by Sean Platt
Danny comes home at 5:20.
I greet him with a kiss, dressed and ready to see the psychic. He drives, while I try accessing Charles’s memories to see why we’re going. But like the rest of the day before now, I can’t find anything. I don’t want to ask, as I’m sure the reason is important to Danny, and if Charles has forgotten, it might injure him or their relationship. Like forgetting a birthday or something.
When I picture a psychic’s shop, I imagine a mysterious ancient building tucked away in a dark wooded area. A handful of creepy decorations outside, crystal balls, totems, or other supernatural items to create a specific strain of atmosphere.
Madam Monique’s shop couldn’t defy my expectations more. It’s located in a relatively new and upscale-looking town center offering all the latest trends: overpriced faux-French furniture, eclectic clothes, foodie havens, and esoteric boutiques.
Her shop is tucked between an artisan ice cream parlor and a shop called Berceuse Lullaby with lifelike child mannequins in the window frozen mid-frolic in fashionable clothes. The kids look eerily dead, like some psycho child killer’s staging of a crime scene, but hey, what do I know?
Madam Monique’s windows aren’t painted black or covered in drapes like I imagined. They’re large and open, revealing a small, modern shop that could easily belong to a realtor.
I find myself disappointed that there’s no attempt at atmosphere. I don’t know if this makes the Madam more or less suspect.
We go inside.
The front part of the shop is empty save for a few chairs gathered around a coffee table with magazines to approximate a small waiting room. There’s a front counter, and behind that, a door, which I imagine leads to the real show.
A young black woman stands behind the counter, wearing trendy clothes and a hipster hat. “Hello, Danny,” she says, smiling as she looks from him to me. “And this must be Charles.”
She reaches out to shake my hand.
I shake it.
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
I don’t know who she is, so I can’t exactly say the same thing. Is she a receptionist, or Madam Monique herself?
“This is Staci,” Danny says, relieving my confusion.
“Hi, Staci,” I say.
“So, are you ready for your first reading?”
So that’s what’s going on. I don’t know why I would’ve expected something other than a reading; why else would you go to a psychic? But for some reason, I hadn’t put two with two for the obvious answer.
I nod, unable to hide my nervous grin.
“It’s okay,” Staci says, “you’re not the first skeptic or the last. But I have a feeling you’ll change your tune once she talks with you.”
“I’ll try and be open-minded.” It’s an absolute lie. I’m already contemplating the ways which this “reading” will be rigged. Will she pretend to know things about me, when, in fact, Danny unwittingly supplied her with plenty of information?
I look over at Danny, grinning like an eager puppy, or maybe a dumb rube.
He’s so excited for me to experience this thing that’s changed him, I feel kind of guilty. He’s not sharing this with Charles, but with me. While I can sense Charles’s skepticism, perhaps he was a bit more open or at least pretending to be for Danny. And worse, Charles will likely have no recollection of this event, which means no matter what happens, I’m robbing this couple of an important memory — one that could be foundation building, or decaying.
But it’s too late to try and get out of this now.
Staci says, “Come on, she’s waiting.”
Danny grabs my hand and leads me back into Madam Monique’s lair.
The back of the shop delivers what I was expecting — new age music, enough lit candles to fill a cathedral, sweet burning incense. Dark purples, reds, and black fabrics drape the walls, and ebony shelves are lined with crystals, dream catchers, and statues. The main attraction sits in the middle of the room — a black medium-sized circular table with a large crystal ball, tarot cards, totems that mean nothing to me. Five seats surround it.
And then there is Monique.
She is an old black woman wearing long flowing silks and a blue scarf around her long, surprisingly dark dreads. She’s at least eighty, maybe much older. I wonder if her age lends to her authenticity with the locals.
Her eyes are closed.
I’m not sure if she’s nodded off or if this is her attempt at drama.
I look at Danny. He’s looking at Monique like she’s a maternal figure in his life. Maybe she is. From the scant memories I’ve seen, he’s led a difficult life until recently. He’s happy now. I wonder if it’s because of his relationship with Charles, or some revelation reached by Madam Monique.
His happy look sours my stomach. I don’t want this woman to be a fake, but how could she be anything but? I won’t go so far as to say that the world has no genuine clairvoyants — my existence is proof of unexplainable phenomena — but there is no way even a hundredth of the so-called psychics out there looking to charge you for their spiritual guidance are genuine. The odds are damn strong that Madam Monique is another charlatan robbing an innocent rube and telling him what he wants to hear.
I hate her.
Staci invites us to sit down then leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Danny sits beside the woman.
He motions for me to sit on her other side, leaving two chairs empty. I don’t want to sit that close to Madam Monique, but do as instructed.
Her hands are folded in her lap, and she still has her eyes closed. I’m weary of the act already. I’m tempted to say, “Hello!” nice and loud, with no social grace whatsoever.
But I remain quiet, respectful for Danny.
She opens her eyes.
She looks at Danny and smiles. “Danny,” she says warmly.
