Remembrance (The Mediator #7) (6 page)

But of course this isn’t a perfect world. And considering the day I was having, it was crazy of me to have thought even for one second that there was a possibility this was going to happen.

Instead, Becca pressed her lips together and stubbornly refused to reply to my question.

So I said, “Fine, suit yourself,” and laid the disinfectant-soaked pad I’d opened over her arm.

This was a huge mistake—a lot like my having called Paul. But I didn’t realize it then.

Becca gave a little squeak and tried to yank her wrist from me as the alcohol seeped into her wounds, but I held on, keeping the pad pressed to the cuts so the disinfectant could do its work.

“Sorry, Becca,” I said. “I should have warned you it was going to sting. But we can’t let you risk an infection. Anyway, I would have thought you’d enjoy it, hating yourself so much, and all.”

I knew Dr. Jo, my school-appointed therapist—everyone getting a master’s in counseling has to undergo a few semesters of personal counseling themselves—would disapprove. Counselors (and mediators) are supposed to show compassion toward their clients. We aren’t supposed to hurt them, even while cleaning their wounds with disinfectant pads.

But sometimes a little pain can help. Radiation kills cancer cells. Skin grafts heal burns.

I told myself that Becca’s reaction was good. It showed spirit. Her ghost-barnacle hadn’t completely sucked the will to survive out of her . . . yet.

“My God,” Becca whispered. Another good sign—she still didn’t want Sister Ernestine overhearing our conversation, even though the nun would definitely have put a stop to my unorthodox nursing methods. “You
did
knock the head off that statue, like everyone says. You’re crazy!”

“Yeah,” I whispered back. “I am. Be sure to complain to your parents about the crazy woman in the office. That way you’ll have to show them your arm to explain how you got sent here in the first place. Then they’ll know that you’ve been hurting yourself, and maybe get you the help you—”

“
Get away from her!”

Becca wasn’t the only one showing some spirit. For the first time the little ghost girl showed some, too, lifting her blond head and taking an interest in what was happening around her.

And she definitely didn’t like what she saw . . . namely, me.

Stepping out from behind the shadow of Becca’s chair, she drew her brows together in a pout, and, hugging the stuffed animal she was holding—a threadbare horse—she pointed at me and said in a low, guttural voice, “Stop. You’re hurting Becca.”

It could have been comical, being bossed around by such a tiny sprite.

Except that where ghosts are concerned, size doesn’t matter. I’ve had my butt kicked by some NCDPs who seemed completely harmless . . . until their hands were wrapped around my throat.

Plus, there was nothing comical about the burning hatred in her eyes, or the throaty anger in her voice.

“I’m not hurting Becca,” I explained to the dead girl in my most reasonable tone. “Becca’s been hurting herself, and I’m trying to help her.”

Becca, perplexed, glanced in the direction I was speaking, but didn’t see anyone standing there. “Uh . . . Miss Simon? Are you all right?”

I didn’t have time for Becca’s concern that I’d jumped on the train to Crazy Town.

“I’m trying to help you, too, kid,” I said to the ghost. “Who are you, anyway?”

Big mistake. Really, my third biggest mistake of the morning, after calling Paul, then slapping the disinfectant pad on Becca.

Though in my defense, you really shouldn’t let the undead run around unsupervised, any more than you should let wounds go too long without cleaning them.

The tiny ghost reacted by reeling backward, so stunned that after however many years she’d been dead someone could finally see her—let alone had communicated with her. She landed with a thump on the cool stone floor . . . a thump that left her looking shocked and humiliated.

But what followed was no girlish tantrum. She may have seemed cute with her blond bangs, stuffed horse, and riding boots and jodhpurs—apparently she’d been an aspiring equestrian in life—but she was by no means an angel (certainly not yet, as something was keeping her earthbound). She leveled me with a menacing stare.

“Lucia,” she screamed, with enough force that my hair was lifted back from my face and shoulders and the panes in the windows shook. “And no one hurts Becca!”

And that’s when the simple mediation I’d been planning went to complete hell.

