Haunting Joy: The Complete Series (Books 1 & 2 and Chain Reaction): Haunting Joy, #4

By Lena Goldfinch

"A sweet and charming ghost story that completely won me over." (Lena Coakley, Witchlanders)

This complete series edition includes Haunting Joy Books 1 & 2, and Chain Reaction, a short story.

Book 1
The ghost of Beth sweeps seventeen-year-old Joy into an extraordinary journey to complete some unfinished business...and challenges her to make some dangerous choices. Like calling Joy's high-school crush, Nick, for help.

A soft, sliding kind of sigh wakes me up. It's hardly a noise at all.

I blink to clear my sticky, early-morning vision. I know I heard a sound, an almost human-sounding sigh, coming from the corner of my room. As I slide my gaze that way, a chill slithers over me. My room feels creepy and strange.

I peer into the corner and the white dress is no longer heaped in a haphazard pile on my armchair. It's laid out nice and neat, with the straps up over the back cushion and the skirt spread over the seat. The flip-flops are sitting side by side in front of the chair, toes pointed toward me.

Like there's an empty girl, in an empty dress, looking right at me.

Book 2
I step out of the shower into my steamy bathroom. Then I see it. I whip a towel around me so fast I almost wipe out on the tile floor. Because apparently I'm being haunted again...

By a boy who scrawled KYLE across my bathroom mirror with his ghostly finger.

Joy's new ghost, Kyle, crashes into her life, disrupting her senior year...and complicating her relationship with Nick. Which is already complicated enough.

Haunting Joy: The Complete Series is part slightly spooky ghost story and part sweet romance wrapped in one. For teens and young adults.

"A sweet, creative, mystical journey..." (Marley Gibson, bestselling author of the Ghost Huntress series)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Six Sundance
• Release date: Oct 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386038887

Lena Goldfinch

LENA GOLDFINCH writes heartwarming romance and romantic fantasy for adults and teens. She's a sucker for a good old-fashioned romance, whether it's a novel, novella, or short story, young adult or adult, fantasy or realistic, contemporary or historical. Elements of romance, fantasy, and mystery have a way of creeping into her writing, whether she's writing historicals or something light and contemporary. Her works include: * THE UNEXPECTED BRIDE (Sweet Historical Romance) -- Coming October 6, 2014, Now Available for Pre-Order! * THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS * AIRE * SONGSTONE * HAUNTING JOY * TAKE A PICTURE: A Novella * CHAIN REACTION: A Short Story (Prequel to HAUNTING JOY) Future works: HAUNTING MELODY (HAUNTING JOY : Part 2) "Danger, magic, romance, and royal intrigue, AIRE is a must read!" --NYT Bestselling Author JESSICA ANDERSEN "Looking for something fresh and new to read? Try Lena Goldfinch's AIRE." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "SONGSTONE sings with characters who come to life, a story full of magic, heart and adventure, and a world that lets you smell the sea air and feel the tropical sun on your back." --LISA GAIL GREEN, author of The Binding Stone "SONGSTONE...an original fantasy world inhabited by superstitious tribal nations and intriguingly developed characters." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS...the perfect tiny romantic escape." --Tales of Whimsy Twitter: @lena_goldfinch FB: https://www.facebook.com/lenagoldfinch Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/lenagoldfinch Website: http://www.LenaGoldfinch.com

Book preview

Haunting Joy

Haunting Joy

The Complete Series

Lena Goldfinch

Six Sundance

Contents

Haunting Joy: Book 1

Haunting Joy: Book 2

Chain Reaction

Dear Reader,

Notes

Acknowledgments

Also by Lena Goldfinch

About the Author

Haunting Joy: Book 1

To my mom, Libby, for taking me to thrift stores

and yard sales all my life.

To my dad, Al, for instilling in me

a love of cars & driving.

(I miss you, Dad.)

One

I never believed in ghosts,

until it happened to me.

