The Secrets We Keep

by Shirley Patton

  Lori wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t been able to talk about it much with Aggie either; Aggie had been in Perth the past month visiting her sister and tonight would be their first evening session since her return. She looked over at the pie dish on the seat beside her, the tropical smell of pineapple and coconut wafting up—her turn for dessert, a frangipani pie. The meringue topping curled over it like tiny ocean waves. Her mouth watered thinking of the mixture of tart citrus and sweet.

  She hadn’t felt able to talk to Kerry about what had happened either when they’d visited her in hospital the next day. Nobody had seemed too surprised that it had been her and Aimee who’d found Kerry, after what Mrs Smith had told Aimee on the phone. Rather, Amber was the heroine of the hour for suggesting it, Mrs Smith told them, as they’d all sat around Kerry’s bed. The police were only minutes behind the ambulance, also acting on Amber’s suggestion, and they’d passed them on the way in. Amber was perched up beside her mother, all smiles, but her eyes rarely left her mother’s pale face.

  But Kerry had been overcome with gratitude when they’d walked into the room; she’d cried and hugged them. They’d cried too, and laughed—a bit of both. Lori’d stepped back to the end of the bed and had watched as Aimee held Kerry’s hand, a look of tenderness between them. She had felt strangely moved as she’d looked at the three of them—Aimee, Kerry and Amber—the sunlight coming in the window capturing them momentarily, suspended it seemed, in a fragment of time. A sensing energy had slid over her but she was confused about its meaning.

  Perhaps Aggie would know. Or should she keep it to herself? See, this was what she meant! It’s confusing. How was she to know? What were the rules? She would have to talk about it tonight.

  The porch light at Agnes’s house lit up the front garden, spilling over the lawn, the flowerbeds and the bushes. Out on the street, Lori closed the car door, disturbing the quiet night air. A dog barked, announcing her arrival, and a full moon, hanging heavily halfway up the night sky, lit the way. The vanilla smell of a native frangipani in Aggie’s front garden, twice the size of the one in her own garden, merged with the smell of her pie and Lori breathed deeply, imagining this might be how Tahiti smells, for she didn’t know but hoped to find out one day. At Christmas, after everyone had gone home, she’d talked with Patrick about travel, and he’d said he wanted to visit Tahiti too. She had been saving to go for two years but expected it would take her another year, as some of the changes she’d made to her house had cost more than she’d budgeted for. She hadn’t wanted to go alone but, so far, none of her friends had shown any interest; Sophia had thought about coming with her but now she was saving for a house deposit while living with their parents.

  She smiled thinking about the possibilities; Aggie had predicted she would travel, although Lori hadn’t mentioned that to Patrick. She hadn’t told him about her vision either, unsure of his reaction. Would it go against his religious beliefs? she wondered. Although he’d invited her over for dinner twice since Christmas, with Daniel joining them both times, and a coffee in town last week after they’d both worked late, she remained nervous about broaching the topic. And she certainly hadn’t told him about her evenings with Aggie or that she was psychic. Although they were both Catholics their interpretation of what was acceptable could be different. Aggie is religious too, in her own strange way, she thought, she starts every session with a prayer. But since meeting Aggie, she’d had to re-examine her beliefs and several aspects were becoming clearer; some events could be predicted. Her awareness had also become heightened, and not only in a psychic way. She had come to the disturbing realisation that in culling the files she had unwittingly colluded in destroying evidence of past racist policies. Aimee had suggested she talk it over with Paddy. ‘But there’s probably little he can do about it, it will have been a directive from on high, Lori. There’s no doubt the department’s intention is to get rid of old files full of subjective, judgemental case notes that wouldn’t be tolerated today, but I agree, what you read shocks me.’

  She thought of Daniel, and sighed. Above her, a bird sang its evening song and a dog howled, setting off others. Lori brought her mind back to the evening ahead. She opened the gate and negotiated the branches sticking out from the bushes that lined the path to the front door. Evidently, Aggie had not had time to prune since she’d arrived back. I could offer to help, she thought. She tucked the pie dish in the crook of her elbow and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come on in, Lori,’ she heard Aggie call out.

