Two weeks after her father’s funeral, Kenzie made a pilgrimage across the Kansas River to a psychic with a storefront on US-59. The building was half-submerged beneath the rising highway; passing cars shook the wind chimes hanging from the eaves.

A second set of chimes sounded as Kenzie came inside. She stood in the doorway, shaking off the rain, her eyes adjusting to the light glowing faintly from beneath a pair of fringed velvet lampshades. It was warm, and the smell of yeast was heavy in the air. Alice Coltrane played on the speakers overhead, the drone of a tanpura drowning out the rush of traffic.

On the table before her were bowls of polished stones with laminated cards identifying their properties. There was amethyst for intuition, aventurine to soothe anxiety, and clear quartz for concentration. Rose quartz represented compassion. Tiger’s eye summoned the warrior spirit.

A voice behind her said, “Most of that is bullshit.”

Kenzie turned to see a heavyset woman with Bettie Page bangs, black nails, and purple lips.

“People think they can solve all their problems with a crystal, but the crystal just amplifies what’s already there. The real work, you have to do yourself.”

“Sorry,” Kenzie said. “I didn’t see you there.”

The woman smiled, as if to suggest she was used to, and possibly enjoyed, startling people. She might have been twenty-one or forty-two. Her cheeks were caked in pale white powder.

“I’m Misty,” she said. “This is my place.”

“Nice to meet you, Misty,” Kenzie said. She stood beside a wire rack of paperback books with titles like Moonchild and The Chalice and the Blade. “I’m Kenzie. This is my first time.”

“How’d you come to us, Kenzie?”

“My roommate told me about it.”

“Would I know her? We’re a small community out here.”

“I don’t think so.” Kenzie thought of Marybeth, bent over her Bible. That she was both devout and tolerant of Kenzie’s superstitions was a testament, Kenzie thought, to the New Testament. Marybeth was one of the more popular students at KU, no small feat at so big a school, especially when you were saving yourself for marriage, as Marybeth was. “She drives past a lot, but I don’t think she’s ever been inside.”

Misty nodded. “I hear that a lot.”

“Really?”

“People have a lot of hangups about the occult.”

As a girl, growing up in Kansas City, Kenzie had accompanied her mother, Penny, to monthly palm readings at a strip mall. The palm reader’s name was Madame Dragović and she spoke with a heavy Slavic accent that made everything she said sound vaguely enchanted. Once, Kenzie overheard her call for Chinese takeout; even then, she seemed to be casting a spell. When the delivery boy arrived with her broccoli beef, it seemed to Kenzie that Madame Dragović hadn’t ordered the food so much as conjured it. Years later, Penny would admit that she didn’t believe in the paranormal. It was just that her marriage was falling apart, she and Kenzie’s father sleeping in separate beds. Having her palm read was a way of being touched. By then, however, it was too late for Kenzie, who already had it in her head that there was a world beyond the one that she could see.

Misty said, “Before all this, I was a nurse. I’ve reached inside of people, performed tracheotomies, and done about a thousand other things that would turn your stomach. It’s wild what folks will let you do to their bodies. But talk about the soul, and suddenly everyone’s a skeptic.”

Kenzie nodded. “I like your earrings, by the way.”

“Thanks! I made them myself.” She touched one of the pendants, a crescent moon fused with a cross. “It’s the sign of Lilith. That was Adam’s first wife, before Eve. She was made of the same clay that he was. God banished her to Hell for not obeying Adam. She’s kind of my personal hero.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kenzie said.

“They don’t teach the good stuff in Sunday School.” Misty smiled. “Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?”

“Actually, yeah, there is.”

“Wait, don’t tell me. You lost someone.”

Kenzie felt her skin come to life. “How did you know?”

“A lot of first-time clients come to me when they’re in mourning. Also, you’ve got rings around your eyes. Honestly, that’s a lot of what I do. Pay attention to things that other people miss.”

“He died a few weeks ago,” Kenzie said, a sob rising in her throat.

“This man, he was—” Misty shut her eyes. “A father? Father figure?”

“My dad. Yeah.”

“And he wasn’t supposed to pass on, was he? It wasn’t his time.”

Kenzie shook her head.

“And your mom?”

Kenzie thought of her mother with her six-month chip, even more self-centered in sobriety than she had been when drunk.

“She’s not…we aren’t what you might call close.”

“You’re carrying this all on your own, aren’t you?” Misty made a face—brow furrowed, eyes wet with understanding—that was so sympathetic, and at the same time so devoid of pity, that Kenzie thought she might just be all right, if Misty looked at her like that every day of her life. “All right, then. Let’s see what we can do.”

Misty led her to the back of the store and through a clicking beaded curtain. A tapestry was draped over the window, entrusting to a few nag champa candles the task of lighting the small room. Kenzie sat in a folding chair across from Misty at a folding table covered in crushed velvet.

“First things first,” Misty said, “there’s no such thing as death. Got it?”

“Got it.”

An obsidian sphere sat on the table between them.

“Are you sure? Because it’s not the kind of thing you shuck off easily. We’re pretty much programmed to fear death and dying. It’s embedded on the cellular level. It’s something we all need to work on, even me. Back when I was a nurse, I saw a lot of people pass on. I was there when that last breath leaves the body, and believe me, whatever makes us who we are? It doesn’t go away. Things don’t just disappear.”

“I believe you,” Kenzie said, and meant it. She couldn’t picture her father, Eddie, rotting in a box. His body, maybe, but the spirit of the man—his essence, aura, whatever—had to be floating around somewhere.

“Don’t believe me. Believe Einstein. He’s the one who said energy can’t be created or destroyed.” Misty shook out her sleeves and ran her hands over the sleek black sphere. “Do you know what you’ll say to him? If you make contact?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Can you tell me? You don’t have to, it’s your business, but stating your intention never hurts.”

