I looked down at her and made the concession that there are times when even really smart people say really dumb things. “No, believe me, I know the difference. The feeling that came with it was indescribable. Sheer terror. The kind of fear…” My voice cracked and I couldn’t go on. I didn’t have to. My hands came up to my head as if trying to block out a memory that was trying to take root.
“Okay, so it was just an isolated sound. Maybe there are other noises, background noises that might help you to identify a place. Let’s try to focus by doing more mind exercises.”
“The Zenner deck?” How in the world were the cards going to help me? It didn’t matter, at that point I’d try anything.
“We’ll start with that. Then move on to a few more drills that I’ve read about.”
It was scary how good at the Zenner deck I was becoming. So after only a few tries we moved on to other exercises.
This time Berkley wanted to work on relaxation techniques. Not quite hypnotism, but in the same vein. Relax enough to let the mind focus on its own. She did them with me so it felt more like just hanging out with a friend than trying to find a shooter.
We started by taking deep breaths in through the nose then exhaling through the mouth. It’s a cool activity. As we did this we focused on releasing stress in by starting at the first chakra point top of the head. We continued through all the chakra points until all stress completely dissipated.
If nothing else by the end of our ‘session’ I felt a lot better and was much less tense.
Still, I knew no more about the shooting.
“Okay, you can’t be the only game in town.”
Game? Berkley thought this was some sort of game? “What do you mean?”
“There has to be another psychic somewhere in the vicinity and maybe if we go see this person…”
“Brilliant. Berkley, you always know the right thing to do.” I hugged her fiercely.
“Let’s check this out online. Yahoo’s yellow pages should have the info we need.” A few mouse clicks later and the address of closest local fortuneteller was being placed into Mapquest. Seconds later we had step by step directions.
It wouldn’t be a short walk, so we decided to take our bikes. I mean, it’s not like I was going to ask my parental unit for a ride. Hey Mom, I want to check out the local competition and see if I can get some help solving a crime. Oh yeah, that would go over big.
By the time we got there we were both a little winded because Tower Hill Road definitely had the word ‘hill’ in it for a reason. It’s one rise after another like the bumps on a roller coaster. Walking it isn’t bad, but biking up the inclines is just short of masochistic.
We should have turned around the second we laid eyes on Madame Charlotte’s humble abode. The neon light in the window was of a palm. A marquis that looked older than me was somehow attached to the porch, which had been peeling paint for at least the past few years.
Madame Charlotte either wasn’t getting much business or she wasn’t psychic enough to put what she was making to good use.
The steps creaked as we walked up, but it didn’t alert the people inside to the fact that they had guests. The doorbell had a piece of cardboard taped over it so I knocked loudly on the edge of the screen.
A woman in her mid to late twenties came to the door and solemnly ushered us in. The inside of the house needed as much TLC as the outside did.
The entranceway had dingy white walls that not only needed to be repainted, but could have used washing. There were dirt marks and fingerprints that looked like they’d been there for years. The floor had old mop streaks covered with a layer of dirt, which crunched under our feet as we made our way inside.
Berkley and I both looked at the woman who didn’t seem much cleaner than the house, and expected her to slither off to another room to get Madame Charlotte.
She didn’t.
Instead, she guided us into what should have been the living room and pointed to a long table. She motioned to the chairs indicating we should sit. At this point I was wondering if she was mute, but who knows maybe she thought it added to the mystique?
Then she gave us a sheet of paper with rates and suddenly I felt a little speechless myself. Okay, so this was going to cost. The cheapest thing on the list was the short palm reading (as opposed to the long one) –fifteen minutes for fifteen dollars.
Berkley looked at me and shrugged, evidently she lost her voice too.
“So ladies, are you both wanting to know about your futures?” Charlotte asked.
I was a little surprised to actually hear her voice, I’m not sure what I had expected, but the high-pitched squeaky sound that came from her body seemed incongruous and did nothing for her credibility.
Berkley and I looked at each other again, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, I figured since it was my problem, I’d have to be the one to present it. “Um... It’s not so much the whole future we’re interested in. Actually we need help with a question.”
“Say no more,” she said theatrically with a wide arm gesture. “You’re here for the same reason any woman comes here. You want to know about Mr. Right,” and she smiled as if she had us dead on.
Berkley made a face and I used all the focus I had to impart what we were really there for.
She didn’t get the message.
It took all of about three seconds to realize that Madame Charlotte should have been called Madame Charlatan.
Once again Berkley to the rescue. “Can we keep a copy of these rates? We were really only here to see if we could buy a reading for a birthday present.” Madame Charlotte smiled and went toward the table that held the rates and reached into a drawer for a gift certificate.
“But we don’t have the money with us today. We’ll be back though, that is if we can get a card.”
Madame Charlotte stared like she didn’t believe it at first, but since we didn’t have money to spend today she picked up a card and handed it to Berkley. “Sure, I can make out a gift certificate any time you want.”
“Great, we’ll be back some time next week.” Berkley and I both jumped up and made a beeline for the door.
