Some of it was real, p.20
Some of It Was Real, page 20
I’d forgotten how direct and determined my mother could be. When we were kids, she never let us skate on homework, chores, or commitments, and she could sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. Behind her back, we called her Sergeant Eve.
Sylvie heads for the door. “I’ll let you two visit in private.”
“Hold your ever-loving horses! I know who you are! You’re Sylvie Young! I have a ticket to your show this Sunday at the Schnitzer. Won’t make it now, but holy cow!” She slaps me on the arm. “You’re dating a psychic-medium? After telling me for years that what they do is horseshit?” Mom cackles, “Doesn’t this just beat all? Bernie will die laughing.” She looks from me to Sylvie. “If I’d known all it took was a pretty face to change my son’s mind, I would’ve made a private appointment, tried to set you two up on a blind date.”
Sylvie backs through the open door, cheeks rosy. “He hasn’t changed his mind.”
“Well, you’re here now. Let’s prove it to him.” Mom pats the bed, beckons Sylvie. “You may not know this, Thomas, but this young lady is going to be really famous. People in the know say so. Then folks like me won’t stand a chance to get a personal reading!” Sylvie doesn’t budge.
“I hate to use the old lady card,” Mom pushes, “but hell, I’m an old woman who could die of a blood clot in the next twenty-four hours or fall, hit my head, and never come out of the coma. You and my son clearly have something going on, so I’ll use that to try to sway you, too. Sylvie, would you read me, please? I can even pay . . . but not until next month, depending on the doctor bills.”
Sylvie asks, “Why is it so important to you?”
“I’ve spent the past twenty-plus years trying to contact my husband and son. There have been times when I thought maybe I had, psychics and mediums that almost had me convinced. But despite my son’s belief that I’m a dotty old bat, I know those connections weren’t real. That’s why I’ve kept trying. On plenty of occasions, I was ready to toss in the towel, but I just can’t.”
Sylvie tips her head and fans her ear like there’s a fly buzzing near it. “I’m sorry.” She turns and disappears down the hallway.
I catch her halfway to the lounge. “Stop.” She doesn’t, so I grab her arm.
Sylvie shakes free, backs into the wall, and demands, “What do you want from me?”
Why didn’t I tell Sylvie to steer clear of Mom’s room? I consider all the people I’ve seen her read—at her shows, strangers, Madison, Max, Levi. My mother has two feet buried deep in the past. Does it matter how she moves on, whether it’s a trick, a show, or Sylvie’s desire to provide closure? I’ve accused Sylvie of robbing people of a natural and necessary process that follows the death of a loved one. But that assumed everyone has the ability to get on with life. My mother doesn’t—she never has.
“Thomas?”
I rest the flats of my hands on the wall to either side of Sylvie’s head. She tips her chin to meet my gaze. Anyone looking might mistake us for a couple. Is that what I want? I can’t destroy Sylvie’s reputation and expect to be her boyfriend. I gently run my thumb along her cheek, capture an eyelash, make a wish. No matter what happens, please be okay.
“What do you want?” Sylvie repeats.
“Will you . . . will you give Mom a reading?”
“Thomas. I might . . . there’s no guarantee . . . or that it’ll help.”
“I know that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sylvie
I settle in the chair by Eve’s bedside, place my marker on the rolling table next to a mauve-colored plastic water pitcher. “Do you have something for me to hold?”
“In the closet.” Eve waves an impatient hand. “There’s a pin on my sweater.”
Thomas withdraws a hunter green wool sweater. The scent of mothballs and lavender, old lady smells, tickle my nose. Carefully, I remove the pin, put it in my left palm. It’s a black oval locket with a single diamond in the center that looks like a star. If I opened it, there would be two photos inside—her husband and dead son. I’m sure of it. Thomas leans against the window, watches. This could change everything.
