Chapter 24
“I’m tired of this place,” Ginny grumbled as she stirred the giant pot of chili.
Sweat was beading on her forehead as I mixed a giant bowl of cornbread batter on the table next to her.
Her arm was working overtime to get to the bottom of the pot and stir the chili thoroughly.
The heat coming off of the oven would have been welcome if you’d just come into the diner.
It was turning out to be a chilly day—perfect for what we had on the menu at The Lunch Counter.
However, being trapped in the diner with the heat and steam for longer than a few minutes was oppressive.
I hadn’t started sweating yet, but I knew it was the inevitable conclusion.
“Can’t we do something about the heat in here?” Ginny finished stirring the pot and waved a hand in front of her like a hummingbird’s wings.
“That’s these old buildings in town for you,” I sighed, continuing to mix the batter. “They were made to keep heat in. We can turn the central lower if you want?”
Not waiting for clearer permission, Ginny dashed over to the thermostat and turned the heat down to sixty degrees.
Of course, I knew that it would do no good.
That’s not how central heat works—it only comes on if the temperate in a building falls lower than what is specified.
Unless we opened the front door, there was no chance of cooling things off.
Not until we stopped cooking and the stove was shut off.
“Go open the door and let a bit of cold air in,” I suggested.
Ginny agreed with a firm nod and rounded the counter to do as instructed.
As soon as she opened the front door, an arctic blast of cold air blew through the front room of the diner.
Immediate relief flooded me as the cold air caused a shiver to run up my back.
Ginny stuck her head outside and breathed deeply, a satisfied groan emanating from her throat.
After a minute of this pose, she fanned the door a few times. Gusts of air gushed into the diner, and finally, Ginny let go of the door, letting it glide shut gently. We both smiled at each other now that the diner felt like it was a reasonable temperature.
As Ginny returned to the counter and sat down on one of the stools, I began to pour the cornbread batter into greased muffin tins.
Once all of the tins were prepared, I quickly opened the oven and shoved them all in, one by one, as rapidly as I could without tipping them out.
Then I slammed the oven shut and groaned.
“How is it so cold outside and so hot in here?” Ginny lamented. “I mean, I know, I know, the building traps in heat, but you’d think some would get out. Or some cold would get in. But, Si, this is ridiculous.”
“Well,” I said, “if I had money, I’d pay a contractor to come check things out and see if there’s a ventilation problem or something we could do, but we’re not rolling in the dough here.”
My partner gave me a sympathetic look.
“I know there’s nothing you can do about it, buddy,” she said, reassuring me. “I’ll be happy when winter comes, anyway.”
“For sure,” I said. “They’re predicting a bad one this year.”
She rolled her eyes and laid her head on her hands on the counter.
“Can’t win, can you?” I chuckled.
Mumbling some response into her hands that I couldn’t quite catch, I simply laughed at her.
I gave my hands a quick, yet thorough, wash in the sink next to the table and dried them on the kitchen towel stuck into the tie of my apron.
I removed the apron and towel and laid them on the counter next to Ginny’s head, causing her to look up.
“Is it that late already?” She sat up to look at the clock on the wall.
“Time to swindle my best customer,” I said.
“Are you admitting something, or taking a jab at me?” Ginny put her hands on her hips and waggled her head.
We both laughed.
“I get money, she doesn’t get to talk to her husband,” I said with a shrug. “It’s a swindle even if it’s not my fault.”
Ginny grinned. “Fair enough.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I replied. “Unless we get the shock of our lives and Harlan decides to make an appearance for once.”
“You’ll be back in an hour,” Ginny said in a sing-song voice as I rounded the corner and walked past her.
She spun on the stool to watch me as I retrieved my coat and scarf from the coat tree by the front door.
Though she said nothing as I put the scarf around my neck and shrugged on my coat, I knew something was on her mind.
My best friend and partner in culinary crimes was never silent.
Typically, whatever was on her mind fell out of her mouth like a watermelon from a skyscraper.
“What is it?” I asked. “I can tell you want to say something.”
Chewing at her lip, Ginny said, “I know I’ve only worked here for a year, and I haven’t known you much longer than that.”
