Spirit Talk: (Book One of The Fiona Series) Read online

  Fiona was pleased to note that one wall was covered with shelves bursting with books of all shapes and sizes. She would never run out of books here. Fiona could see a kitchen off the far end of the room, toward the back of the apartment, with four vinyl-padded chairs around a small table which appeared to be set for two. Fiona spied an antique Singer sewing machine on a table tucked into a far corner.

  Grandma Mary led Fiona to a bedroom at the front of the apartment which overlooked Main Street. When Fiona stepped inside, she let out a small gasp. It was her perfect idea of a girl’s bedroom. The walls were painted soft pink and an antique four-poster bed in one corner was covered in an exquisite crazy quilt. Fiona allowed her eyes to roam over the various fabrics and feast on the vibrant colors. She dropped to her knees next to the bed, closely examining the wild patterns and shapes outlined with bright threads in complex stitches. “This is so gorgeous.” Fiona reverently stroked an orange row of feather stitches. “Did you make it? I’ve always wanted to try to make a crazy quilt but never dared.”

  “No,” her grandmother said, “my mother made it. It was a wedding gift.”

  “Wow,” Fiona sighed. It doesn’t look that old, Fiona thought but didn’t say out loud.

  Fiona silently met her grandmother’s gaze but she wanted to ask about her grandfather. Theresa spoke little about her father except to say that he died of a heart attack when she was just a toddler. She claimed to not remember him at all, which Fiona found to be unbearably sad. Her mother had only one photo of him which she kept in a jewelry box on her dresser, but not on display in a frame. This had always puzzled Fiona.

  “I’ll tell you about him some time soon,” Grandma Mary said, as if reading her mind. “Your Grandpa Pete was a lovely man.” Mary sat down on the bed near Fiona and looked at the quilt, her eyes growing misty. “He was the love of my life,” she murmured. “He was a rascal,” she added with a chuckle, “but he was the love of my life.”

  “How was he a rascal?” Fiona asked.

  “Oh,” Grandma Mary said fondly, “he loved to kid around and make jokes and play practical jokes on people. He was always up for a bit if fun, even if it was a most inappropriate time for fun. He liked beer and whiskey, maybe too much, but he was a hard worker and a good provider. Just a bit of a devil sometimes.”

  Fiona put her hand near her grandmother’s. “Well,” she began, “I wish I’d known him.” Then, looking down at the quilt, said, “It’s a work of art. It should be in a museum.” She glanced around the bedroom and saw old photos and girlish items everywhere. She leaned forward and looked more carefully at a photo of her mother as a young teenager. Theresa was standing with a group of girls and she looked incredibly happy in an open, carefree manner that Fiona couldn’t remember ever seeing in her mother. Her long hair was in two braids and they gleamed, even in black and white.

  The girls were grinning for the camera, dressed in warm-looking hats and scarves. Fiona guessed they were on Fireside Lake in the winter, probably ice skating. One girl had bright curls spilling out from her hat. “Was this my mother’s bedroom?” she asked. It was an obvious question but she asked anyway.

  “Yes,” Grandma Mary said, looking around happily. “I’ve kept it just the way she left it.” Fiona observed the lace curtains falling softly over the window and sighed. She was going to love sleeping in this room.

  A wave of sadness swept over Fiona as she thought of her grandmother, ignored by her daughter and son-in-law, keeping the room like a shrine. Fiona noticed with interest the holy cards tucked randomly in with the photos in the edge of the mirror’s frame. A string of rosary beads sat in a pile on the bedside table next to an Infant of Prague statue.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled in.” Grandma Mary stood, smoothed the quilt where she’d been sitting, and shuffled to the door. Fiona noticed that she moved slowly. Her legs looked thin where they showed beneath her skirt.

  “When you get hungry,” Mary continued, pausing in the doorway, “come out and I’ll make you some dinner.” She pointed to a door across the hall. “The bathroom is right here. The phone is out here, too, if you want to call home and let them know you arrived safely. I’ve left you some towels on the vanity and emptied a drawer for your things. Feel free to take a long shower because I get a lot of hot water in this building.”