At the time, it seemed like any other lazy Thursday afternoon in August. If I’d been paying more attention—if I’d known better—maybe I would have sensed an extra crackle of intensity in the air. Or some shivery, extrasensory perception. Something like that. But, as it was, I was completely unaware of any mysterious sensations and wasn’t looking for anything unusual…

I yank open the lid to the cardboard box on my bedroom floor and start sifting through the clothes my gran got me, stuff she’s found at yard sales and thrift stores. The first thing I pull out is a super-soft, oversized gray cotton hoodie. I hold it in front of me. It has that slightly funky, thrift-store smell, the musty scent of old clothes that have been stuffed in a plastic bag and left in an attic for a season or two. I wrinkle my nose, planning to do a heavy-duty wash on anything I decide to keep—with extra fabric softener.

Passable, my friend Emily says, tilting her head to one side. She’s sprawled across my comforter on her stomach, propped on her elbows.

I look in the full-length mirror and wiggle my hips, just to be goofy. Deciding the hoodie’s definitely passable, I throw it on my desk chair, starting a keeper pile.

You want this? I ask, holding up a pair of Arctic Pack jeans, the kind she likes. Emily’s mom shops at the mall and buys all new clothes. And not always on sale. My grandmother would do her la-de-da head shake if I told her that, which is why I never tell her anything about Emily’s family. Anyway, Emily has all sorts of clothes, but she still sometimes likes to get the occasional freebie from my boxes.

Nah, I’m good, she says.

Meaning you’re too lazy to get up, right?

Possibly.

I smile. Normally, I’d feel the same, but school’s right around the corner, and I’m anxious to find a few new outfits. I shimmy out of my baggy track shorts and pull the jeans on. They promptly slide over my hips and down around my ankles. Emily starts giggling uncontrollably, and I grab a T-shirt from the box and toss it at her head.

"Ew, that stinks." She flings it to the floor and pinches her nose.

That’s what you get. I shoot her an evil grin and giggle at the twisty little face she makes back at me. Not even a belt is going to make these jeans work for me, so I kick them off and start my giveaway pile. As I dig through the box some more, a white plastic bag with a red Target bull’s-eye catches my eye, and I pull it out.

What’s that? A bag of old-ladies’ panties? Emily giggles helplessly again and buries her face into her arms.

Ha ha. I joke back, but as I open the bag, I’m like one of those CSI bomb-squad guys defusing a mysterious package. The bag doesn’t weigh much, so it can’t be jeans or sweaters or anything like that. I think it’s a dress, I say as I lift out a tissue-paper-thin bundle of white fabric. I shake it out by the straps and hold it up to my chest.

"Ohhhhh. Emily sits up quick, her eyes now lit with interest. That’s pretty."

Yeah. It is, I say, a little surprised at myself. I don’t wear dresses. It’s kind of my thing. I wear your standard skinny jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers to school. Maybe my good western boots if I’m in the mood. Still, I stare at myself in the mirror and, well, I like it. A dress. Which is just—weird. There’s also a pair of white flip-flops in the bottom of the bag. I pull them out. Something slides out along with them and falls to the floor at my feet—a pink ribbon with a glass heart pendant.

"Ohhhhh, that’s pretty too." Emily reaches for the necklace, but I snatch it up first. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m going to wear anything pink. Ever.

I got it, I say, feeling my face grow hot. I toss it on my dresser like it’s no biggie—and, honestly, it’s not like I’m ever going to wear it. Probably.

Really, Joy? It’s not like I was going to take it. Emily looks at me like I’ve just accused her of stealing or something.

I know. I slip the flip-flops on. They’re a perfect fit. With the dress straps still pressed to my shoulders, I stare at myself in the mirror, sort of stunned at my own image. I pivot left and right, and it swings happily along with me. Warm, welcoming tingles spread all over me. It’s silly maybe, but it feels like this dress is made for me. Like it likes me. A floaty, girly-girl dress with shoulder straps. Not spaghetti-thin straps, but, still, straps.

You know, Emily says, I kind of like that. Maybe I’ll try it on—

She stands up and reaches for the dress, but I jerk away, pinning the fabric to my shoulders.

