Lily Dale

Wednesday, October 10

5:06 p.m.

All afternoon, as Calla went through the motions of digging to China with Dylan and Ethan-and trying not to be uneasy when Dylan kept talking about saving the hurt people there- her thoughts flew from Althea to the dead baby and back again.

"How come you're not talking to us, Calla?" Dylan asked her at one point, and she made an effort after that.

It was a relief when her duties came to an end-until she allowed herself to remember what's coming next.

Now, as she rounds a bend and sees Jacy waiting for her in the pavilion, her stomach starts to churn.

"Hey," he says, and reaches out to grab both her hands in both of his, pulling her closer. "Are you ready?"

"I feel like I'm going to pa.s.s out."

"Is that a no?"

She sighs. "It's a yes. Let's go."

"Here, give me your backpack. I'll carry it."

"That's okay."

"It weighs a ton. Give it to me." He holds out his arm.

She hands over the backpack.

"Better?" he asks as he slings it over his own back.

She nods. Surprisingly, it does feel better to have the literal weight taken off her shoulders. Too bad she can't hand over the figurative one as well.

"Come on." He laces his fingers through hers and gives them a squeeze. "It's going to be okay."

"I'm dreading this."

"I know you are. But you can't keep putting it off. And you're stronger than you know . Look at all you've been through. Most people would crumple up and cry."

"Don't think I haven't," she tells him, but finds herself warmed by his praise.

They walk in silence toward Erie Boulevard, a narrow, rutted road on the far eastern end of town. She tries not to think about their last confrontation with Darrin's parents, who basically let her know that they somehow blamed her mother for their son's disappearance.

Of course, Calla wrongly blamed Darrin for Mom's death, so who is she to hold a grudge?

"Just take a deep breath," Jacy advises as she stops walking, seeing the Yateses' shingle and gla.s.sed- in front porch come into view.

"What if they're not home?" she asks hopefully, despite the car parked in the driveway.

"They are."

"I know ." She draws a shaky breath into her lungs, holds it, and exhales through puffed cheeks. "Okay, let's go."

As they slowly climb the steps to the white aluminum door, a dog begins barking somewhere inside the house.

At last, Jacy lets go of her fingers with a final squeeze and rings the bell.

The last time they were here, the porch was fixed up like an indoor-outdoor living room, with lamps, a television, and furniture. Now Calla can see through the window that there's nothing but a stretch of bare teal carpet and several cardboard moving boxes stacked near the door.

Clearly, the Yateses are getting ready to vacate their cottage for the winter.

Mr. Yates, a gray- haired, balding man, steps onto the porch, accompanied by a barking terrier. As Darrin's father peers at them through the window in the door, Calla sees a spark of recognition-quickly followed by dismay- in his gray-blue eyes, behind a pair of wire- framed bifocals.

"Jasmine, shh, down, girl." He collars the dog and opens the door a crack. "Yes?"

"Hi, Mr. Yates. I'm not sure if you remember me. . . ." Yes, she is sure he does, but it seems polite to reintroduce herself. "I'm Calla Delaney. Odelia Lauder's granddaughter?"

And Stephanie Lauder Delaney's daughter, but no need to voice that aloud. He knows.

"h.e.l.lo."

"And this is my . . ." "Friend" seems wrong. And this is not the best moment to call him her boyfriend for the first time. "This is Jacy Bly."

Mr. Yates offers Jacy the same polite, yet frosty, nod.

"I need to speak to you- and your wife, too. It's about your son."

He raises a bushy gray eyebrow. "What about him?"

Calla falters.

"It's probably a good idea if we come inside and sit down," Jacy speaks up. "If you don't mind."

"No. Come in," he says heavily, as if he realizes, somehow, what's coming.

Still keeping a grip on the dog, he leads them into a spa.r.s.ely decorated living room that's shockingly uncluttered by Lily Dale standards.

"We're getting ready to leave this weekend for Arizona," Mr. Yates explains, sweeping an arm around the room. "Most of our things are packed away. Have a seat. I'll be right back."

He shuts the dog into a room at the back of the house amid barking protests, then goes upstairs.

Calla and Jacy perch close together on an uncomfortable sofa with stiff, shiny green-and- brown- striped fabric.

"Are you okay?" Jacy asks in a low voice, reaching into his pocket.

She nods, afraid her voice will crack if she tries to speak.

