Chapter Two
Suddenly out of nowhere Jesse's form materialized and became solid. Jesse was alive!
the Ackerman family screamed and Andy dropped the book and stood up.
"Who are you?"
"Jesse," he said after a few moments of blinking and touching himself like he might dematerialize again and become a spirit once again only visible to Mediators.
David's eyes widened and shared a quick meaningful look with Suze.
"I believe I was meant to read a few books with you sir about Susannah, Senor.
Andy eyed him warily, "Alright," he said after picking up the book and sitting down.
Susannah was still mildy in shock.Jesse was alive! Maybe now they could be together! Yeah, but remember he doesn't want anything to do with me...
A note fluttered downwards on Jesse's lap.
Jesse,
For the remainder of the books you'll be alive for the time being. Enjoy!
-A Dear Friend
Andy read,
I guess I should explain.
"Yeah," chorused throughout the room.
I'm not exactly your typical sixteen year-old girl
"Really," said Brad his voice laced with sarcasm.
Oh, I seem normal enough, I guess. I don't do drugs, or drink, or smoke–Well ok, expect for that one time when Sleepy caught me. I don't have anything pierced, except my ears and only once on each earlobe. I don't have any tattoos. I've never dyed my hair. Expect for my boots and leather jacket, I don't wear excessive black. don't even wear dark fingernail polish. All in all, I am pretty normal, everyday, American teenage girl.
Except, of course, for the fact I can talk to the dead.
Pure, loud silence laced the room. Everyone's eyes landed on Susannah.
Helen was worried a tad bit for her daughter's sanity.
"We always knew Suze was insane."
"Bradley!" 3 guesses who said that.
I probably shouldn't put it that way. I should probably say that the dead talk to me. I mean, I don't go around initiating these conversations. In fact, I try to avoid the while thing as much as possible.
It's just that sometimes they won't let me.
The ghosts I mean.
I don't think I'm crazy.
"Really?" Brad said saracastically.
"Don't worry Suze, I believe you." said David
"Thanks," said Suze eyeing her mother and Jesse.
At least, not any crazier than your average sixteen year-old. I guess I might seem crazy to some people. Certainly the majority of the kids in my old neighbourhood thought I was. Nuts, I mean. I've had the school counsellors sicced on me more than once. Sometimes I even think it might be simpler just to let them lock me even on the ninth floor of Bellevue
"what's that?"
– Which is where they lock up the crazy people in New York – I probably wouldn't be safe from the ghosts. They'd find is where they lock up the crazy people in New York – I probably wouldn't be safe from the ghosts. They'd find me.
"Oh."
I remember my first. I remember it as clearly as any of my other memories of that time, which is to say not very well, since I was about two years old. I guess I remember it about as well as I can remember taking a mouse away from our cat and cradling it in my arms until my horrified mother took it away.
Helen shuddered, " I've never liked any rodents. Then I saw you holding one...," she admitted.
Hey, I was two, ok? I didn't know then that mice were something to be afraid of. Ghosts, either, for that matter. That's why fourteen years later, neither of them frighten me. Startle me, maybe, sometimes. Annoy me, a lot. But frightened me. Never.
The ghost, like the mouse, was little, grey and helpless. To this day, I don't know who she was; I spoke to her, some baby gibberish that she didn't understand. Ghosts can't understand two-year-olds any better than anybody else. She just looked at me sadly from the top of the stairs of our apartment building. I guess I felt sorry for her, the way I had for the mouse, and wanted to help her. Only I didn't know how. So I did what any uncertain two-year-old would do. I ran for my mother. hat was when I learned my first lesson concerning ghosts: only I can see them.
'Father Dom, and Paul can too.' thought Susannah
Well, obviously, other people can see them. How else would we have haunted houses and ghost stories and Unsolved Mysteries and all of that? But there's a difference. Most people who see ghosts only see one. I can see all ghosts.
All of them. Anybody. Anybody who has died and for whatever reason is hanging around on earth instead of going wherever it is he or she is supposed to go, I can see.
And let me tell you, that is a lot of ghosts.
I found out the same day that I saw my first ghost that most people – even my own mother – can't see them at all. Neither can anyone else I have ever met. At least, no one who'll admit it.
"Who's as stupid to admit they're wacko?" said Brad.
"You are," said David.
