Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(44)

“I’m back there,” Debra announces with a sweep of her hand, “and I have a white-haired man coming through—not gray, but pure white, and he has an awful lot of it. His name is Rod, or Rob, or maybe Bob—something like that. He passed very quickly, either falling from a height, or having something fall from a height onto him—I can’t tell which it is.”

Hearing a high-pitched gasp, Calla turns to see a woman with short blond hair, covering her mouth with both hands as the man next to her rests a supportive arm around her shoulders.

“Do you know who this is?” the medium asks unnecessarily.

The woman is nodding fiercely. “It’s my uncle Roger. We called him Uncle Rodge.”

Intrigued, Calla turns back toward Debra, who doesn’t look surprised at all.

“He worked at Home Depot,” the blond woman goes on, “and he was killed by a pallet of wood or something that fell from a high shelf.”

“It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes . . . that was almost two years ago. My aunt just got remarried last week.”

Debra nods, as if she already knew that. “He wants to tell her that it’s okay with him. That he wants her to be happy. He’s saying he always told her that she should get on with her life if anything ever happened to him, and that she didn’t believe he really meant it. But he did.”

“I . . . I don’t know if he ever said that.” Uncle Rodge’s niece is choked with emotion. “I’ll ask my aunt.”

“Do that. And give her the message, please. It’s important.”

“I will!” The woman sits down and tilts her temple against that of the man sitting next to her, who whispers something in her ear.

Not sure what to make of what just happened, Calla watches Debra close her eyes as if she’s concentrating on something. It could be just an act, she supposes. The medium might have done her homework in advance. An accidental death at Home Depot would probably have made the papers.

But that was two years ago . . . and how would Debra know the victim’s niece would be here tonight? Nobody took names at the door. Everyone here is anonymous.

All right, so if Debra didn’t research the blond woman in advance, maybe she just made a series of lucky guesses. Lots of elderly men have white—not gray—hair. Some even have a lot of it, though many are balding. And the name—something that sounds like Rob, Rod, or Bob, all fairly common—leaves it pretty open, considering that it could have been interpreted as a first name or a last name or even a nickname. Anyone who lost a white-haired Rob, Rod, or Bob—or anyone with a name remotely similar—at some point in his or her life might have claimed the so-called spirit as his or her own.

Then again, Debra nailed the cause of death. Wouldn’t it have been safer for her to guess a heart attack, if she were guessing? Or something even more vague, like “something involving the chest area,” which could be a heart attack or cancer or even a blood clot.

Yet Debra chose to be specific: he either fell from a great height or something fell on him. Bingo.

Calla listens with interest as Debra zeroes in on her next message, for a pair of elderly sisters holding hands in the second row. It’s from their late mother, who wants them to know that she’s doing just fine on the other side, and that there’s something wrong with the car one of them drives.

“She’s saying you need to have the tire pressure checked, or the oil—something like that,” Debra advises as the sisters exchange worried glances and promise to oblige.

Finally, Debra spends a long time trying to find out who in the audience is connected to the spirit of a teenage boy who died in a car crash. There are initially a number of takers, but the number dwindles as the details of his life and death emerge, until at last there’s a young girl who barely knew him but was a couple of years behind him at the same school.

“He wants you to get in touch with his mom and tell her it wasn’t her fault. He should have been wearing his seat belt. She always told him that, and he didn’t listen. He wants her to know that he’s okay.”

The girl nods, looking upset. “But why would he come to me?”

The medium shrugs. “You never know who you’re going to get when you come here. Sometimes the last person you would ever expect to hear from is just waiting to pounce— forgive the expression—because they know you’re coming, and they seize the opportunity to get their message delivered to their loved ones using you—and me, for that matter—as the messenger.”

The girl seems satisfied with that explanation. Calla is, too . . . which bothers her somewhat.

This is all making so much more sense now, seeing the process in action. But does that mean that she’s actually one of them? That she could, with training, do what they do?

I’d be afraid to see spirits all around me all the time.

Yet that thought is swiftly chased from her mind by another: I’d be able to help people, the way Debra just did.

She glances around at the people who just received messages. All seem contented, as opposed to the wary expressions worn by some of their seatmates who are still hoping for a reading.

It’s a gift, Calla acknowledges as Debra takes her seat to a smattering of applause.

People come here to Lily Dale searching for some connection to their lost loved ones. She, of all people, can relate to their anguished sorrow and longing. That some of the bereaved seem to find comfort here should give Calla hope. Not just for her own grief, but for her gift—if, indeed, she does have one.