The Witch's Eyes

by Iris Kincaid

  “I’m going to go to the library and brush up on FSBO. If I don’t get some money from this house, I’m really going to be up the creek.”

  Or wind up homeless, hanging out on park benches, getting too much love from crazy cats.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gillian headed to the local library, an enormous, plain, unassuming building on the outside, but within, a community treasure with abundant resources.

  As she stepped inside the library entrance, she immediately spotted a familiar sight, a man whom she had seen in that library for over fifteen years. He was an elderly man in a wheelchair, and there were two signs on either side of his chair that said in big, bold letters, “LEAVE ME ALONE.”

  When she was younger, Gillian had just considered him to be inexplicably ill-tempered. It was only with the diagnosis of her impending blindness that she began to understand him. He was tired of being helped, pitied, the object of charity. He was capable of taking care of himself and he didn’t want anyone treating him otherwise.

  In fact, as her blindness worsened, Gillian had come to envy him. Yes, it’s a terrible thing to be confined to a wheelchair. But he was able to come to this library, go to the grocery store, go to the movies, navigate his way through public streets, know when a car was coming, and know when the light had turned green. The reason he could put those harsh, combative signs on his wheelchair was that he was able to hang on to so much independence in a way that her full blindness would never permit.

  Now, her sight was restored, and his mobility never would be. But he was battling life on his own terms and never leaning on something or someone who might let him down. Good for him.

  She went to the second floor and quickly located the FSBO material. She picked up one promising book, and though she could see the cover clearly, pulled off her sunglasses just to see the contrast. She read the title page. And then she read the first chapter. And the second chapter. She read the entire book all the way through the index, all without opening the front cover! Gillian tingled with excitement. In less than a minute, she had seen, read, and absorbed all the information in this book. She could remember it. All of it.

  It was such an exciting discovery that she didn’t have too much time to think about some bad news that the book had revealed. Namely, that single women who conduct FSBOs usually get offered a lot less for their homes than married couples selling their homes. She wasn’t about to let that happen, although she wasn’t sure how it could be prevented.

  The implications of her new reading abilities were stunning. Tantalizing. She ran up and down between the rows of books, looking for a tempting subject. Biographies. Ernest Hemingway. Why not? She picked up the book and gazed at the cover. It was amazing. She really could see all the pages and all the words, simultaneously and yet, distinctly. Hmm. Interesting guy.

  She spotted the languages section. No way. That would be too cool. Chinese. That was something she was never going to learn through conventional means. And there were two Chinese restaurants in town, run by some really nice folks. Wouldn’t it be nice if she could surprise them?

  Good thing it laid out every word phonetically. “Nee-how!” That was hello. But that wasn’t the half of it. She now had a 4000-word Chinese vocabulary at her disposal. And grammar. She was really starting to see the benefits of this new supercharged sight. War and Peace. No. Somehow, that felt like cheating.

  Last order of business was a quick trip to the restroom. As Gillian made her exit, she encountered a young mother holding a six-month-old baby and looking around frantically.

  “Excuse me, Miss. I really have to use that restroom. I don’t have my stroller with me. Would you mind very much?”

  Gillian’s mouth dropped open as the woman quickly transferred the baby into her arms. “Three minutes. I’ll be as fast as I can. Thank you so much.”

  The young woman scurried into the bathroom, and Gillian and the baby contemplated one another with equal surprise.

  “You’d better not be a screamer,” Gillian warned. With a baby in her arms, it felt irresponsible to close her eyes.

  The baby cooed and tugged on Gillian’s blouse. A man came out of the men’s restroom, preoccupied and lost in thought. Gillian sized him up in a glance. Her ability to penetrate clothing was still not fully under her control. She kept her eyes on his face.

  And what a face! Deep dimples, even when he wasn’t smiling. Dark hair spilling over his soft green eyes. Nicely chiseled jaw. As someone with artistic inclinations, who had admired many a Greek statue, Gillian had to say that his was one of the most compelling faces she had ever seen. All the more arresting because he was flesh and blood.