"Oi!"
Which brings us to the second thing I learned about ghosts that day fourteen years ago: it's really better, in the long run, not to mention you've seen one. Or, as in my case, any.
I'm not saying my mother figured out that it was a ghost I was pointing to and gibbering about that afternoon when I was two. I doubt she knew it. She probably thought I was tying to tell her something about the mouse, which she had confiscated from me earlier that morning. But she looked gamely up the stairs and nodded and said, "Uhuh. Listen, Suze. What do you want for lunch today? Grilled cheese? Or tuna fish."
I hadn't exactly expected a reaction similar to the one the mouse had gotten – my mother, who'd been cradling a neighbour's newborn at the time, had let out a glorious shriek at the sight of the mouse in my arms, and had screamed even harder at my proud announcement, "look Mommy. Now I've got a baby too," which I realize now she couldn't have understood, since she didn't get it about the ghost.
"You actually said that?" as Brad guffawed.
She admitted it grudgingly and fixed him with a glare with which he withered.
But I had expected at least an acknowledgement of the thing floating at the top of the stairs. I was given explanations for virtually everything else I encountered on a daily basis, from fire hydrants to electrical outlets. Why not the thing at the top of the stairs?
But as I sat munching my grilled cheese a little later, I realized that the reason my mother had offered no explanation for the grey thing was that she hadn't been able to see it. To her, it wasn't there.
At two years old, this didn't seem unreasonable to me. It just seemed, at the time, like another thing that separated children from adults: children had to eat all their vegetables. Adults did not. Children could ride the merry-go-round in the park. Adults could not. Children could see the grey things. Adults could not.
"That is a rather plausible theory," said David while he mulled it over.
And even though I was only two years old, I understood that the little grey thing at the top of the stairs was not something to be discussed. Not with anybody. Not ever.
And I never did. I never told anyone about my first ghost, nor did I ever discuss with anyone the hundreds of other ghosts I encountered over the course of the next few years. What was there to discuss really? I saw them. They spoke to me. For the most part, I didn't understand what they were saying, what they wanted, and they usually went away. End of story.
It probably would have gone on like that indefinitely if my father hadn't suddenly up and died.
Helen whispered," Suzie."
That tugged at their heartstrings, them knowing the effect and loss of losing a parent.
Really. Just like that. One minute he was there, cooking and making jokes in the kitchen like he'd always done, and the next day he was gone.
A tear rolled down Susannah's cheeck and quickly wiped it away depriving the view of anyone watching her cry ; but Jesse did he wished he could tell her everything was going to be okay and call her querida...but he couldn't what could he offer her?
And people kept assuring me all through the week following his death – which I spent on the porch in front of our building, waiting for my dad to come home – he was never coming back.
"The worst part is when you realize they're not going to be around anymore and they won't reassure or do those things they used to." said David whilst Jake put an arm around him.
I, of course, didn't believe their assurances. Why should I? My dad, not coming back? Were they nuts? Sure, he might have been dead. I got that part. But he was definitely coming back. Who was going to help me with my math homework? Who was going to wake up early with me on Saturday mornings and make Belgian waffles and watch cartoons? Who was going to teach me to drive, like he'd promised, when I turned sixteen?
The three brothers nodded sympathetically , they all understood.
y dad might have been dead, but I was definitely going to see him again. I saw lots of dead people on a daily basis. Why shouldn't I see my dad?
It turned out I was right. Oh, my dad was dead. No doubt about that. He'd died of a massive coronary. My mom had his body cremated, and she put his ashes in an antique German beer tankard. You know that kind with the lid. My dad had always liked beer. She put the tankard on a shelf, high up, where the cat couldn't knock it over, and sometimes, when she didn't think I was around, I caught her talking to it.
Helen's cheeks flooded with color. "You saw that?"
"Yeah, late at night, sometimes in the day telling Dad about me and you and how we missed him," Susannah admitted hoarsely.
This made me feel really sad. I mean, I guess I couldn't blame her, really. If I didn't know any better, I'd probably have talked to that tankard too.
But that, you see, was what all those people on my block had been wrong about. My dad was dead, yeah. But I did see him again.
In fact, I probably When he was alive, he had to go to work most days. Now that he's dead, he doesn't have all that much to do. So I see him a lot. Almost too much, in fact. His favourite thing to do is suddenly materialize when I least expect it. It's kind of annoying.