“Full disclosure,” I say. “I know how your husband and son died. That your family was watching TV, Deacan and your husband went for ice cream. It was raining and their car slid on a bridge, broke through the guardrail, and plunged into the river.”
Eve nods. “They died on impact.”
My nerves jitter as I fold my fingers over the pin, close my eyes, approach the red door, and unlock it . . . A metallic tang instantly floods my mouth and a spirit steps forward. “A male energy is here . . . Does the initial G or O mean anything to you?”
“My father’s name was Gordy,” Eve says.
“He’s showing me a wooden rocking horse with bright blue eyes.”
“Daddy was a cabinet maker. He carved that rocking horse for me. It was so tall, Mother was afraid I’d fall off, get concussed. He painted the glass eyes blue to match mine!”
I tug my earlobe. “Was he musical?”
“No, but he loved to listen to all kinds of music.”
“There’s an old-fashioned radio, curved on top, woven silver-and-black speakers with shiny knobs . . .” My adrenaline surges as I’m catapulted beyond this bridge. “He’s hitting the top of it with his hand, twisting the knobs, like he’s trying to get it to work, then pointing at you.” I open my eyes, glance from son to mother. Silence. “Eve?” Her lips press into a tight white line. “Thomas?”
“Mom broke her father’s radio the night Dad and Deacan died.”
“What was your dad’s name?” I ask him.
“Matthew.”
I silently call to Matthew through the open doorway. Nothing. I use what I know. He comes across the threshold fast, like he’s been waiting for the right invitation. A younger male spirit joins him. They show me a dark night–pounding rain–two pints of ice cream on the front seat of a car–a narrow bridge–bright headlights–a skid–crash–metal on metal–the car plunges–weightless–bone-jarring impact–hands fumble to unbuckle seat belts–open doors–break windows–water floods–boots kick–fingers scrabble–screams–Help me, Dad–I love you, Deacan–frigid water surges into mouths, nostrils–I can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe!
My heart thrashes. I gulp for air. Sweat tracks down my spine. Eve lied to Thomas all these years. “It took a while,” I say once my pulse has slowed. Eve’s chin trembles.
Thomas looks from his mother to me. “What are you talking about?”
I wait for Eve to explain. She twists her arthritic hands, looks away.
“Sylvie?” Thomas presses.
He deserves the truth. “Your dad and brother didn’t die when their car hit the water. They showed me . . . They both tried to get out but couldn’t open the doors or break any windows. It took time for the car to fill with water. They drowned.” The last thing your father heard was your brother begging for help. The last thing Deacan heard was your father saying he loved him.
“You’re wrong,” Thomas says, his tone dismissive. “They died on impact. Tell her, Mom.”
Eve sniffles, wipes her nose with a wadded Kleenex, stares at the sheet covering her bony legs like a child determined to avoid punishment.
Thomas repeats, “Tell Sylvie they died on impact.”
Eve flinches. “I . . . They didn’t.” She finally looks at Thomas, the corners of her mouth tugged down, eyes shiny. “According . . . according to the medical report, Matthew and Deacan didn’t have mortal injuries . . . other than drowning. You didn’t need to know that. No one should know that.”
Thomas steps back, absorbing the blow. I take Eve’s hand. The skin is parchment-thin. “You keep living it, over and over again. Rain. Bad tires. The crash. Their panic as the water level rose. The questions never stop: Could you have kept them from going? Should you have gone yourself? What if you’d been less stubborn and had dessert in the freezer instead of only buying it for special occasions? But there’s no answer to any of those questions just like there’s no reason for a tragedy.”
A sob rips free from deep in her chest. I want to stop, comfort her, but she needs to hear this; they both do. “The bigger tragedy, for them and for you, is that you can’t let go. Instead, you’ve tried to pull Matthew and Deacan back, again and again. But they can’t come back, not in any meaningful way. They want you to know that they were more than those terrifying minutes. They lived full lives, both of them. And they’re at peace.”
