“I guess that means there’s a ghost,” Raj mumbled.
Lydia felt her heart pounding and every few seconds she felt someone blowing gently on the back of her neck. As the host continued down the hall, the screen showed grainy photographs of each of the O’Tooles, one at a time: Bart first, then Dottie, and finally Carol. Then the camera focused on a girl with straight black hair, twelve or thirteen years old, wearing a pink sweatshirt and fidgeting in an overstuffed chair. The girl obviously now lived in Carol’s old house, and she was being interviewed about a ghost who lived in her hallway—the ghost that this show was apparently there to find.
As the girl spoke to the camera, the voice of a translator crowded over her words, but she could still be heard faintly in English beneath:
Sometimes, she said, in the middle of the night, I can hear someone crawling fast through my hallway. Only no one is there when I look.
Lydia’s first reaction was to feel terrified for this girl, but when she saw the smile on her face—like she was trying not to laugh, like she was doing this on a dare—she realized that this was more about entertainment than fear.
One night, the girl continued, I was getting a drink of water and I could hear someone breathing inside the sink.
The screen cut to a night-vision view of the O’Tooles’ kitchen. Slow and unsteady, the camera roamed over the humming refrigerator, the scuffed baseboards, and finally, the cabinet beneath the sink. Lydia could hear the voices of the girl and her translator behind the images.
The story I heard at school was this one girl hid under there all night. She didn’t get killed because she was so hidden. But in the morning no one could find her. Like she just disappeared into thin air.
Leetil Leedyah.
On the screen the host’s hand reached out, opening the cabinet beneath.
It was apparently inconvenient for the producers to show the famous photograph of Lydia being carried off the neighbor’s porch by her father, surrounded by police and paramedics; that would break the paranormal narrative they were creating. What they showed instead was the host’s hand lowering the Ghostometer into the dark space beneath the sink. Inside, below the disposal, she could see grimy pipes and a pair of crusty shutoff valves. The space was crowded with cleaning products and a roll of trash bags, and her stomach dropped at the thought of folding herself tightly enough to fit inside. Predictably, the machine’s oscilloscope lit up, splashing green waves, screeching beeps, proving undeniably that there was a ghost under there.
Lydia felt her body stiffen. She could sense Raj swaying against the couch.
She was in there forever, the girl’s voice continued, and then she was just gone.
On the screen a hand pressed closed the cabinet door: ke-tick.
“I can’t watch this,” Raj said, grimacing. He lifted the remote. “Can I?”
“Please.”
In an instant the television blinked to black. Raj tossed the remote to the couch and closed his eyes.
“Raj? You okay?”
“Not at all,” he said. “You?”
“Me neither,” she said, holding her elbows. “That was weird.”
“Really weird. I’m never watching television again.”
She laughed uncomfortably and after a moment Raj did, too. Then he slowly reached out and took her hand and pulled her into an unexpected hug, despite the turkey juice sticky on her arm.
“You’re not a ghost,” he said.
“No?”
Lydia smelled his clean skin and felt the warmth and comfort of his body. And though she wanted to close her eyes and feel the promise of this moment, she couldn’t help but look beyond his shoulder, hoping to see for one last time the girl he’d just erased from the screen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks . . .
To my kind and nimble agent, Kirby Kim, who rescued me from his slush pile, dusted me off, and led the way forward without a flinch; to Cecile Barendsma, Brenna English-Loeb, and the rest of the team at Janklow & Nesbit, whose expertise and professionalism are unmatched.
To my editor, the talented and generous John Glynn, who patiently guided this story into the light; to Laura Wise, Nan Graham, Roz Lippel, Jeremy Price, and the rest of the team at Scribner, whose commitment to artistry and excellence is a gift to readers everywhere.
To the organizations that have helped me in so many ways along this path, especially Tattered Cover, Brookline Booksmith, Yaddo, Centrum, the Vermont Studio Center, Write on the River, the D.A.M. writers’ group, Artist Trust, and the University of Idaho’s MFA program; and to my many inspiring students and comrades at Big Bend Community College.
To Aja Pollock, who combed every word with her brilliant eye, and to Sean Daily at Hotchkiss & Associates for working to get this book onscreen.
To the individuals whose feedback and support, at various times, helped to shape this book and fuel my persistence, especially John Bartell, Matt Blackburn, Mary Blew, Steve Close, Brian Davidson, Pete Henderson, Jamie Horton, Mary Ann Hudson, Jim Johnson, Greg Matthews, Minh Nguyen, Lance Olsen, Rie and Fran Palkovic, John Peterson, Joe Rogers, Nat Sobel, Julie Stevenson, Eric Wahl, Jess Walter, Judith Weber, and my all-time second favorite librarian, Lance Wyman.
To my teaching mentor, John Carpenter, who dropped everything to tell me about guns.
To Mark Barnhouse, whose books on the history of Denver brought me back in time.
To the nefarious Sullivan clan, in all your sprawling glory, for the laughter and love that you spread; and especially to my mom, Ann Sullivan, who took me to my first writing conference when I was in grade school, and who wrote stories in the bathtub because that was the only place she could find any peace and quiet.
And most important, to Libby, the one true love of my life, for all that you are, all that you create, and all that you give; and to Milo and Lulu, our bright little bibliophiles, who used to sit in my lap as I wrote and now are making their own stories in the world.