  His mismatched suit had cost a pretty penny, once upon a time. The length of his hair suggested, not a lifetime of shagginess but a man who’d recently run out of reasons to care. He was in his mid-thirties with laugh lines that indicated happier times. But right at this moment, he gave the appearance of a man who hadn’t smiled in a very long time.

  The baby took an immediate liking to him. She reached out and tried to grab him.

  “Must be the aftershave. Or is your baby this friendly with everyone?”

  “She’s not my baby.” Gillian quickly explained the bizarre turn of events that left her in possession of a baby whose name she didn’t even know.

  The man shook his head incredulously. “Is she insane? You could be a kidnapper. Or mentally ill. Which is not to say that you look mentally ill. But that’s just the point. You could look perfectly normal and be a psychopath. Demographically, you’re unlikely to be a serial killer. But why take chances? What is wrong with that woman?”

  “Right? You don’t just hand your baby to a stranger. What if she walked out and I had taken off? You can’t trust strangers.” Gillian turned and spoke directly to the baby. “I’m going to tell you this because you’re probably not going to learn it from your nutcase mother. Don’t trust strangers. In fact, don’t give anyone your trust until they earn it. But that’s a really difficult judgment call. I’ll make this simple for you. Trust no one. People will tell you to trust your mother. But look what she just did!”

  The man regarded Gillian with amazement. “As far as manifestoes go, I have to say that you’re on the right track. Trust is a lovely fantasy and one that most people cling to for the entirety of their lives. Even when all evidence is to the contrary . . . it’s a truth that very few people are willing to face.”

  The young mother came barreling out of the restroom. “Oh, thank you so much.” She carefully took the baby back. “Mindy, did you behave yourself?”

  “Mindy? Nice name. She’s very sociable. In fact, Mindy and I nearly left to knock back a few cold frosty ones over at Hannigan’s,” Gillian said, hoping her sarcasm was apparent.

  The young mother laughed. “I think we’ll stick to applesauce for now. Thanks again. Bye-bye.”

  Gillian and her new acquaintance watched the young family disappear.

  “Guess you just look like a trustworthy soul.”

  Gillian shrugged. “Everyone is convinced—brainwashed, really—that trust is a good thing. I suppose one day, she’ll find out the hard way. Hopefully, not at Mindy’s expense.”

  “Should we call Child Services?

  “We should . . . but they can’t be trusted.”

  It was more than cold comfort to find someone else who shared such a pessimistic take on the ways of the world. It was downright refreshing.

  *****

  Gillian did not enjoy being in the hospital. Being able to see too much was definitely a liability there. Blood, disease, suffering—open heart surgery. That one made her a little woozy. But, Doctor Svenson needed to squeeze her in between a bunch of transplant operations. It wasn’t difficult to speculate about where the organs for some of those recipients must be coming from. Were there going to be other people like herself?

  In the waiting room, she saw a little girl and her mother. The girl was only about four years old, and from the gray cloud sur
rounding her and weighing her down, it was obvious that something was very wrong. Gillian was sitting close enough to hear the mother on her cellphone.

  “Scheduling diagnostic tests. They don’t find anything. None of them have found anything. But then she just gets worse and worse. I don’t want to send her to preschool anymore. She just doesn’t have the energy for it.”

  Gillian took off her dark sunglasses and had a good, close look. There was a dark purple-sized mass inside the girl. Very small. She had seen the same mass in a number of cancer patients in the hospital. Why didn’t her doctors know what was going on?

  Doctor Svenson came out to greet Gillian. She brushed off his questions “That little girl there. I think she has a tumor. It’s inside her kidney. Left kidney. And it’s really small. You need to let her doctors know.”

  Gillian had already demonstrated such extraordinary abilities that Doctor Svenson was not inclined to question her. “You stay here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He went over to ask a few questions of the mother. Then he went to the reception desk and had a cancer specialist paged. Gillian watched the little girl curl up in her mother’s lap, too tired to stand. Gillian hoped with all her heart that it wasn’t too late.

