Over Our Heads

by Andrea Thompson

  Jamie Francis asked Just Jack to tell him about the cells the men lived in, and what sort of crappy food they had to eat. Just Jack kept telling his stories, but Emma didn’t want to listen anymore. She could hear noises in the forest, so she decided to go see what was going on. On the other side of the tent, a family of raccoons asked her if she had anything to eat. Emma said no, and the raccoons said, In that case, don’t come any closer. She sat and listened to them for a while, until Lester noticed she was gone, and Just Jack called her back to the campfire to listen to more stories of bad men and pigs that apparently didn’t say anything at all.

  That night, Emma decided that when she grew up she wasn’t going to bother with a house. She’d get a tent instead, and drive around and live wherever she wanted. When she told Just Jack the next day, he laughed and said Mamma Shirley would get a kick out of that one. Emma didn’t give a hoot. “I don’t want to go back home,” she said. “Can’t we just stay here?”

  Just Jack stopped laughing when he saw Emma’s eyes well up. “Sorry girl. No can do Emma-boo. But, we’ll be back next year. For sure.”

  7

  RACHEL WAS STILL SITTING in the car on the driveway of number 66, the engine running. How long had she been there? She had been thinking about thermodynamic systems and lost all sense of time. It had started with the house, or the walls to be precise. As Rachel looked through the windshield, she began to see the collection of smooth stones that formed the exterior of the building as a boundary or membrane that had kept them all contained – as a family, as an isolated system attempting the unattainable state of perfect equilibrium. And the area – the neighborhood, park, and lakeshore had been their environment, their reservoir.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if she had stopped there, but instead, Rachel’s idling mind took it one step further. Next, she began to imagine each of them within the family as their own individual system. This led, quite embarrassingly, to thinking about the four fundamental laws of thermodynamics, and who in the family most resembled each principle.

  Wanda was clearly the first law. Regardless of her transformation from mother to question mark, her total matter and energy had been conserved, and her effect on her family remained constant. While Grandma would be a natural choice for the second law, with her recent embodiment of the process of decay, it was obvious that Emma also did a good job of embodying entropy. She was a natural-born measure of ever increasing disorder, of the inevitable evolution of an isolated system out of balance.

  Rachel shook her head and turned off the engine. What the hell was she doing? The notion of comparing one’s family to fundamental laws of physics was ridiculous. Worse, even, than the latest trend of these principles of hard science being applied to individuals, under the dubious guise of “human thermodynamics,” or the even more esoteric “sociological thermodynamics,” both of which were examples of pseudoscience of the worst kind. Let the bored sociologists and new age fitness gurus use their own terminology for their explanations of social structure and metabolism. A human being was an open, non-equilibrium system, with unknown values, which meant that there was no way to predict the amount of energy that could be either gained or lost. So, naturally, conservation laws could not apply to either individuals, or social configurations. It was impossible, nonsensical - the whole stream of thought. Every minute Rachel had spent on the ridiculous analogy, with the engine running no less, had been a complete waste of time. Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and took a deep breath. She needed to remain focused. There were too many details to attend to.

  They’d have to go through the formalities of the reading of the will in a couple of days, although that shouldn’t be a problem. Sam was coming back home from Florida. He’d keep Grandma’s condo there, no doubt. That was to be expected. He had been living in it for years now. Hustling. That’s what he had said when Rachel asked how he was managing to pay the maintenance fees all this time.

  “You know me, Rach,” he’d said with a wink the last time he was up for Christmas. “I’m a survivor. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. I make ends meet.”

  Rachel knew what that meant. It meant don’t worry and don’t ask unless you really want to know. Whatever business he was into would be shady, for sure. Just this side of legal, though likely sliding over the line every now and then. But Rachel didn’t worry much about Sam. When they were kids, he’d always reminded her of Bugs Bunny. A smarty pants – a wise guy with a good heart. Whatever he was up to, Sam always knew how to land on his feet.

