If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(47)

I slung my backpack over my shoulder, tossed the core in the trash, and picked Mo up with my free hand. “Fine. But I want to meet this psycho.”

“Psychic, not psycho.” She scowled.

We’d see. This would be more interesting than sitting around watching those afternoon talk shows she loved.

By the time I’d showered and dressed, the special guest had arrived. I hung back in the hallway, straining to listen, expecting that Mom might be talking about me.

An older-sounding woman said, “Madeline, remember, I’m only a vessel. I can’t promise to summon anyone in particular but will pass along messages from those who want to be heard. Whoever comes through does so in love, so don’t be afraid. I’m going to close my eyes, and together we can pray . . . may this session be for the higher good.”

What kind of nonsense was that? I crept closer.

My mom said, “I’m picturing William on our wedding day—so handsome in his tux, before he got that potbelly that helped kill him.”

Yeah, he could’ve lost fifteen pounds, but the cigarettes had nailed his coffin shut. That and maybe a little stress caused by the expense of Amanda’s “fairy-tale” wedding reception. All those flowers and champagne . . . for what? Whenever I finally got married—if I did—it’d be barefoot in the backyard with only my closest peeps and Mo, and a really funky dress. And hopefully I wouldn’t be facing divorce less than two years later. Not that that was her fault.

“Please don’t say more. The less I know, the better. If I ask a question, yes/no answers are best. I’m not getting anything yet . . . or maybe . . . something about the number three?” the woman said.

“Yes! We have three children.” My mom—who’d already broken the yes/no rule—sounded flabbergasted, but, seriously, anyone could look at the family photos to make that guess.

No longer worried about making a “bad” impression, I barged around the corner and set Mo on the floor. He crouched while making unusual groaning noises. Completely different behavior from how he’d greeted Eli the other day.

“Hello, ladies.” I wandered over to stand behind one of the dining chairs. Before my mom said anything, I stuck out my hand to the stranger with bottle-dyed red hair. Judging from her wrinkles, I put her in her late sixties. She wore casual, loose-fitting clothes. Multiple rings bedazzled her fingers. “Hello, I’m Erin, the youngest of those three kids.”

“Hello, Erin. I’m Nancy Thompson.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I should be awed or at least recognize her name.

“Nice to meet you, Nancy. Can I be part of this little séance?” I held a phony smile in place while she pulled a sour face at my choice of words.

“I’m a psychic medium.” She stared at me, but I wasn’t about to genuflect. “We’re hoping to communicate with your father.”

“Sit, Erin.” Mom must’ve decided that it’d be less embarrassing to let me participate than to argue. “Maybe William will show up if you’re here.”

Whenever she acknowledged my special bond with my dad, I preened even though I suspected it had made her jealous at times. Not that my dad hadn’t loved her, too. He had. But he and I had laughed at nonsense jokes, hated brussels sprouts, preferred picnic tables to fancy restaurants—we simply clicked in ways that no one else in the family shared. “Great.”

The look in Mom’s eyes warned me to behave, so I sat with my hands folded on my lap, wondering what other surprises I’d encounter in the coming weeks. Normally, I’d applaud her broadening her horizons, but this bizarre change in behavior made me a little nervous.

“Fine. What do I do?” I turned to Nancy.

She gestured widely with her hands. “First, get comfortable and think about your father. Picture him someplace meaningful.”

Hocus-pocus in my book, but this would be one of those rare times I wouldn’t mind being proven wrong. I often felt my dad’s presence, or at least I’d found more stray pennies this past year than normal, which Lexi told me were signs from my dad that I’m valued. It’s amazing what we’ll believe when desperate.

I closed my eyes; otherwise, my ability to concentrate would last about two seconds before Nancy’s bling distracted me.

For some reason, the time I failed a middle school science test came to mind. Mrs. Smith had seated students by how well they scored on each test, with the first seat of the first row being the best score, and so on to the last seat of the final row. Needless to say, I’d spent most of that school year in the last two rows, but the time I landed in that dead-last seat had sucked big-time.

My mom’s nonexistent sympathy hadn’t surprised me, nor had her suggestion that I beg Amanda to tutor me. As if my perfect sister lording her smartness over me would’ve actually helped or improved my confidence.

When my dad had come home from work, my mom had lamented my failure. Instead of issuing a lecture, he’d grabbed me from my room and gotten our fishing rods. We’d walked to the closest dock—the one at the end of Autumn Lane—baited our hooks, and cast the lines, sitting with our legs dangling over the edge, toes dipped in the water.

Neither of us had been fishing seriously at that point, and we’d both known it. He had only brought me there for comfort. His sitting beside me saying nothing had been exactly the presence of love and acceptance I’d needed to help me face however many days it would be until the next test (and hopefully better results).