“Still think it was a brilliant idea?” she asked when we were outside and out of earshot.
I laughed. “Well it would have been if she had actually been psychic. I wonder how many people claim to be psychics that aren’t and how many really are and hide the fact?”
There were probably more situations like that then not. I mean, I so didn’t want anyone to know, but I’d seen kids in the past pretend that they had special powers.
“Good question. Not one we’re likely to find the answer to though. Think we should look for another?”
There wasn’t any point. We didn’t need to go on a psychic seeking wild goose chase.
“No. I’ll just have to see what happens the next time I dream.”
I rubbed the cameo that I was starting to wear all the time and the word ‘focus’ echoed through my head.
“Berkley, what did you just say?” I asked knowing full well that the voice hadn’t been hers.
“I asked if you wanted to see another psychic and you said no.”
“You didn’t say anything after that?”
She flung her leg over the side of her bike and half sat on the seat while her other foot rested firmly on the ground. She seemed to think about it before it dawned on her that if I hadn’t heard her, then I must have heard someone else.
“No. Why? Did you hear something after that? Because if you did, then you’ll have moved beyond the dream state. You heard the popping in your sleep. You’re not sleeping now.” The excitement in her voice was tangible.
I didn’t want to encourage it though. Who knows what I thought I heard. Maybe it was just my conscious. So I lied. I was getting good at it. “No, I didn’t hear anything else. I just thought you said something and I missed it.”
She looked at me like I was losing it. More than likely I was.
Chapter Eleven
I can’t even explain my mother’s reaction to the portrait of my grandmother. There were so many stages – first it was shock. I’m not sure why, because I told her about the painting before she saw it. I mean, unlike me, at least she had a heads up.
Then her eyes began to fill up and she went through the mushy stage thinking about her mom, young and vibrant in the portrait – and now gone. She wiped her eyes and gained control over her emotions, then began to look at the portrait more critically.
This I especially watched, being a bit prejudiced in Robby’s favor. I mean, it might have been his great-uncle that painted it, but Robby’s paintings were the exact same style and just as good, so I knew if she liked this one, she’d enjoy Robby’s work too.
“I never realized how much you look like my mother.”
I’d been hoping for gushing compliments on the painting. “Weird, isn’t it?”
My mom glanced back to me. “I always thought you resembled me a little more than your dad, but you look much more like Grandma than you do me.”
“You never noticed it before? You must have seen pictures of your mom when she was young.” I mean, hello, how could she not have known?
“Sure, but none of them were exactly… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. In this painting at the exact age that you are now… it’s just closer of a resemblance than I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the painting rather than an old black and white faded photo. It’s so life-like.” She admired the painting a few more seconds. “Any chance he’d be willing to sell this?”
I knew she’d want it. I wanted it myself. But I also knew what it meant to Robby. “Not a chance. But maybe we can talk him into making a copy.”
I told her the history behind the photo and was surprised to see she didn’t know all Gram’s secrets. So much for the tight relationship she swore they had.
Then I felt guilty for thinking that. I’m sure they were close. It’s probably just not the thing that comes up in everyday conversation. Especially since that part of Grandma’s life had been over for a long time.
Then I thought about my mom and dad. “Mom, you didn’t have any long forgotten fiancé before Dad, did you?”
She took her hands and messed up my hair the way you’d do with a child. “No, I was never actually engaged, but I had a few steady relationships before your dad.” She smiled and I wondered for a second who she was thinking of.
“Once I met him, I didn’t have eyes for anyone else. It was the same for your dad, except he was seeing someone else at the time. And it was fairly serious, at least on her part. He broke it off after he met me.”
“That’s harsh. I feel bad for the girl.”
“Don’t. Last I heard she went on to become a doctor, married a plastic surgeon or something and still looks like she’s twenty.”
We laughed but I knew from her expression that wasn’t the only reason she considered the woman lucky. Her husband wasn’t dead. I knew my mom didn’t care about looking younger or having a big money career. She just wanted her husband back and that was the one thing she couldn’t have.
I changed the subject. “Wait until Robby does the portrait. Can you imagine seeing them side-by-side? He’s awesome Mom.”
“Hmm… He’s awesome or his painting is?”
Leave it to my mother to notice semantics. I couldn’t help it. I actually felt myself blush. “Both.”
“Come on, spill it girl. Tell me all about him,” she said as she sort of elbowed me in the arm.
“You’ll find out soon enough. He’s coming over after supper tomorrow to do some quick sketches. I figured it’d be a chance for the two of you to meet and then you’ll have some sort of idea how long it will take to create a dress like the one in the picture.”
I felt guilty saying it like that. Not, ‘Will you make a dress for me?’ I’d just stated it like she’d put aside everything she had to do and make a dress because she knew how and because I wanted one. The strange thing is I not only knew she’d do it, but also knew she wouldn’t complain about it either.
That’s just how Mom was. She wanted to be involved and got souped whenever I let her.