We both freeze. We’ve always had this sort of Emily-Joy understanding: if Emily ever wants something, I give it to her, because, really, she cares way more about clothes than I do. It’s been this way between us since fifth grade, when we first became friends. It’s never been an issue. Nothing has ever mattered to me before, not until this dress. Now something matters. I want this something for me.

You don’t even wear dresses. Emily plops down on the bed. She crosses her arms over her stomach and frowns. It’s not a mad kind of frown. More like I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out.

I know..., I mumble. That tingly-warm, welcome-home feeling enfolds me again. It’s just...I kinda like this one. That’s all.

By like, I mean suddenly irrationally obsessed with, have to have it, it’s mine and you can’t have it.

Yeah, that. So weird.

Okay, so you like it. She waggles her head, which is her standard if-you-say-so gesture.

Yeah, I guess I do. I smile a little, feeling light and bubbly inside. The girl in the mirror looks like a whole new me. I’m standing a little straighter; even my smile seems more confident.

Well, then, try it on. She swings one tanned leg over the other and bounces her foot up and down, waiting.

I should probably let her have it. It’s funny that it feels like such a big deal, but it’s just that Emily has always been a little more—I don’t know—prettier, smarter, more confident. More everything. For some unknown reason, today, holding this dress, I find myself wanting to be more too. So I strip off my t-shirt and pull the dress on over my sports bra. It floats down around me, deliciously cool and slippery against my skin.

But when I tug it the rest of the way down, something pierces my waist, like a thorn.

Or spider teeth.

I shriek and pull the dress away from me, flapping the fabric around and trying to jerk it up over my head all at the same time.

"What is wrong with you?" Emily hovers nearby, clearly afraid to step in and get elbowed in the face.

"It’s a spider! I think it’s a spider!"

Sometimes you are just so weird, she jokes. Here. Stop moving. She edges in, plucks the fabric away from my waist, and shakes firmly. Something prickly falls through to the ground. I feel it slide down my leg.

What is it? It’s possible I’m squealing. Okay, I’m squealing, full-out. I hate spiders. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Emily starts squealing too. It’s a bee! I think it’s a bee!

I see it then: a yellow and black shell-like thing on the floor.

Kill it! I scramble backward, tripping over the box. I wheel my arms to catch my balance and just barely prevent myself from falling flat on my butt.

"No way, you kill it!"

It hasn’t moved, not even a twitch, so I grab a pencil off my dresser and push at it, poking it experimentally, pretending—pretty bravely I think—that we’re in Biology Lab or something. It’s dead, I say, wilting a little in relief.

You sure? Emily leans in closer, taking a look at it. The thing is curled up like a quotation mark on my hardwood floor.

It’s totally crunchy, I say, not completely reassured myself.

I think it’s been dead a long time.

Oh, good. She squints at it. I hate bees.

Me too, but I think it’s a wasp. Or maybe a yellow jacket.

Same thing, right?

I guess. I scoop it up in a tissue, shiver in disgust, and toss it into the mini trashcan by my door. I look at Emily, and we start laughing, embarrassed at how we totally lost it.

Listen... Emily slips into her sandals and starts backpedaling toward the door. I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll call ya later. Nice dress. It really does look good on you.

Aw, thanks, Em, I say, feeling a glow of friendship as I follow her down to the front door. She’s not mad about the dress after all. Although, after the bee-wasp incident, I have to say my tingly-warm connection to it has faded a bit. I watch Emily hop into her mom’s old white Volvo. She pulls out of the driveway. After pausing to give me an airy wave, she drives off.

As soon as she’s gone, I race back to my room and yank the dress over my head. I throw it toward the armchair in the corner, and it floats down on a soft pillow of air, coming to rest on the seat, a silky white pool of fabric. I kick the flip-flops off too. They land in a jumbled teepee under the chair. I leave them there, leave the opened box of clothes there too. I’m done with trying stuff on.

