Could anyone have withstood this kind of wind and rain? How can you hold or be held in a storm like that?
I used to think that between the two of us, we could weather it all. When Ben met my gaze, he looked so certain of us that I was sure he could hold me to the earth, keep me from blowing away. And then I walked out. I’m the one who left. Now, when I hear the click of that door closing behind me, it’s like a gunshot.
What if there is no Ben left anymore? Just like that: click.
My ring feels loose. In the passenger seat is a clear plastic box. The chocolate cake inside is iced with Happy Birthday, Lucy! I check my watch. Last night, after Francis walked out, I lay in bed thinking of all the closing doors, all the clicks I’d ever heard. Sometime after midnight I remembered that Lucy was officially eighty-one years old. All she wants is to find a way back through that closed door, to find Lloyd. I turned on the light, grabbed my laptop, and looked up Monique Fontaine, professional medium. “She’s the best,” Lucy had said.
Monique’s web site said that she was humbled and honored to be an Ambassador for the Spirit World.
I sent an email to Monique. In the morning, I phoned and the medium picked up. She had heard from Lucy a couple of days earlier, she said.
“I felt very bad that I could not be with her on her birthday and then last night, I had a cancellation! I was going to come to the Tea and Spirit Gathering and make a nice surprise for her.” Monique Fontaine’s accent matched her name. French, I think, but I’m bad with accents.
I asked Monique if she’d be willing to make a house call. A private sitting. “I could pay you,” I said.
“Ah! Such a beautiful idea! When I talked to Lucy the other day she said so many good-good things about you and she is right!”
In my side mirror now, a bus roars up the road and pauses at the curb to let off passengers. As soon as the bus moves out, I notice an old white Toyota putter up behind and cruise along until the driver discovers a parking spot a couple of cars ahead of me.
A short squat woman gets out. That must be the Ambassador now. The picture on Fontaine’s web site was a little younger, a little thinner. I pick up the cake box and get out too, just in case. Hustling to the sidewalk I stand in front of Lucy’s building.
The woman ambles toward me. “Ah! You must be Maggie!”
“Yes!” A part of me is startled. Then I remember the cake in my hands: Happy Birthday, Lucy! “Monique?”
We shake hands. Glancing at the puffy black bow tied at the neck of her peach blouse, the gold St. Christopher medal dangling, I feel an odd pleasure at how ordinary she looks—like somebody’s auntie, like the receptionist who worked for our family dentist when Francis and I were kids. The lack of drama lends Monique Fontaine a potential authenticity in my eyes.
“Lucy will be happy to see you,” I tell her. A strange little tingle of excitement comes into my belly. Almost the way I felt the first time I decorated the apartment for Ben’s birthday. I got up in the morning and blew up balloons for him, dangled some streamers. He’d been chauffeuring people around half the night and didn’t wake until noon. When he stumbled into the living room, all bed-head and frog-throat, he looked at the blues and pinks and yellows on the wall and lit up as though he’d never seen a balloon before.
I glance down again at the chocolate cake and for the first time in ages it feels like I’m doing something right.
The two of us walk to the intercom. I buzz 1414. Monique puts a finger to her lips and winks.
A few moments later, the scratchy speaker comes on and Lucy shouts, “Maggie? Come on up.” The lock buzzes.
Monique and I head into the lobby and circumvent the huge dry fountain, its stone cherub holding tight to its open-mouthed fish.
“This fountain kills me,” I say. “It must weigh a ton. How did they even get it in here?”
Monique giggles. “Maybe it was the only thing left standing from the old place and they had to build around it!”
When the elevator doors open, I smile at the thought: a dancing baby, oblivious to oblivion.
As soon as the car lifts off, I feel that same flock of black birds erupt in my belly, just as I did the first time I came here. Like recollection and premonition at once. The memory of rushing out through Lucy’s front doors, full of tears and rage, feels as though it happened eons ago, as though I have run in a big noisy circle and found myself back where I started, ready to try again. “How long have you known Lucy?”