  She slid open the flywire door and walked through the lounge room into the kitchen where Aggie stood beside a small gas stove, stirring a large saucepan with a wooden spoon. Aggie put down the spoon and turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Hello, Lori, lovely to see you,’ she exclaimed, reaching out to hug her.

  ‘Hello, Aggie, it’s good to see you too,’ she replied, embracing her. ‘Something smells good. Can I put this pie in the fridge?’

  ‘That looks fancy. Yes, you’ll find room on the top shelf. That’s garlic and onion frying you can smell, lots of it. I’m making spaghetti bolognaise for the church do tomorrow, they’re catering for a council meeting. Perhaps I should put in a little nightshade,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘It’s a frangipani pie,’ she said from behind the fridge door. She closed the door and sat at the kitchen table. ‘A little nightshade, eh. Why’s that?’ she asked, grinning.

  Aggie put the lid on the saucepan and turned down the gas before joining her. ‘The mayor, justifying that terrible sulphur smell from the stack as the price we have to pay for progress, to keep the mines open. There was another letter about it in the paper today. Anyway I shall refrain from the belladonna. So, how have you been? I’ve been looking forward to tonight.’

  ‘I’m good, Aggie, I really want to talk about what happened last month, the vision thing. By the way, did you know belladonna is Italian for beautiful lady? Papa used to grow them, pink lilies, that is, not the poisonous ones.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’

  She looked up recognising the change in Aggie’s tone. Aggie was drifting, it’s what happened prior to their sessions starting. She would fade in and out of their conversation as if she was already somewhere else.

  ‘Shall I set the table, Aggie?’ she asked and watched as Aggie came back.

  ‘Yes. Good. Thank you, Lori, let’s do that and get started. I’ve made a zucchini slice, and salad, all from the garden. It’s too hot for anything else. And I can’t wait to try your pie.’

  ‘I love zucchini slice. Did you know zucchini is Italian from the word for a gourd?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  Over dinner, they chatted about Lori’s Christmas lunch then Aggie’s trip to Perth. Aggie had stayed with her younger sister, Muriel, who’d recently retired from thirty-five years as a clerk in the public service. The main topic of conversation, Aggie told her, was what Muriel saw as the dubious partnerships the government was making with entrepreneurs, and associated scandals. Apparently it had been in all the papers in Perth. She couldn’t remember seeing anything about it in the Kalgoorlie Miner. Aggie assured her that she loved her sister but found it difficult to listen to her constant complaining about how things had changed, and she was glad to come home.

  ‘And truth be told, Lori, since when has it been any different, there are always backroom dealings. Even here.’

  After dinner, they washed up then prepared the room for their session. Lori turned off the kitchen light as Aggie switched on the lamp in the corner, transforming the room with its pink glow. A soft breeze fluttered the lace café curtains at the kitchen window, a promise of relief, the Esperance Doctor, perhaps, blowing in from the far southern coast. Aggie sat at the end of the table and Lori took a seat beside her. She waited for Aggie to lead the meditation.

  ‘Take a deep breath and let it all out,’ Aggie instructed, her voice deepening. ‘Take another deep breath, feeling it go right down to your stomach. As you breathe out, let
go any tensions, and relax. Let them all go. Take another deep breath. And gently close your eyes.’

  Lori relaxed, the soft lilt of Aggie’s voice helping her visualise the opening of her seven chakras, the seven energy centres in her body that she had taught her about. They matched the colours of the rainbow, from red to purple. A book Aggie had given her on chakras described them as ‘centres of spiritual power’ and depicted them as lotus shapes but, like Aggie, she found it easier to imagine them as roses. From what Aggie had said it didn’t really matter what they were as long as she imagined a process of ‘opening up’ the centre of each one, from the bottom of her spine to the top of her head, and visualised light being drawn up through her body with each breath, until it flowed out the top of her head. Every time she did this, she found herself in an altered state. Sometimes it felt like every cell in her body was vibrating faster. At other times she saw colours and images but mostly she felt a profound sense of peace.