Friday morning a soft, sliding kind of sigh wakes me up. It’s hardly a noise at all.

I groan—still not knowing any better, still sort of half-asleep—and let my arm flop off the side of the bed.

Must be the dog.

Hey, Blackie boy, I mumble as I roll onto my side, looking in the corner for my black Lab. He makes all sorts of noises. Although...his sighs are usually world-weary, trying-to-be-patient-with-the-humans sighs, not eerie and soft like this one. Was that you? You hungry?

Blackie’s not in the corner.

I blink to clear my sticky, early-morning vision and glance around. Blackie is lying by the foot of my bed, staring over his shoulder at me quizzically, as only a dog can, with eyes that seem inexpressibly old.

I know I heard a sound, an almost human-sounding sigh, and it came from the corner of my room. Inside my room. I’m sure of it. As I slide my gaze back that way, a chill slithers over me. You know, like that moment in the dark when you suddenly think someone—or something—might be in the room with you.

Only, my room’s not dark at all. It’s clear and bright outside. Sunlight is pouring through my skylight. Even so, my room feels creepy and strange now. I peer into the corner, searching for any sign of movement, for anything different, like a mouse or squirrel or something. But the dog would have been all over that, I think, wouldn’t he? The only thing I see is my chair.

Except...the white dress is no longer heaped in a haphazard pile. It’s laid out all nice and neat, with the straps up over the back cushion and the skirt spread out over the seat. The two matching flip-flops are sitting side by side in front of the chair, toes pointed toward me. Like there’s an empty girl sitting there, in an empty dress, with her empty flip-flops, looking right at me.

I sit up quick and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room tilts around me, and the floor’s flying up to meet my face, so I grab the edge of my mattress and take a deep, calming breath. Or try to.

Mom, I yell toward the door.

No answer.

Mom!

I hear her muffled reply.

Did you lay out my new dress? I call to her.

What dress, sweetie?

As if she knows nothing about it.

My heart squeezes into a knot.

Has Dad been in my room? I grip my knees.

...still in Phoenix...business trip...

Oh, yeah. He’s still out of town. I knew that. Not that Dad would ever come in my room and clean up or anything.

Is everything okay? Mom’s voice floats closer. My door creaks as she swings it open. She leans against the frame, cradling a mug of steaming coffee between her hands. Her eyes flick over the dress and then to me. Oh, that’s pretty she says, not waiting for an answer. Did Gran get you that?

Yeah.

And you’re keeping it? She lifts her brows.

I don’t know. I have the weirdest feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not like I’m going to throw up, but like I’m hollow inside. Like that empty dress. I know I didn’t lay it out flat like that. I distinctly remember throwing it onto the chair. In my mind, I see a pool of silky white fabric. The flip-flops weren’t arranged like that either. Arranged. As if someone placed them side by side like that.

But no one’s been in my room.

Two

Before, I didn’t believe in ghosts.

Now I don’t know what to believe.

After my mom leaves, I totally want to throw the dress away. It’s stupid maybe, but it’s freaking me out. I edge over to the chair and snatch the dress up, meaning to stuff it into the Target bag as quick as I can. But as soon as my fingers touch that deliciously cool, silky-smooth fabric, I hesitate. It really is pretty. I think of Gran.... If she ever found out I threw it away, I’d never hear the end of it.

You threw that pretty dress away? Someone could have used that.

I can just see her shaking her head at me—and shaking her index finger too.

She’ll remind me about it the rest of my life.

I turn the dress over in my hands. I didn’t notice before, but there’s a name on the label scrawled with a black Sharpie: Beth L. Like maybe some girl named Beth packed it for summer camp. The bottom of the flip-flops have the same name written on them.

A tingling sensation trails up my arm. Something more paranormal than normal, but not scary at all. There’s one other funny thing: I haven’t washed the dress yet, but it doesn’t smell funky. Thinking back to when I first opened the bag, I realize it hadn’t smelled like a thrift shop yesterday either. I sniff the fabric. A powdery scent wafts up to me, laced with flowers, which I suppose must be this girl Beth’s perfume.

