Unhappy Medium (14 page)

Colin looked very confused, like he couldn’t believe I was really insulting him — that it was a misunderstanding.

“Helps the what?” he asked.

I glanced dramatically to the right and left, like Madame Serena, as if I wanted to make sure no one could overhear. Then
I leaned forward and whispered as loud as I could.

“The Napoleon thing. You know, a male’s obsessive rage at his short stature. I once had a teacher who had it.”

Then I offered him my root beer.

“Sip?” I asked.

“You need to back off,” he said, with a scowl.

I shrugged and smiled sweetly.

“I don’t know, Colin. That’s an awfully
tall
order.”

Colin uttered some indiscernible exclamation of rage and stormed out before Cleo returned with his root beer.

And Jac got up.

For a moment, I had the dreadful impression that I’d made a mistake — that by humiliating Colin I’d made Jac even madder at
me.

But then she threw her arms around me.

“You are my best friend in the entire world,” she said.

And then she burst into tears.

We had made a nice nest in my bed, which was more than large enough for the two of us, our books, Jac’s beloved and bedraggled
stuffed beagle Milo, and a big box of malted milk balls. Jac had stopped crying some time ago, but her eyes were still puffy
and her nose was still red.

“And so then, when that girl and what’s-his-name were arguing about which way the trail went, he kept giving me these smiles,
right?”

I nodded and offered the box of malted milk balls to Jac. She popped two in her mouth and they pooched out her cheeks, making
her look like a depressed chipmunk. She clutched Milo to her heart.

“And then he took my hand, Kat — he took my hand! And held it! And he said, ‘I’m really glad you’re here, Jac. You’re an amazing
girl.’ Now, that’s not a signal that can get mixed, right?”

I shook my head.

“Because if you hold somebody’s hand and tell them they’re amazing, that’s like, boyfriend-girlfriend talk. Isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I said emphatically. “Totally.”

“Right! So then this afternoon when I went to the strings and woodwinds symposium, he was rushing out the door just as I was
getting there. And he said he’d broken two strings on his violin and had the wrong ones in his case, and that he had to go
find new strings to replace them. And I was like, fine, and then he put his arm around me and said, ‘But let’s have dinner
tonight, Jac — what do you say?’ Wouldn’t you think that was a date?”

“Of course I would. Anyone would!” I said, handing her the box of malted milk balls again. This time she waved it away.

“I just feel so … stupid. To think a guy like Colin would … I mean, it’s so humiliating, Kat! Did you see that look
Cleo shot at me? How could I have thought for a minute that he’d go for somebody like me over somebody like her?”

“Because any sane guy would!” I exclaimed. “And because he deliberately made you think he liked you. He’s a jerk, Jac. He
messes around with girls’ feelings because it makes him feel better about himself.”

Jac sniffed and peered into the candy box like the truth might be in there.

“Do you really think so?” she asked. “You think he was messing with me on purpose?”

“I’m sure he was,” I declared. “You weren’t imagining anything, Jac. The guy played you. I’m not saying he was making fun
of you — I think he really did like you. I think he did want to hold your hand. The problem is, I think he felt the same way
about Cleo, and about who knows who else. A guy like that doesn’t see any problem going after all the girls he likes at the
same time, and making them think they’re the only one. And he’s going to rack up some major bad karma treating people that
way.”

“Cleo’s not even a very good clarinet player,” Jac said. “For real. I don’t know how she got accepted to the conference. Except
I heard her dad has major bucks.”

“Well, there aren’t many places in the world you can’t buy your way into,” I said. “Not that I know from personal experience.”

Jac gave me a long look.

“You really are unbelievable,” she said.

Uh-oh. What now?

“Huh?” I asked, grabbing the box back. I might need the power and support of milk chocolate if we were going to fight again.

“I have been a huge selfish cow ever since we got here, and I’ve been awful to you. It was bad enough I had to obsess over
… him, but then … in the boat today. Kat, I didn’t mean any of those things I said to you. The reason I got so angry
was because everything you said was right. It was kind of eerie — like you could see right into my mind.”

“I can’t, if it makes you feel any better,” I told her gently. “I just know you really well, Jac. You’re like my sister.”

“And you’re like mine!” she cried. “And you do know me really well. I
am
ready to go back to the cello. I want to study again, I want to perform. I want to come to conferences and hang out with
other young musicians. Some of them, anyway. And the thing you were rightest about, the thing that really made me flip out,
was that I didn’t want my mother to think she’d won.”

“But she didn’t win, Jac,” I said quietly. “And she knows it. You won. Because you get to follow your dream, and she had to
give hers up. Imagine how
that
must feel. You’ve always assumed she pushes your music to control you. But maybe she pushes you so you can have what she
couldn’t.”

Jac hung her head.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It’s hard for me to think of her like that, you know.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like a person. I think of her as my mother. Reason for All Pain. But she’s got her own pain, I guess.”

I held the box of malted milk balls out to her.

“Why don’t you bring her a peace offering? Nothing tastes better with a glass of Fiji water than a nice crunchy malted milk
ball.”

Jac grinned, and took the box.

“Okay,” she said, getting out of bed. “But she better only take one.”

Long after Jac had fallen asleep next to me, I lay in bed reading about the life of Maggie Fox. It was really tragic.

She had met and fallen in love with the famous Arctic explorer, Elisha Kent Kane. He sent her letter upon letter declaring
the depths of the love he had for her, and vowing his intention to make her his wife. All he asked was that she give up her
Spiritualism and her séances, which he felt went against God.