The stone tiles beneath my feet began to pitch and buckle . . . which was some feat, because they were stone pavers, each more than two feet wide. They had been laid there three hundred years earlier by true believers at the behest of Father Serra. They’d never shown so much as a crack despite all the earthquakes that had since shaken Northern California.

And now some little girl ghost venting her wrath at me had the ancient floors splitting, and the three-foot-thick mission walls trembling, and the fluorescent lights overhead swaying, even the glass in the casement windows tinkling.

“Stop!” I cried, reaching out to grab the arms of the chair in which Becca sat, both to steady myself as well as to shield her from any glass that might start falling. Becca’s eyes were wide with terror. She still couldn’t hear or see Lucia, and so had no idea what was going on.

I knew, and not only was I as scared as Becca—my heart felt as if it was about to jackhammer out of my chest—I couldn’t have been more mad at myself. I’d been so distracted by the potential curse on my boyfriend I’d forgotten one of the most important rules of mediation:

Never, ever underestimate a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” I shouted at Lucia’s spirit. “I swear I was only trying to help—”

“Shut up!” the little girl thundered in a voice that seemed to come from straight from the depths of hell itself. “
Shutupshutupshutup!”

Each syllable was emphasized by another jolt to the floor and walls, sending drawers from the file cabinets slamming wildly, files—as well as the pages within them—flying like a blizzard of eight-by-eleven-inch paper snowflakes, and the wooden Venetian blinds that had never in my memory been lowered over the windows suddenly came crashing down.

“What’s happening?” Becca shouted. It was hard to hear anything above the tinkling of the glass and, above our heads, the groaning of the rafters in the pitched wooden ceiling that tourists loved snapping photos of so they could tell their architects back home,
I want the living room to look just like
this. “Is this an earthquake?”

I
wished
it were an earthquake. A geological explanation for what was happening would be so much simpler than,
Actually, it’s a ghost.
No one ever goes for that one.

Instead I said, “Crap,” because I noticed my computer had begun to slide from my desk. The huge monitor—not a flat screen because the school couldn’t afford anything that fancy—was sliding in our direction.

Becca, hearing my curse, followed the direction of my gaze, then screamed and ducked her head. I hunched over her so my back would take most of the weight of the computer if things didn’t work out, then kicked backward, relieved when I felt the sole of my platform wedge meet with a chunk of hard plastic.

This is why I needed a new pair of boots. You never knew when you were going to have to keep a ghost from using your computer to crush you (and a student) to death.

cinco

The shaking stopped.

Sister Ernestine raced from her office, clutching the only adornment to her otherwise sensible attire, a plain silver crucifix that gleamed against her massive chest.

“Good heavens,” she cried. “What happened?”

“Uh,” I said. “Earthquake.”

I looked around for the NCDP. She was gone, of course. What would she stick around for? Her work was done for the day. I imagined she was off wherever baby ghosts go after hours, enjoying some Disney Horror Channel, learning some snappy new rude comebacks and ways to dispose of the living.

“Are you all right, dear?” Sister Ernestine asked Becca solicitously, not giving me so much as a glance.

Becca nodded, looking uncertain. “I . . . I th-think so.”

Oh, sure. Ask the kid who just tried to off herself with some school supplies if she was okay. Don’t worry about me, the girl doing the splits to keep a piece of computer equipment from killing us both.

Slowly, I lowered my leg, steadying the computer monitor with my hand. The only reason it had stayed in place was because of the cord, still plugged into the wall—and the fact that I was holding it. I shoved it back to its proper position on my desk, straightening my in-box and penholder as well. Not that it did much good. They’d disgorged their contents all over the floor.

The pavers beneath us were back in place, though, not a crack in them. The glass in the windowpanes was fine, too.

The office itself, however, was a mess, which was truly upsetting since I’d only just gotten it organized after the chaos Ms. Yoga Pants Carper had left in her wake. It was going to take me hours—no, days—to get all those folders back into alphabetical order, and then refile all the papers that now blanketed every surface like snow.

When I got my hands on Lucia, however tragically she might have passed, I was going to kill her all over again.

