9

 

After the first couple of sessions at Barbara’s house, her altered state, as she called it, no longer frightened me. She needed to empty her mind in order for her saint to provide the conduit that would allow the Jimmy to speak.

Jimmy never spoke.

Thinking we might have better success at Trina’s house, I invited Barbara to South Carolina. After all, it was there Jimmy had revealed himself to me.

The last days of the school year dragged. I cancelled my weekly dinner with Betsy, and she teased me, saying I had found myself a girlfriend. Although not ready to declare my relationship with Barbara as romantic, it seemed unfair for Betsy not to know the truth. We shared everything.

I let myself into Betsy’s house. The sound of contemporary Christian music drifted from the kitchen. Betsy loved music, and I smiled as I remembered her Beatles phase. Our house would reverberate with their music. The mop-haired skinny guys seemed hopelessly nerdy to me, but she had saved every dollar she earned babysitting the Nelson kids down the street to buy Beatles albums. I was glad I never complained because several years later she had come home from Ohio State on week-ends to sit in the stands, huddled in a coat and gripping cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, to cheer for me at my football games. There was a special bond between us that few siblings shared. It grew even stronger after our parents died. And I don’t know what I would have done without her during Nancy’s illness and death. Betsy was my rock.

In the hall, I paused in front of the ghost child’s picture. He died generations before Jimmy was born. What was the connection? Seeing the picture again made me even more grateful for Barbara’s help. Without her, I would never find the answers to the questions that filled my mind day and night.

“Do you want the picture back?” Betsy asked, coming up behind me.

“No, just wanted to see it again. I may be able to find out who he is.”

We went to the kitchen. Betsy poured coffee into large ceramic mugs, part of a set she had bought last year when she and I had gone to Gatlinburg. I wasn’t sure how Betsy was going to take my information about Barbara. The last thing I wanted to do before going to South Carolina for the summer was to upset my sister. Sitting in my usual spot at the table, I grabbed an Oreo cookie from the opened pack that lay between us and picked up my coffee. As brown brew almost splashed over the rim, I put the cup back down, hoping Betsy had not noticed my shaking hand.

“So her name’s Barbara?” Betsy asked, repeating what I had told her over the phone.

“Barbara Thompson. I met her at the bookstore.”

“She must be something special.”

“She’s going to help me find out about the boy in the picture.” I filled my mouth with dry cookie.

Betsy raised her eyebrows. “She’s a historian?”

“Sort of. She’s a psychic.”

I could hear the mantle clock ticking in the next room, another gift from Grandfather. The crunch of cookies in my mouth sounded as loud as boulders grinding beneath an earth mover.

“You’re not serious.”

“She’s a Christian, Betsy. It’s not like you think.”

“It’s not like I think?”

“Talking to spirits is a gift from God.”

“Not my God.”

“Listen, Betsy—”

“No, you listen. I supported you when you told Dad you didn’t want to follow family tradition and go to law school. Everyone should follow his own path. But I refuse to support you here. I can’t believe you went to a psychic for help.” She pushed herself away from the table and looked toward the window. Her lips were almost lost in her tense face.

“Our relationship is more than her psychic ability. I really like her.”

Betsy turned toward me and reached across the table, placing her hands over mine. “This woman has bewitched you. It’s as old as man himself. Evil woman deceives innocent man—”

“She’s not evil. You haven’t even met her.”

“And I plan to keep it that way.” Icy eyes froze my heart. She pulled her hands away from mine and stood, feet planted and arms folded in front of her. “And until you come to your senses, you are not welcome in my house.”

“Betsy…”

“I mean it. I won’t tolerate evil inside my home.”

“I’m not evil.”

“If you stay in her company, you soon will be.”

“You mean you’re going to let this come between us? I’m your own brother.” Betsy and I had fought, we had experienced differences, but she had never turned me away. Her rejection caught me by surprise.

“I’m not doing this, Bill, you are. You choose. Give up this satanic practice or stay away from me.”

Anger, and something else, etched Betsy’s face. Maybe fear?