Free The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh

been born on my mother’s twenty-eighth birthday, March first. How did she know?
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œGo on,” I swallowed.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œLouisa,” 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.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I wiped away the tears.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWell . . . 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