“Ooh,” I said. “Now I know it’s serious.”
Carolyn’s resting bitchface got active as her eyebrows pulled together and the corners of her mouth drew down. “I don’t like this. I don’t like any of this.”
“I know you,” Jacob repeated. “And I doubt you’re worried about being the only Psych on the team.”
“No, of course not. But given the litany of tests the department has put both of us through, I can’t imagine that they would have overlooked something as important as a psychic off-switch.”
“Not overlooked. Just…forgotten.” Before Carolyn could argue, he added, “I’ve seen certain original documents—”
“What documents?” she demanded. “Now you’re just being cryptic. This revolves around Vic, doesn’t it? He’s walking into something dangerous and you’re just following blithely along because you think you’re untouchable.”
Jacob gave her a look. She must’ve been used to it.
“Originally,” he explained, “at the conception of the whole PsyCop partnership, Stiffs weren’t just NPs. Yes, they scored negative on all the typical psychic evaluations, but they had ability of their own. They stood up to clairsentients—they could shield against probing. But the documentation of PsyCop training was so lengthy and convoluted, part of it dropped off a degraded photocopy and nobody added it back in. It’s not just wishful thinking. I saw the primary source myself.”
I ignored the major case of the willies attempting to manifest. Either the bureaucracy was so incompetent they’d lost a key piece of information to a screwy copy, or someone had “helped” them forget. Neither scenario was much comfort. I stirred my developer and said, “You kids do what you need to do. I’m not letting this go to waste.”
I was perfectly content to be a fly on the wall, but Carolyn wouldn’t let me blend in to the scenery. “Jacob can’t test with both of us in the room. It would skew the results.”
“Maybe so,” Jacob said. “And wouldn’t that be worth knowing?”
I dabbed at Carolyn’s regrowth and said nothing. She huffed and rolled her eyes, and finally said, “I suppose.” I could tell she would’ve rather said “no.” Sucks to be her.
Jacob wedged his way in, perched on the edge of the tub and pulled out a note pad. “Just tell me if I’m lying or not.” He flipped a card. “Scorpion.”
“True.”
“Beetle.”
“True.”
“Doberman.”
“I don’t think so. No. That’s a lie.”
They plodded through the deck, and Jacob made various tick marks and notations as he went. He wouldn’t be scoring her. We all knew she could weed out a lie, so he must’ve been seeing whether or not he could block. I’m glad no one asked me in front of Carolyn if I was intrigued. Because I’d want to deny it, but frankly, I found the whole thing fascinating. And to add even more upheaval to the chaos, every few minutes either Lexi or Cora joined in to accuse her sister of screwing up whatever game they were attempting to play. I finished my application, snapped on the plastic cap and set my timer. Carolyn jumped up and abandoned her current round of cards to go referee her daughters’ meltdown, which left the bathroom suddenly calm and strangely empty with only Jacob, and me, remaining.
He turned the cards over in his hands a few times and said, “Want to try?”
“Why bother? I don’t see how the deck could possibly work for an empath without the wires getting crossed. Even if my accuracy was off the charts, what if you’ve got a fetish for bugs? What if I have a puppy phobia? That’s bound to skew the results.”
“A puppy phobia?”
“I just don’t see the point. It’s not like I’m any good at this stuff even in the best of conditions.”
Jacob picked up an old gossip rag that had slid into the narrow gap between tub and toilet, one of those tawdry magazines that suck me in at the grocery store checkout line even though I know it’s chock full of alternative facts. “How about this? I look at a photo of a celebrity and you tell me whether or not I like them. I won’t say who it is—I won’t even be facing you, so you can’t read into my facial expression.”
“But my logical mind wants to override my gut already. Who’s in there anyway—a bunch of vapid actors and washed up reality stars? I’d be shocked if there’s anyone on those pages who doesn’t annoy you.”
“Don’t be so sure. Here’s a pic of Justin Trudeau waving a pride flag.”
Who didn’t have that image indelibly burned into their brain? Even I drooled a little whenever I saw it.