The old radio appears again. Gordy’s spirit forms a question mark in the air. I ask Eve, “Why did you break your father’s radio that night?”
She draws a ragged breath. “I was mad with grief—the unfairness of it all. Matthew was the love of my life. Deacan didn’t even get to have a girlfriend, go to college. He was going to be a journalist and was such a gifted writer. I just know he would’ve won a Pulitzer.”
I recall what Thomas told me about his mother when I asked if she was proud of him. He said that she’d had bigger dreams. They were for his brother, not him. Thomas has retreated to the window. Hands pressed to the glass like a prisoner behind bars, he watches rain fall in sheets from a lead sky. You’re better than good enough. I wish I could tell him that. But he’s not, for his mother, and he probably never will be.
Eve begs, “What is Matthew saying?”
I turn from Thomas. “That he wants you to move on so that they can, too, and—”
. . . Thomas grips my shoulders so hard that pain spirals beneath my skin. I look around to get my bearings. The pin is on the bed, marker clenched in my hand. Beneath the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, I read the message scrawled on the inside of my palm. I still believe in you, kid. The look in Thomas’s eyes is equal parts pain, accusation, and betrayal. He’s out of the hospital room in three strides.
“Bring him back,” Eve begs.
At first I think she’s talking about Thomas. But she holds the pin out, begs me to take it, call Matthew and Deacan back from the other side. What about Thomas? “They’re done. Now you have a choice. You can either continue to live in the past, pour your heart into that bottomless pit, or you can love the son who is still alive.”
I find Thomas in the exit stairwell at the end of the hallway. He’s slumped against the cinderblock wall, head in hands, fingers burrowed in his unruly hair. I sit down facing him, lean close.
“Is she okay?” he asks.
I rest a hand on his leg. “Yeah. Are you?”
“Depends.”
I know what he wants—me to tell him that my knowing about Eve’s father, the radio, and the truth about the drowning was all a trick. “Thomas, I can’t.”
He pushes my hand away. “In 1964, the James Randi Educational Foundation issued a one-million-dollar challenge to anyone who could demonstrate a supernatural or paranormal ability under agreed-upon scientific criteria. The competition ended in 2015. Do you know the result?” he demands.
His cheeks are pink blotches in a chalky face. I shrink back from his anger. “No.”
“There were thousands of applicants and not a single person could prove their supernatural abilities.”
“Thomas—”
“Over the years hundreds of scientists have repeatedly tried to prove that people are capable of perceiving something happening on the other side of the world, in a different room, on another plane, or events in the future. Do you know what every single one of them has found?”
I slide to the wall, press my back against it. “No.”
“Zero evidence.” His tone is sharp as broken glass.
“Thomas.”
He bites his lower lip. “You’re a liar. You deceive old women like my mother. Feed on grief. Steal their money. You no more spoke to my grandfather, Dad, and Deacan than you could fly to the fucking moon.”
My stomach ignites like it’s filled with gasoline and Thomas has flung a lit match. “Then how did I know?”
“Clearly, Lucas told you about the medical examiner’s report when he called. I don’t know about the rest, but that doesn’t mean there’s no explanation.”
I hold up my hand, where the message is written over the heart line on my palm. I still believe in you, kid. “What does it mean?”
Thomas glares at me. “The thing I stole when I was a kid? It was a journal. Dad made me return it, but later Deacan bought it for me, hid it under my pillow.” He nods at my hand. “That’s the message my brother wrote on the first page minus the word still. Nice touch,” he sneers. “I can’t explain that one, either. But there is an explanation.”
His derision leaves me carved out, empty. I get to my feet, bones aching like I’m eighty.
“Where are you going?”
“To meet Faith Benson.”
Thomas rubs his face hard. “I’ll go with you.”
I cram down my hurt and calmly say, “I think we’re done, don’t you? But just FYI, there’s an emotional angle for your exposé that you missed.”
“What’s that?” Thomas challenges.