If it’s haunted, at least it smells good.

On some level I know this is the most ridiculous thought I’ve ever had. It just kind of floats in on the air and whispers in my ear. That I’m thinking haunted and it’s not freaking me out registers as a far-off alarm, like in the next town. I should throw it out, I think halfheartedly.

Do you want to be more, Joy?

It’s my own voice in my head, whispering to me. At least I think it’s my voice. Nothing seems quite right at the moment, but I do want it. I want to be different. I want to be more. And you can’t be more by being the same old you. So, the next thing I know I have the dress on again. I slip the flip-flops on too, even though I’m not planning to wear those either.

Blackie lifts his head off the floor and sniffs the air. He looks right at me and lets out a little growl.

Blackie! I say, laughing. He never growls at anything, except maybe the bunnies in his puppy dreams.

He whimpers and lays his nose back on his front paws, looking all guilty.

I laugh again, but the whole thing makes me a bit uneasy. It almost seemed like he was growling at the dress. I fluff the skirt experimentally.

Blackie turns his head away as if the temptation to growl again is just too much for him.

I shrug and wander down the hall to my mom’s office. She’s a freelance accountant something-or-other and works from home.

Mom? I hover by the edge of her desk until she looks up.

Her eyes widen when she sees what I’m wearing. I smooth the dress over my stomach, a little self-conscious with her looking at me.

Look at you... She rolls her office chair away from her computer and looks me over. Don’t you look pretty.

I squirm and stand there like a lump.

Can I borrow the van? I ask. Even though I got my license a few months ago, I’m still nervous about driving alone. I try to look confident.

She chews her lip and asks, Where are you going?

Just up to, you know, Emily’s.

She nods, and I can see her mentally flipping through all the intersections between here and Emily’s house.

It’s not that far and the roads aren’t bad at all, I say.

Yeah, I guess so. She smiles. The keys are in my purse on the kitchen counter.

Okay, thanks. I just keep standing there. On the walk down the hall I’d convinced myself, mostly, that the dress couldn’t be haunted—not really, right? There’s no such thing. Then, as I look down at the recycle bin next to my mom’s desk, I remember the crunchy bee-wasp carcass and wrinkle my nose. I need to empty my trash as soon as possible, but I don’t feel like doing anything right now. It’s been a strange, exhausting morning and I haven’t really done anything yet. Meanwhile, that tingly-warm sensation ripples over me, wrapping me in a friendly hug.

I don’t know what’s real anymore.

Mom must see something in my face, because she says, Come here.

I perch on her lap, then slump sideways until our heads clonk together. We both kind of laugh.

What’s up? She’s comfortably soft and familiar and smoothes my hair down like moms do.

I bite my lip. I could tell her about the sound that woke me up, and the dress being spread out all nice and neat, and how I meant to throw it away, but ended up somehow wearing it, and all of that, but I don’t. I swallow, and the words sink down into my stomach and melt to nothing. They leave me chilled, like winter cold.

Emily liked this dress, I mumble.

She did?

And she wanted it.

Oh... Mom smoothes my hair down again. Did she get mad?

No, it was more like she was...disappointed, I guess. And surprised. I push off her chair and stand up.

"Well, it is your dress. Gran got it for you, not Emily. I’m glad you’re keeping it."

You are?

Yeah. You always give Emily stuff, which is really sweet, but you need to keep some things for yourself. Like this. She sounds proud of me.

I smile, already feeling a little more, but then moms always think you’re more, don’t they?

Before I leave for Emily’s, I hurry to my room and clasp the ribbon necklace around my neck. The heart pendant rests glassy smooth against my skin, just below my throat. A sigh whispers through me, like I’ve done the right thing. It should feel strange, me wearing anything pink, but instead I smile a small satisfied smile at myself in the mirror. Do I really look that pretty?

Blackie sniffs at me as I pass by. Normally he’d jump up and follow me, but he just lowers his head to his front paws and watches me. As I cross to my door, he tracks my progress without moving his head.

