Dead Living (Spirit Caller Book 5), Page 3

  I smirked at my thoughts. I’d sure turned into a little homesteader since moving out there. Who would have predicted what I really needed was a wood furnace and an old lady to look after? Well, and to be adopted by an old spirit, accept my innate magical talent, and find myself in the middle of a supernatural war. And finding the love of my life who accepted me, supernatural shit and all. And finding a community of normal-ish people who treated me like an equal and not a freak.

  But it’s not like I’m making a list.

  I grabbed my sketch box, a pillow, and a fuzzy blanket from my living room and headed back outside. I moved the wooden lawn chair Jeremy’s father had made me so that my back was to the wind. I wiggled down enough so that the chair protected the back of my head from the September wind, and then I got to work.

  I admit I was worried when I’d cut my hours back from counseling. There was still plenty of part-time work, and I was usually called in to cover emergencies and the like. I’d been offered a position covering the head social worker who was going on maternity leave, but I didn’t want to work full-time for a full year. Not with Jeremy still recovering.

  The hospital understood and I helped them find a temporary replacement. They still brought me in on occasion, and various departments of Children’s Services hired me as a consultant, as I called it on the invoice, whenever they needed extra help. Thankfully, there were far fewer incidents of teen suicides in the isolated communities along the Labrador coast over the last half a year. I was thrilled to not be needed; children should never die.

  Surprisingly, my art was taking off. Over the latter part of the summer, I’d made a tidy sum, enough for me to consider it a part-time living. The tourists loved my cards and notepads. I also sold a couple of framed paintings a year at a few hundred dollars apiece. My large piece that I painted from my balcony, overlooking the ocean, sold for nearly a thousand dollars! I wasn’t amazing or anything, but I did seascapes well and people liked them.

  With that income in hand, I planned to branch out into posters, postcards, and prints. I was determined to have as much as possible made locally, as opposed to shipped in from other countries. It made the price higher, true, but I could also proudly put Made in Newfoundland on everything. There was a printer in Corner Brook that could do my prints and posters. A bigger shop in St. John’s said they could do my postcards, as long as I did a minimum order.

  I’d also earned enough money to take two art classes from the university in Corner Brook. I was a few courses short of a minor in art, that’s for sure, and I should probably work on my skills. I could even teach a class now and then to the tourists; a special drop in class at L’Anse aux Meadows that came with the tour packages.

  I tucked the fuzzy blanket under my legs and let out a contented sigh. For the first time in my life, it felt like there was an endless road of possibilities in front of me. I don’t need to live my life the way the world expects me to. I can finally be me, whatever and whoever that is. It was a rather nice feeling.

  I flipped open the top of my wooden box, also made by Jeremy’s woodworking fiend of a father, and pulled out my sketchbook. It was filled with all of the work that was just for me. I never even showed Jeremy most of the drawings in here, the ones where I drew my feelings and not things. They weren’t secret. Just private. He understood.

  I flipped through the pages. Jeremy asleep with his leg propped up on the coffee table. Jeremy cooking a huge breakfast, shirtless and content. The nights I couldn’t sleep and did little more than heavy black scratches all over the page until the anxiety and fears had left me too exhausted to stay up.

  There were even a couple of Dema that I did as quasi-fashion plates. She’d eavesdropped on those and complained that I made her too lean. Then I’d made her hair wrong. Then I’d put the wrong feather in her hair. Then she declared I was an even poorer artist than Spirit Caller and promptly left.

  I snuggled down in the big chair, wiggling and tugging until the blanket was perfectly placed around my bent legs. I rested my head against the pillow behind my head and looked around me. I focused on Mrs. Saunders’s bleeding heart plants. She adored those bushes. I always admired them. They didn’t put up with any shit from the weather. They always bloomed, no matter what. They didn’t care about the wind or the sleet or the rain. They had a mission and by their planty ancestors, they were going to do it.

  As pencil touched paper, I thought about how to safeguard Mrs. Saunders against the other. Her own faith was a powerful shield. Dema tended to warn away anything harmful or stressful that came near the old lady’s property. I also put up a ward around her place, though Dema said it was shoddy and disappointing work for a Spirit Caller.

