Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(23)

One morning, back in elementary school, Calla faked a stomachache. She doesn’t remember clearly why she did it, only that she knew she shouldn’t go to school. Mom had to scramble her schedule to stay home with her, and she wasn’t happy about it.

That afternoon, they found out there had been a fire at her school. Everyone was evacuated safely, but it was pretty scary for the kids.

Shaken, Calla confessed to her mother that she wasn’t really sick, that she had pretended because she had a feeling something bad was going to happen at school that day.

She remembers that long-ago conversation clearly because her mother’s reaction was so disturbing—and so strange. It wasn’t that she was angry Calla had lied about being sick, and it wasn’t that she was the least bit skeptical, either. It was more that she was upset that Calla had had a premonition in the first place.

“Just keep it to yourself,” Mom said sternly. “Promise me that you won’t tell anyone about this. Or anything like this, if it ever happens again. You have to promise!”

“But why?”

“It might make people upset. Even Daddy, so don’t talk about it to him either, okay?”

“But what is it? What happened to me?”

“It’s just . . . women’s intuition,” Mom replied, and laughed a little hollowly when Calla protested, “But I’m not a woman!”

She’s still not a woman, age-wise, anyway. But somehow, she does seem to have women’s intuition, frequently able to feel vibes other people, like Lisa, don’t even realize are there.

Is she now picking up on things other people can’t see or hear or smell, too? Ghosts?

Good Lord. She can imagine what her mother would say about what’s been going on since she got here.

Wait a minute. Mom lived for years right here in Lily Dale, with Odelia, in this very house. She had to know Odelia is a medium and that the town is devoted to the supernatural.

Okay, so why didn’t she ever tell Calla and her father about it?

Maybe she did tell Daddy, Calla considers—before quickly dismissing that idea. If Mom had mentioned any of this to him, Calla wouldn’t be here now. Period.

Maybe I should have told him right away, when he called, she thinks guiltily. Maybe I should tell him now.

She looks again at the clock. 3:19. What time is it in California? Past midnight, she realizes with regret. Too late to call.

I will in the morning, though, she decides, turning over and closing her eyes resolutely.

He might make her leave.

Might?

He’ll definitely make her leave.

So what?

Anything would be better than staying here with a kooky grandmother in a haunted house . . . right?

Burrowing into the quilt made from her mother’s little-girl dresses, Calla feels the soft fabric against her cheek and experiences a pang of regret.

If she leaves, she won’t get to sleep here in her mother’s old bed, in her old room. She won’t get to know her mother’s hometown, or Odelia.

If she leaves, another connection to her mother—and the past—will be severed.

Is that really what you want? Calla asks herself. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.

She only knows what she doesn’t want: to see another ghost. Unless, of course, it’s her mother. Then again . . .

I don’t want Mom to be a ghost. I want her to be real. I want things to be back to the way they were.

When at last Calla drifts off to sleep again, it’s on a tear-soaked pillow.

In the morning, she calls Lisa long-distance from her grandmother’s kitchen phone. Without permission. But only because her grandmother isn’t available to ask, she tells herself. She also tells herself that Odelia won’t mind. And that she’ll pay her back for the charges.

“Calla! I’ve sent you, like, fourteen e-mails and left a zillion voice mails. Where have you been?” Somehow, Lisa’s drawl seems more pronounced than Calla ever noticed in person.

“I’ve been here. I just can’t get online yet and my phone doesn’t have service.”

“Why are you whispering? Is your grandmother still sleeping?”

“No, she’s up,” she says in a low voice, glancing at the closed door to the sunroom.

She heard the doorbell ring a little while ago, as she was coming out of the upstairs bathroom. She stood still in the hall, trying to eavesdrop on her grandmother’s conversation with whoever was on the porch. Then the screen door squeaked open and banged closed, and voices and footsteps faded to the back of the house. When Calla came downstairs a few minutes ago, the sunroom door was closed.

She’s positive Odelia is in there, giving a reading. It’s an educated guess—not a supernatural premonition or whatever you call it when you just know things.

What she can’t begin to even guess is what time it is. The clock in her room was flashing 12:00 again when she woke up, the stove clock in here is broken, and she can’t tell much by looking outside at the angle of the sun because there is no sun today. It’s a depressingly gray day. Warm, muggy air seeps in through the windows Odelia has opened throughout the house.

“What time is it?” Calla asks Lisa. And why isn’t my clock still set? Was there a storm in the night? Did the power go out?

“It’s almost eleven thirty,” Lisa informs her. “Why?”