“You never asked me how knowing other people’s secrets affects me.” I glare down at him and will my voice to remain steady. “The wife who approached me in the waiting room? The one whose husband had heart surgery? I knew he’d died; knew her world was about to crack open and had to watch that happen. Levi’s in trouble—I’m not sure he’ll live to see his baby born.” I consider stopping there but can’t slow my roll. “And Deacan and your dad? I felt their terror, drowned with them. That’s what it’s like, for me.”
Beneath a calm exterior, my body quakes. Thomas’s face is pale. He starts to say something but I hold up a hand, cut him off. “Don’t forget your cat at the hotel and do leave my phone, iPad, and computer. As you’ve pointed out, I need them. Good luck with everything. I hope you win a Pulitzer to make your mom proud.”
I leave the stairwell and Thomas behind. Have to force myself to walk, not run, to the elevator and to try not to wish that Thomas would follow me. He doesn’t. I’m alone . . . but not quite. An invisible kiss brushes my temple. I hear the increasingly familiar woman’s voice and finally make out the first word she says: Come.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sylvie
“I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”
I stand there at the end of a stone path before a lacquered white door that was opened in a rush, Faith’s arms held wide. Does she expect a hug? I opt for a handshake and she ushers me inside a three-story Tudor perched at the top of a steep, manicured lawn. I take stock as I follow her—chin-length auburn hair, black leggings, and a long-sleeved top with slits along the arms that reveal toned biceps.
We walk through an elegant front hall with wood floors covered in Persian carpets. At the far end, a curved stair climbs to the second floor. Black-and-white photos of children, framed in silver, adorn the walls. Faith follows my eyes, points at a little girl with similar freckles to her own that dust a round face.
“You remember Bennett? She was seven when you came to stay with us. The other two popped out after you’d moved on. Twins.” She rolls her eyes. “That was quite the hitch in my giddy-up. Three months of bed rest for yours truly while I was an associate. I’m surprised the firm kept me on. Kids are a blessing but no one tells you what a crimp they put in your career.”
I’m still stuck on her phrase, moved on, like I was a guest in her home, or it was my choice. I don’t recall anything about Faith, her husband, or her daughter. “Sorry. I don’t remember Bennett.”
“Probably a good thing. She was a prima donna until the twins put her in her place.”
Faith leads me into a large kitchen with a farmhouse table in the center. Glass cabinets line the walls, filled with china and crystal, marble counters, two stainless steel refrigerators.
“When the kids were young, this was where all the action happened,” she explains. “Now they’re in grad school and rarely come home.” One corner of her smile hangs on.
“Is your husband going to join us?”
She shakes her head. “Scott and I have been divorced for three years. Heart problems did us in.”
“Was he sick?”
“No. He thought I was missing mine.” She gestures to a chair. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water would be great.”
Faith pours two glasses then sits across from me. She glances at her Apple Watch. “Apologies, I only have about fifteen minutes. Yoga class. It’s my sanity. You said on the phone that you had some questions?”
“Yes.” I dive in. “Did you foster a lot of children?”
“You were the only one.”
“Was I that bad?” I mean it as a joke to break the ice, but it sounds pathetic.
“How could you be bad? You didn’t speak when you arrived.”
The ground shifts beneath me. “What do you mean?”
“You were with us for about a year but only spoke the last two months.” Faith toys with the gold signet ring on her pinkie. “I’ve always wondered why you didn’t talk at first.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The first six years of my life, until I was adopted, are a complete blank.”
Faith sits back. “Complete?”
I dig out the plastic figures in my pocket—the woman, the girl, and the remnants of a swing set—and spill them onto the table. “All I know is that when I arrived in High River, I brought these. Did you give them to me?”
“You came with them.” She points at the woman in the yellow dress. “The only time we ever saw you upset was when Bennett tried to play with that figure. Scott had to hold you back—he thought you were going to claw her eyes out.”
My cheeks warm. “That’s embarrassing.”