  I breathed in the sense of contentment as I worked. I was still learning how to be comfortable in my own skin, but I felt the wind of contentment more and more these days. It was a glorious feeling.

  Damn, though. Her moving away was going to change things for me. And, yes, I know that moving down the road wasn’t Siberia, but it was still not on the other side of my wood pile.

  Dema was right. I hate that I even had to think that statement, but there it was. Mrs. Saunders had earned the right to determine her last days. I had fought so hard for her to maintain all of her independence that I hadn’t even considered the stress of living in a big house all alone. It needed maintenance, and sure we’d all help, but she still had to ask and worry about it. If she was living elsewhere, that wouldn’t be her concern. She wouldn’t have to worry about ordering the oil or arranging people to chop her fire wood and stack it.

  Speaking of which, Jeremy said we were getting low on oil, so I’d need to order in the truck to come fill up the tank. That would last us until Christmas, especially since I like using the wood furnace during the day, leaving the oil to keep the house toasty all night.

  What has happened to me? When did I become a little ol’ lady? Should I take up knitting next? Amy’s always trying to get me to learn.

  I worked on the bleeding heart sketch, focusing on the one wayward branch that Mrs. Saunders never let me prune because, in her words, “I likes how it’s gone all crooked.”

  I looked up from my work to see Mrs. McAvoy walking down the road. She waved one gloved hand at me. Mrs. McAvoy was a dapper Victorian lady sporting the same bustle dress and hat she always appeared in. Her lace parasol protected her ethereal face from the sun and wind. Five men followed her. All tipped their hats.

  An automatic smile tugged at my mouth, but I thankfully caught myself before waving. Mrs. McAvoy and her gaggle of suitors had become such a predictable daily occurrence that I forget she’s dead. Dead for ages, judging by her outfit. And every time I acknowledged her as a Spirit Caller, I was making her just a bit more real and attached to the living, as opposed to letting her fade off into the wherever the other goes.

  Dema’s right. I need a cat. Ugh, I’m taking pet advice from a spirit. I need more friends and a hobby.

  Jeremy would really like a cat, though.

  I looked down at my sketch of Mrs. Saunders’s bleeding heart plant. It was late enough in the year that the dandelions were gone, but I drew them into the picture anyway. Most of the neighbours didn’t care about the little yellow invaders, and there were fields upon fields of them further inland and all along the highway.

  I still wasn’t very good drawing people and animals, but I could rock the scenery and plants. There was a live model class in Corner Brook that I should take. I’d only taken one of those classes in university, and, erm, well, that was the term I was dealing with some boy trouble and, erm, well, I missed a lot of classes, and well, erm, let’s just not talk about that or the D- I got in the course.

  I’d need somewhere to stay in Corner Brook for the three-month class. Jeremy’s cousins, Jeff and Arlene, let us stay there plenty of times for Jeremy’s appointments. I’m sure if I paid a bit of rent and contributed to groceries, they’d be happy to let me crash in the basement. And I could help them with Atlanti-C
on, their annual geeky convention that Jeremy is insisting we go to at the end of the month and insisting on dressing up as John Crichton. No one even remembers who John Crichton is anymore. Why can’t he pick someone more mainstream, like Spider-Man?

  Jeremy in a latex suit. Purr.

  Okay. I really need a cat.

  Mrs. McAvoy’s husband strolled down the road with a lovely young thing on his arm: Mrs. McAvoy’s sister, if I remembered the love rhombus right. I once looked to see if Mrs. McAvoy had left a journal or letters. There’s apparently an entire box of her stuff in storage somewhere in St. John’s. The curator in her email said there were still plenty of unopened letters in the collection last she’d heard, but no one had gotten to them yet.

  Here’s the thing I can’t figure out. When Mrs. McAvoy was alive, there couldn’t have been more than fifty or sixty men living in the area. Yet, from the number of ghosts I’ve come across, I’m convinced she’d slept with them all, including all of the clergymen.

