“Not like you. Her hair was black. And she wasn’t old.”

Daniel couldn’t help smiling. “Your mother is young, little rabbit. And beautiful.”

Jenny nodded her thanks.

“She looked like you and me,” Waaboo said to his father.

“Ojibwe,” Daniel said. “Did she say anything?”

“Only that she was lost, too. She wanted us to find her. And she wanted to walk the Path of Souls. She said the other spirit did, too.”

“Other spirit?” Daniel sat on the bed beside his son. “What other spirit?”

Waaboo shrugged.

That day wasn’t the first time Waaboo had seen things others could not. In that way he was like Stephen, who’d had visions all his life. Daniel English was full-blood Anishinaabe. That some people were given visions was a truth he accepted easily. He himself had never had what he identified as visions. And before he married Jenny and settled in Aurora, he’d never known another person who claimed to have had them. But he knew about Stephen’s visions, and those of the old Mide Henry Meloux as well. And now little Waaboo. Stephen, when he talked about his own ability, spoke as if it was a burden, an onerous responsibility, one that, if he could, he would gladly relinquish. “But,” he would always say, “these things are up to the Creator.”

Waaboo saw dead people. And Daniel couldn’t help wondering what in the hell the Creator was thinking, saddling a child with a thing like that.

“Were you afraid?” Jenny asked.

Waaboo shook his head. “I just felt bad for her. Her eyes looked hurt, like she was staring at the sun.”

Jenny glanced at Daniel for an explanation.

Because he didn’t want to go into gruesome details, he said simply, “May point to cause of death.” Then he asked Waaboo, “Was she afraid?”

Again the boy shook his head. “She was just lost. I told her we would find her. Well, I told her that Daddy would. It’s what he does.”

Daniel had a thought and took out his cell phone. He tapped on the photo app, scrolled through the pictures, found the photo he was looking for, and held it out for his son to see.

“Was that the woman you saw in the blueberry patch?”

Waaboo looked at the photograph, then shook his head.

Jenny turned the phone so that she could see the photo as well. “Crystal?”

Daniel nodded. “Worth a try. But maybe she’s the other spirit.”

That night as he lay in bed beside Rainy, Cork stared up at the dark ceiling. A light breeze came through the window, cooler than anything that had blown across Tamarack County all day.

“Trouble sleeping?” Rainy finally asked.

“A lot on my mind.”

“Thinking about Waaboo and his vision?”

“Thinking how hard it’s been on Stephen all his life. I know he’s talked to Waaboo, and maybe that’s helped some, but I can’t help wondering why God settles this kind of burden on any child’s shoulders.”

“Maybe Uncle Henry could offer some insight,” Rainy suggested. “Maybe he should talk to Waaboo.”

Cork liked the idea. “Couldn’t hurt. And Henry might be able to help him understand more about the vision, everything that passed between him and the spirit he saw. Waaboo said she was Native. If that’s true, then it’s not Olivia Hamilton in that grave. Maybe there’s more to Waaboo’s vision that might help us understand who she is.”

“So, anything else troubling you?”

Cork hesitated, then confessed, “Annie.”

“It’s good to have her home, even if it’s just for a little while, for the wedding. And Maria’s such a nice surprise.”

Cork made a sound in his throat that was meant to convey his agreement, but it came out as more of a growl.

“What?”

“It’s clear they’re a couple, so why doesn’t she just say that? Does she think we won’t understand or accept?”

“I’m sure she has her reasons. Is that really what’s troubling you?”

“I get the feeling she’s not really here. Not that she doesn’t want to be here, but there’s something holding her back.”

“Any ideas?”

He shook his head, even though in the dark it was a gesture Rainy couldn’t see. After another long period of silence, he said, “She feels haunted to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like something’s happened that she can’t let go of. Maybe something in Guatemala.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, maybe it’s so awful she can’t share it.”

“You could always ask her.”

“I’d rather she tell me in her own time and in her own way.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

Cork wished he were certain what that was. But like so much in his life, past and present, he was just stumbling along, worrying, hoping, praying that somehow in the end, in the darkness of all his self-doubt and concern, a light would shine and illuminate the right path.

Annie couldn’t sleep either. She and Maria had been given the attic room. When Annie was growing up, this had been the bedroom of Aunt Rose, her mother’s sister. Aunt Rose had helped raise all the O’Connor children, then had fallen in love, married, and gone off to begin a family of her own.

Annie stood at the attic window, staring at the elm in the front yard, which was dimly illuminated by a streetlamp. That tree, like so much about the house on Gooseberry Lane, was woven into all her memories. The night before, while Maria slept, Annie had stood at the edge of the island, staring across the dark water of Iron Lake at the distant lights of town, knowing that she should feel pleasure in coming home but feeling instead apprehension. Could they understand? Could they accept?

She’d almost told Jenny the truth that day. They’d finally had a moment alone, sitting on the front porch swing, and despite the dramatic events of the morning, they’d shared memories in the way of sisters.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Jenny had said. “But I’m proud of what you’re doing in Guatemala, what you’ve become. I always thought you’d be the first woman to pitch for the Twins. Instead, you’ve become our own Mother Teresa.”

“Give me a break, I’m no saint.”