How can an old lady just vanish in her own hometown? And why? Police ask a reclusive psychic and her reformed young assistant to unearth clues through visions and investigation. They must ask themselves what in the woman's past needed silencing...
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As JC entered the hospital in the fading light, she wished her mother was with her. What if her father was still here? She tapped the elevator button and rode up to the sounds of Billy Talent in her ears. The bus had been jammed with zombies rushing home from work. Impatience in the air. She tried to float on her music, breathe and ignore the jostling.
As she entered her Gramma's room, she ran smack into the Blimp's vacant stare from the side chair. Her half-sister's smudged lashes flicked up and down then her eyes escaped back to the glossy mag-pages littered with glamorous people in false merriment. JC shirked off the bedraggled preteen and headed for her Gramma's bed. She pulled her earbuds just letting them dangle.
"How was supper?" she asked, taking her grandmother's papery hand. The old woman's eyes skittered, then lock on hers. She nodded. At least JC thought she nodded. She glanced at the discarded tray. Near empty bowl. Congealed soup and cold tea.
"Jello?" JC kept her tone soothing to ease the anxiety in her Gramma's eyes. What must be going on in her head?
"Yeah. They came and tried to shovel that shit down her throat," said the Blimp, not looking up, flipping pages.
Crap, thought JC. This is not part of the deal, Mom. If she's here, Twiggy and Squirrel-boy can't be far. Or her father. Argh...
"It's gonna be okay," JC said as she stroked her grandmother's hand. "Here." She nudged the MP3 buttons to an instrumental track and held one earbud up to Gramma's ear. She plunked her butt on the rumpled sheets. The old eyes mellowed. JC nodded, then brought her cheek down to her grandmother's chest. She paused there for a moment remembering the times they'd taken all the ingredients out of Gramma's cupboards to make Jumbalies, a kitchen-sink-cookie. How they'd once put the wrong soap in the dishwasher and bubbles poured out the vent all over the kitchen floor. They'd scooped them up with the dustpan. How Gramma always smelled like bar soap and Nivea handcream. Not now, thought JC.
Voices approached. JC lifted her head. The Blimp tugged at her sausage-clothes. Pink doesn't make fat more attractive. And her arms jiggle. Like pale Jello. JC shuddered. Twiggy sauntered into the room, her hand on Squirrel-boy's scrawny shoulder. The boy was chattering about some elaborate X-men plot. JC read the annoyance on Twiggy's features. She's pouting. She was plying her auburn hair behind one perfect ear.
"Time to go," Twiggy said to her daughter. "Your father's got the car running..." The Blimp let out a heavy sigh. As she rose from the chair her legs stuck to the vinyl seat with a sucking sound. Twiggy spun on her stilettos and sashayed out. The Blimp's eyes met JC's and for just a moment JC read boredom, surliness and a pleading look. Whoa, what's this? JC felt a strange sensation well up in her chest. Am I feeling sorry for this walking-disaster?
Squirrel-boy danced up behind his sister and gave her butt a sidelong thump. "Loser!"The girl stumbled forward and caught herself on the doorframe. As her brother sequed around her, JC watched her cuff the back of his head raising murky blonde straggles in lopsided clumps. "Dumb-ass!"He snarled and raced to his mother with whining complaints. Bet she'd love to be an only child like me, thought JC.