She's not okay. She's a nervous wreck.

Especially when she sees Jacy remove a folded sheet of printer paper from his pocket.

What if the Yateses don't believe it? What if they think the article is a fake?

About to ask Jacy what he thinks, she looks up, then does a double take, spotting something over his shoulder.

"Darrin is here," she whispers to Jacy, knowing she probably shouldn't be surprised to see him.

"Where?"

She points to the apparition sitting somewhat stiffly in a chair behind him. "Can you see him?"

"No, but I can feel him," Jacy says simply.

Footsteps creak on the stair treads, and Mr. Yates descends with his wife, a wiry, pet.i.te woman with cropped silver hair.

"You remember Calla and Jacy," he says, and she nods, looking about as thrilled to see them in her living room as Calla is to see Darrin.

In silence, the Yateses arrange themselves in a pair of wingback chairs facing the couch.

Then the four of them look at one another for a few awkward moments.

To Calla's surprise, Darrin drifts across the room toward her, and gives a slight nod.

She clears her throat. "Mr. and Mrs. Yates, I don't know how to say this, so . . . I mean, I guess I just have to say it. I know you've been looking for your son for years, and I know you said you both believe he's still alive. . . ."

No, they don't, she realizes, stunned to see the sorrowful expression in both sets of eyes that are fixated on her.

They said they sensed that Darrin was still on the earth plane, and maybe they really did, while he was.

But not anymore.

Something Ramona told Calla a while back comes back to her.

Nothing is more powerful than the bond between a parent and a child, but there are some things a parent might not want to see, or accept.

The Yateses know .

They probably couldn't admit it to her and Jacy, and possibly not even to each other, but they already know their son is dead.

The realization that she's not about to deliver shocking news-and that they probably won't question the newspaper article's validity- makes it a little easier for Calla to go on. Especially when she sees Darrin go stand between their two chairs, resting a hand on both his mother's and his father's shoulders.

"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this," Calla says gently, "but I found an article on the Internet about Darrin-he was living in Maine, under another name-and it says he . . . pa.s.sed away. A few months ago."

Mr. Yates flinches as though he's been struck by a heavy object and squeezes his eyes closed as if to ward off the pain.

Mrs. Yates lets out a sob and buries her face in her hands.

"I'm so sorry," Calla says again, feeling helpless.

Yes, they knew . . . but it doesn't make hearing it aloud any easier to bear.

Who knows that better than her? She's the one who found her mother at the foot of the stairs. She immediately realized she was dead, but when the paramedics arrived to confirm it, she fell apart all over again.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jacy tells the Yateses as they embrace each other.

For a few minutes, Mrs. Yates cries inconsolably on her husband's shoulder as, tearful himself, he tries to comfort her. Darrin is beside them, watching sadly yet peacefully.

It's almost as if he's okay with where he is, Calla realizes. He doesn't seem to mind being dead. He just doesn't want his parents to hurt.

After a few minutes, they manage to compose themselves and again face Calla and Jacy, this time with their veiny old hands clasped in the s.p.a.ce between the chairs.

"Tell us," Mr. Yates says, "about our son. About what you found."

"It might be easier to show you." Calla looks at Jacy.

He nods and holds out the article from the Internet.

The Yateses lean their heads close together and read it silently. Mrs. Yates is crying again, but her husband seems to have steeled himself against emotion.

"So . . . he was murdered. I guess that should surprise me."

Calla and Jacy look at each other, then back at Mr. Yates.

"It doesn't surprise you?"Calla asks.

He shrugs. "I never had a good feeling about my son. He was such a good little boy. . . ."His voice breaks and he looks down, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Then he got involved with drugs,"Mrs. Yates tells them, shaking her head. "It happens a lot, to gifted young people who don't want to see the things they can see. Darrin was frightened by his abilities. He tried to shut things out, numb himself. Drugs did that."

Calla nods, sympathizing with the young man who was undoubtedly bombarded with the same things she is-ghostly images and voices, and premonitions you can't do anything about.

For the first time, she grasps the importance of learning how to channel the energy around her, how to tune in and tune out. Not to would put her in danger in more ways than she ever really comprehended.

"I imagine he got himself into some kind of trouble with a drug dealer, or something like that,"Mr. Yates comments, gesturing with the article about Darrin's murder.

His wife nods glumly. "I don't want to know the details. Do you?"