“Yeah?” I rested my hand on the doorhandle.
“Everyone said you could talk to the dead,” Ginny continued, “before I even started here. I mean, everyone knows. At least, they talk about it.”
“People do love to talk,” I said. “But since I run an online business, it’s not like it’s a secret.”
Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, as if steeling up courage.
“You really can talk to ghosts, right?” she blurted out. “You’re not a swindler?”
“Want me to summon one of your dead relatives?” I asked, blandly.
Ginny blinked at me.
“Would that make you feel better about me as a person?”
“I don’t think—”
“Everyone thinks it,” I said with a shrug. “I’m not hurt that you might think it, too.”
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Ginny said. “But even the best people aren’t perfect.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” I chuckled.
Ginny cocked an eyebrow at me. With a sigh, I squeezed the doorhandle and considered my options.
“If you ever feel that you can’t trust me, and you really need proof,” I said slowly, “I will summon someone for you.”
“I—”
“Free of charge,” I said. “If that’s what you really need to trust me.”
Ginny’s cheeks grew red.
“If that’s what you need to keep working here,” I added.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ginny replied quickly. “I wasn’t trying to say—”
I waved her off.
“You’re not the first friend to doubt me,” I said. “I’m used to it. I’ll be back in an hour.”
With that, I pulled the door open and slipped out. With the door struggling to slide shut behind from the force of the wind, I pulled my coat more tightly around myself. Plowing into the force of the wind, I took off on my near daily walk to Rhonda’s house.
As I made my way down the block, though the walk was short, I realized I had an unfortunate amount of time to consider what had happened.
Over the course of my life—at least the part where I’d learned I could see and talk to ghosts—I’d had plenty of similar interactions.
Not only with strangers, but with the people closest to me.
Many of those people were no longer close to me.
When someone who knows you finds out that you claim you can talk to ghosts, particular things happen. At first, everyone falls into one of two categories. They are excited, or they wonder what medication you should be on. Most people fall in the medication column.
Which isn’t an unreasonable place to go with your thoughts when someone mentions talking to ghosts.
Certain antipsychotics, anxiolytics, and even some antidepressants can suppress whatever part of the brain it is that allows a medium to see and hear dead people.
It doesn’t mean that we are schizophrenic, anxious, or depressed—though a lot of mediums have mental health problems, for obvious reasons—but they can partially work to turn off the ghosts.
Because the parts of the brain they affect that cause mental health issues also control one’s ability to be a medium.
There have been near to nil studies about this.
The reason for this is that modern science has no interest in believing that mediums are real.
Believing us would be the very first step in getting actual, real scientific studies done on our brains.
Not that I’d volunteer for one.
In the other column—the excited people—are the ones who love ghost stories and horror and are often highly religious, spiritual, or into nature worship. Like Wiccans. Or vegans and people who love to take ten-mile nature hikes on the weekend instead of binging a streaming show.
You know, weirdos.
There can also be a third column—the outliers.
Those who are skeptical, but are educated and intelligent enough to understand that without proof, they can neither believe or disbelieve something they haven’t experienced.
They often treat mediums with polite distance or simply don’t mention the medium’s abilities when dealing with them on a personal level.
That’s fine by me. If you are skeptical and don’t want to talk about it, I’ll ignore your dead relative screaming in my ear to pass along a message to you.
I never force belief or messages on anyone who doesn’t want them.
Or isn’t ready to receive them. Because many people want messages, but if I know for certain it’s not the right time to be delivered, I will use my own judgment.
I don’t feel bad for reserving the right to pass along messages or summon someone.
It’s not the ghost or the person they have a connection with that will suffer if things go south.
The medium is the one who will be vilified, ridiculed, or even face violence.
Beyond that, some messages, from my experience, can cause more problems than they solve.
Sometimes it’s better not knowing some things.
Regardless of which column a person falls into, over time, the skepticism creeps into everyone’s cracks.
Even your most ardent supporters begin to side eye and whisper about you.
Unless they see constant proof that you commune with the dead, or feel that every message you pass along is perfect, they will begin to doubt you.