  Well done, Mrs. McAvoy. Well done, indeed.

  I looked back down at my drawing. A thought struck me. I could use the bleeding heart plants as an anchor or focal point for a simple ward around Amy’s house. Mrs. Saunders loved those plants and I’m sure Amy would let me dig a couple of holes in her front yard to put them in.

  Oh, and then I could do a ward all the while planting the bushes. So that I wouldn’t even be raising suspicions or curious inquiries. Oh! And then anytime I went over there to buff up my work, because I still suck at all of this stuff, I could do it under the guise of looking after Mrs. Saunders’s plants.

  Oh! Oh! That’s brilliant! I could get away with all of it without making a fool of myself. Not that I was ashamed of who I was…but just that I was embarrassed. And, for the record, ashamed and embarrassed are not the same thing.

  Maybe I could even get enough practice and good enough at it that a few seconds of focused attention every time I went over would be enough to tie together a magical signpost that said: Spirits Not Welcome. Piss Off. Please and Thank You.

  I’m Canadian, okay? Passive-aggressive politeness is in my blood.

  The crunch of gravel drew my attention and I craned my neck to see who was pulling into my driveway. I recognized the car and I flashed the new arrivals a big smile. I packed my pad and pencils back inside the box and put it to one side. I pushed myself out of the chair and waved at Manny O’Toole, who stepped out of the car.

  Now, I need to preface this. When I say Manny stepped out, I do mean out of the passenger side of the car. For this was not Manny’s car. No. In fact, it was Connie Anderson’s car. Connie Anderson. Manny’s older, car-owning, employed, has-her-own-apartment-that-Manny-has-moved-into girlfriend.

  Oh yeah. There are no words in the English language to describe the meltdown David O’Toole supposedly had when Manny informed him that he was moving in with his girlfriend of two months. To live in sin.

  I know it's petty of me to rejoice in knowing David had a screaming tantrum for days over Manny's decision, and I know it hurt Manny and his mother, Irene. I also know that I couldn't stand the hypocrisy of David O'Toole. For a man who said he followed in Christ's footsteps, he sure seemed to be modeling himself after someone who had no resemblance to the son of God. Maybe David understood Jesus better than Jesus understood himself. He sure acted like he did.

  But there was no time to dwell on that, because Manny stepped out of the car. “Hey, Rachel!”

  Gone was the Ms. Mills from his earlier years. I was Rachel now. Not that I minded. He was growing up so fast.

  “Hey to you, too!” I said as Connie stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing down this way?”

  Connie was a mainlander and a new arrival. She apparently works from home as some kind of customer service rep or something. As long as she has internet and a phone, her company doesn’t care where she lives, so she decided to move to Newfoundland a few months ago.

  And promptly hooked up with the Northern Peninsula's reformed bad boy. Who, in my books, was never a bad boy, but a person gets a reputation when they shoot a popular Mountie.

  I smiled that I could make that internal joke. Gallows humour.

  “Hey Rachel,” Connie said. She was pale, short and well-hipped. And when I say pale, I mean pale. Poor girl probably got sunburned from standing too close to a lightbulb. “My sister is flying to visit me a week from Sunday, and I was thinking you and Constable Garrett could come over for supper.” She glanced at Manny. “And maybe David and Irene. Maybe?”

  “Oh.” I tried not to wince, but Manny’s pained expression was obvious enough that I knew I hadn’t succeeded. I smiled at them and said, in a very mature voice, “Of course, I’ll be there. I think Jeremy works part of a shift that day, but I’ll check. If he can make it, he will.”

  “Thanks, Rachel,” Manny said. “And, thank Constable Garrett for me. If he doesn’t want to come…”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  It really wasn’t, but Jeremy had asked that I pretend it was. Jeremy struggled seeing Manny. He knew it wasn’t Manny’s fault, and yet it had been Manny who pulled the trigger. He’d been the one to look Jeremy in the eye and shoot him. More than once, though I honestly only remember the one gunshot. My own memory is hazy after Jeremy screamed in pain.