The lecture about sharing that Carolyn was giving her kids carried through the heating vent. By the sound of it, we wouldn’t be interrupted anytime soon. “Fine. Whatever. Lay it on me.”
“Got it, go ahead.”
How ridiculous, I thought, to even make the attempt. My only claim to fame was picking up the Vibe. With Jacob’s back turned, there was no entry point. I might as well have been trying to read the toilet. “I got nothing. So I’ll go with dislike.”
“And now?”
“Honestly, no clue. Dislike.”
Pages flipped. “Now.”
I was about to repeat myself, but then I yielded to the niggling impulse to change my read. “Like.”
And so it went, him flipping, me guessing, him jotting down my random guesses in hopes of forcing them to make some kind of sense. There couldn’t possibly be enough of them to create a pattern. We’d need thousands of guesses to arrive at anything statistical. As it was, we’d be lucky to reach fifty before Carolyn’s timer dinged. “Next,” he said.
I breathed, I focused…and with only a hint of sarcasm, I said, “You’re crazy about this one.”
His shoulders hitched as if he’d stifled a laugh.
I told his back, “It’s useless, right? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He turned toward me and held out his notepad. The people on the list weren’t gleaned from the magazine, they were real people, people he knew. His coworkers, his parents, his friends. And the very last entry was Crash.
My heart did a sorry little twist. And while all the ramifications sank in, he told me, “All the ones I was deliberately trying to project, you got right. The others are roughly half and half.”
That must’ve been what all the tick marks and scorings meant. All those months, he hadn’t been ambivalent—he’d been blocking my read. “And here I’d always figured you weren’t that into me.”
We sat with that for a few seconds. Upstairs, Carolyn was threatening to take the iPad away so neither of them could use it—and both kids stopped whining immediately. Their mother didn’t make idle threats. She couldn’t. Eventually, Jacob said, “We both played our part in what happened. I could have told you I loved you, and I didn’t. I thought you’d bite my head off.”
And I could’ve told him the dinner he’d skipped out on wasn’t just any dinner. “Supposing you really can switch your psychic access on and off. What’s your default position?”
He lowered his voice. “Working with Carolyn all this time? I’d guess I’m shielding more often than not.”
If that was true, it would jibe with the fact that I only felt the rarest glimpses of him Vibing, and even when my eyes told me he was ready to burst a blood vessel, my gut told me he wasn’t even angry. Hell, that must’ve been why I could read him better over the phone, going by his tone of voice and not a jumble of mixed signals. Add to that the natural psyactives we periodically handled for the online store, and no wonder we’d never discovered any rhyme or reason to his pattern until now.
“I hope you’ve both learned something,” Carolyn said. Upstairs. To her kids. But the same could be said for Jacob and me. I’m not sure which realization hit harder—the fact that Jacob actually possessed some kind of talent, or the evidence that mine might be more accurate than I realized.
Chapter 44
After that conversation in Carolyn’s basement, Jacob didn’t mention the failed wreck of our relationship, and
I was no more eager than he was to prod its putrefying remains. As winter rolled into spring, we saw one another often enough. I did a monthly house smudging for him, he helped me move some stunningly heavy filing cabinets. He didn’t seem angry anymore. I supposed I wasn’t either. Vaguely sad, maybe. Though whenever I caught Vic standing there in the middle of the cannery with a blank look on his face like he couldn’t imagine how on earth he’d ended up there, I often wondered if everything might pan out like it does for a reason. That could never have been me. Even if Jacob and I had been psychically compatible, I still wouldn’t have moved in with him, not within a few short months of knowing each other. So there was a damn good chance he simply wasn’t the guy for me. Close, as they say, but no cigar.
And I can’t say it was any big hardship to keep sampling guys. My latest conquest—very fun, very limber, though not the brightest crayon in the box—must’ve ducked out sometime during the night, since I had my narrow bed to myself when I woke to my phone’s alarm. When I turned it off, a voicemail from my mother was there waiting for me. Of course it was. “I can’t believe my Lit-tle Pea-nut is turning thirty!” she gushed. “I’m picking you up at nine o’clock sharp, so make sure you’re ready.”
