A Spirited Gift

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“I’m nervous.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just hold my hands and close your eyes.”

I did as my friend Shayla Lily said. We were seated at an old rosewood table that had once served as a spot where Thomas Jefferson ate breakfast and attended to his morning business. In the candlelight, the aged patina glowed, making shadows and depth in the wood.

“I can’t help it,” I said, even though I knew I was supposed to be quiet. “It’s been a year.”

“It’s just like riding a horse, sweetie. Except you’re on back this time and I have the reins.” Shayla tossed her rich black hair and took a deep breath. “Are you ready now?”

I wasn’t really sure if I was. It had become ritual for Shayla and me to meet on my mother’s birthday, October 15. Shayla was a medium who’d lived in Duck for the last few years. Contacting my dead mother was what had brought us together originally. Now we were friends—even though our personalities were very different.

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