go to church or discuss ethereal topics like religion; she didn’t even encourage Calla to believe in Santa Claus, much less God. She didn’t actively discourage it, but when Calla asked if Santa was real, Mom would say things like, “Consider the evidence. Have you ever seen him? Not the department-store guys in the fake beards, but the real thing, sneaking down the chimney in the middle of the night.”

“We don’t have a chimney.”

“Exactly.”

“And isn’t it too hot here for reindeer and a sleigh?”

“What do you think?”

Calla wanted to believe in Santa Claus, but she couldn’t find the evidence, so she reluctantly let go. She was six. God, she still believed in—secretly. Because she really needed to. Mom, who liked to equate seeing with believing, obviously didn’t. It isn’t hard to imagine what she’d say about ghosts.

Alone in the living room, Calla quickly turns on the seashell lamp. Artificial light helps to banish the late-day shadows cast by the dying sun that just barely reaches the windows.

Seeing a mirror on the opposite wall, Calla walks decidedly toward it.

Will I see a ghost in my reflection again?

No. It’s just me.

There she is, looking like her usual self, if a little thinner than usual. Her arms look bony, sticking out beneath the sleeves of her white T-shirt. And her jeans are riding too low though her belt is buckled in the last hole; she needs either to find a smaller belt or to start eating more.

Tonight, she realizes, was the first time she’s had much of an appetite lately. She even had two helpings of spaghetti. Odelia had four and didn’t even bother to do the whole “I really shouldn’t, but I can’t resist” routine typical of most women, like Lisa’s mom, Mrs. Wilson.