  Fiona smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Grandma. I’ll unpack and freshen up, then come out.”

  “Take your time, dear. I’ll be in the living room with my feet up. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here with me,” she said, pulling the door closed gently behind her. Fiona listened to Mary’s light footsteps in the creaky hallway.

  Fiona slowly unpacked her clothes and toiletries, pausing every few moments to examine a photo or a keepsake of her mother’s. There was a charming collection of tiny glass animals on a shelf. Pretty but dusty perfume bottles were clustered on top of the bookcase. The bookcase appeared to contain every Agatha Christie mystery ever written.

  Fiona placed her pants and shirts on hangers next to some of Theresa’s old coats, dresses and sweaters. She fingered a bright blue, felted wool winter coat in a cheerful Alpine design and could tell right away that it would fit her perfectly. There was a pair of classic black pumps on the floor of the closet and Fiona tried them on. They fit perfectly.

  Fiona slid her journal, writing paper, and pens in the desk drawer next to piles of her mother’s papers, recognizing Theresa’s cursive handwriting scrawled across the pages. It was like she would be living in a museum devoted to her mother. Fiona needed to start writing to Ann that very night. The room was a treasure-trove of information about Theresa’s mysterious past. Maybe, by sleeping in her mother’s old bedroom, she could get to know her mother better. She could get to know the real Theresa.

  Chapter 6

  Grandma Mary made scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Fiona watched her grandmother move slowly around the modest but cheerful kitchen. At home, a long-awaited guest would have gotten something special, like her father’s pasta arrabiata or maybe pork schnitzel and potato pancakes, or chicken paprikash and egg noodles. He liked to prepare dishes from a wide variety of nationalities. Watching her grandmother efficiently butter toast while stirring the eggs, Fiona realized there were already two ways she could make herself useful: take over the cooking and use some of the money her mother gave her the morning she left to buy cuts of meat her grandmother probably couldn’t afford. Fiona could also look for a job when she wasn’t working at Mary’s Sewing Bee.

  The kitchen stove looked tiny compared to her father’s six burner range at home. The refrigerator was small, too, and Fiona guessed that she would be a head taller than the unit if she were to stand up. A cookie jar in the shape of a plump, balding monk sat atop the refrigerator. The monk held a sign which read Thou shalt not steal.

  When Grandma Mary served the eggs and finally sat down and unfolded her napkin in her lap, Fiona hesitated before taking a bite. This was the point when her father would say grace before a meal: Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen. Fiona and her mother didn’t bother after he’d died - their plain meals didn’t seem worth the solemn ritual. Fiona, however, wasn’t sure where her grandmother stood on the practice of saying grace, so she waited until Grandma Mary took a bite before she took one herself.

  As soon as the meal began, Grandma Mary started to talk. It was like a switch had been turned and stories tumbled out. She told Fiona tales of growing up the oldest of ten children in a “tenement” in the Bronx and how she’d dropped out of school in fourth grade and found a job crocheting lace in a room full of other “factory” girls. Fiona listened in shock; the idea of a fourth-grader dropping out of school to provide for her little brothers and sisters was inconceivable.

  Grandma Mary relayed stories of her own mother’s job as a midwife to the other women in the neighborhood who could not afford to go to the hospital to have their babies.
This piece of family history especially astonished Fiona and captured her imagination. “My mother took me with sometimes to help. I watched a woman give birth on her kitchen table, then stand up, clear the bloody sheets and towels, and set the very same table for dinner,” Mary said. Fiona’s jaw fell as she conjured up an image of the scene in her imagination.

  Fiona loved every story but sat up straighter when Grandma Mary talked about moving to Fireside as a young bride. Grandpa Pete took a job with a local lumber company; Grandma Mary tried to make “pocket money” by selling her delicate hand-crocheted camisole tops in the women's dress shop below the apartment. Mary’s lace camisoles, which she made with white cotton thread, sold well and were coveted by the ladies in town. “I’ll teach you to make one,” Grandma Mary promised.