  *****

  Gillian stood at the hospitality desk of her bank, waiting for Mr. Dillard to come out. She looked around the room, which she had paid so little attention to before her blindness. There were four employees at desks. She quickly took in their name plaques, the desk photos, the paperwork in front of them, and the images on the computer screens. Hmm. Their employers would probably not appreciate Margaret Susan Parrish shopping for Tahiti travel deals. Or Janine Daley engaged in an absorbing game of Candy Crush.

  Of course, Mr. Dillard was stunned that Gillian could now see. “Ms. Swann, I’m so happy for you. That’s quite wonderful news, isn’t it? The miracle of modern science. And very striking eyes they are too. Is your vision restored to normal or do you see things a little differently?”

  A lot differently. But that was more than he needed to know. “Twenty-twenty. Better than before.”

  “You have my hearty congratulations. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

  “Thank you. I decided to go with the FSBO. You said it was all right if I came back to see you if I had any questions?”

  “Absolutely. What can I help you with?”

  During the discussion, Gillian’s eyes involuntarily took in the details of the office. There was a photo on his desk so old it had to be from his childhood. The entire family was gathered in front of a modest, somewhat broken-down house. Pretty humble beginnings. On the wall were two framed degrees from community colleges. Respectable, but not a high-status education. He was also married to Margaret Susan, who was doing her online vacation planning out in the main room. Identical wedding rings.

  In his coat pocket, hanging on the back to the office, she could see Mitsubishi car keys, which meant that the twelve-year-old Mitsubishi out in the front parking lot could only belong to him. It had seen better days, but Oyster Cove is a small town. As long as you’re not commuting into Boston, an old jalopy will do the trick. Good on Mr. Dillard for not caring about status symbols.

  Of course, he might simply be restrained by a modest income. His pay stub was in the other pocket, and he wasn’t making a whole lot of money. Not poor, but you just assume that a bank manager gets paid pretty well. She did recall now her grandmother saying otherwise. “Don’t get a job at a bank. They just work in the vicinity of money. If you want money, you have to start your own business like I did.” Geez. Looking at a man’s pay stub just felt so wrong. So intrusive. But her eyes kept racing ahead of her judgment.

  “So, that definitely is something to be concerned about,” Mr. Dillard said. “Potential customers will always try to do a little negotiating with a realtor. But a single woman doing a FSBO is almost always going to get the short end of it, I’m afraid.”

  There was so little equity left in the house. Gillian needed every penny of it. She was going to have to figure this out.

  *****

  Café Au Lait. It was the name of her grandmother’s coffeehouse. It was a fantastic establishment—great organic brews, fantastic pastries, comfy stuffed chairs, the kind of place you could stay in all day long on a cold or rainy day. Gillian never understood why it hadn’t been a more profitable business. At least, that’s what Byron led her to believe.

  As she stepped inside, she saw a packed, buzzing place that should have been making money hand over fist. Byron had always claimed that half a dozen other coffeehouses had opened up and taken away their business. That’s why there were so few profits at the end of the day to put into the business account. There was every reason in the world now to assume that was a bunch of hooey.

  Gillian spoke to Cara Brody, the senior cashier, who not surprisingly, required a few moments to marvel at Gillian’s transplanted vision. But Gillian needed to quickly get down to business.

  “Byron Curtiss is no longer acting in my place,” Gillian informed Cara. “You won’t be giving him any money or any information, and if you see him on the premises, you need to call me immediately, and you need to call the police.”

  “Oh, that sounds so serious. Did he do something wrong?” Cara asked.

  “Many, many things wrong. I’m going to look at the ledgers. I assume they are all in the safe?”

  “No. He took them to his home, I guess. He said it was just easier to work with the ledgers at his home office.”

  Gillian fumed. She should have known, having a better picture of his character now, that the possibility that he had been skimming off the café’s profits seemed pretty high.

  “Cara. How much money do we take in on a typical day?”