  Rachel turned off the ignition, gathered her briefcase and purse, and opened the car door. Then she stopped abruptly, leaving the door open, as she settled back down in her seat.

  Wanda. Rachel couldn’t see her grandmother including Wanda in the will at all. It had been years since Wanda had taken off, and as far as Rachel knew, Wanda hadn’t bothered to keep in touch in all that time. Grandma had long ago reached a point where she had just given up on her daughter.

  “Even if she comes back, I’m not having her in this house again,” is what Grandma had said one year at Christmas. “You don’t abandon your daughters, so sometimes you’ve got to draw a line,” she had said, removing the plate from the place Emma had set, punctuating her statement with the three words Grandma always used to let people know that regardless of was being talked about, the subject was closed, “And that’s that.”

  Rachel swung her legs around, got out of the car, closed the door with her hip, and walked briskly up the driveway to the house. The cracks in the concrete of the front steps looked wider than the last time she had been there. How long did concrete last before it crumbled? Hopefully, it wouldn’t happen when some unsuspecting potential buyer was on their way in for a showing, disintegrating steps sending them lurching forward and landing face first.

  The money from the house would either be split three ways, or more likely would be left to Rachel and Emma. That would be fair, as the Florida property would be more than likely in Sam’s hands. Getting number 66 liquid was the number one priority. Rachel didn’t imagine it would be hard to get Emma on board. They had their differences, that was for sure. Even at first glance, a stranger could have seen that Rachel and Emma were as polarized as night and day. And, physical appearances aside, they had completely contradictory natures and inclinations.

  The old cliché that distance made the heart grow fonder was definitely true for Rachel when it came to Emma. Everything between them seemed to smooth out as soon as Emma left Toronto and moved back out west. But they were going to be spending a lot of time together in the coming week, so Rachel had to remember to try to not lose her patience. Emma always seemed to forget all the times Rachel had been there for her, had bailed her out. It went with the sensitivity, Rachel supposed. Emma had the typical artist’s temperament – full of mistrust and pointless suffering. She’d be a mess, no doubt, without Grandma around, and would want to hold on to every last piece of memorabilia. Sentimentality would take over. There would be tears. That’s where Rachel would come in to keep her on track, to take care of the details, and get things sorted out for them both. At least after the house was sold, Emma would have some money in her bank account.

  Rachel looked at the clock on her phone as she stood in front of the door to the house. Emma would be late, as always. That way she could make an entrance and make sure that, for a moment, she got that hit of attention she seemed to crave. At least she’d given up her fantasy of being a rock star. Emma hadn’t made a cent on that whim, even though she had plugged away at it for years. Even if she had the talent, the odds were against her, as the chances of a person without money or connections making a success of life in the music business were slim to none. But now, with her newest venture, it seemed that Emma had completely lost her grip on reality. God only knows why she chose the evening of Grandma’s passing to make her big announcement. They had been sitting at Rachel’s dining-room table, having take-out from Am
ato’s Pizza.

  “I’ve finally found my calling,” Emma had announced, as Rachel divided up the roasted garlic that had come with their salad. “Now, you’re going to think it’s stupid, but I just want you to know that you’re not going to have to worry about me any more. You know, with money,” she said. “Really Rachel, this is it. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised it took me so long to realize what I should be doing with my life. In hindsight, it’s so obvious. It’s not quite enough now to cover my rent, but my clientele is growing by the day. I know, I mean maybe this isn’t really what we should be talking about now. But in a way, you know, it sort of makes sense. Like it’s some sort of Lazarus moment. The whole phoenix from the flames thing, you know?” Emma added, in a tone that had reminded Rachel of old black-and-white movies, as she’d pushed her clove across her plate, through a field of mixed greens. “I feel it tonight. Maybe it’s grief or the wine talking, but I feel like this day, with Grandma going to spirit, because that’s all it is really, just a transformation of forms from solid to spirit. Well, now – it’s sort of like she’s left us both with a space in our life. A vacancy that we can now fill with whatever we want. You know what I mean?”

