Remembrance (The Mediator #7) (25 page)

Cotton-tail promptly replied, “They come true when you wish upon a
star
.”

“There’s nothing in that song about
fountains
.” Mopsy always had an angle.

Realizing that I was never going to get them to play nicely unless I sweetened the bribe—fries were losing their currency—I said, “Look, just this one time you can fish for coins from the fountain, but
only
if you promise to put them back when you’re done.” Their faces fell, and I added, through gritted teeth, “Fine. I’ll reimburse you after school from my own wallet, you little swindlers.”

Their faces lit up once more. The idea of scooping slimy quarters and dimes from the bottom of an old fountain brought them such happiness (because it was
free money
), I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were Paul Slater’s daughters. He loved money more than anyone I’d ever met.

“All right, be quiet and let me concentrate.”

I turned and rapped loudly on the door to Becca’s first-period classroom. No one had phoned in to say that she was staying home sick for the day, which surprised me. If the beloved principal of my school had nearly died at my house the day before, no way would I show up to class the morning after, if only to avoid nasty questions from the student body. This kid either had no common sense whatsoever, or a stepmother who wanted her out of the house. I suspected the latter.

Without waiting for anyone to answer my knock, I opened the door and entered the classroom.

“I’m Susannah Simon,” I said to the harassed-looking teacher, Ms. Temple. She wasn’t one I knew from my own days as a student at the Mission Academy. “I’m from the administrative office. Becca Walters is needed there. Now.”

As was typical when anyone was called to the office, the entire class began to catcall and hoot. All except for Becca, who was seated in the second-to-last row, near the windows, which looked out over the achingly blue sea. She seemed to be continuing her campaign to appear as inconspicuous as possible. She still had not brushed (or seemingly washed) her hair, her uniform was as ill-fitting as ever, and she wore the same bandage I’d affixed to her wrist two days earlier. It was now gray and frayed around the edges.

Lucia stood at her side, solemn-faced as always. Unlike Becca, Lucia did not seem surprised to see me, nor did her face turn bright red as she met my gaze.

“All right, students, simmer down,” Ms. Temple said, in a bored voice. “Becca, take your things in case you aren’t back by next period.”

Becca stood up, gathering her books with fingers that shook so nervously it was inevitable she’d drop one of them. This caused the hooting not only to increase, but for some of the boys to call out even ruder remarks than before, and the girls to smirk and whisper among themselves.

Ms. Temple, who appeared to be only a little older than I was, did nothing about any of this. Instead she took the interruption as an opportunity to pick up her cell phone and check her messages.

The only person in the room who looked the least bit concerned for Becca—besides me and her little ghost companion, who was one step behind her—was Sean Park, the tenth-grade computer whiz who’d saved my office desktop. He was sitting in the front row, gazing back at Becca with a look of compassion, while occasionally throwing his peers glances of disgust.

I shared his feelings.

After making sure Becca and her invisible bodyguard had safely exited the room into the hallway, I turned to look back at the class. The students were still buzzing among themselves, while Ms. Temple continued to check her phone. To my surprise, I saw that she was texting someone.

I understand that teachers work very long hours for too little pay. So do I.

But honestly.

“Hey,” I said. Possibly I said it a little too loudly, since the teacher wasn’t the only one who looked over. My outburst got the attention of the students, as well. All gazes fell upon me, so I decided to use the opportunity to make a little announcement.

“In case any of you are wondering,” I said, with a pleasant smile, “I’m the same Suze Simon who knocked the head off the Father Serra statue a few years back. And if I hear of a single one of you giving Becca Walters shit ever again, I’ll do the same to you. Have a nice morning.”

I slammed the door on their stunned expressions.

Out in the corridor, Becca was looking up at me, wide-eyed.

“Wh-what did you say to them?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I continued to smile as I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on. We need to have a little chat.”

Becca resisted my perfectly friendly overtures.

“That wasn’t nothing,” she said. “I heard you say—did you say something to them about
me
?”