  She became aware of Aggie’s voice directing her focus back to the room. Reluctantly, she returned and opened her eyes. She smiled at Aggie. The feeling in the room was, as always, one of safety and love, a cavern of peacefulness. A tingle ran along her arms, and up her neck, a tiny charge of electricity that lifted the hairs on her arms and gave her goosebumps. She laughed. ‘So, what shall we do tonight, Aggie?’

  ‘Do you remember the first time we met and I saw that you could do readings, Lori? Do you want to try reading teacups tonight? And after that we could talk about Kerry.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Aggie corrected herself, ‘I’m sorry, talk about what you saw, rather, and what it means.’ Aggie smiled and laid her hand on top of Lori’s.

  Another tingle flowed over her, more intense this time. Aware that energy was passing from Aggie’s hand into hers, she kept still, feeling a little light-headed. She blinked at Aggie and said, ‘Okay, I’ll try but I might not get anything. Are you going to show me how to do it?’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Aggie assured her, getting up and turning the kitchen light back on. ‘Let’s boil the kettle and make a pot of tea and see what happens. You’ve already opened up so it’s just a matter of allowing it to come through.’

  She watched Aggie make a pot of tea and take down two white china teacups from the kitchen shelf. Without much conversation, they drank their tea, leaving enough in the bottom to whirl the tea-leaves around before tipping the cup upside down in the saucer. She sat back, wide-eyed, and waited.

  ‘There’s a lot of energy around, Lori. Your guide is with you. Can you feel it?’

  She could—she was tingling all over now and there was a warm, reassuring presence, close by, near her left shoulder. An image formed in her mind and she knew who it was—he had appeared before during another session—her guide. ‘Yes, I can feel it.’

  ‘Are you ready to start reading?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her heart pounding.

  Aggie pushed her cup and saucer across the table. Lori pulled it towards herself, took a deep breath and turned the cup over. For a second all she could see were clumps of tea-leaves then, gently, the line between her and her guide shifted; their edges blended and settled, and she saw pictures, images and symbols. The reading began.

  There was no teaching needed—she could read teacups—just explanations and discussions that went long into the night as Lori asked Aggie question, after question, after question.

  The loud flicker of the bedroom blinds so early in the morning announced a change in the weather. Aggie opened one eye and squinted at the bedside clock—seven-thirty—she was usually up by seven but Lori had stayed till midnight and it was nearly one o’clock before she’d fallen asleep. What a lovely night they’d had. She sat up and thought about what her day would bring. Jack would be over later. She looked, as she always did, at the photo of Frank on her dressing table, and said hello. She’s the one, Frank, she told him, she’ll carry on after me.

  And thank goodness, she thought, sliding her feet into her slippers and slipping on her brunch coat. The requests for readings were increasing. She was fully booked next month, including a group session of doctors’ wives next week.

  But Lori would do it differently—she knew that.

  She stood up and opened the venetian blind. Gathering clouds muted the sunlight as they chased each other across the sky, idle threats of rain. It’ll only turn muggy, she thought. A sheet of lightning whitened the sky and a flock of pink galahs protested across it. The early morning perfume of dew-coated roses eased through the window. She breathed deeply and stared into the distance. Lori is the next generation, she thought and it seemed to her that each one made its own meaning of the gift. Many of her generation had made sense of it through Spiritualism but in the new books in the library it was called New Age practices. They sound like the practices of older ages to me, she mused, but Lori would find her own way.

  Last night had been a good start. They’d talked for hours, Lori wanting to know how readings and connecting with spirit guides fitted with the church. She had enjoyed talking about the development of Spiritualism at the turn of the century, the practice of mediumship, table rapping and materialisations and writers such as James Robertson, who’d recorded the practices of spiritualists and their philosophy, and saw Spiritualism as freeing people from the yoke of traditional religions, a way of proving the existence of life after death, no hell or the devil or waiting in the grave for a physical resurrection on Judgement Day.