“We could go to the fabric store tonight. I should be able to get a similar pattern for a bridesmaid dress. It looks pretty simple. The tough part will be trying to find fabric similar in shade and texture.”
My mother hadn’t looked this excited since she had to sew my little lamb costume for the first grade play. But if I had to be honest, I was keyed-up too. There was a link being formed between my mother, my grandmother, and myself. The project bound the three of us together tighter than we’d ever been before. Strange, since my grandmother was dead and all.
****
The night Robby came over I changed my outfit three times and still wasn’t happy with what I had on. Stupid really. Robby had seen me at school and would know that I was wearing something different. Nothing like saying ‘I’m trying to impress you.’
And of course there was the other reason – he was only sketching my head and neck – my outfit had nothing to do with these sketches, which were just for him to get angles and expressions.
I’d never been sketched before so I really didn’t know what it entailed and didn’t much care. I only knew he was coming to my house and wouldn’t be taking his eyes off me. Now let’s face it, how could it get much better than that?
While I was trying on every outfit in the closet my mother was going on a cleaning rampage. You’d have thought the house was going to be inspected. It was weird because she normally didn’t go this spastic about meeting a potential boyfriend. If anything, she was usually the one to do the inspecting.
When the doorbell finally rang there was enough nervous energy to make the first few minutes a little uncomfortable. Robby calmed us both with the same reassuring voice his father used with his patients. I wonder if he learned that from his dad? Or was it just inherent and inherited? Either way, ten minutes in and that awkward newness evaporated, and we were all relaxed with each other.
Robby looked around for the best light and settled his easel down near the large picture window in the living room. There was tract lighting overhead and he had me turn it to the highest setting.
Mom fixed my hair the way Grandma had worn it all those years ago in the painting. Rob tilted my head into the position he desired then stepped behind the easel.
It was a little like playing peek-a-boo. Every so often I’d catch sight of his eyes peeking to the side of the sketchpad then they’d disappear behind it. I’d wait, anxiously, almost breathlessly until his eyes peered back at me again.
I have to admit it was a little uncomfortable knowing I was being more than just looked at. I was being studied.
He scrutinized the curve of my neck, the lines of my face. Analyzed my features so that he knew them better than I did myself. Another connection built between Robby and me. A kind of intimacy I’d never felt with any other boy.
Instinctively, I brought my hand up to touch the necklace and felt an odd sort of peace.
“Eh, um, don’t change the pose, - although,” he stopped and thought for a second. “I like that one.”
He said the words softly and they surrounded me like a caress. Stepping back he turned the page on the sketchpad and started another. Quickly, intently his arms flailed and I could hear his breath. It was as if he needed to hurry or I’d disappear from view.
A few minutes later he turned the page again and started another sketch of the same pose. He did a series of quick five-minute sketches telling me to turn my head this way and that and suddenly stopped like the wind had been let out of his sails.
“I think that’s enough to get started with,” he said as my mother walked into the room. She must have been hovering around nearby, most likely with her ear plastered to the wall just waiting for the right moment.
She walked directly to the easel and gasped. “Robby, it’s beautiful.”
“I’d s
ay realistic, but I’d be patting myself on the back.”
“Very realistic,” my mom said as I walked over to get a glimpse of the preliminaries.
You know those defining moments? This was one of them. When I looked at the sketch I saw myself as Robby saw me and as my mother saw me, and for the first time in my life I felt - beautiful.
Not spoiled little daddy’s girl pretty or having a good hair day attractive, but nice person on the inside beautiful emanating out. There was something about the sketch that showed character and I wondered if I could live up to their image of me.
*****
Finding a similar pattern to the one in the painting was almost too simple. It seems bridesmaid’s dresses haven’t changed that much over the years. Or at least the classic ones haven’t. As my mother predicted, the material was another matter.
Luckily, it was as important to my mom to get it accurate as it was to me. Which meant we tried fabric shop after fabric shop, and finally traveled to an exclusive place not far from Boston.
We ended up making a day of it and did a little shopping in Fanuel Hall. By the time we made the trek home our energy levels were low, but we were both so excited to get the dress made that we went ahead anyway.
Midnight approached and I was so anxious I could barely stand it. I watched on as my mother slowly, patiently created a masterpiece.
I didn’t want to rush her or bug her so that she’d end up making a mistake, but it was making me crazy just standing there. Finally, when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, she finished the dress.
She held it up and we were both barely breathing. Perfect. It was a perfect match. “Try it on.” She shoved the dress at me and fled. “I’m going to get the camera. I want a picture of you in the dress standing next to the painting.”
“Good idea.” I gingerly draped the dress over the back of the chair and stripped down to my underwear right there in the family room.
No alterations of any kind would need to be made. It even felt perfect on. I grabbed my white scrunchy and pulled my hair high on top of my head. I’d have to take some time with it for the portrait, but for now at least it was up and out of the way.
My mother stopped in her tracks in the doorway. “Wow.” Her hand shot up to her chest and she seemed at a loss for words.
Salem's Sight Page 9