claimed to communicate directly with saints, but I had heard of guardian angels. Even though I knew I should question her more, explore her beliefs, I didn’t. With emotions raw from the event at the bookstore, this strange woman served as a soothing balm to my ego.
“So try me out, Mr. Christian. See if I can help you.”
I realized I had never told her my name. “Sorry, I’m Bill Iver.”
“Glad to meet you, Bill. I’m Barbara Thompson. So Bill, why are you chasing little boys in book stores?”
I told Barbara the story, just like I had told Betsy. Now two people in Ohio knew the details of my trip to South Carolina. Barbara was a good listener, asked a few questions, but mostly listened.
“So I came home to try to figure out what it all means. What exactly did I see in the attic?”
“And have you figured it out?”
I threw my hands into the air. “Not a clue. I thought the memory would fade when I got home, but it hasn’t. Hardly an hour goes by that I don’t think about those boys.”
“So that’s the real issue. You want to know who the boys were in life, and why they are lingering.”
“If you could have seen Jimmy, or what I’m assuming was Jimmy. He was chained like an animal.”
I looked toward the wall, the memory replaying in my mind. Shaking my head, I turn back to Barbara. “The kid was scared to death, and I don’t blame him when the other boy was hovering over him like a bully.” Words exploded out of my mouth like bullets from a machine gun. “Now I find out this menacing kid has some connection to my family. His picture’s hanging on my sister’s wall, like he’s some loved ancestor or something!”
Barbara took a slow sip of coffee. “How do you know the one boy was frightened?”
“I could tell.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you’re psychic too.”
“No way.” I pushed myself away from the table. “You can keep the spooky stuff. Just give me a hammer and some nails - sturdy, predictable things.”
“Many people have psychic abilities that lay dormant until God needs them. God may need you, Bill Iver.”
“Why would God need me?” This sounded too much like my conversation with Betsy, God being personal and all. I still didn’t accept it. God put the laws into place and gives us free will on how to run our lives.
Barbara looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Steam swirled over her eyes, making her all the more mysterious. “For a start,” she said, putting her cup back on the table, “ God may want to you to bring out in the open what happened to this little Jimmy, reveal the unfinished business that is keeping him from moving on.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe in coincidences; God put me in your path to help you.”
I stared at Barbara, unashamed at my familiarity. The tension I had been feeling since meeting her slipped to my feet, like a discarded robe. For a brief second I wondered if my coffee had been drugged. I had not felt this relaxed with a stranger in a very long time.
The jangling in my head continued. I pushed it away. So she’s a psychic. What she says makes sense. And she is a Christian… “Say you’re right. How can you help me?”
“I can help you get in touch with Jimmy. He can tell us who the boy is who’s with him, and why they’re lingering in your daughter’s attic.”
“You think Jimmy’s a ghost?”
“Not a ghost, a displaced spirit. And he has chosen you to help him.”
“So Jimmy really is dead.” Regardless of what I had told Trina, I, too, had held onto the hope that the boy was somehow alive. Now I knew I wouldn’t find Jimmy Roberts at the bookstore, or anywhere else.
“Dead here,” Barbara murmured, “but not dead. Our spirits live forever.”
I ached for the little boy whose soul lingered. “OK, now what?”
“Let’s contact Jimmy’s spirit. Since he was willing to show himself to you, he obviously wants to talk to you.”
Intrinsically I knew contacting a dead spirit
“So try me out, Mr. Christian. See if I can help you.”
I realized I had never told her my name. “Sorry, I’m Bill Iver.”
“Glad to meet you, Bill. I’m Barbara Thompson. So Bill, why are you chasing little boys in book stores?”
I told Barbara the story, just like I had told Betsy. Now two people in Ohio knew the details of my trip to South Carolina. Barbara was a good listener, asked a few questions, but mostly listened.
“So I came home to try to figure out what it all means. What exactly did I see in the attic?”
“And have you figured it out?”
I threw my hands into the air. “Not a clue. I thought the memory would fade when I got home, but it hasn’t. Hardly an hour goes by that I don’t think about those boys.”
“So that’s the real issue. You want to know who the boys were in life, and why they are lingering.”
“If you could have seen Jimmy, or what I’m assuming was Jimmy. He was chained like an animal.”
I looked toward the wall, the memory replaying in my mind. Shaking my head, I turn back to Barbara. “The kid was scared to death, and I don’t blame him when the other boy was hovering over him like a bully.” Words exploded out of my mouth like bullets from a machine gun. “Now I find out this menacing kid has some connection to my family. His picture’s hanging on my sister’s wall, like he’s some loved ancestor or something!”
Barbara took a slow sip of coffee. “How do you know the one boy was frightened?”
“I could tell.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you’re psychic too.”
“No way.” I pushed myself away from the table. “You can keep the spooky stuff. Just give me a hammer and some nails - sturdy, predictable things.”
“Many people have psychic abilities that lay dormant until God needs them. God may need you, Bill Iver.”
“Why would God need me?” This sounded too much like my conversation with Betsy, God being personal and all. I still didn’t accept it. God put the laws into place and gives us free will on how to run our lives.
Barbara looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Steam swirled over her eyes, making her all the more mysterious. “For a start,” she said, putting her cup back on the table, “ God may want to you to bring out in the open what happened to this little Jimmy, reveal the unfinished business that is keeping him from moving on.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe in coincidences; God put me in your path to help you.”
I stared at Barbara, unashamed at my familiarity. The tension I had been feeling since meeting her slipped to my feet, like a discarded robe. For a brief second I wondered if my coffee had been drugged. I had not felt this relaxed with a stranger in a very long time.
The jangling in my head continued. I pushed it away. So she’s a psychic. What she says makes sense. And she is a Christian… “Say you’re right. How can you help me?”
“I can help you get in touch with Jimmy. He can tell us who the boy is who’s with him, and why they’re lingering in your daughter’s attic.”
“You think Jimmy’s a ghost?”
“Not a ghost, a displaced spirit. And he has chosen you to help him.”
“So Jimmy really is dead.” Regardless of what I had told Trina, I, too, had held onto the hope that the boy was somehow alive. Now I knew I wouldn’t find Jimmy Roberts at the bookstore, or anywhere else.
“Dead here,” Barbara murmured, “but not dead. Our spirits live forever.”
I ached for the little boy whose soul lingered. “OK, now what?”
“Let’s contact Jimmy’s spirit. Since he was willing to show himself to you, he obviously wants to talk to you.”
Intrinsically I knew contacting a dead spirit
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