"Parents," David, Jake, Brad and Susannah echoed.
My dad was the one who finally explained it to me. So I guess, in away, it's a good thing he did die since I might never have known, otherwise.
Actually that isn't true. There was a tarot-card reader
"But, honey, you can't trust those types they just want some money out of your pocket." She asserted
Who said something about it once. It was at a school carnival. I only went because Gina didn't want to go alone. I pretty much thought it was a crock, but I went along because that's what best friends do for one another. The woman – Madame Zara, Psychic Medium – read Gina's cards, telling her exactly what she wanted to hear: oh, you're going to be very successful, you'll be a brain surgeon, you'll marry at thirty,
"Yeah and Dopey I mean Brad's a genius."
"Oi!" he said indignantly.
And have three kids, blah, blah, blah. When she was done, I got up to go, but Gina insisted Madame Zara do a reading for me too.
You can guess what happened. Madame Zara read the cards once, looked confused, and shuffled them up and read them again. Then she looked at me.
"You" she said, "talk to the dead"
This excited Gina. She went, "oh my god! Oh my god! Really? Suze, did you hear that? You can talk to the dead! You're a psychic medium, too!"
"Not a medium" Madame Zara said. "A mediator"
"?"
Gina looked crushed. "A what? What's that?"
But I knew. I'd never known what it was called, but I knew what it was. My dad hadn't put it quite that way when he'd explained things, but I got the gist of it, anyway: I am pretty much the contact person for just about anybody who croaks leaving things...well, untidy. Then if I can, I clean up the mess.
That's the only way I can think to explain it. I don't know how I got so lucky – I mean I am normal in every other respect. Well almost, anyway. I just have this unfortunate ability to communicate with the dead.
Not any dead, either. Only the unhappy dead.
So you can see that my life has really been just a bowl of cherries these past sixteen years.
Imagine, being haunted – literally haunted – by the dead, every single minute of every single day of your life. It is not pleasant. You go down to the deli to get a soda – oops, dead guy on the corner. Somebody shot him. And if you could just make sure the cops get the guy who did it, he can finally rest in peace.
"You must have the endurance and composure of a martyr." spoke Andy
"Sometimes, I don't know how I get through the day and live." replied Susannah
And all you wanted was a soda.
Or you go to the library to check out a book – oops the ghost of some librarian comes up to you and wants you to tell her nephew how mad she is about what he did with her cats after she kicked the bucket.
And those are just the folks who know why they're still sticking around. Half of them don't have any idea why they haven't slipped off into the afterlife like they're supposed to.
Which is irritating because, of course, I'm the schmuck who's supposed to help them there.
I'm the mediator.
I tell you, it's not a fate I would wish upon anybody.
"Nope."
There isn't a whole lot of pay-off in the mediation field. It isn't like anyone's ever offered me a salary or anything. Not even hourly compensation. Just the occasional warm fuzzies you get when you go a good turn for somebody. Like telling some girl who didn't get to say goodbye to her grandfather before he passed away that he really loves her, and he forgives her for that time she trashed his El Dorado. That kind of thing can warm the heart, it really can.
"That's so cute!"
metimes, though, they can get rough. I mean, they try to hurt people. On purpose. That's when I usually get mad. That's when I usually feel compelled to kick a little ghost butt.
Which was what my mom meant when she said, "oh Suze. Not again" when I kick ghost butt, things have a tendency to get a little...messy.
"Messy doesn't even begin to cover it sometimes the cops get involved, you trespass, your room is destroyed & end up at the Hospital."
Not that I had any intention of messing up my new room. Which is why I turned my back on the ghost sitting on the window seat and said, "Never mind, Mom. Everything's fine. The room is great. Thanks so much"
I could tell she didn't believe me. It's hard to fake out my mom.
"Sometimes you're just as clear as crystal.
I know she suspects there's something up with me. She just can't figure out what it is. Which is probably a good thing because it would shake up the world as she knows it in too major a way. I mean she's a television news reporter. She only believes what she can see. And she can't see ghosts.
I can't tell you how much I wish I could be like her.
"You do?"
Well" she said. "Well, I'm glad you like it. I was sort of worried. I mean, I know how you get about...well, old places"
Old places are the worst for me because the older a building is, the more chance there is that someone had died in it, and he or she is still hanging around there looking for justice or waiting to deliver some final message to someone.