Oh, come on, Blackie. It’s just a dress.

He sighs. I know then that he’s also decided this dress is not just any dress.

I run downstairs and grab my mom’s keys out of her bag. I don’t hesitate, not until I’m standing next to our van with my fingers resting on the door handle. Why all of a sudden do I feel uneasy? Again with the cold sensation. I set the feeling aside, as best as I can, and slip into the driver’s seat.

By the time I get to Emily’s house, it’s almost lunchtime. I must have slept in way later than I thought. She opens the door right away and stares at me with her lips puckered in a slight pout, which on her is actually attractive. (That’s the thing about Em—she always comes out looking good.)

I see you’re wearing the dress, she says.

It looks awesome on you, Joy, I say, putting on my best Emily voice. You were right to keep it.

Ha ha. She rolls her eyes. After giving me a thorough inspection, she lets out a sigh. It really does look good on you.

I glance down at myself, a stranger in a dress, standing on her front porch. I barely recognize myself.

I think I’m...supposed to be wearing it, I say, wonderingly.

"You’re supposed to be wearing it?" She tilts her head.

It’s weird, Em. Weird stuff has been happening.

After she lets me in, I quickly tell her about the dress being spread over the chair and how the flip-flops were all arranged. I tell her about the name on the tag too: Beth L. I tell her everything, even about the funny, human-sounding sigh that woke me up. The whole time I’m talking, I’m following her into their kitchen, which is big and glossy, like a kitchen in a home-decorating magazine. There are even copper pots dangling from a rack above their gas range.

What do you think it means? I ask, climbing onto a stool at their black marble island. The surface is so shiny and spotlessly clean I can see my reflection in it. I look different. Like I’m not entirely me anymore. While Emily pours lemonade into two frosted glasses, my hand goes to the base of my throat. It’s not like I plan on reaching for the necklace to draw her attention to it because she liked it and I want her to see me wearing it, to show her it’s mine—it’s not like that at all. I do it sort of absently, barely realizing I’m rubbing the glass heart. It’s enticingly smooth and warm from resting against my skin—like it’s part of me now.

It’s like the dress wants me to have it, I say.

"It wants you to have it?"

Um...yeah... I shrug. It does sound kind of crazy when she says it.

Okaaaay.

It may sound crazy, but I think it wants something.

Yes.

Wait, did I just think that? It didn’t feel like my own thought—more like it was planted there. A shiver crawls up the back of my neck.

Emily makes a concerned sound and presses her hand to my forehead. I brush her hand away with a laugh.

No, seriously. I feel like I need to find out where it came from.

Maybe then I’ll know what it wants. I have a feeling I’m not going to be able to rest until I figure out what that is.

So what are you now—some sort of ghost whisperer or something? She lifts her glass to her mouth but doesn’t drink. There’s a troubled pucker between her eyebrows.

Maybe.

I’ve never felt particularly gifted or in touch with the supernatural, or anything weird like that, but today—wearing this dress—it almost seems normal. Like I’m meant to do this. Maybe this is my more?

What does that mean anyway? Am I supposed to find out more about this dress? It sure seems like it, and I want to start now.

I shift restlessly on the stool.

To distract myself, I take a gulp of ice-cold lemonade. It must be homemade because the lemony flavor is real strong. It’s tart and fresh, and I roll the crunchy-sweet sugar crystals on my tongue. I chew them a little before I swallow. It’s really refreshing, so I take another gulp. As I set my glass back down, I realize Emily is watching me closely.

Dude, you’re scaring me, Emily says.

I’m kind of scaring myself, I joke, but, really, I’m not scared at all. Maybe I should be.

So what are you going to do?

I guess I’m going to my grandmother’s.... Do you want to come with?

I can’t. I have to babysit The Terrors next door. She makes her twisty face and actually looks genuinely disappointed, like tracking down a thrift-store dress sounds fun.

