The Number 7 (8 page)

“I know how you conveniently get the stomach flu before every Thanksgiving holiday,” Franz answered sternly, but his eyes revealed a genuine fondness. “Ask Louisa if you have any questions about this.” He pointed to the packet explaining the photo essay project. “Welcome back.”

Throughout class, I kept feeling Gabe's gaze. I didn't want to look and check to see if I was right. I was too afraid I'd be wrong. But I could feel him. I was certain he was staring. My problem was that I liked Gabe. I liked him a lot. I liked the way he looked at me. I liked how confident he was. But I didn't like how vulnerable I felt around him. With Gabe, I risked betraying myself. With Gabe, I risked heartbreak.

“So you had the flu when I saw you last Wednesday at Weaver's?” I asked at the end of class, standing up and tossing my backpack over one shoulder. He'd looked fine to me. I flushed as I remembered the way his thumb lingered on the turkey sticker.

“It's an illness of necessity.” Gabe started walking with me to the door. “Thanksgiving is our busiest time of year. My parents need me at the shop.”

So that's why he was always there, and how he was able to give out free flowers. His parents owned Weaver's. I bit my lip, waiting for him to say something more, but he didn't.

“Do you have any—” I blurted clumsily, yearning for the conversation to continue, “—cookie cutters? At the shop, I mean.”

“Hmm,” he twisted his mouth in thought. He really was beautiful. Flawless skin, flawless eyes. “I think so. You'll just have to come by and check for sure,” he smiled.

I let out a quick, nervous chuckle before Allison came up in the hall behind me and grabbed my arm to walk with her.

“I'll see you later,” Gabe hollered after me, waving.

“I wouldn't say this normally, but because you're new I feel obligated,” Allison leaned over and whispered. “Gabriel Weaver is off limits.”

I thought about Allison's warning as I walked down October Hill Road to Rosemary's cottage after school, but I shook off her words of caution. Whatever her reason was for trying to dissuade me from getting to know Gabe didn't matter. And, anyway, I had homework I needed to focus on. I'd been assigned a new project in history class, and I needed Rosemary's expertise.

My neighbor opened her door right as I lifted my hand to knock, letting a wave of warm air greet me from inside. Not only was it warm, but her place smelled wonderful, like peppermint and vanilla.

“Hi, Lou!” Rosemary's copper-toned hair was banded together in a loose ponytail.

We sat on the couch, and I took out a spiral notebook and pen distractedly.

“What's up?” Rosemary leaned back on the couch, pulled up a knee onto the seat cushion, and rested her face on her hand with curiosity.

“I need help recreating a
Poor Richard's Almanac
based on Benjamin Franklin's.” I explained. “I'm in charge of the astronomy and astrology portions. Naturally, I thought of you. Could you help?”

“Of course! But first let's talk about the differences between astrology and astronomy,” Rosemary began. “The two branches are often confused. Astro
nomers
study what, where, and how the stars and planets are, whereas astro
logers
study the effects of those movements.”

“Right. So I thought it would be fun to chart my group's horoscopes for the astrology portion of the project.” I pulled out the piece of paper on which I'd noted every group member's birthday.

She picked up a thick book filled with columns of numbers and symbols from a stack on the coffee table, then looked over the birth dates of my peers. I purposely didn't write the names next to the dates, especially my own. I was interested to know what she'd blindly say about me. She flipped to the page for August.

“This guy—I'm assuming the gender, so correct me if I'm wrong—this guy born on August tenth is interesting.”

My ears perked up as she began to describe Chris, my beguiling neighbor in History, who'd joined my group after I'd hoped he wouldn't. This was a big project, and he certainly didn't appear to be the workhorse type. “He's very sensual and passionate, and he finds people doing things for him—women, especially—because they're just naturally drawn to him. He knows this and he uses it to his advantage. He's a sly one.” Rosemary eyed me and I wondered if she knew I was fond of him. I couldn't deny he was a bit of an enigma. What was he like under all that tousled hair and bronze skin? “He's incredibly creative, and his passion goes beyond romance. He's smart, and he likes to learn new things, but he doesn't know what he wants. He's a heartbreaker, that one.” She stopped. “Are you going to write this down?”

“Oh, right.”

Embarrassed, I picked up my notebook and began jotting down what she'd just told me. I'd been so focused on what she was saying, absorbed in her ability to read the secret meanings of birthdays, I had completely forgotten this was for school and not just for fun. A small part of me felt guilty for believing what she was telling me. Still, something supernatural had taken over my life since the move to October Hill Road. I couldn't deny—or explain—the magic behind my grandmother's phone calls. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to start keeping an open mind.

Rosemary continued describing my classmates as I recorded the data. Though my birthday was sandwiched in the middle of the dates on the paper, she'd waited to read that one last.

“So, Louisa, we come to you.” Rosemary folded her hands and looked softly at me. “You share the same birthday as your mother, don't you?”

My words caught in my throat, and suddenly I couldn't speak. It was true. I'd been born on my mother's twenty-eighth birthday, March first.
How did she know?

“You and your mom are extremely closely connected, even if you don't sometimes feel it,” Rosemary said soothingly.

I could sense the tears crawling from the back of my throat up to my eyes. I fought them. Part of me didn't really want to listen to anything more Rosemary had to say, but like a listener to the siren's song, I felt bound to hear her out. She kept looking at me with tender eyes, waiting for me to give the okay for her to continue.

“Go on,” I swallowed.