“No. You worry too much.” I noticed that Lucia had begun to glow with spectral rage, and added, “Oh, calm down, Casper. I’m only going to talk to her. Go hang out with your three amigos over there.”

Becca looked around, oblivious as always to her ghostly companion. “Who are you talking to?”

“That’s what we’re going to chat about.” I waved at my stepnieces. “Girls, could you help me out here?”

They didn’t need any further coaching. Mopsy raced up to Lucia, gripped her by the arm, then whispered loudly, “My aunt Suze said we could take coins from the fountain!”

“But we have to put them back,” Cotton-tail warned. “It’s wrong to steal wishes.”

“And money,” Flopsy added. “But Aunt Suze says she’s going to pay us back, whatever we take, from her own wallet. We’re going to be
rich.
”

Becca stared at me as if I were a whack job while the three girls—four, really, but she couldn’t see Lucia—raced off into the courtyard, where the bright morning sun had already begun to burn off the thick fog I’d been driving through. It significantly dimmed Lucia’s aura . . . though she continued to throw me solemn looks, not quite trusting me with her precious Becca . . . yet.

As soon as they reached the wide stone fountain—which this early in the morning had yet to attract any adult visitors—the three living girls peeled off their shoes and socks and jumped in (exactly as I’d told them not to). Even Lucia looked tempted to follow suit. It was hard to believe she was the same spirit who, the night before last, had tried to drown me.

“Who are they?” Becca asked, her gaze following the triplets.

“They’re my stepnieces,” I said. “I brought them so we could talk. Last time we got interrupted, and it wasn’t by any earthquake. Those three are here to keep it from happening again.”

Becca looked more bewildered than ever. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do know about
you
, though. My stepmother told me—”

“Yes, I’m sure Kelly had plenty to say about me.” I steered her by the arm through one of the stone archways. “Well, I’ve got a lot to say to you. But not about her.”

Becca immediately put on the brakes, refusing to budge from beneath the chilly shade of the breezeway. “We aren’t allowed to go out here,” she balked, staring at the warm, sunny courtyard like it was the pit of a lava-filled volcano, and she was the hapless missionary I was about to sacrifice to the native gods.

“You are if you’re escorted by a staff member. And lucky you, I just happen to be a staff member.”

I pulled her off the smooth flagstone and onto the pebbled pathway that meandered through the courtyard’s many garden plots. She came blinking into the sunlight as cautiously as a mole person.

It might have been November, but in Carmel, that’s one of the most beautiful months of the year—which was why Jesse and I wanted to be married in November, only a year from now. An explosion of brightly colored flowers—milkweed, bougainvillea, azaleas, wisteria, and rhododendrons—lined the paths and even the rooftops of the breezeways and buildings surrounding the courtyard. The milkweed had attracted monarch butterflies, which flew in lazy circles around the yard like low-flying, drunk hang gliders.

Though the stucco walls were three feet thick, and the birds flitting across the clear blue sky overhead were calling noisily to one another, it was still possible to hear the organ music being played at morning mass over in the basilica.

“Sit,” I commanded Becca when we came to an ancient stone bench in a mossy alcove, not far from the fountain the girls were marauding. The bench, coincidentally, was beneath the feet of the Father Serra statue I’d so wrongfully been accused of decapitating.

Maybe this was why Becca looked more nervous than ever as she sat down. “I didn’t mean it about my stepmother. All she said was—”

“I don’t care what Kelly said about me.” I sat down beside her. “I want to know what really happened to Father Dominic. But first, I want to know what really happened to your friend Lucia Martinez.”

Becca stared at me as round-eyed as if I’d slapped her. “L-Lucia Martinez? Wh-who’s that?”

“Come on, Becca, don’t bullshit me.” I’d had about as much as I could take from this girl. “You know exactly who Lucia is. You like the game
Ghost Mediator
? Well, your old friend Lucia’s ghost has been following you around for years. You want to know how I know that? Because I’m a real-life mediator, and it’s my job to send her to the next level.”

Becca stared at me expressionlessly for several seconds from behind the lenses of her glasses.