“Let me see. She came to me the first time, I think, one and a half years ago. I got such a kick out of her.”
The doors open and we head down the shag carpet corridor. Monique continues. “She had this terrible loss from her husband and yet she had so much faith and joy.”
Outside 1414 we can hear Tammy Wynette singing “Stand by Your Man.” Monique hums along and I give the door a good rap so that Lucy will hear over the music.
From inside: “Coming!” Tammy Wynette quiets down and a few seconds later Lucy pulls open the door.
“Happy birthday!”
Lucy squeals. “Monique! Monique is here. How did you—how?”
Monique throws her arms wide. Lucy pushes her walker aside and Monique steps in to give her a hug. “Your very nice friend, Maggie, she called on me. And for your birthday she hires me for a private sitting!”
Lucy releases Monique. “And a cake! For me!” It’s as if Lucy’s whole body is smiling. I hold the cake in one hand and give her a hug.
“Mwaaa!” she says as she plants a pink-lipsticked kiss on my cheek. “Thank you, dear. My day is always brighter when I see you.”
It is? I’ve felt like such a troll, the idea that I might bring about any luminosity is a surprise. “You’re very welcome. Happy birthday!”
“Come sit down!” Lucy says. She pushes the door closed. “We’ll have our own little Tea and Spirit Gathering right here!” She looks me up and down. “You look cute. I like that shirt, I like how it rhymes with your pants.”
“Thanks. You two sit and I’ll put the kettle on.” I head to the kitchen with the cake. As water fills the kettle, I’m struck with the realization that I’m glad to feel wanted—glad there is some place I’m supposed to be.
“What a treat it is to see you,” Lucy tells Monique and then calls out, “Earl Grey for us and whatever you’d like for yourself. Teapot’s in the cupboard beside the fridge. Tea is beside the stove.”
Kettle on, I pull a pack of candles from my pocket and start poking a circle of eight into the cake and then one in the middle as I listen to them chatter in the next room.
“You know, Lucy, it is also my grandson’s birthday this week. He will be five years old and I would like to buy for him Pennywhistle Pig,” she says and laughs. Her speech is peppered with sudden bursts of laughter. “And maybe you could sign the book for him.”
“Of course!” Lucy is getting bubblier by the moment. She instructs Monique on where to find a new copy on her bookshelf.
“I love this pig!” Another burst of giggles from Monique. “Let me pay you for this now before I forget.”
“No! It’s a gift. What’s your grandson’s name?”
“His name is Pascal.” She begins to spell it for Lucy.
“Sorry about my handwriting. My eyes . . .”
“No, no, it’s wonderful. My grandson, he is going to go crazy for this pig. Lucy, you are a real writer the way you make this pig come alive! Oh my God—when he dances with his little trotters and the flute!” She erupts with more laughter. Lucy joins in.
“Can we ask about that?” Lucy says. “I’ve been thinking about another Pennywhistle story and maybe the spirit guide will have a message for me.”
“Yes, yes, we must find out what we can about the piggy!”
Lucy calls out, “Maggie, Monique is psychic too. You can ask her questions about what’s happening in your life and the future!”
A slow boiling whistle comes up from the stove as though the kettle can’t quite beli
eve its ears. “Oh yeah?” I call and take the kettle off the burner.
I pour hot water in the pot, then set it on a tray with cups and saucers. Fitting the little cake front and center, I light the candles before I pick up the tray. I begin singing, “Happy birthday to you . . .” as I creep toward the living room.
Monique sings along and Lucy joins in, singing to herself, smiling with glee. I set the tray on the coffee table. Lucy takes a big breath and blows out the nine candles.
Monique and I clap.
“Look at this,” Lucy says. “You girls are too much! My first message ever came from Monique. She is the best!”
Monique grins. “Aww, Lucy, you are my sweetheart. I will always remember that night. The love and light in the room was so strong. You know how they say, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’? There is nothing so sweet as a message from Spirit.”