Let me tell you, this led to some pretty interesting results back when my mom and I used to go apartment hunting in the city. We would walk into these seemingly perfect apartments, and I'd be like, "Nuh-uh. No way" for no reason that I could actually explain. It's really a wonder my mom never just packed me off to boarding school.
" I would never! I love you more than anything!"
"Really, Mom" I said. "It's great. I love it"
Andy, hearing this, hustled around the room all excitedly, showing me the clap-on, clap-off lights
"Never thanked you for it, so Thanks!"
"You're welcome," he said with a smile.
Oh boy) and various other gadgets he's installed. I followed him around, expressing my delight, being careful not to look in the ghost's direction. It really was sweet, how much Andy wanted me to be happy. And I was determined, because he wanted it to so much, to be happy as it's possible for someone like me to be.
After a while, Andy ran out of stuff to show me, and went away to start the barbecue, since in honour of my arrival, we were having surf and turff for dinner. Sleepy and Dopey took off to 'hit some waves' before we ate, and Doc, muttering mysteriously about an 'experiment' he'd been working on,Drifted off to another part of the house, leaving me alone with my mother...sort of.
"Is it really all right, Suze?" my mom wanted to know. "I know it's a big change. I know it's asking a lot of you-"
I took off my leather jacket. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but it was pretty hot out for January. Like seventy. I'd nearly roasted in the car.
"I know, I know I should've taken it off," she said as her mother opened and closed her mouth.
And I supposed some of the stuff I've done in the past would seem pretty weird to someone who didn't know why I was doing it or couldn't see who I was doing it for. I have certainly been caught any number of times in places I wasn't supposed to be. I've been brought home by the police a few times, accused of trespassing or vandalism or breaking and entering.
"Hence, my thinking you're in a gang."
"Am not!"
And while I've never actually been convicted of anything, I've spent any number of hours in my mother's therapist office, being assured that this tendency I have to talk to myself is perfectly normal, but that my propensity to talk to people who aren't there probably isn't.
Ditto my dislike of any building not constructed in the past five years.
Ditto the amount of time I spend in graveyards, churches, temples, mosques, other people's (locked) apartments or houses, and school grounds after hours.
I supposed Andy's boys must have overheard something about this, and that's where the whole gang thing came from. But like I said, I've never actually served time for anything I've done.
And that two-week suspension in eighth grade isn't even reflected on my permanent school record.
So maybe it wasn't so unusual for my mother to be sitting there on my bed, talking about 'fresh starts' and all of that. It was kind of weird that she was doing it while this ghost was sitting a few feet away, watching us. But whatever. She seemed to have a need to talk about how things were going to be much better for me out on the West Coast.
And if that's what she wanted, I was going to do my best to make sure she got it. I had already resolved not to do anything out here that was going to end up getting me arrested so that was a start anyway.
"Look how well that turned out."
"Well" my mom said, running out of steam after her you-won't-make-friends-unless-you-project-a-friendly-demeanour speech. "I guess if you don't want help unpacking, I'll go see how Andy is doing with dinner.
Andy in addition to being able to build just about anything, was also an excellent cook, something my mother most definitely was not.
Andy beaming grinned proudly.
I said, "Yeah, Mom, you go do that. I'll just get settled in here, and I'll be down in a minute"
My mom nodded and got up – but she wasn't about to let me escape that easily. Just as she was about to go out the door, she turned around and said, her blue eyes all filled with tears. "I just want you to be happy, Suzie. That's all I ever wanted. Do you think you can be happy here?"
I gave her a hug. I'm as tall as she is, in my ankle boots. "Sure, Mom" I said. "Sure I'll be happy here. I feel at home already."Really?" my mom was sniffling. "You swear?"
"I do" and I wasn't lying, either. I mean, there'd been ghosts in my bedroom back in Brooklyn all the time, too
She went away, and I shut the door quietly behind her. I waited until I couldn't hear her heels on the stairs any more, and then I turned around.
"All right" I said, to the presence on the window seat. "Who the hell are you?"
" Yeah who's the peeping tom in our sister's bedroom?"
Susannah was sooo not looking foward to this confrontation.
David grabbed the book and started reading.