  Through her contact with the other wives, Mary formed a circle of friends with whom to pass the long winter days by playing cards and drinking tea while their husbands worked in the lumber mill. “We sat at this very same table,” she said, tapping her finger against the wood. Fiona tried to picture the circle of women, all of them talking at once as they threw cards down on the table in a game of bridge or poker.

  Mary began, very cautiously at first, to use playing cards to tell fortunes for her friends, something she’d learned growing up from her own Irish mother. The ladies were fascinated. Word spread and women flocked to Mary’s tiny kitchen to hear their futures. Some wanted to know about their financial prospects, but most asked about love and babies.

  At this point, Fiona, who’d been drying the dinner dishes and getting familiar with which cabinets housed the plates and which drawer was for cutlery, interrupted her grandmother. “Will you teach me?” she asked. “How to read the cards?” She held her breath as she waited for Mary’s reply.

  “Of course, my dear.” Mary opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a red Walker’s Shortbread tin. “Just don’t tell your mother. I’ll show you one card tonight, and then we should get to bed.” Mary glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall, then opened the tin. She reverently lifted out a well-worn deck of cards with a floral pattern on the backs.

  “You’ve had a long day and I have to be up early,” she sighed. “I take turns with the women in town to babysit the little boy of a man who recently lost his wife.”

  Fiona, who’d been watching her grandmother fan out the deck, looked up. “That’s horrible. What happened to her?”

  “Cancer.” Mary sighed. “The irony is that I got to know her when she joined our ‘Care Crochet’ group at the shop. We get together once a week to crochet blankets for people getting chemo treatments. You know how they have to sit for hours while they get their drugs through an IV?”

  Fiona nodded.

  “Well, our group makes blankets for them. Not necessarily because they’re cold in the hospital but also just for comfort. We make them with cheerful colors.”

  Mary was searching through the deck as if she were looking for a specific card. “Carol joined the group before she got sick. One week she was crocheting for cancer patients and the next week she was one.”

  “And she had a little boy?” Fiona winced.

  “Yes,” Mary replied, pulling the Ace of Hearts out of the deck and placing it on the table. “It’s been a nightmare. Her husband is devastated.”

  Henry, a woman’s voice whispered in Fiona’s ear. Startled, Fiona sat up straight and involuntarily darted her eyes to her right.

  Mary noticed and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Fiona said. “I heard something outside and it startled me for a second.” She hated lying to her grandmother but didn’t think the time was right to tell her grandmother about the voices.

  “Anyway,” Mary continued, looking skeptical, “since Carol passed, we’ve all been helping her husband Henry by babysitting for the little boy when Henry is at work. He’s a loan officer at the bank in town. He’s looking for a permanent babysitter but hasn’t found one yet.”

  Fiona felt a frisson of shock travel through her. “The dad’s name is Henry?” she asked.

  Mary was drawing an imaginary box around the Ace of Hearts with her finger. “Yeah,” she replied, “and the little boy is Ryan. He’s so adorable. You’ll get to meet him tomorrow when we go over there. I’m hoping you’ll help me with him? Ryan has a lot of energy and it’s been hard for me to keep up.” Mary chuckled and shook her head. “He can move pretty quickly. I wasn’t used to boys so it took me by surprise the first time I babysat for him.”

  “Of course,” Fiona answered. “I love little kids. I really miss Nula.”

  “I hope Ann will visit and bring her sometime. Ann sends a photo every Christmas, so I’ve been watching her grow. And, speaking of love and children,” Mary said, nudging the Ace of Hearts with her finger toward Fiona, “that’s what this card is about. Love, home, children, and family.”

  Fiona gulped, then reached out to touch the card, which felt oddly warm. “Love, home, children, family,” she repeated, suddenly feeling like she was going to cry. It had been a long day and she needed to sleep. Her letter to Ann was going to have to wait.

  Chapter 7

  Upon opening her eyes on Tuesday morning and seeing her mother’s childhood bedroom in the weak daylight, Fiona felt momentarily disoriented. It took a few seconds for recent events to resurface in her sleepy brain and explain why she was waking up in her grandmother’s apartment in northern Minnesota. After a stab of anxiety, Fiona got out of bed and tugged on the round shade-pull, which released a spring. The shade rolled up with a slithering sound. Main Street was waking up below her.

