In the Shadow of Blackbirds(43)
“It is sickening, but the crooked photographers all use the same tricks, so they’re easy to catch. They believe they’re skilled enough to fool me.” He pulled down a plain gray canvas. “The only one who’s proven to be a challenge is our own Julius Embers.”
“I’m guessing you’ll catch him one day, though.”
“Perhaps.”
I stopped picking at my sleeve. “You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?”
“Part of me wants to believe.”
“Really?”
Mr. Darning didn’t respond at first. Instead, he dragged a large silver urn holding a silk cherry tree into the center of his staging area. I noticed his eyes glistened with tears. The bitter bite of grief scoured my tongue—it had a flavor similar to vinegar and was equally painful.
I cocked my head at him. “Are you OK, Mr. Darning?”
He stopped tugging on the urn and put his hands on his hips, exhaling a muffled sigh into his mask. “A close female friend of mine was one of the first San Diegans to die from the flu. A beautiful young singer, only twenty-four years old.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I stepped forward two feet. “Is she the dark-haired woman in the photograph in the window?”
He nodded and drew a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. “I started off so skeptical about spirits when I first hunted down frauds.” He wiped his left eye. “But now I’m compelled to find tangible proof that we all go somewhere when we die. It hurts more than anything to think of a sweet soul like Viv’s”—he pressed his handkerchief over his right eye and squeezed the other one closed; a stifled sob escaped his lips as a pained moan—“as being gone forever. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to break down like this. It’s highly unprofessional.”
My throat stung from the grief and embarrassment saturating that room, and it took me several seconds before I could respond without a hoarse voice.
“It’s—it’s all right.” I rubbed my swollen throat. “I understand completely.”
“I’m sure you do.” He sniffed back his emotions and struggled to tuck his handkerchief back inside his pocket.
“Have you found any other possible true spirits?”
“I’ve read about scientists investigating the spirit world.” He cleared his throat and fussed with the arrangement of silk flowers. “A physician named MacDougall conducted experiments involving the measurement of weight loss at the moment of death. He theorized he was demonstrating the loss of the soul, which, according to his studies, weighs about three-fourths of an ounce.”
My eyes widened. “How in the world did he get volunteers to die on a scale?”
“At a home for incurable tuberculosis patients. He would push a cot holding a dying man onto an industrial-sized silk-weighing scale, and he kept his eyes on the numbers while his assistants watched for the final breath.”
“Holy smoke.” I shook my head in disbelief. “My uncle died in a home like that, but he certainly didn’t have people hovering over him, waiting with bated breath for him to go.”
“He received their written consent beforehand. It’s not as cold and unfeeling as it sounds. Other men have conducted similar research on mice. Some are using X-rays and cylindrical tubes to study the physical manifestation of the soul.”
“Maybe I should show them my compass.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” I looked down at the toes of my brown boots. “Just a thought I had about turning myself over to a laboratory.”
“Are you referring to anything related to your experience with Stephen Embers?”
I played with the exposed pink skin of my lightning-burned fingers.
“I’m not scrutinizing you as if you were a trickster photographer, Miss Black. I’d honestly like to know what happened at his funeral. I was there, remember? I heard you insist he was talking to you.”
“I know.” I covered my eyes with my hands. “You probably think I’m either crazy or a liar.”
“No. You seem an honest girl.” He walked closer to me with footsteps that scarcely made a sound. “Do you believe you’re communicating with Stephen?”
I dropped my arms to my sides and decided to be truthful. “Yes. I’m positive I am.”
Hope burned in his eyes. “Really?”
“That’s partly why I want you to photograph me today. I don’t want to go to Julius, because I’m afraid he’ll tamper with the image. But I’m so curious to see if a camera can capture any sign that Stephen is here with me.”
Mr. Darning glanced around the room. “Do you think he’s here with you right now?”
“No. I don’t know.” I shrugged and shook my head. “Oh, this all sounds so crazy when I talk about it out loud. I know how hard it is to listen to someone who sounds like she’s full of bunk, but everything changed after I died—after I was struck by lightning. I experience the world in an entirely different manner.”
“What other types of things do you experience?”
“I taste emotions. Your grief just now when you were discussing your loss felt as though I were swallowing a bottle of vinegar.”
“Really?”