Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(37)
Father Dominic shook his head “But who is she? What could so young a child possibly have to be so angry about?”
“I don’t know, Father. Only that her name is Lucia. CeeCee Webb is working on the rest. The key to all of it, I think, is Becca. Did you know Kelly Prescott is married to Becca’s dad?”
“Of course. I was the officiant at their wedding last summer, which makes my blunder even less forgivable. Don’t you read the alumni newsletters, Susannah? Your friend CeeCee writes them, I believe.”
I picked up one of the stacks of files the student workers had left behind and, in order to avoid making eye contact with him, began to sort it. “Uh, I must have missed that one.”
I didn’t think it was worth going into the fact that I’d been invited to the wedding and bailed. That was my own business.
What was more concerning was that he’d officiated at their wedding, and still not seen the ghost kid? I wasn’t going to say so out loud, but it seemed like Jesse might be right, and Father D was slipping. I’d only been trying to make the priest feel better when I’d assured him Lucia was hard to miss. But a ghost, at a wedding?
Hard to miss. Really hard to miss.
Maybe he wasn’t the best person to consult about the Curse of the Dead after all . . .
For a man of his advancing years, Father Dominic would still physically be considered quite a catch on the senior circuit (if it wasn’t for the vow of chastity he’d taken shortly after losing the love of his life, a young woman who, like Jesse, had been dead at the time. Unlike Jesse, however, she’d remained so). His snow-white hair was neatly trimmed without a hint of a bald spot, and at six feet tall, he didn’t stoop or need a cane, thanks to good, clean living (except for his not-so-secret cigarette habit).
But he was hopeless when it came to electronics (and current Top 40 hits) and any joke remotely smacking of sexual innuendo embarrassed him.
And now it appeared that he wasn’t quite as in touch with the spirit world as he used to be.
I wasn’t sure how to handle this. They haven’t yet isolated the genetic chromosome to tell if you’re a carrier for mediatorism, though anecdotal evidence seemed to indicate it was an inherited trait. Scientists aren’t eager to admit there’s such a thing as ghosts, so it’s not like any of them are rushing to formulate a test they can administer to someone to tell if they have my “gift.” You either see dead people or you don’t, kind of like how you’re either gluten-sensitive, or you’re not.
Father Dom used to see them. Now, apparently, he doesn’t. At least, not when I need him to.
“Um, anyway,” I said, deciding it was best to drop the subject, “I think I really established a rapport with Becca yesterday, so . . .”
“Oh, that’s evident,” Father Dominic said drily. “Especially by the look of this place when I got in this morning.”
I glared at him. “What year was it you graduated from college? And how many counseling accreditations did they require for the job back then?”
He ignored this jab at his complete lack of formal counseling training. “How do you propose we handle this situation then, Susannah? I will admit that though your methodology has sometimes differed from mine, you’ve usually been on the mark. Jesse, on the other hand, seems to have what I’d call a less-than-helpful view on things—”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” I said, remembering the look on my boyfriend’s face when he’d dragged me from the pool. “I was thinking of pulling Becca out of her fourth-period class and bringing her back here to the office for a friendly little one-on-one. Nothing threatening, though. I don’t want to alarm Lucia.”
“That would be an excellent plan if it weren’t for the fact that Becca isn’t in school today.”
“Wait . . . what?”
He tapped the file he’d been holding tucked beneath one arm.
“Kelly Prescott—er, Walters—called early this morning to say that her stepdaughter wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in school today.”
This was deflating. “Oh.”
“Sister Ernestine left this on my desk this morning.” Father Dominic removed the file from beneath his arm and waved it at me. “Becca Walters’s transcript. I’m not quite certain how the sister found it in all that mess, but she managed. I don’t suppose you had a chance to review it.”
“I must have missed it while I was busy applying much-needed first aid to Becca’s arm and also keeping her friend from trying to murder me.”
I knew there wasn’t any point in telling Father D that even if I’d had a chance to read Becca’s file, I wouldn’t have put much stock into what it said. I have a ton of respect for teachers, who are some of the hardest working (yet worst compensated) people in the world.
But one of the reasons I was attracted to the counseling field in the first place is that it would allow me to help kids like the one I’d been—kids who have gifts that can’t be measured on an aptitude test, or scored with a letter grade.
Another reason is that the more people I can help resolve their issues now, while they’re still alive, the less work I’ll have to do for them later, when they’re dead.
It also made sense from a financial point of view. As a therapist, I’ll get paid for the work I do—by living clients, who have things like insurance and credit cards. Taking money from the deceased is something I’m opposed to (though Paul’s never suffered from this moral dilemma).