  The west side of Main Street was aglow in the first rays of October sunshine. It cast an orange glow over the parts of the street not in shadow. Fiona marveled at the way she could see from one end of town to the other. Mary’s Sewing Bee was at the very apex of the hillside town. The only signs of life on the street were a pickup truck pulling out of the gas station and a woman opening the front door of the Maple Moose.

  Fiona got ready quickly, hoping she’d have time to buy some groceries for dinner before they left to babysit. She’d noticed the previous night that her grandmother’s refrigerator was pretty bare.

  Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved pink t-shirt, Fiona made her way to the bathroom to comb her hair and brush her teeth. As she passed her grandmother’s bedroom to the left of the bathroom, she saw that Mary’s bed was empty and already neatly made. The bedspread and pillows were arranged so neatly, it looked to Fiona like a hotel room bed. She dashed back into her room and made the bed carefully.

  In the ancient bathroom with old-fashioned black and white lozenge tiles, Fiona opened the drawer where’d she’d stowed her cosmetics and toiletries after a long, hot shower the night before. The drawer was lined carefully with striped shelf paper. She grabbed her purple plastic Goody hairbrush, checking her reflection. Her long, brown hair was pooching out on one side from where her pillow had dented her wet locks. She looked unbalanced. She smoothed it, thinking of what she would make for their dinner tonight. Fiona wanted to surprise her grandmother with the cooking skills she’d learned from her father. She wanted to impress Mary.

  Fiona’s mother’s lack of culinary aptitude or interest had been a family joke, but the teasing didn’t seem to bother Theresa. “No one taught me,” she’d protest good-naturedly. “My mother never learned to cook either - there wasn’t enough money when she was growing up for fancy food.” Fancy food, Fiona thought now. All her father’s favorite means would seem like fancy food to her grandmother.

  When Fiona’s hair was finally tamed, she hurriedly rubbed moisturizer into her skin, then applied a quick brush of eyeshadow and mascara and a swipe of lip gloss before rushing to the kitchen. The living room was cold and she minced her feet as she crossed the room. The kitchen, however, was warm, and her grandmother was sitting at the table with a teapot and the newspaper. The room, which had been cheerful last night in the warm glow of a lamp, was ablaze with sunshine.


  Fiona sat and poured tea from the floral pot into the cup her grandmother had placed at her spot. “Good morning,” she said. “Thanks for the tea.”

  “I’ll hot the pot before our next cup,” Mary said, sliding a section of the newspaper toward Fiona. “Did you sleep okay?” Mary’s gray hair looked white in the sun.

  Fiona looked up from the headlines and a photo of President and Nancy Reagan and nodded. “I was wondering, Grandma,” she began, “if I had time to run to the Golden Goose before we leave to babysit? I wanted to get the fixings for chicken paprikash and make you some for dinner.”

  “Ooh, my,” Mary laughed, “that sounds delicious! I had a friend who used to make that dish. We do have time if you hurry. Do you need money?” She looked expectantly at her granddaughter, a teaspoon in her hand as she paused before the sugar bowl.

  Fiona took a long drink of her sweet, milky tea. "No, thanks, I’ve got money.” She took another long drink, then rinsed the cup and put it in the dish strainer next to the sink. A tea towel was carefully folded beneath the dish strainer. Everything her grandmother did was done with neat precision. I’ll have to make sure I’m neat, too, she thought as she trotted past her grandmother on her way to the living room.

  Then she heard her grandmother calling her name and she doubled back to the kitchen. Mary’s face was turned toward the doorway. She looked thoughtful. “Can you cook the dinner at Henry’s house? That way, we can have a hot meal for him and Ryan tonight. I don’t think they’re eating enough nutritious food. Honestly, I’m not sure they’re eating anything homemade. The casseroles stopped coming after the first month.”

  Fiona nodded. “Great idea. I’ll get plenty so there’s leftovers, too.” She felt happy to be useful and hoped Henry’s wife had stocked her kitchen with a good Dutch oven and a pot for boiling the noodles.