I take the teapot from the tray and set cups in front of Lucy and Monique. “Cake now?” I ask. “Or maybe later.”
“How about later?” Lucy says. “After our session!”
“Sure.” Uncertain what to do next, I ease myself into the armchair and watch the two of them.
“You look suspicious!” Monique says to me. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”
Lucy and Monique both laugh uproariously at this.
Monique pins me with a maternal, loving expression. “Maggie, I’m just playing, but it’s true you do not look so comfortable. I get the sense that you are new to this, so maybe I should start by telling you some things about what I do. I’m not an exorcist—you know, one of those mediums who get rid of curses or bad spells.” She and Lucy pause for another chortle. “I don’t help tortured souls over to the other side like that movie Poltergeist. What I do is help link those who are no longer incarnated on earth with the loved ones who are still here.” She gives me another look of loving serenity and then says, “You still look concerned, Maggie. What are you worried about?”
“Oh no, nothing. I’m just . . . taking it all in.” I’m not worried exactly. That tingle of excitement keeps coming into my belly, that feeling of anticipation, as if something is going to happen at any moment. I don’t know what it means. Or what I want it to mean.
Lucy leans over and fills the cup in front of Monique and then her own.
“The spirits I communicate with most are your loved ones, friends, spirit guides, and sometimes pets who are in spirit. These are the spirits who watch over you while you’re here on the earth. I’m like a telephone line. I deliver messages. If you have someone in mind, don’t tell me who it is. When I feel a presence, I’ll ask you for some type of confirmation of who is coming through and the reason I do this is to get a clear sense of the spirit’s relationship to you and also to give you proof of the afterlife. You can ask me questions as we go. Okay?”
Lucy reaches toward me with a cup of milky tea. I take it from her, little electric shocks still zipping through my guts.
Monique takes up her cup and sips before she releases a long, happy sigh. Lucy does the same as though it’s part of a ritual they share. She reaches for the basket at the base of her walker and yanks a couple of tissues from the box.
Monique sets her cup down. “Okay. Why don’t we begin to center ourselves? Are we ready?”
I lay my hands on my anxious stomach.
“We’re going to take some breaths,” she says. “As you exhale I want you to have the intent of detaching from this physical world so that we can move into a sacred space.” Monique takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales with an ahhh. She closes her eyes. “Yes, detach, detach . . .” She and Lucy continue to breathe slowly and audibly.
I watch them a moment and then give in, close my eyes, and take my own slow, deep breaths.
“Detach from the stress of demands and schedules. Leave all that behind so we can make a beautiful sacred space. Breathe in . . . detach, detach, that’s it, just do that nice sigh as you exhale . . . and now I’ll say a prayer. Infinite Spirit, Divine Father-Mother-God, we ask for a blessing on this sitting. We ask for the highest and the best, clarity of mind, direction and understanding. Amen.”
Monique opens her eyes and lets loose with another playful laugh. “Maggie, when I start this giggle, it is just spirit talking. It’s a lovely feeling actually, and it makes me feel sparkling all over. As I was saying the prayer, and we all moved into that sacred space, there was this beautiful influx of energy that came in and I felt angels with that. Do you understand, please? Do you believe in angels?” She looks at me but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I feel Lucy’s, but I also feel yours. You have these beautiful angelic beings around you who have been supporting you and holding you through the challenges in this life and as they come forward—I have three of them and they say that due to your personality—which can be pretty steadfast, I hear, stubborn . . .”
“Oh yes,” says Lucy as though she knows me all too well.
Monique giggles, but remains in her vaguely trancelike state. “And as you evolved there was an open mind that occurred, but still, it’s an attitude of ‘Show me the evidence so that I can believe.’ And I have a lady that is coming forward—Yes, thank you—and I hear Mother. Do you have a grandmother who is in spirit, please?”
I don’t want to sit here being a cranky skeptic, but it’s hard not to roll my eyes at that one. What is the likelihood that anyone of us here has a living grandmother?