Then she burst into tears.

veintiuno

Great. Just great. You would think after all these years I’d have figured out how to deliver this kind of news without causing young girls to burst into tears.

But no.

It was a good thing Jesse wasn’t around. He was infinitely more tender and patient than I was, and would probably have given this particular mediation one out of five stars based on my swearing alone.

I pulled a minipack of tissues from my messenger bag and passed it to Becca. A mediator needs to be prepared for any emergency.

“Becca,” I said, glad for the soothing sounds of the worshippers singing hymns over in the basilica, since they would hopefully keep my voice—and Becca’s sobs—from carrying over to the girls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be quite so . . . blunt. I know this is probably very new to you. But Lucia’s ghost really has been following you around for years, probably since the day she died.”

Becca took a tissue and dabbed at her streaming eyes with trembling fingers. Her breath came in short, hiccupy sobs.

“How . . . how can that even be possible?” she asked. “Lucia? Here?” She glanced furtively around the courtyard, as if expecting a ghoul to leap out from behind a nearby rhododendron. “I don’t believe you. This is some kind of trick.”

“It’s not a trick, and she’s not there. She’s over by the fountain, playing with my nieces. You can’t see her. But trust me, she’s there. She’s dressed in riding clothes and carrying a stuffed horse.”

Becca inhaled sharply. Something I’d said had struck a chord. I wasn’t sure what, but she was squinting toward the fountain. “How come you can see her but I can’t?”

“It’s a genetic thing. But trust me, she’s there. She’s the one who tore up the office the other day.”

Becca was so startled she stopped crying. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. That was no earthquake. Lucia didn’t like it when I tried to touch you, even though I was only trying to help.” Becca’s eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, had gone as bright and shiny as the coins the girls were fishing from the fountain and holding toward the sun. “What can you tell me about how Lucia died? She hasn’t exactly been illuminating on the subject. She seems to be mostly concerned about you.”

For the first time since I’d met her, Becca smiled—really smiled, with her whole face. It transformed her, turning her from an average-looking girl to a very much above-average, almost startlingly attractive girl.

“I can’t believe she’s worrying about
me
. I don’t understand why, since she’s the one—” Becca broke off. The smile hadn’t lasted long.

“Yes, I know, Becca,” I said, gently. “She’s the one who died. But the dead aren’t always known for their logical reasoning skills. If they were, I’d be out of a job. Why is Lucia so worried about you, especially now, so many years after her death?”

“I don’t know,” Becca said, her eyes filling once more with tears. She reached up to clutch her horse pendant. “Or . . . or maybe I do. What happened to her was my fault.”

“Your fault? How was it your fault? I know you went to school together, but you were little when—”

“She died because of me,” Becca said, the sides of her mouth trembling. “That’s why I wear this necklace. To remind me that it’s my fault she’s dead, and that I . . . that I have to live life for the both of us. She was my best friend.”

“Okay,” I said skeptically. “But you told me the other day that you hate yourself. If you really want to live life for Lucia, you might want to start by living it for yourself.”

Her fuzzy eyebrows furrowed. “I
am
living life for myself.”

“I don’t think so, Becca. You don’t treat yourself very kindly. Did you get your stepmom to take you to see a doctor for that cut? I know you didn’t, since you’re still wearing that nasty old bandage.” She attempted to hide her wrist in embarrassment, but there wasn’t really anyplace she could put it, except folded under her opposite arm. “That thing is going to get infected if you don’t keep it clean, you know. And what is with these glasses? They’re filthy.” I plucked them off her face before she could stop me, then peered through the lenses, getting a surprise after I did so. “Becca, these aren’t even prescription! What are they, a disguise?”

She snatched them back. “No. Why are you saying all these mean things? I thought you were supposed to be helping me. These glasses make me feel more comfortable.”

“As what? The girl no one will ever notice? Look, Becca, I get it. Your dad married a woman who’s barely ten years older than you and looks like a supermodel. I’d feel insecure, too. But don’t expect me to believe this bullshit about you living life for Lucia when you barely live at all. Now how exactly did Lucia die because of you—which, by the way, I highly doubt?”