Head over heels in love with him, Maggie agreed. But the Kane family was wealthy and powerful, and they refused to allow their
son to marry a poor girl who had made her name conducting spirit sessions. Kane left on a two-year expedition to the Arctic,
and when he returned, he told Maggie he was forced to end their engagement. Her heart was broken, and she suffered a devastating
breakdown.

Kane never seemed to be able to make up his mind. They were back together again, then not. Then he showed up one day, and
with her mother as a witness, he “married” Maggie, with the two stating their vows to each other. Shortly afterward, Kane
took sick and died.

The shock of it almost killed Maggie. To make things worse, the Kanes refused to acknowledge that the marriage had happened.
They claimed Maggie was a simple and unstable woman and had invented the whole thing. Maggie never fully recovered.

What I found most interesting was that according to the book, a year after her famous “confession,” Maggie recanted, as Alex
Kenyon had told me. It was the confession, Maggie announced, that had been the falsehood. Maggie then resumed her Spiritualist
activities. But by this time no one trusted her. She died penniless and almost entirely alone.

The doctor that attended to her on her deathbed found that she was almost completely paralyzed. She could move neither her
hands or her feet. And yet, the doctor reported, when he tended to her the room erupted with the sound of rapping — on the
floor, the wall, and the ceiling.

So which was the truth? I supposed that no one could ever know. The truth had died with Maggie Fox. What I did know was from
the moment she’d turned her back on who she was, everything in her life had gone wrong. That made me think of Jac.

I closed the book, and leaned down to place it on the floor. My hand brushed on something soft poking out from under the bed.
I picked it up and held it near the light.

It was Madame Serena’s turban.

I smiled, tucked it under my pillow, and turned out the light. And for the first time since I’d arrived at the Whispering
Pines Mountain House, I got an absolutely peaceful night’s sleep.

“Are you sure you packed enough energy bars?” Jac asked anxiously.

“Jac, it’s a three-hour hike max, round trip,” I told my friend, looking at her affectionately.

Jac’s own backpack was crammed with sunblock, anti-bug cream, anti-sting stuff, anti-tick spray, anti–poison ivy lotion, and
a pocket transmitter that emitted a high-frequency sound, inaudible to human ears but said to keep wildlife away.

“We need some kind of locating beacon,” she said. “You know, for if we get lost.”

I held up my cell phone.

“Got one right here,” I told her. “Jac, it’s a hike up to the mountaintop, not the Apollo 13 mission to the moon.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she said. “I could be at the Baroque Brunch right now.”

I paused and looked at my friend, who was sitting cross-legged on the wide porch of the Mountain House, rifling through her
backpack.

“Do you want to be?” I asked. “Seriously, Jac, if that’s one of the programs you want to go to, we could do the hike another
—”

Jac swatted at me with one of the trail maps she’d collected.

“That was a
joke
,” she said, rolling her eyes. “There’s no Baroque Brunch — I made it up. Some psychic you are, Voodoo Mama.”

“I’m not a psychic, I’m a medium,” I said primly. “Well, if we’re going, let’s go! Zip that pack closed, Maestra.”

She obeyed, and with a little difficulty got the pack on. She stood up, bounced a few times on the balls of her feet, and
gave me the thumbs-up. “I’m ready!”

I chuckled quietly as I put my own pack on. For the first time since we’d come to the Mountain House, Jac and I had scheduled
an entire morning to hang out together. It was a gorgeous day, and my heart was wide open and full of light.

“Lead on, Macduff,” Jac declared.

We walked down the steps from the front porch of the Mountain House, and began to trudge over the gravel drive toward the
Skytop Trail. There was a family in the drop-off circle loading up their belongings. It looked like they’d been at the Mountain
House for weeks, from the looks of their luggage. Several Whispering Pines employees were chatting up the mother and father,
and all at once I noticed that one of them was Ted Kenyon. And oh man, standing right next to him was Alex. They both saw
me at the same time and waved, then glanced at each other in surprise.

“Hey, give me a sec, okay?” I asked Jac.

She raised one eyebrow at me, and then she nodded.

I walked toward the Kenyons, who separated themselves from the group and came over to me.

“Hi Alex,” I said. Then realizing I couldn’t avoid Ted, I glanced at him and said, “and Ted.”

“I see you already know my son,” Alex said with a sly smile.

Oh, for the love of Pete. I totally should have known. It was la-dee-duh coming back to haunt me.

“Yep,” I said quickly, anxious to move away from that subject. “So I read the book you left for me, Alex —
The Unhappy Medium.
It was amazing!”

I tried not to notice Ted’s expression — he looked for the moment like the Unhappy Kenyon. It must be awkward discovering
I knew his mom. Maybe he wondered what I’d told her about him.

“You liked it, huh?” Alex said.

“Loved it. And I have a theory.”

“Let me hear it,”Alex said, sounding delighted.

Ted looked down at his feet, shifting his weight from side to side. He looked much better out here in the sunlight — his squatness
translated to muscle, and his Cro-Magnon brow looked slightly noble.

“I think Maggie’s first confession was the fake one. I think she brooded about Elisha Kent Kane for years and years, and because
it had been so important to him that she give up being a medium, and renounce Spiritualism, she made the confession for him
after his death. Because she couldn’t get over him, and it was the only way she could connect to him. But then, after a year,
she couldn’t live with not being herself anymore. Because she’d been a medium longer than she’d loved Elisha Kent Kane. In
the end, she wanted her identity back. So she told the truth the second time — she really was a medium. And that’s my theory.”

“That is
precisely
the conclusion I came to,” Alex said. “I love that you’re interested in all this stuff.”

Ted was still staring at his shoes.

“Well, Ted really helped to get me curious about the Spiritualist history,” I said. “He lent me a Mountain House scrapbook,
from 1888.”