“She feels very motherly, this lady, full of vim and vigor—Yes, thank you—and I feel that this lady would have had a lineage that took her to back to Europe. And she is pointing to Lucy. Lucy, do you have a grandmother of European ancestry—Yes, thank you—or Irish or Scottish, please?”
It finally occurs to me that her asides of “Yes, thank you,” are acknowledgments to some unseen entity’s extra tip.
“Yes!” Lucy is bursting with anticipation.
“Did you know this grandmother, please?”
“I met her.”
“You met her. Well, this grandmother, she comes in with a very strong nature but a very loving nature. Do you understand, please?”
Lucy frowns. “She and my mother didn’t get along. My mother was afraid of her.”
“Yes, she is a strong presence and a stubborn presence. She claims that you are very much like her. Do you understand, please?”
“Well, Lloyd always said I was a stubborn girl! That’s why I can relate to Maggie. She could be my daughter!”
“She’s telling me that you have this strong idea of what is right and wrong. And this is a virtue that you endeavor to live by. And she is saying that she has regrets about her life. But she is with her daughter in spirit—your mother—and they have come to understand one another. They have reconciled their differences and the love is there. She is saying that she hopes you will focus your stubborn nature into goodness, into your art—Yes, thank you—She’s holding up three books. Oh Lucy! And a little pig, there is a tiny little pig in her palm. She says you are going to create three more books for children—because the core of you is all about saving the children. Particularly sensitive children who have the ability to see, to ah, ah—Yes, thank you—to be aware of higher frequencies and you want to gather the children who have been misunderstood because you have been misunderstood throughout your life.”
“Yes!” Lucy says. “Even when I was a little girl. I was a very sensitive child.”
“Yes, but she says that in your seventies, life changed for you. You had an awakening to your creativity. I feel that, for you, the years from seventy-five to eighty-five are all about breaking through the final veils and making a name for yourself. She says you’re going to channel your energy to help the parents of children who are highly sensitive. Oh I’m really excited about this, Lucy! I feel your life changed at the age of seventy-nine. You entered into a whole new frequency. Your physical body is having a hard time keeping up with the frequencies of your spirit, but you are catching up. Your author spirit guide—I get the name James—James
is saying that when you give yourself time to meditate, he will come to give you the visions. You’re very intuitive, Lucy. It’s not by chance that you write and I feel that you are going to invest in a world-changing endeavor. I’d say from eighty-one to about ninety-one is for doing that. Do you understand, please?”
“Yes!” Lucy looks at me, rapturous and vindicated. “This is just what I wanted to talk about: Pennywhistle Pig and children. And here you’ve answered me. Thank you, James!”
“Yes, thank you,” Monique says. “James says that music is very important to you. You should play music as you write these new books.” Monique suddenly sits up. “Did you ever have a miscarriage, please, Lucy? A stillborn child? I have a child with me, a very young child. A boy.”
Lucy shakes her head and gives a solemn nod in my direction.
“Oh yes, yes,” Monique says. “He is pointing to you, Maggie. Not stillborn. He is holding up two fingers. He’s telling me that he is two years old.” Monique nods and giggles. “So cute. He’s—Yes, thank you—he’s making a frowny face and he’s doing this”—Monique turns her palm to the ceiling and pumps it up—“like he’s saying more. He’s more than two, but not quite three. Do you understand, please?”
My stomach detonates with shooting stars. I’m afraid to move.
“He’s holding out his arms to you. He’s laughing. He’s very happy. Did you know a little boy who would be in spirit?” Monique giggles and it’s cut short with a gasp. “Oh!” She puts a hand to her head. “Some kind of head injury. He hit his head. This is how he died.” Monique puts both hands on her skull as though she’s trying to hold it in one piece.
Oh God. Oh Frankie. Please be here. Please tell me you’re here.
“Take it away, please, take it away,” Monique says and then eases her hands from her head. “Yes, thank you—I feel so much love from him. I’m hearing ‘Mother.’ Do you have a child in spirit, Maggie? Do you understand this, please?”
The Crooked Heart of Mercy Page 14