  “Oh, that would be so hard to say. It varies, you know? Mondays are a lot different from Saturdays. Spring is different from winter.”

  “Just an average. Ballpark.”

  “Maybe we bring in a grand every day. Or, uh, maybe less. I’m really bad with numbers.”

  No, you’re really bad with lying. The rapid eye blinking, the pounding heart, the almost undetectable sweat, the difficulty swallowing . . . Cara knew that Byron was pilfering from the profits. But she was just a lowly employee, and Byron was her superior. Should she be held accountable for his actions? Gillian was so furious at him that she had cautioned herself against punishing someone else for his offenses.

  “I’m going to be the one to take the money to the bank. But I’m going to be tied up so much these next couple of weeks. I want to put everything into the safe. Everything. I want the ledger for this week up to date and ready for me to look at by this weekend. And no more Mr. Curtiss.”

  “Got it. You’re in charge now. No more Mr. Curtiss.”

  Without Byron stealing from her, perhaps there was actually going to be enough income from the coffeehouse to replace her soon to be gone disability check. Geez. There was so much to worry about. What she needed, more than anything, was to get away from it all.

  *****

  There was a huge pine forest on the western edge of town. Delphine had suggested that a visit there might somehow be helpful. Forty-eight hours ago, she never thought to be taking advice from a witch. But she still didn’t have a good handle on controlling her sight without the “hacks”. Perhaps the forest would help.

  Though she had spent her entire life in Oyster Cove, she had never ventured into the forest. Once you get the idea that it’s a dangerous and spooky place, you tend to steer clear of it. But now, she regretted not coming sooner. She was immediately enveloped by the peace and tranquility. She could still make out houses that were probably five miles distant, and a lot of forest critters. But it felt restful. It felt like her new normal.

  And she was not without company. Her new friend, the cat, padded along unobtrusively at her side.

  “Don’t make me have to name you,” Gillian sighed. “And you’d better pick up a few mice out here while you can. There’s n
o budget for cat food. You really should be stalking a wealthier person.”

  The cat became very tense and let out a loud screech.

  “I was kidding.”

  But it wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at a wild boar behind her who was barreling in their direction. And it was running a lot faster than Gillian could. She shrieked and took off in the opposite direction. But a loud snarling altercation caused her to stop and turn around. The cat was attacking the boar. On top of it. Biting, scratching, and screaming. The boar was grunting and turning around in frantic circles, trying to shake the cat off.

  The wild creature finally decided that retreat was the best option. As it lumbered off into the woods, the cat jumped off, seemed to let out a big sigh, and headed straight for Gillian. She scooped him up into her arms. She could see how fast his heart was beating.

  He could have just run up into a tree or off into the darkness to save himself. But he stayed and saved her!

  “What a brave cat. What a wonderful kitty. Oh, you’d better believe we’re going to stop on the way home and pick you up some tuna and liver kibble extravaganza.” She sighed. “Thank you, kitty. That could’ve been pretty awful.”

  So many times in her life, she had considered getting a dog for protection. All this time, what she really needed was a cat.

  *****

  The hardware store was part of a large strip mall filled with a hodgepodge of local establishments—liquor store, bookstore, travel supply shop, shoe repair store, home decorations, and a sub shop.

  A few manageable renovations had to be done quickly before the open house. Gillian and Abby came out of the hardware store with a few new tools and a cheap full-length mirror for the entryway, per instructions from the FSBO book. They should have cut to the right to make a beeline for Abby’s car in the far corner of the parking lot. But Gillian casually surveyed the lot and saw something that diverted her course.

  “Let’s walk this way,” she said to a puzzled Abby.

  They walked straight to a black Mercedes. Gillian had never seen the car before, but she knew that it was Byron’s. It wasn’t just that it was a Mercedes, which had been specified in the car loan note that she had seen. It was the license plate. And more specifically, the expiration date, which she had been able to see, even at a distance of a hundred yards. It was Byron’s birthday, which was a local DMV convention. This was definitely his car.