She turns to me, and for a second I see her smile falter. Even at only a flash I recognize what it is — a look of judgment.
Does she disapprove of my relationship with Danny because I’m black and he’s white? I can see in Charles’s memories how some of his older relatives had treated him when he went out with white girls, back when he was still trying to convince himself he wasn’t gay.
Maybe she’s not prejudiced. Maybe she recognizes me as a skeptic. She sees that pulling the wool over my eyes won’t be as easy as it was with poor, sweet Danny.
No, ma’am, the gravy train has come to its final stop. You’ll not be exploiting Danny any longer. Not after I expose you for what you are.
In the space of that look I’ve gone from wanting to maintain Danny’s illusion to hoping I can break it. I feel compelled to protect him. He’s not my lover, but I have feelings for him just the same. An urge to watch over him and protect him from predators like this.
“And you must be Charles?”
“Yes,” I say smiling as if to say, I’ve got your card, Sister.
“Danny says that you’d like a reading?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, then. Let us all hold hands, shall we?”
I look at Danny, still grinning like a naive idiot who thinks this woman is about to convince me. Convince me of what, I’m not sure. Why Charles needs to believe in this mystical stuff, I don’t know. But he has so much hope in his eyes.
Danny takes the madam’s hand.
I reach out and take Danny’s, warm to the touch.
Then I take Madam’s.
A spark of static electricity jumps between us.
I snap my hand back, embarrassed at how much it hurt, but trying not to make too big of a deal.
Madam Monique laughs. “Ah, you’ve got a live wire here.”
Danny laughs.
She holds out her hand again for me to take.
Again, she closes her eyes.
She starts mumbling something. I’m not sure if it’s in another language, or gibberish, or maybe some variation of “Oh, what fools we have with us today. Plea
se, Almighty Dollar, help me separate them from their funds in the most momentous of ways.”
I look at Danny to find that he’s closing his eyes, too. Is this some kind of prayer circle?
I keep my eyes open. If we’re going to do a seance or summon spirits, or some other nonsense, I want to see the strings moving furniture around.
A long silence follows the mumbling. Danny’s eyes are still closed. It all feels ritualized. I wonder if other psychics do things this way or if this is Madam Monique’s personal brand of crazy.
“All right,” she says, opening her eyes, “we may begin.”
Madam Monique looks down at the tarot cards as if she’s considering a reading, but then her hands move toward the crystal ball as if drawn by magnets. She moves her hands over the glass in practiced, fluid motions, fingers gliding a hair from the surface. It’s hard not to be mesmerized by her showmanship.
I watch the ball, not sure what to expect. Will it glow? Will it fill with smoke? It’s completely clear, and to me, looks like an ordinary glass globe supported by a fancy black and gold stand.
She’s looking into the ball, lips twitching as she mumbles.
I look up at Danny. His eyes are on the ball, entranced.
“You are at a crossroads,” she says.
I chuckle inside. Just the sort of vague statement that anyone can interpret to mean more than the madam is saying. I wonder if this is the type of mystical wisdom that has fooled Danny into thinking she was the real deal. So far, I’m not impressed.
“You’re tormented over your choices. Unsure of what to do.”
Again, that could be true of anyone. I look at Danny. He’s looking at me, likely trying to gauge whether I’m convinced.
A suspicion crosses my mind. I wonder if Danny and the psychic are in on this together. Maybe he told her that he wanted me to come out, so she said, “Bring him here; I’ll convince him.”
I meet Danny’s eyes, searching for any sign of his duplicity. He looks too sweet, too naive, to ever lie to me like that.
I look back down at the ball, waiting for Madam to say something else.
“Oh,” she says, her face twisting as if she’s seen something she wishes she hadn’t.
Ah, here comes the part where she reels me in with some artificial vision.
Her face continues to contort, her hands now on the ball as if stuck. Danny is looking at her, brow knotted in confusion, or maybe in concern. This isn’t part of the usual show.
“So much blood,” she says.
I swallow, sure I didn’t hear what I think I heard.
I wonder if I should interrupt. Danny must be reading my mind, as he gives me a look telling me to hold tight.
“Allie needs you.”
I feel as if someone has hit me in the chest, hard enough to stop my heart. I stare at Madam Monique as she turns to me.
Her eyes widen.
“You’re not Charles. Why are you here?”
She looks terrified, hands now off the ball, arms crossing her chest as if ready to defend against an attack, from me.
“What?” Danny asks.
“Huh?” She raises a hand to her head. “Oh … I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Can we reschedule?”
I’m not ready to leave. “What did you see?”
She starts to get up, eager to get as far away from me as possible.
I can’t let her go. There’s no way this can be a coincidence. She sees that I’m not Charles. She saw Allie. She saw the blood.
I grab her arm.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide on me, shocked by my touch.
She pulls back, nearly falling over, pushing herself back from the table and toward a door behind the room.
“Are you okay?” Danny asks, his face wracked with confusion, his eyes darting between Madam and me.
