“But he’s alive! He can talk to me anytime he wants!”

Afterward I cornered Leisl. “Why would I be getting messages from my nephew who’s still alive? Or my horrible granny? And not from Aidan?”

“I can’t answer that, Anna.” Her eyes, underneath her frizzy fringe, were so kind.

“There isn’t some sort of waiting period after someone has died before they start being channeled, is there?”

“Not that I know of,” she said.

“Have you tried EVP?” Barb growled. “Electronic voice phenomenon?”

“What’s that?”

“Recording the voices of the dead.”

“If this is a joke…”

“Not a joke!” All the others knew about EVP. A flurry of voices said, “That’s a good idea, Anna. You should try it.”

Defensively, I asked, “How do you do it?”

“Just on a regular tape recorder,” Barb said. “Use a new tape. Set it to record, leave the room, come back one hour later, and pick up your messages!”

“You need a quiet room,” Leisl said.

“Hard to find in New York City,” Nicholas said.

“And a positive, cheerful, loving attitude.” Leisl again.

“That’s hard, too.”

“It’s got to be done after sunset on the night of a full moon,” Mackenzie said.

“Preferably during a thunderstorm,” said Nicholas. “Because of the gravitational effect.”

“Nicholas, I’m really in no mood for any of your bonkers beliefs.”

“No.” Several voices insisted, “It’s not one of his bonkers beliefs!”

“What’s a bonkers belief?” I heard Carmela ask.

“There’s actually a scientific basis for this,” Nicholas said. “The dead live in etheric wavelengths which operate at much higher frequencies than ours. So we can hear them on tape when we can’t hear them talking directly to us.”

I asked, “Have you done it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“And your dad spoke to you.”

“Oh, sure. It was kinda hard to hear him, though. You might have to speed the tape up or down a lot when you’re listening back.”

“Yeah, sometimes they speak really fast,” Barb said. “And sometimes they speak sloooow. You’ve got to listen real careful.”

“I’ll e-mail you all the instructions,” Nicholas said.

I asked Mitch, “Have you tried it?”

“No, but only because I spoke to Trish via Neris Hemming.”

“When’s the next full moon?” Mackenzie asked.

“Just missed it,” Nicholas said.

“Aw, too bad!” was the general consensus. “But there’s another in less than four weeks. You can do it then.”

“Okay. Thanks. See you all next week.”

I started walking away, wondering if Mitch would follow.

He caught me up before I reached the lift. “Hey, Anna, do you have to be someplace now?”

“No.”

“Wanna do something?”

“Like what?” I was interested to see what he came up with.

“How about MoMa?”

Why not? I’d lived in New York for three years and I’d never been there.

Being with Mitch had many of the advantages of being alone—like not having to keep smiling in case he felt uncomfortable with my real face—but without the actual aloneness. Speedily, we moved from painting to painting and we barely spoke. At times we were even in different rooms, but were linked by an invisible thread.

When we’d seen everything, Mitch checked his watch.

“Look at that!” He sounded pleased and almost smiled. “That took two hours. The day is nearly done. Have a good week, Anna. See you next Sunday.”

Anna, pick up the phone. I know you’re in there. I’m outside and I need to talk to you.”

It was Jacqui. I grabbed the phone. “What’s up?”

“Let me in.”

I buzzed the door and heard her pounding up the stairs. Seconds later she burst in, a tangle of limbs, her face distraught.

“Has someone died?” That was always my worry now.

That stopped her in her tracks. “Um, no.” Her face changed. “No, this is just…ordinary…stuff.”

Suddenly she resented me. Whatever was going on, it was huge for her and I’d reduced it to something shallow because my husband had died and no one could top that.

“Sorry, Jacqui, sorry, come and sit—”

“No, I’m sorry, scaring you like that—”

“All right, we’re both sorry, so tell me what’s up.”

She sat on the couch, leaning forward, her forearms on her thighs, her knees neatly together. She looked exactly like the Pixar lamp. If she’d started bunny-hopping around the room, even her mother would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart.

She stared into the middle distance, locked into silence for quite some time.

Eventually she spoke. One word. “Joey.”

Well, at least now I could tell Mum.

“Or as I call him,” she said, “Narky Joey.” She sighed heavily. “I was over in his apartment just now.”

“What were you doing?!”

“Playing Scrabble.”

Sunday-afternoon Scrabble playing! I felt a slight sting at my exclusion. But who could blame them? They were blue in the face from inviting me and getting turned down.

“I wasn’t even looking at him, but out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly thought he looked like…looked like…” She paused, took a shuddery, tearful breath, and burst out, “Jon Bon Jovi!”

In shame, she buried her face in her hands.

“You’re okay,” I said gently. “Carry on. Jon Bon Jovi.”

“I know what it means,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen with other women. One minute they say they think he looks a bit like Jon Bon Jovi, that they’d never noticed it before, the next thing they fancy him. And I don’t want to fancy him, I think he’s a fool. And not even nice, you know? Narky.”

“You don’t have to fancy him. Just decide not to.”

“Is it that simple?”

“Yes!”

Well, maybe.