  For all of my own agony, Jeremy had endured it. And Jeremy had to keep seeing Manny. The judge wanted to make a restraining order part of Manny’s probation, but Jeremy had asked for leniency. Jeremy knew Manny needed me in his life, so he tried really hard.

  So I never told Manny or his parents about Jeremy’s panic attacks. I never told them how Jeremy would wake up screaming some nights, soaked with sweat. I never told them how Jeremy cried too many nights in my arms because he felt guilty for feeling this when it wasn’t Manny’s fault.

  But he kept pushing through it, kept pushing for his brain to forgive and accept and recover. It was never my idea, but Jeremy said it was important to him. I drove him to all of his therapy appointments, and I called the crisis line for help too many times when I was convinced we weren't going to make it through the night.

  We made it, though. We always made it. And the nightmares were fading now, as were the panic attacks. As was the anxiety. He went to the gun range. He stood on the spot he'd been shot again and again and learned to deal with the reality. I even offered to sell my house, if it would help, but he said, very firmly, no. He would face his fears.

  And he did. Jeremy feared me seeing him vulnerable, but all I saw was a strong man, saying he needed help, but still trying each and every day.

  So I kept the smile as steady as I could, knowing how important it was for Jeremy, and said, “If Jeremy can make it, I'm sure he'll come. Did you need me to call Irene and smooth things over?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Manny said. “Mom’s doing a lot better with this than Dad. He’s…not cool with us living together.”

  “Is he speaking to you yet?”

  “Nope,” Manny said bitterly.

  “I'm sorry, Manny.” I meant it.

  “He'll come around. I'm his only kid. My counsellor says to give him some time, ya know? It just sucks so much because he's my dad and shit.”

  “I know,” I said, impressed that Manny sounded more grown up than his father. “Connie, are your parents okay with it?”

  In a quiet, but steady voice, she said, “My parents died in a car accident when I was little.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” I said. Shit. “I didn’t know. I'm sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. My sister, Isabella, looked after me. So her visiting is kinda like having my mom visit.”

  Mrs. McAvoy floated by again, waving her gloved hand. She had five different suitors following her this time. She also had a different parasol. Blue. She met my gaze and motioned at the men behind her and made a dramatic roll of her eyes. I smirked.

  “What?” Connie asked. She looked over her shoulder at where Mrs. McAvoy
walked. She narrowed her eyes, staring out at the ocean, and then turned back to me. “Everything okay?”

  “Sorry, I was…picturing David’s face as you two told him you were living in sin.”

  Manny winced. “I thought he was going to have a stroke.”

  I blurted out a laugh, and covered my mouth in embarrassment. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. I can only imagine how horrible it must have been.”

  Manny grimaced, but he didn’t look offended. His voice was laced with laughter. “It was so horrible.”

  “How about your sister, Connie? Is she okay with you living with a guy? A younger man, no less.”

  “He’s not even two years younger than me!” Connie said, scowling. “And I never planned to end up with a guy while I was here. I just came…to work. Meet some people my own age. And…”

  Manny gave her puppy dog eyes and oh my good god I wanted to puke. “And sometimes things just happen.”

  Gag.

  “I love ya, babe.”

  “Back at ya, Mannybear.”

  Ancestors rescue me.

  “But, no, my sister doesn’t care. Manny’s not going to get me into trouble. He’s a good boy.”

  I kept quiet the snotty comment about how Manny had become possessed by spirits and shot my boyfriend.

  Fiancé.

  I have a fiancé. I’m getting married. I’m getting married!

  I AM GETTING MARRIED TO JEREMY! THANK YOU ANCESTORS, JESUS, AND WHOEVER ELSE IS OUT THERE LISTENING!

  “Rachel, you okay?” Connie asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “I wasn’t planning to tell anyone yet. I wanted to wait.”

  “Ohmygodareyoupregnant?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  Connie shrugged. “Well, when a woman has news...”

  “It could mean she got a promotion at work. Or sold an expensive painting. Or won the lottery. It doesn't mean she's reproducing.”

  Connie gave me a steady look. “So if you're not pregnant...”

  “Jeremy and I are getting married.”