Free The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page A

ushered me into her kitchen and began scooping heaping teaspoons of ground coffee into her drip coffeepot. She nodded supportively for me to continue and plugged the little machine into the wall. It gurgled loudly awake.
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œI keep getting these messages ,” I chose the word carefully, fearing “phone calls” might sound more delirious. “It seems that she wants to tell me a story about my grandfather.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    I waited for her to explain it to me. I waited for her to tell me she already knew, that she was in on the secret. Instead, she leaned back on the kitchen counter as if she was waiting for me to explain it to her . I threw up my hands.
    â€œWell, what does it mean? You’re the psychic!”
    â€œLouisa, it could mean many things. I can’t tell you why you’re receiving these messages,” Rosemary replied sympathetically. I could tell she wanted to help more but couldn’t. But at least it seemed as if she believed me.
    â€œCould you maybe give me the top three possibilities?”
    Rosemary smiled, but she looked powerless. She hopped up and sat on the laminate ledge, bouncing her heels on the cabinet doors.
    â€œWell,” she sighed, “do you think you’re the only one in the house receiving the messages? If so, maybe you should wonder why your Grandmother Eloise picked you .”
    â€œI’d bet anything I’m the only one,” I sighed to Rosemary, jumping up and sitting next to her. She paused and took a deep breath.
    â€œIt’s like the stars,” she began. “After they die—many from collapsing under their own weight—they explode, sending fragments of their fiery cosmic bodies out into space.” Rosemary’s eyes opened wide with excitement. When she could tell I wasn’t following her, her face grew serious and she continued. “By the time we see the bright explosion, the supernova, here,” she pointed toward the floor, “the star’s already been dead for weeks, months, or, sometimes even millions of years. We get these shockwaves of a life that once existed, but doesn’t exist anymore.
    â€œSo maybe that’s what you’re getting. These messages from Eloise are the vibrations—the echoes—of her life. You’re getting a glimpse of what used to be. You’re seeing her light.”
    â€œShe wants someone to remember,” I whispered to myself.
    The realization caught me off guard. I thought about Dad and his relationship with his parents, specifically his father. There was so much I didn’t know. And what about Dad? Did he even know his own father? All of Dad’s history had been waiting here for him. It waited, knowing he’d one day return. But there had to be more to it. Where did I fit in?
    I stared at the knobs on the stove. Dad wouldn’t want me interfering with his past. He’d made that clear in just about everything he’d said, everything he’d done. Even if he did admit to getting more sentimental, he certainly wasn’t waxing poetic with memory after memory. He’s the one, after all, who taught me how to wrap up my feelings beneath layers of brown paper and twine. He kept his emotions buried away—boxes within boxes within boxes. Like endless Russian nesting dolls. I couldn’t tell him about the phone or about Grandma. He’d freak. God, why did he make it so hard?
    â€œAnd one more thing, Lou,” Rosemary reached over and squeezed my hand as the coffee drips sputtered quietly to a halt. “Supernova shockwaves can often form their own, new stars. Light created by light.”
    If only she knew how impossible that seemed.

    Later that night, Dad reluctantly cleared boxes and chests, searching for photographs. Searching for evidence of people and lives I never knew. For an hour, we’d been in the cold attic rummaging through stacks of old newspaper and photo albums filled