  Rachel had nodded, making the appropriate sounds to indicate listening and comprehension. She’d known better than to think Emma was drunk. Nope. Only half a glass had been consumed over the last hour. Nachos and salsa before the pizza came. Two slices. Salad. Nope, this was Emma sober, beaming her esoteric light from the far reaches of her home planet, Woowoo 7.

  Rachel stood on her grandmother’s porch, remembering that night. She searched her purse with annoyance for the key to the house, thinking that in hindsight, this last statement of Emma’s must have been a set-up – a way to set the stage for the announcement of some sort of normal vocation. That and the use of the word “clientele.” Sneaky Emma. Naturally, it had been a relief, for that brief moment, to believe that at long last, Emma had stopped floating around the stratosphere of magical thinking, and had settled back down to earth. But no – pow – sucker-punch.

  “I’m going to be a pet psychic,” Emma had said, with an inappropriate glee.

  “A what?”

  “Don’t laugh, Rachel.”

  “I’m not laughing, Emma.” Rachel popped a bud of garlic into her mouth, and sucked on it. She had wanted to laugh. Instead, she’d tossed the clove over, from one side of her mouth to the other, trying to give her cheeks something else to do. “Pet psychic? So you’re going to read minds now? Dog and cat minds? And birds? Are you going to do birds, too, or is it more a mammal-focused sort of practice? Would you call it a practice, or maybe more an art form? So you’re going to be a psychic for pets? Huh. Didn’t see that coming. Though come to think of it, there was that time at the zoo with the apes.” Rachel reached for another clove of garlic, and popped it in her mouth. She’d thought it best to keep her tongue busy.

  “No,” Emma said, looking hurt – her forte. “I mean, yes. Yes and no. I mean, it’s not really being psychic. Animal Communicator is what I’m going to put on my business cards. I mean anyone can do it. Animals talk to us all the time.”

  Rachel glanced up at the clock.

  “No really, Rachel, it’s scientific. Our thoughts create electromagnetic brain waves that travel through the air, and that we can pick up on. Everyone can sense it, but most people tell themselves they can’t, so when it happens, they excuse it away.” Emma had started talking faster, as if speed would somehow make her more credible. “It’s not magic. It’s just paying attention, or inter-species communication if you want to get technical about it. That’s what my poem ‘Listen’ was about. I was going to record it for our next lit-pop fusion CD but then the band broke up for a while. Plus, Lester was driving me crazy. Sorry.”

  Thinking about that conversation as she stood on the porch of the house, Rachel started to sweat. The key to her grandmother’s house was not in its usual compartment. She felt around inside her purse for a while, eventually dumping it out on the patio chair beside the door. The key rattled to the ground, along with the rest of the contents.

  It must have been shock, Rachel thought of Emma’s rambling that night. There had been not one mention of the fact that Emma had never called from the hospital when she should have. Instead, she had gone on and on about this pet psychic nonsense. Nothing about what happened that night with Grandma. No explanation at all.

  Emma had played with her salad. As soon as she had stopped, Rachel cleared the plates, loaded the dishwasher, and called it a night. She asked Emma if she wanted to stay over. Told her she could if she wanted. Suggested she maybe would prefer to go back to Lester’s. Rachel didn’t care anymore. Lester had been in Toronto for years now. He said he needed to be away from his old friends, who were still using in Vancouver, but Rachel knew better – he needed to get away from Emma, her endless needs and the way she kept Lester handy like a loyal lap-dog.

  “Anyway, I got the inspiration for the poem from a time when I was out in the backyard at Grandma’s, lying in the grass and listening to the birds. I just stayed there until all the thoughts emptied out of my head, and then all of a sudden I heard them,” Emma said.

  “Who? You heard who?” Rachel asked. At least Emma entertained when she rambled. She was a born performer. A regular Judy Garland. Just don’t laugh at her. Then she’d be upset. Then the tears would come.