Fabulous, I had ten minutes to wash the stank off me and throw on some clothes. But my bedhead didn’t look too bad, so after I swabbed off, I could get away with a quick primp and a spritz of finishing spray. Hair managed, I changed my outgoing message, stuck a closed sign on my door and skipped down the stairs to go meet Maxine.
Either the break from manning that register or the prospect of a nice infusion of cash had me in a pretty good mood. Thirty was a milestone birthday, right? Maxine only did subtle when it came to upholstery and nail polish. Whatever gift she had in store for me, it was bound to be big.
She was excited. Her energy was always high, but that morning it practically rolled off her in waves. “We’ll spend the morning getting massaged and pampered, and then we have a reservation at an authentic tea house.”
Good thing I didn’t mind standing in for the daughter she’d always wanted. “Awesome.”
While it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, I can think of worse ways to start my day than a mani/pedi, a mineral wrap and a massage. But, like so many things in life, the experience came with a lot of baggage. When I noticed my esthetician pulling down her sleeves to cover the tiny yin/yang tattoo on the inside of her wrist, I couldn’t help but see things through the staff’s eyes. They were polite and deferential…in fact, maybe a little too subdued. And they all emanated a resigned sort of dread. Bitchy manager or monster boss? Or both? Despite my best mindful breathing, my tranquility was sullied by flashbacks of Ralph. Even though the loungers were cozy and the place smelled good, by the time my purple sparkle nail polish had set, I was more than ready to get the hell out of there.
We stuffed ourselves full of petit fours and macaroons and cucumber sandwiches in a three-season porch that overlooked a suburban garden of carefully crafted disarray. The weather was post-Memorial-Day mild, and our waiter was easy on the eyes. And while Maxine rambled on about a show she’d seen on decorating with burlap, it occurred to me that I enjoyed this new dynamic where she no longer steered our every conversation around finding me a new job. But also that she was feeling a little edgy. Or maybe it was just eagerness. On her, it’s hard to tell the difference.
We hit the big department stores and shopped until we were hungry again, then had a light dinner at a brewpub where, thankfully, the staff didn’t come out and join my mother when she sang to me. And just when I thought maybe I shouldn’t have settled for three pairs of jeans, she keyed in another address on her Beamer’s GPS.
Another gift was in store. Had to be. Massages, tea rooms and shopping trips were fun and all, but they hardly ranked as birthday material. Especially for the big three-oh. We headed back into the city, back toward my old stomping grounds, when I’d lived in a swanky apartment. With furniture. Like a person.
My gut roiled. While my mother might finally approve of my vocation, she was less than thrilled with my living arrangements. What if she’d done something totally over-the-top, like bought me a condo? It would be just like her, wouldn’t it? On one hand, holy shit, a condo. But on the other, the gift would also be a criticism, an implication that I was unable to handle my own living situation. That, in fact, my own preferences mattered so little, she could buy it with zero input on my part as to how many rooms, what style, or heck, even which neighborhood I’d want to call home. I was attempting to dredge up a modicum of sincere gratitude when she pulled up in front of a single family home, a craftsman-style beauty that must’ve been worth a cool half-mil. Even Maxine’s bank account and generosity wouldn’t stretch that far.
So if the house wasn’t my big present, what were we doing there?
Maxine turned to me, grabbed my manicured hand, and said, “I can’t wait for you to meet her!”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Meet who?”
“The most respected astrologer in Chicago.” Maxine gave a dramatic pause and a mini hand-flourish toward the porch. “Julia Vogel.”
I made a grand effort to not roll my eyes. Astrology? No, seriously…astrology? Who cared if I sold good luck charms for a living—that didn’t mean I thought the Easter Bunny was real. Still, there was Maxine, gazing upon me with her painful smile and her brittle eagerness. It was no condo, that’s for sure. But at least I’d only need to live in the ill-fitting experience for the next hour or so.
“You’ve heard of her?” Maxine asked earnestly.
