The Number 7 Read online

“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. Astronomers study what, where, and how the stars and planets are, whereas astrologers 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?”

  XI.

  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 ho
use 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.

  Later that night, Dad reluctantly cleared boxes and chests, searching for photographs. Searching for evidence of people and lives I never knew. For an hour, we’d been in the cold attic rummaging through stacks of old newspaper and photo albums filled with nothing but pictures of deserts, mountains, and open sky—the latter of which I bewilderingly held up for Dad to see. I’d kept my eye on the desk the entire time, but it stayed quiet. The phone sat dead.

  “Sorry, kiddo. I know you’re frustrated,” he said, blowing some dust off an old picture frame. “Here’s a picture of me!” He held up an eight-by-ten of a baby boy in a red wagon.

  “At last! A picture of a real human being!” I made my way over to him. “Dad, you’re adorable, but I wanted to find pictures of Grandma and Grandpa. How is it that you’ve never shown us any? That painting down in the foyer is the first I’ve ever seen of Grandma. Do you realize how weird that is?”

  It was a low blow, even I’ll admit it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad drop his shoulders in shame. I attempted some damage control.

  “I just want to know what my grandparents looked like. That’s all. Living in this house, I kind of sense them around. And I feel bad not knowing more about them—and what happened to them.” I shouldn’t have asked for his help. He didn’t want to help. He didn’t want to dig up old memories. I was infringing on Pandora’s territory, I could tell.

  “What do you mean what happened to them? They died.”

  “Forget it,” I shrugged. The old reliable shrug. Just like the deficients, I could rely on the shrug to get me out of a lot of unpleasant conversations.

  And then Dad did something unexpected. He shut the box, sat back against part of the scaffolding, and relaxed his shoulders.

  “Okay,” he whispered. He was finally ready. “Your grandfather was stoic, almost somber. It was his way. It was the Swede’s way. He was a man of few words. He always tried to teach me to be like him, but I wasn’t. I was loud and energetic, and I liked to express my opinion and debate. I think he saw my outspoken nature as a personal failure. He couldn’t ever rein me in. He and I didn’t have the relationship the three of us do . . . ” Dad’s voice trailed off. He was struggling with the story. How much to tell? Where to start? “He died after we’d grown apart. You were eight—too young for a funeral.”

  The irony! Three years later and I’d be sitting in a cold church staring down an urn of ashes. Staring at what was left of my mom.

  “You’ve got some of his best qualities, I think,” Dad said, shifting the conversation, looking over at me. “You’re a good listener, and you think before you act, Louisa. I’ve always admired that about you. Look at me? I’m a spontaneous, impulsive wreck. That’s why we’re here and not in North Carolina, right?”

  “I always thought I was like you,” I whispered. How much did he know about Grandpa? Did he know he was a murderer?

  “When I left for Lehigh, I saw it as an escape from my life here. Not that my life here was that bad, but I just always felt . . . contained. I never felt I was able to be a kid. Dad wanted me to grow up. He tried harnessing my energy with long walks through the forest. He’d write me letters warning me about the danger of zeal and leave them for me in my room. He’d reiterate the virtues of patience and solitude. It was as if he didn’t know how to talk to me. ‘The day we fear hastens toward us, the day we long for creeps,’ he’d write. But he’d never tell me about those things he feared or those he longed for. It didn’t seem like he had any passions; there was just always this very serious man who never smiled, never laughed. I didn’t want that life. I asked Mom about it, but she’d just shrug her shoulders and tell me that one day I’d maybe understand. ‘You remind him of a different life,’ she’d say. But I didn’t get it, and her answers were good enough for me. So after I left, I was hesitant to come back. I didn’t want to get trapped back here. Maybe you’ll know what I mean in a couple years. Those first couple years of freedom are irreplaceable.”

  “But I don’t feel trapped,” I protested.

  “I know, and I’m glad. But at some point you’re going to take off . . . see the world, spread your wings, all that Dr. Seuss stuff. Greta’s about to do it. Hopefully you’ll come back more often than I did. But you’re both different than I was.” He gazed at the boxes in front of him. I could tell this conversation was difficult for him. But he knew he needed to tell it. He knew I needed to know.

  Dad took a deep breath before continuing. “One weekend I came home to visit. Dad and I took one of our walks through the woods; he was quiet, as usual, but this time, I could tell something weighed on him. He almost seemed incapable of speaking. Many times he’d inhale deeply, as if about to say something, but then he’d just let it go. Finally, he stopped walking, turned to me, and asked, ‘Christian, what’s the difference between the coward and the hero?’ The question shocked me—it was as if this was some ideological test he’d been meaning to administer for a long time. I studied his face, searching for the answer. But there was nothing. What did he want me to say? His face was blank. It just stared back at me, and it almost felt as if his eyes were studying me, or looking at me for the first time. I don’t know. I can’t explain it the right way. It was as if he was surprised to see me standing there in front of him and not someone else.”

  “What did you say?” I asked, eager for Dad to continue.

  “We stood in silence for minutes—five, maybe ten?—until finally I realized what I wanted to say. All of my resentment and anger I felt toward him for never accepting me for who I was and for always making me feel like I was a disappointment, all of it came boiling to the surface. And I allowed myself to tell him what I really thought.”

  “What did you say?” I repeated.

  “I told him that he was the coward and I the hero,” Dad swallowed har
d, closed his eyes, and tilted his face back toward the ceiling.

  “What did he do?” My impatience betrayed me. The words came rushing out, interrupting Dad’s memory.

  “That’s the thing. He hugged me and told me I was right. He said I’d always been right, asked me to forgive him, and then he turned and walked away. One week later he had his stroke. God intervened and took away my dad forever.”

  “But I thought you said he died when I was eight?”

  “He had his stroke when he was sixty, but it took sixteen years before he actually died. That’s when you were eight. After the stroke, his body and mind buckled like a paper fan. Looking at him, you’d think he was closer to eighty. Mom said his mind was still there, but you’d never know it. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t walk, couldn’t communicate in any way. I just thought it was her way of reassuring herself that not all of him was gone.

  “It’s the most selfish decision I ever made, but after the stroke I decided to leave. I was scared and young and stupid. But I was also mad. I never had the dad I thought I deserved, the dad who loved me for me. So I moved to North Carolina, married your mother in a courthouse, rented a nice little apartment, and then she got pregnant with Greta. I finished grad school, accepted a job teaching, and the rest is history.

  “I finally reached out and invited them to come and visit when Greta was born, and then again when you were born, but Mom never forgave me for leaving. She accused me of abandoning Dad and said there was much I didn’t understand. Needless to say, they didn’t come. Eventually, I gave up trying to make amends for leaving. It was too hard. I felt too ashamed. My last phone call home was on the night your mother died, but I got the machine. And for whatever reason, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. And I vowed at that moment to stop trying to bridge my new life with my old. Because here’s the thing: when given the opportunity, I ran. I ran away from home at twenty-one years of age. But I’ve often thought about what would have happened if Mom had been there to answer that last call . . .”