  Lori had left with Aggie’s tattered old book by Robertson under her arm, Spiritualism: The Open Door to the Unseen Universe, and another book that she’d borrowed from the library, on the mystic St Teresa of Avila. Lori had looked at the books as she walked out the door.

  ‘Aggie, one of these was written nearly a hundred years ago and the other one is about someone who lived over four hundred years ago!’

  She’d chuckled and embraced Lori at the door but as she’d watched her walk down the path she’d felt moved to call out, ‘You know, in the end, there won’t always be an answer to every question. Some things remain a mystery.’

  A clap of thunder startled her. She stepped back from the bedroom window. She’d better get a move on. Jack would be over at ten and she needed to make a batch of scones for morning tea. And she’d better pull out the fan—they could both handle a hundred when it was dry heat but they hated humidity.

  Several hours later there was a knock on the back door.

  ‘Is that scones I can smell, Aggie?’ Jack called from outside the flywire door. He wouldn’t come in until she invited him.

  ‘It is, Jack, come in.’

  Jack stepped through the door and sat at the kitchen table. He looked tired. ‘Going to be muggy, I see you got your fan on. You can smell the rain but it’s not coming any bloody closer,’ he sighed.

  ‘You right, Jack?’

  ‘Bit tired, Aggie, haven’t been sleeping too good.’

  She had noticed his weariness since her return from Perth. She peered at him; he’d picked up her paper from the lawn and was reading the front page. Her focus shifted and she watched the light around his body become visible; it remained faint down his left side. She walked behind him, placed her hand on his left shoulder and sent him healing—blue light from her heart to his. It wasn’t his time, not yet. He glanced up—he’d have felt the warmth—then turned back to the paper.

  ‘Have you heard the rubbish coming out of Donaldson’s mouth? In yesterday’s paper? Leave, if you don’t like it. What nonsense is that?’

  She smiled as she saw the light around Jack swell; she loved seeing people’s auras when they stood up for something they believed in. Jack’s was the first one she ever saw, at a union rally she went to with Frank—like a halo around his head. After a while she’d realised it was only when people spoke from a good heart that they lit up. She’d never seen it behind the mayor.

  ‘There, there, don’t have a heart attack,’ she laughed, then realising what she
’d said, grabbed the kettle. ‘I’ll make the tea. Help yourself to a scone, there’s jam and cream, too.’

  ‘I will, thanks, Aggie. They smell good,’ he said, selecting the biggest scone on the tray. ‘Which is more than I can say for the stack. It is getting worse you know.’

  She sat beside him and picked up a scone.

  ‘I’m against reducing production or risking anyone’s job, Aggie, but they’re going to have to find some way to fix it.’

  ‘And what would you do, Jack?’ she asked, spreading the scone with a thick layer of jam and cream.

  ‘Well, I reckon the company could speak up instead of having Donaldson do their defending. Mind you, there’ll be something in it for him, no doubt. Get people together I reckon, strength in numbers. I mean the workers have got families breathing that stuff in. They’ll have to come to some understanding.’

  She felt herself fading out and a street full of people with banners marched in front of her.

  ‘They will, Jack, they will,’ Aggie reflected, slowly returning. She sat back and enjoyed his company.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Winter nights in the Great Sandy Desert are metal cold. The chill creeps through the town that curls around its edges, settling a ground mist the length of the Golden Mile. Stars glint crisp in the waning moonlight as the night shift workers surface. They shuffle forward as one, their backs aching, eyes squinting, and suck in the cold air, grateful to be above ground. The lights on the poppet heads burn brighter in the thin air, like a string of lighthouses sending out warnings. Unheeding, the next shift prepares to descend. The winders clang, as they have since the turn of the century, sending them under. Kerry sleeps in their shadow but the cold steals into her dreams.

  She dreams of being in a truck afraid to drive it, overwhelmed by its size, unsure of how to start it, unable to find the ignition. It’s cold in the cab and she shivers. She grips the door handle but a man’s voice calls out from behind, then another, yelling encouragement. The truck moves forward and she grips the steering wheel to stay on track. She sticks her head out the window but, seeing no one, turns back to the track ahead and concentrates on steering.