Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(27)

She doesn’t look irked. That’s a good sign.

“I brought you a snack,” Odelia says amiably, and it’s all Calla can do not to heave a huge sigh of relief.

“Thanks.”

“Ants on a log. Your mother always loved it.”

“Ants . . . ?”

Odelia sets a paper plate on the desk, and Calla is relieved to see that it contains celery sticks filled with peanut butter and dotted with raisins.

With her grandmother, you just never know.

She’s still not hungry after that huge supper, but it was so sweet of Odelia to bring her a snack that she probably should at least attempt to eat it.

“I just got off the phone with Ramona,” Odelia says as Calla crunches into a piece of celery, “and I need to talk to you about something.”

“Ramona?” Calla stops crunching. “What happened?”

“No, nothing happened. Why?”

She breathes a silent sigh of relief. “Just the way you said it, I thought . . .”

“Honey, you’ve got to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Worrying.”

Calla opens her mouth to protest, but her grandmother cuts her off with a wagging index finger, sporting an iridescent purple manicure. “I know you worry all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” Calla mutters halfheartedly, and her grandmother shakes her head, bending over to squeeze Calla’s shoulders.

“The way you jump every time the phone rings, like you’re expecting it to be bad news . . . after everything you’ve been through, I understand why. But it’s not good for you.”

Calla stares at her calculus problem, wishing Odelia would go away.

Or maybe that she could find the words to agree with her grandmother’s assessment of her mental state, and tell her about the various warnings she’s received lately. She could even ask Odelia for help.

Help? Like what, a shrink?

She doesn’t need a shrink to figure out that her anxiety stems from the trauma of losing her mother so suddenly and violently, or from people warning her that she herself might be in danger now. Maybe she was never exactly happy-go-lucky in the old days, but she sure didn’t worry about disaster striking on a daily basis.

“I promised both of us that I’d take good care of you if you stayed here,” Odelia says. “And I wasn’t just talking about getting you into Patsy’s class. I’m here for you, whatever you need. You know that, right?”

Calla nods, pretending to be looking over her calculus problems.

Odelia reaches down, cups Calla’s chin, and turns her head so that she can’t help but meet her grandmother’s gaze.

“What?” Calla asks.

“Just making sure you’re listening.”

“I am.”

“Good. So here’s the other thing. When I talked to Ramona, she said she’s taking you to get your hair and makeup done on Saturday before the dance.”

“I know she said she wants to do that, but really, all I need is to get a haircut. I’ve needed it for a few weeks now.” She shoves her overgrown bangs off her forehead.

“You should have told me. I don’t notice that sort of thing—on my own head or anyone else’s. It drove your mother crazy when she was your age. Sometimes I don’t think she wanted to be seen with me in public.”

Calla can’t help but grin at the thought of Mom, always so meticulously put together, next to Odelia, with her wacky wardrobe and wild red hair, which usually does need some attention—from a hairstylist or even just a brush.

The smile fades when she realizes that she never did get to see the two of them together—not that she really remembers, anyway. She was too young the last time Odelia visited them in Florida to recall much of anything.

For all she knows, Mom and Gammy’s falling out started over something really minor—like Gammy dropping and not rinsing red gobs of Close-up from the bathroom sink after brushing her teeth, which would have driven Mom crazy and drives Calla crazy now.

Yeah, and maybe they never screamed at each other about a secret Mom promised someone never to tell, and dredging the lake to find out the truth about . . . something.

Calla’s not even sure anymore if she actually overheard the argument—the one that keeps coming back to her in her dreams.

Maybe she was just channeling something that happened in the past, something she didn’t witness. Mediums do that all the time.

But you’re not a medium, she reminds herself.

Or is she?

What would she call herself, if not that?

A psychic? That’s what she told Owen Henry. It seemed less . . . threatening.

Medium is just such a strong label. Even here in Lily Dale, where everyone and their brother is one.

Calla isn’t registered with the Assembly, and she doesn’t have a shingle or a business card, but . . .

But you do what mediums do.

Deal with it.

Deal with the fact that your “normal” life ended the day Mom died.

“Anyway,” Odelia goes on, “it’s very sweet of Ramona to want to take you to the salon on Saturday. I’d take you myself, except I’ve got a Thought Exchange meeting that afternoon.”

“It’s okay, Gammy.” Calla wonders if that’s why she’s here, to apologize for not doing girly things with her.