“Oh, dear,” Sister Ernestine said as the phone began to ring—not just the one in her office, but the one in Ms. Diaz’s, the one half hanging off my desk, and the cell phone in my back pocket, as well.

“Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” Jesse.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and pressed Ignore. Jesse was going to have to wait a little while longer to find out what was going on. I knew he’d understand. That’s the nice thing about soul mates.

Well, for as long as he continued to have a soul, anyway.

“Oh, dear. This is a disaster. I can only imagine what’s going on in the classrooms,” the nun was murmuring. “I hope there aren’t any injuries—”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure we got the worst of it right here.” I leaned down to retrieve the first-aid kit, which had also spilled all over the floor. “I’m guessing this was the epicenter, in fact.”

Sister Ernestine threw me a curious glance as she hurried back into her office to answer the phone. She knew my BA was in psychology, not seismology. “Becca, I spoke to your stepmother. She said she’s on her way, but now with this quake, who knows how long it will take her to—yes, hello, this is Sister Ernestine.”

I peeled the back from a large stick-on bandage and held it toward Becca. “Arm out, please.”

She looked up at me, still dazed from the “earthquake.” “What?”

“We should probably cover that up before your stepmom gets here.” I pointed to her arm. “Don’t you think? Unless your near brush with death just now caused you to change your mind, and you’ve decided to take my advice about fessing up to the ’rents about what you’ve been doing to yourself. Parents can surprise you, you know.”

She glanced down at her arm. “Oh. No. Thanks.”

She held the wounded limb toward me, and I applied the large bandage as gently as I could . . . not because I was afraid of her little banshee friend coming back, but because I really did feel sorry for the kid. I knew what it was like to be sent to the principal’s office, and also to be picked up by a stepparent—though with Andy, I’d lucked out in that department.

I also knew what it was like to be haunted. The only difference between Becca and me, really, was that I’d been able to see my personal specter, and he’d turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Becca didn’t notice that I was trying to be nice to her—or if she did, she gave no sign. She gave no sign of noticing that her otherworldly albatross was gone, either. She slumped in the chair, looking as defeated as ever, except for one thing: she pulled a silver chain from inside the collar of her too-big white blouse and began to finger the pendant hanging from the end of it in much the same way Sister Ernestine had fingered her cross for comfort a moment earlier.

Only Becca’s pendant wasn’t a religious icon. It was shaped like a small rearing stallion.

Hmmm. Lucia had been holding a stuffed horse and was dressed in riding clothes. Becca wore a silver pendant of a rearing horse that she twisted when she was nervous. The two girls didn’t look too much alike. The dead one had blond hair and a Spanish first name.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t related somehow. Stepsisters, maybe? Or cousins? It would explain the strong bond.

This mediation was going to be a snap—well, except for the part where the kid had tried to kill me. Too bad that wouldn’t count toward my practicum.

Sister Ernestine came bursting from her office.

“Susannah, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be answering the phone.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sister.” Gritting my teeth, I lifted the receiver. “Oh, gee, it’s dead. The quake must have knocked out my line.” I’m certain when I die, if there actually is some kind of higher power sitting in final judgment of all our souls, mine’s going to take a really long time to read off all my sins, considering all the lying I’ve done, especially to people of the cloth.

But I like to think most of those lies were for a higher purpose. I’m sure whoever (or whatever) is in charge will understand.

“I’d better go check on the kindergarten,” Sister Ernestine said, not sounding too happy about it.

“Oh, no. I hope the children are all right.”

The nun glared at me. “The
children
are fine. It’s Sister Monica who is in hysterics, as usual. And I’m certain you can guess why: the girls are acting up again.” There was an accusing note in her voice.

I tried to look innocent, but it wasn’t easy. “They’re not related to me by blood.”

“Sometimes I find that very hard to believe,” Sister Ernestine said, and looked pointedly around the office at all the student reports and files scattered on the floor—as if the “earthquake” had been my fault. Which of course it had been, but she didn’t know that. “Please stay with Becca until her mother arrives.”