Give ’em a fifth of whiskey and they’ve got the sight, all right.” She remembered one time when Granda had said so in front of her father. But she loved him and loved his stories, and all her friends loved him, too, because he had such a way with the tales he’d brought over from the old country. She seldom knew what was true and what wasn’t, because Granda had, so Gran told her, the gift of blarney. He came to the bed, sat by her side and scooped her into his arms against his chest, and held her as he had often done when reading her a story-or making one up. “Be there for her,” he said, then rose and set his pipe on the mantel. “What are you going on about, Granda? You’re not going anywhere!”

“Mom loves you, too, Granda,” Christie said firmly, feeling it was important that he really understood that. But she has your da, and he’s a good man.” “She should know it, aye, she should, but you make sure she knows I love her, eh?” Granda said. Certainly her mother believed that daughters had more of a bond with their parents-or maybe daughters were just more useful. Christie’s uncle, her mother’s brother, and his wife and two sons lived in the area, but Christie suspected that her grandmother needed her mother. That was why she was there then, actually, when she should have been back home and going to school. And he had tried to stop smoking it to please her, which had been easy enough, since he’d been sick in bed so much lately. Gran had been on him about that pipe lately. She frowned, surprised suddenly that he looked so good, and that he was so calm, just sitting there, rocking, the pleasant odor of his pipe tobacco so strong.

She was rewarded with one of his deep and endearing smiles. She was twelve years old, and she didn’t even live near Gran, so she could hardly be much help to her. “I want you to be good to Gran, that’s all, Christie. “No, my girl, just the way it is,” he said, and he leaned toward her. “It’s okay, Granda,” she told him, curious. He was smoking his old pipe and rocking gently, and he smiled as she opened her eyes. He was watching her from the old white rocker that faced her bed. A night-light burned in the bathroom, because she didn’t like total darkness.

The small porcelain clock on the mantel-Gran’s favorite, brought over from Ireland-sat in its place, the seconds ticking away softly.

The Seance by Heather Graham