Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(57)

I also realized that he was finally talking about what being dead had been like for him.

I wondered if he realized it, too. But I didn’t want to push him too far by asking. Instead, I asked, “So what do you think Lucia was trying to say with those flowers?”

He glanced at the playhouse. “That she’s sorry.”

“Sorry?” My jaw dropped. “She’s sorry?”

“Why not? They’re the same flowers from the bougainvillea tree outside the hospital. It’s likely she saw you there with your nieces.”

“You were there, too. You’re the one who gave them all the gum.”

Jesse grinned. Every time he grinned, it was like sunshine after a week of overcast days. Or maybe coming home after spending way too long in the valley of the shadow of death.

“That’s what I’m saying. I think she saw us with the girls and realized we’re friends, not foes. The flowers are her way of trying to make up for what she did.”

“In that case, she delivered them to the wrong place. They should be in Father Dom’s room in the ICU.”

“I’d have enjoyed seeing that,” Jesse said, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Me, too.”

I tried to match his light tone, but inside, I didn’t feel nearly as playful. Maybe because I knew he was right . . . Lucia had left the flowers for me, her first attempt to reach out to an adult she thought she could trust, and how had we repaid her? By allowing—even encouraging—Max to chase her off from my stepnieces’ yard, probably the only place in the world where she’d felt free to be the child she’d once been, frightening her half out of her wits (if that piercing scream had been any indication).

Worse, Jesse’s heartfelt admission about the loneliness he’d suffered when he was dead—how he’d longed to reach out to those he’d loved, but had been unable to—had reminded me of someone else from my past, someone who definitely did not have anywhere near the issues of Jesse or Lucia, but who was almost as messed up, in his own way.

What was it my mother had said on the phone about Paul? Oh, right: He was one of those kids who always received plenty of money from his family, but no love or attention.

How different was that from being a ghost, by Jesse’s definition, someone who kept reaching out to people and having those people not be able to see or hear him?

I had way too many ghosts in my life right now, clamoring for my attention. For the first time, I wasn’t sure I could handle them all on my own. One of the things that had become clear in my sessions with Dr. Jo was that I “compartmentalized” too much and “wasn’t open” about whatever “trauma” it was I’d experienced in my past. This, she felt, was holding me back, and was probably causing my insomnia.

Of course, I had good reason not to reveal my past to Dr. Jo.

But if Jesse was going to open up to me about his past, maybe I needed to be more honest with him about mine. Not just my past, but about the danger he was in . . . that we were both in, if Paul succeeded in his plan.

“Jesse,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I have something I think I need to tell you.”

He looked concerned. “What is it, querida?”

“I was going to tell you before, but I was worried you’d get mad.”

“I could never get mad at you.”

I laughed. “That’s actually a good one.”

Naturally, he got mad. “Susannah, you never make me angry. Sometimes the things you do make me angry—well, annoyed—because you don’t always seem to think things through before you—”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. I haven’t even told you what it is, and you’re already mad.”

Jesse’s dark eyebrows came rushing together. “I didn’t say I was mad. I said I was annoyed. You’re annoying me by telling me how I’m going to feel. You’re a very perceptive woman, Susannah, but you don’t live inside my head, so you can’t tell me what I’m going to feel.”

I didn’t like how this was going. I especially didn’t like the little muscle I saw begin to leap in his jaw, visible even in the darkness of the yard.

“Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Susannah, you can’t just—”

I heard the scrape of a screen door.

“Suze? Jesse?” Debbie’s voice called out to us from the back porch. She was struggling to pull her shirt back on. So now I knew why it had taken her and Brad so long to check on us: they’d made up from their fight, probably all over the kitchen floor. “What are you guys doing out here? What was Max barking at before?”

I pulled my hand from Jesse’s, a surge of relief flooding through me. I don’t think I’d ever been so grateful to see Debbie before in my life.

Screw Dr. Jo. Screw Paul. Screw ancient Egyptian curses and bloggers who wouldn’t call me back. I’d handle this one on my own. Some secrets were better off staying secret.

“Nothing’s wrong, Debbie,” I called to her. “There was just a . . . a raccoon in the playhouse. Max scared him off.”

“A raccoon?” Brad joined his wife on the back porch, sounding excited. “Which way did he go? Hold on, let me get my rifle.”

Oh, God.

“Susannah,” Jesse said, catching my arm as I began striding back toward the house. “What is it? What were you going to tell me?”