Kenzie’s heel was bouncing underneath the table. She hadn’t known what to expect from the psychic, but here they were, talking about making contact like it was a real possibility.

“I guess I want to know if he’s okay.”

“That’s a common question people have for the deceased.” In the dark room, the sphere looked like a floating head. Her father’s head. “I’m thinking we might start with some ancestor work. Do you know what that means?”

“No, sorry, I don’t.”

“Nothing to apologize for. What we’re going to do is call on your ancestors to help us get in touch with him. The more help we have from the other side, the easier it will be to get in touch with him. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, the first thing to do is to get centered in your body. When you’re ready, I’d like for you to close your eyes.”

Kenzie exhaled. The smell of yeast was fainter here, the music quieter, but with her eyes closed, she felt closer to them.

Misty spoke in a slow, soothing whisper. “Focus on your breath. Feel it in your diaphragm. Feel your lungs inflate beneath your ribs. In…and out. In…and out. Gently, gently. Take as long as you need.”

Kenzie drew the air in through her nose. She picked up the scent of sandalwood and star anise. It was the same incense her father used to burn in his condo.

“Now I want you to focus on your blood. Keep breathing, but think about the blood moving through your body. Feel it at your pulse points. Your wrists, your neck. This is the same blood that ran through your father’s veins, and his father before him. Observe your body at rest. Don’t judge, just observe.”

Kenzie had never been so conscious of her body. She felt she could hear all its ticking mechanisms, the spark and hiss of neurons firing in her brain.

She trained her attention on her blood, which thumped in her ears. It was like someone was turning up the volume on her heart.

“Focus your attention to the right,” Misty said. “You don’t need to move your body, or even turn your head. Just focus your attention on the space to your right. This is where we call your mother’s ancestors to gather. Feel the spirits with you. Let their light, which is your light, enter your body.”

The light was like that of a slide projector, the kind her father used for showing old vacation photos, throwing the images onto the wall. One was of her mother, Penny, offering her palm to Madame Dragović. Another was of Penny passed out on the sofa, cradling a bottle of huckleberry wine.

“Now bring yourself back to a neutral state. Return to your body. Take whatever time you need to get centered. When you’re ready, turn your attention to the left. This is where we’ll call your father’s ancestors. Feel them gather at your side. Let their light, which is your light, enter your body.”

Kenzie tried to see her father as she had seen her mother, as bright shapes projected on the back of her eyelids. There were countless memories she might have called upon. Eddie on his back, holding her aloft on the soles of his feet. Eddie at the Hy-Vee checkout counter, letting Kenzie sign the check for their groceries. Eddie the last time she had seen him, sitting in a vinyl recliner, his bald head haloed in fluorescent light. His right arm was wrapped in a blood pressure cuff and the left—a pale, puckered, dehydrated-looking thing—was hooked up to a humming dialyzer. He was flirting with a thickset nurse in seafoam scrubs. He had introduced Kenzie to her as his “flesh and blood.”

But what she saw was his apartment, the one he’d lived in after her parents divorced. It was empty, the carpet coarse with crumbs and cannabis stems. A hissing sound came through the wall of speakers he had scavenged from around the city, some of which had tears in the fabric. There was always music on at Eddie’s house, but now the needle dragged on the runout groove. It was not the sound of music but the sound of music’s absence, the crackle of a fire dying out.

She thrust her eyes open and sucked air.

“Kenzie!” Misty’s voice was clearer now.

Kenzie steadied herself against the table.

“Hey,” Misty said. “Are you okay?”

Her head was throbbing. There were tears running down her cheeks.

“I couldn’t see him,” she said.

“That’s all right,” Misty said. “What did you see?”

Kenzie shook her head. “I can’t describe it. It was just…nothing. Less than nothing.”

Misty handed her a tissue. “I’m sorry we didn’t reach him this time. I do have a question for you, though, if that’s all right.”

She blew her nose. “Sure.”

“How much do you know about your dad’s side of the family?”

Kenzie had to think a minute. “He came up in the foster system. Never knew his parents. I don’t have grandparents on his side.”

“You don’t know anything about his background.”

“I don’t think he did, either.”

Misty sat back in her chair. “I had a feeling.”

“Had a feeling what?”

“When we remember someone, we contribute to their legacy. It’s a form of spiritual nourishment. Whenever we think of loved one who has passed, their spirit feeds on the thoughts. Like how in ancient times we used to make burnt offerings.”

“What does that mean?” Kenzie asked.

“You don’t know anything about your dad’s parents, right? Neither did he. Ergo, none of their descendants are thinking of them, much less carrying on their legacies.”

“So?”

“So they’re hungry. That’s why you can’t reach your father.” Misty reached across the table and touched Kenzie’s hand. “They haven’t eaten in a long time.”

Kenzie wiped her eyes and paid Misty for the session. When she got back to her dorm, she put a VHS tape in her old busted player and wrapped herself in a blanket. Responding to the music on the tape, Marybeth came out of her room and joined Kenzie on the couch. She curled up underneath the blanket beside Kenzie.

“What are we watching?”

Kenzie was grateful for Marybeth’s presence, the heat coming off her body. She was grateful, too, for the darkened room, which made it hard to see that she was crying.

“Just my tape.”

“I like that one,” said Marybeth, and laid her head on Kenzie’s shoulder.

Kenzie liked the tape, too. It was the one her father had made her when she was young. The tape collected Disney princess movies, ripped from the TV and complete with commercials, the Kool-Aid man smashing through the fourth wall to break up Cinderella’s rise from rags to riches. The image quality had degraded over time, and the colors were garishly saturated. That didn’t matter, she knew the tape by heart. And the story was always the same.