  Emma laughed. Rachel turned away.

  “The birds! I heard the birds. I mean, they were there all along of course, but with all the noise in my head, I couldn’t hear them until I emptied my mind. I used to be able to hear them when I was younger, but I’d forgotten about it. I’d forgotten how to listen.”

  “So the birds spoke to you in the backyard one day, and now you want to get people to pay you to tell them what their pet is thinking?” Rachel had no need for the garlic anymore. The urge to laugh had vanished. Instead, something inside went quiet. The word “charlatan” had come to mind. Likely Emma didn’t see it that way. More probable was that Emma believed she really was helping people with her magic extrasensory powers. It made Rachel nervous to watch Emma veer so close to the edge of rational. One more step and – what? What would happen if Emma lost it completely? Why did that thought still fill Rachel with dread? It wasn’t just because she’d be the one to have to look after her. No, it was more than that. It was a feeling that if Emma strayed too far from sane, it would be the loose piece of yarn pulled, the mistake realized too late, until the whole sweater unravelled.

  “Well no. Not that time. Not in words or pictures or anything. But yes. I mean yes, the birds did sort of speak to me, you know. Just in birdsong. They were calling back and forth to each other. They were talking, exchanging information. They gossiped, they giggled. It was beautiful.” Emma had beamed, like the events of the day had never happened. Was it Joanne Woodward who played Sybil in that movie? No. Sally Field. Woodward was the psychiatrist. It was in The Three Faces of Eve that Woodward had played the starring role of the nut-job.

  “So the birds told you to be a pet psychic?”

  “Animal Communicator. Now listen, Rachel, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. I mean, it’s not like I think I have magic powers or something. I’m sure anyone could do it if they really put their mind to it. It’s just that for me it comes naturally.” Emma had said, her voice wavering slightly.

  Rachel was about to open the door to old 66, when she remembered the mail. She hadn’t checked the box when she was at the house last Friday. Do it now, she told herself, before you forget. Rachel had a lot of details to attend to, and something like retrieving the mail could easily fall through the cracks. Maybe there was an overdue bill Grandma hadn’t paid, or some infomercial jewellery she’d ordered – which Rachel would have to return, of course. She checked the mailbox. It was empty.

  Rachel supposed that she should count her blessings that at least Emma hadn’t fallen apart that night a
t her condo. And it had sounded like people were willing to pay for her “special skills.” Her clientele were crazy cat ladies, no doubt. Not that Rachel wanted to dwell on the topic. Light conversation, that’s what she thought they’d have that night. Having dinner together had made sense at the time. They were the ones that had been left behind. The bereaved descendants of the dearly departed.

  “You think you can read minds? That doesn’t sound a little crazy to you?” It had come out more cutting, crueler than Rachel had intended.

  “It’s not crazy,” Emma had replied, defiantly. “I’ve already had six sessions, and all my clients have been thrilled. They’ve written references. I’ve posted them on my website. Really, it’s not anything magical. Anyone could do it if they tried, but people think it’s not possible, so they don’t bother – don’t listen to what they’re being told. For me, the information doesn’t often come in words. Usually I just get this sense, more of an overall impression. Sometimes I see images, like I’m being sent a snapshot of some incident. And sometimes it’s like a movie clip – I’ll see the whole scene unfold until it becomes clear what the problem is. Like for instance, there was this dog, George, that kept peeing on the rug, well it turns out…”

  “You have a website? A pet psychic website?” Rachel was getting nervous. If this was how Emma planned to support herself, she’d burn through her inheritance in no time. Wasn’t losing Grandma enough to deal with in one day? Rachel had tried to be positive. It could be worse, she’d supposed. Emma could be claiming to communicate with the dead or with UFOs. Yes, it could have been worse. Most likely, Rachel had thought, it was only a flash in the pan, a whim that Emma would abandon with time.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be going back to Vancouver. I might just stay here for a while,” Emma said, lowering her eyes as if looking for approval.