“Yes, yes, I just need to rest. Please, reschedule with …” She seems to forget her assistant’s name. “Get with Staci, and reschedule.”
She rushes through the door, closes it behind her. I hear the deadbolt turning.
I go to the door, bang on it. “Please, Madam, I need answers.”
She doesn’t respond.
I bang again.
“Charles!” Danny grabs my arm and pulls me away from the door.
I ignore him.
“Madam, please. I need to know what you saw.”
Still no response.
The door behind us opens. Staci is standing there.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Danny tells her. “She said some weird things, then that her head hurt. She asked us to go.”
“I think she saw something in my future that scared her,” I say, manufacturing a lie to explain my urgency. I can’t come right out and ask how she knows I’m not Charles. But I can pretend that I’m scared by her glimpse of my future. “I need to know what she saw.”
“Madam wasn’t feeling good this morning.” Staci gives us a polite smile. “I’m sorry. Just call me, and we’ll reschedule, for free.”
But I don’t want to leave. I can’t reschedule. I’m sure I won’t be here tomorrow.
“Come on,” Danny says, tugging on my arm.
Judging from the way he’s looking at me, my assertiveness is out of character. I need to walk away, reconsider my options.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “of course. Let’s reschedule. The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll call you later, Daniel. Right now, I need to tend to Madam.”
“Of course,” Danny says. “Tell her we hope she’s feeling better.”
We leave.
Our walk to the car is quiet. So is the ride home.
Halfway to our apartment, Danny asks, “Who is Allie?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
Danny is quiet. I don’t think he believes me.
I’m not sure what to say, so every thought stays inside me. I’m trying to suss things out in my head. What did she see? Did she see what happened with Lara or Vinnie? Or did she see something in the future, or maybe happening to Allie right now?
So much blood. Allie needs you.
Could she have seen Allie’s blood? Is that monster hurting her now? Or is it something he’s going to do? Can Madam Monique see the future? She certainly saw Allie’s name and said I wasn’t Charles. I can hardly believe it, but she is the real deal. And I need to talk to her again.
Danny is quiet as he drives, his wheels turning.
“Why did she say you’re not Charles?”
“I don’t know why she said any of that crazy stuff,” I say, desperate for Danny to believe me. “The thing about blood? That name? None of it makes any sense.”
“Do you know an Allie?”
I see fear on his face. Maybe he thinks I’m cheating on him, or perhaps that Allie is some old flame I’m still thinking of.
I shake my head. “No … I don’t think so.”
“Allie Martin.”
I pretend not to remember the name. “Who?”
“The missing girl in Washington. Her name is Allie Martin.”
“Yeah, but what could that have to do with me?” I say, hoping he doesn’t think I’m involved in a kidnapping, hoping that Charles hadn’t recently disappeared for a few days, or taken a trip to Washington.
A horrifying thought hits me like a hammer. What if Charles is somehow involved? What if that is his connection to everything, and why I’m in his body?
No. That theory doesn’t feel right at all.
Danny is thinking about something. As we pull into our driveway, he finally says it.
“Your dream about that abducted girl. Do you think you were dreaming about Allie? That you’re somehow connected?”
I stare out the window, at our apartment, and I wonder if I should tell Danny everything. I’ve wanted someone to confide in for so long, to unburden myself, to get honest advice, to hear someone else’s theories on what might be happening to me. I’ve lived hundreds of lives, and have been around t
housands of different people, and yet I might be the planet’s loneliest soul. I look into Danny’s trusting blue eyes, and feel like I could tell him anything. Surely, he’d understand, and have the perfect words to say.
But I swore to myself long ago that I’d never share this secret. It isn’t fair to anyone. It might help me to talk, but this is my burden to bear. If I tell Danny, he’ll never see Charles the same way again.
He’d think his lover was crazy, and even crazier the next day or so when Charles returns to his body, denying ever having spouted such nonsense. That’s a kind of crazy you can never totally trust. Danny would never feel safe wondering when Charles might snap again.
Even if Danny did believe my story, how could he ever trust his boyfriend, or anyone, ever again, with the knowledge that at any moment a stranger might be pretending to be his lover, friend, or coworker?
I long to tell him, but can’t do that to Danny.
He asks again, “Do you think you’re somehow connected to her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know how that would be possible?”
Danny kills the engine but makes no effort to leave the car. He’s still thinking.
“I’ve got a theory.”
“Shoot.”
“You know about the collective unconscious, right?”
“More or less.”
“Well, maybe this is one of those things. Consider this. Everything is energy. Our bodies. Our thoughts, all energy. And there are certain people who can pick up on others’ energies. So maybe you’re somehow picking up on thoughts that Allie is putting out there?”
“So, I’m picking up her psychic signal?”
Danny’s eyebrows are raised, his voice faster, like he’s chasing a revelation.
“It’s not as crazy as you might think.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but I know you. You’re skeptical.”
“Yes, but I’m not so closed-minded that I won’t consider possibilities.”
“Maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s something else. Are you familiar with quantum entanglement?”