“You have an inner strength, Louisa. You're incredibly intuitive. In all things that you do, you search for truth and purpose. You have the capacity to
feel
life more than others do. In that way, you are lucky. The dichotomy to that, though, is you can sense others' pain and trouble when everyone else seems oblivious. There are aspects to this sensitivity you probably aren't even aware of yet. But you're smart, and you have your mother's vitality. She had this gift, too.”

“My mom,” I cleared my throat, “she always knew when something was upsetting me. I suppose a six-year-old can't hide her feelings too well, but even when I was trying to keep something from her, Mom would ask if there was anything I wanted to talk about. And I always felt so relieved after confiding in her. My dad is great at so many things, but there are times I wish I didn't need to spell things out for him. I know he wrestles with trying to be Dad
and
Mom, but there are times I struggle trying to be strong for everyone. I get tired of pretending. Does that make sense?” I don't know what made me confess everything to her in that moment. I wasn't even aware how long I'd been crying.

“Louisa,” Rosemary smiled and placed her hand on my knee, “you're a very special girl. As soon as we met, I knew there was something different about you. You're on the cusp of something really wonderful. I, for one, can't wait to see how it all plays out.”

“What do you mean?” I wiped away the tears.

“I don't quite know—only that you're supposed to be here. I don't know how else to describe it.”

It felt good to talk about things I usually didn't. Greta and Dad rarely spoke of Mom. Not because it was too painful, but because we'd exhausted ourselves retelling stories and memories in the years after her death. Now, Mom was only mentioned as a side note. We all thought about her on Christmas and Thanksgiving. We grew nostalgic when we smelled lilacs—Mom's favorite flower, memory 111—but these moments didn't compel us to
mention
her anymore. The three of us had our personal remembrances when those moments arose, but we cherished them quietly.

Before I left, I wanted Rosemary to answer one last thing for me. I didn't know how to broach the subject without sounding crazy; I didn't want Rosemary to grow suspicious of me. So as I was putting my winter coat back on, as nonchalantly as I could manage, I coolly asked the thing that had been on my mind almost ever since we moved here: “Rosemary, what do you know about ghosts?”

Standing in Rosemary's front hall, my inquiry paused in the air before flying out her open door. I wanted to run after it, take it back, and stuff it back down my throat. Rosemary would for sure think I was crazy, if she didn't already. But I stayed, and Rosemary motioned for me to close the door.

“Well . . . here's the thing.” I ran my hand through my hair nervously, trying to find the right words, trying to sound as elusive as possible. “I think my Grandma Eloise is trying to
contact
me . . . ”

My voice trailed off and I recoiled, guarding myself against the possibility that Rosemary would call me deranged. Instead, she ushered me into her kitchen and began scooping heaping teaspoons of ground coffee into her drip coffeepot. She nodded supportively for me to continue and plugged the little machine into the wall. It gurgled loudly awake.

“Go on.”

“I keep getting these
messages
,” I chose the word carefully, fearing “phone calls” might sound more delirious. “It seems that she wants to tell me a story about my grandfather.”

“Uh-huh.”

I waited for her to explain it to me. I waited for her to tell me she already knew, that she was in on the secret. Instead, she leaned back on the kitchen counter as if she was waiting for
me
to explain it to
her
. I threw up my hands.

“Well, what does it mean? You're the psychic!”

“Louisa, it could mean many things. I can't tell you why you're receiving these messages,” Rosemary replied sympathetically. I could tell she wanted to help more but couldn't. But at least it seemed as if she believed me.

“Could you maybe give me the top three possibilities?”

Rosemary smiled, but she looked powerless. She hopped up and sat on the laminate ledge, bouncing her heels on the cabinet doors.

“Well,” she sighed, “do you think you're the only one in the house receiving the messages? If so, maybe you should wonder why your Grandmother Eloise picked
you
.”

“I'd bet anything I'm the only one,” I sighed to Rosemary, jumping up and sitting next to her. She paused and took a deep breath.

“It's like the stars,” she began. “After they die—many from collapsing under their own weight—they explode, sending fragments of their fiery cosmic bodies out into space.” Rosemary's eyes opened wide with excitement. When she could tell I wasn't following her, her face grew serious and she continued. “By the time we see the bright explosion, the supernova, here,” she pointed toward the floor, “the star's already been dead for weeks, months, or, sometimes even millions of years. We get these shockwaves of a life that
once
existed, but doesn't exist anymore.

“So maybe that's what you're getting. These messages from Eloise are the vibrations—the echoes—of her life. You're getting a glimpse of what used to be. You're seeing her light.”

“She wants someone to remember,” I whispered to myself.

The realization caught me off guard. I thought about Dad and his relationship with his parents, specifically his father. There was so much I didn't know. And what about Dad? Did he even know his own father? All of Dad's history had been waiting here for him. It waited, knowing he'd one day return. But there had to be more to it. Where did I fit in?

I stared at the knobs on the stove. Dad wouldn't want me interfering with his past. He'd made that clear in just about everything he'd said, everything he'd done. Even if he did admit to getting more sentimental, he certainly wasn't waxing poetic with memory after memory. He's the one, after all, who taught me how to wrap up my feelings beneath layers of brown paper and twine. He kept his emotions buried away—boxes within boxes within boxes. Like endless Russian nesting dolls. I couldn't tell him about the phone or about Grandma. He'd freak. God, why did he make it so hard?

“And one more thing, Lou,” Rosemary reached over and squeezed my hand as the coffee drips sputtered quietly to a halt. “Supernova shockwaves can often form their own, new stars. Light created by light.”

If only she knew how impossible that seemed.