She doesn’t believe me, of course, not really. I know that, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t believe it either if I was her. Maybe she thinks I’m messing with her. But she’s up for it anyway. She wants to head out with me on a wild ghost hunt. She’s amazing.

Best. Friend. Ever.

At that moment I want to squash her in the biggest hug and tell her I’m so lucky to have her for a friend. Who else would think tracking down a (possibly haunted) thrift-store dress with me would be fun? I mean, really?

I don’t give her a hug though. From the moment I said I wanted to find out what the dress wants me to do, it’s like I’m a teapot on a burner, and I’ve been slowly heating up this whole time. Now, I’m bubbling, full of heat and determination. I’m going to find out where the dress came from. I’m going to find out what it wants. Today, if at all possible.

Okay. Listen, I gotta run. I jump up, mumble a quick thanks for the lemonade, and hurry out the front door.

On the way to Gran’s house, I have to pass the town center, which takes me through a bad intersection. At the light, I hold my breath as a tractor-trailer skims by me, sure it’s going to scrape the side of our van. When he whooshes by without hitting me, I loosen my death grip on the steering wheel and pat the hardened plastic, or whatever it’s made of, telling myself to relax.

Do you want to be more, Joy?

Yes, I tell myself.

Well, more means not freaking out at an intersection.

More means staying alert and confident.

That’s the key. I can do that.

As soon as the stream of cars thins out, I make my left, alert and confident...and not freaking out. I get to Gran’s house just fine, but as I knock on the door, my hand is visibly trembling. Maybe the new Joy needs a bit more time, I think, pulling a face.

Gran opens the door wearing a dress that looks more like a nightgown than something you’d wear out in public. She claps a hand over her heart with one hand and with the other smoothes her frizzy gray-brown hair away from her face. She’s barefoot, with thick toenails and old-people spots. I love my gran, but these are things I don’t care to look at too closely.

"Joy! Look at you! Oh, you look so pretty!" My gran can make a real fuss over me sometimes.

I immediately feel at home.

Hi, Gran. I move in to give her a quick hug, but she smothers me against her cushy chest. Normally I’m a little taller than her, but she’s up a step, still in the house. She’s sort of cushy everywhere, I notice as I wait for her to release me. I smell that same mystery scent that always hangs around her, something medicine-y that reminds me of hospitals and the chemistry lab at school. Rubbing alcohol maybe.

You’re too thin though, she says. Let me get you a snack.

Thanks, but I don’t need a snack.

She waves my comment aside like it’s a fly buzzing around her head. I’ve got some meatloaf, she says, as I follow her to the kitchen.

Really, Gran, I’m not hungry. I pluck at the silky fabric of my dress and begin absently fingering it. It’s so smooth. I feel different in it. Taller, maybe.

She pushes me into a chair at her kitchen table. Both are rickety yard-sale finds, the table covered with a red-and-white checked plastic picnic tablecloth. I have to blink for a second because everything is so completely different from Emily’s spotless, enormous kitchen with marble this and stainless-steel that. I like it better here, I decide. It’s homey, and you don’t have to worry about scratching anything by accident. It also smells kind of buttery, like Gran’s baked recently, chocolate chip cookies maybe. Gosh, it smells so delicious.

I just wondered if you remember where you found this dress. A thrift shop, maybe?

Oh, I don’t know—I go to so many of those things, you know, she mutters good-naturedly and turns to open the refrigerator door.

I sag in disappointment. It was in a white Target bag, with the handles tied up.

A Target bag? She perks up at that, glancing at me around the refrigerator door. I fear she’s already located the meatloaf and has the dish in her hands, but I can’t see because of the door. That’s right. I got that one at the thrift store up in Groton. Nice place, she says. A little small, and they’re not giving their stuff away, I can tell you that.

Groton? That’s only about twenty or so minutes away by car, but you have to cross over the highway to get there.

The one with the busy off-ramps.

More, Joy, I remind myself.

Do you have the address? I ask.

Do I have the address...? She laughs.

I should know better than to ask. Gran is rather proud of her ability to get anywhere in a hundred-mile radius of her house without a