“The name sounds familiar.”
“I’m sure you have. She’s on the Windy City Morning Show all the time.”
“If that’s where I’ve heard it, then I’m way too familiar with the Menopause Channel.” We trooped up the stairs and rang the bell. My mother was a bundle of enthusiasm, while I was hoping I wouldn’t nod off from the extra slab of quiche in my belly. But my ennui turned to O-M-G when I realized I did indeed know Chicago’s most lauded astrologer. In fact, I’d seen her numerous times in Pilar’s chair.
Ms. Vogel was better known to me as “Julia the racist.”
* * *
I’ll give credit where credit’s due. Julia was a professional. While we both blanched at the sight of each other, she was courteous and polite. As was I. And the whole while, Maxine babbled heedlessly over the top of our mutual revulsion.
Who knows where my idea of astrology readings came from? I thought there’d be more obscure and arcane props involved, gear to keep the casual observer occupied while the so-called professional spun their B.S. But no. Maxine had supplied my birth data ahead of time, and Julia was armed with nothing but a few printouts.
She began with a spiel about sun signs. When daily horoscopes come to mind, sun signs are what most people are thinking of, but they actually have little to do with much of anything. There were rising signs and moon signs, houses and nodes, transits and returns. According to her, it meant nothing that I was a Gemini, because purportedly, my Saturn was so fucked up.
She didn’t say it in so many words, of course. But her melodramatic tone spoke volumes. “Natal Saturn is in your ninth house, which affects your self-esteem and worth. People with this placement tend to have trouble finding success.”
No doubt she would point out the turd in the punch bowl with any placement just to watch me squirm. She went on about my inherent skepticism, rigid thinking and lack of depth, and I suspected she’d strayed from her astrological mumbo-jumbo and was now just impugning my character for the fun of it. But then she said, “Saturn can also be a father figure. Sun squared Saturn, especially with your natal Chiron where it is, could indicate a difficult relationship with your father.”
Give her nothing. I smiled dismissively.
She pointed at one of the meaningless squiggles on the chart. “Age twenty-two would be a particularly hard time.”
The very age I was when he keeled over dead, with zero warning.
“And here, age twenty-eight, this trine would give you an opportunity to heal the difficulty.”
Sure. Except for the fact that dear old Dad was no longer among the living. And I didn’t have any mediums at my disposal then. Not yet.
I must’ve let some micro-expression slip, because she hastened to add, “Maybe not with the same person. But an older man.”
My wan smile froze as I realized…that was exactly when I’d started seeing Jacob.
“The other Saturn transits might have overshadowed that healing. Age twenty-nine, Saturn return. And a four-month retrograde….”
I did my best to tune her out, but the damage had been done. I’m not sure what was worse, that Julia was spouting all this doom and gloom in front of my mother, or that in some obscure corner of my bullheaded brain, I kinda-sorta believed her.
Thankfully, Julia wasn’t eager to extend our session. She hustled us out at one hour on the nose. I still had nothing to say. But true to form, Maxine just got chirpier. I would’ve been happy to ride home in silence, but she insisted on dissecting the whole reading. “I’m sure Julia could have sugarcoated things, but think about it this way. If the Saturn return was responsible for all of the roadblocks and obstacles you keep coming up against, then you’re due for things to turn around any day now.”
“I don’t need anything to ‘turn around.’ I’m my own boss. I’m living my life on my own terms. What more could anyone want?”
She pulled into a parking spot down the block from Sticks and Stones and popped the trunk. “I must not’ve had a Saturn return,” she said. “I adored being twenty-eight. That’s when I had you.”
“And now you’re just getting sappy.” I grabbed her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “But I guess that’s why I love you.”
I loaded myself up with shopping bags, gave Maxine another wave, and headed toward the store. In all the horoscope hubbub, I’d forgotten about the loot I’d scored that day. Jeans and boots and some silky little underthings for when I didn’t care to go commando. A decadent cashmere robe. Socks without holes in them. And all the pricy lotions and toners I could ever want to douse myself with. It was a good score. A good day. And even though we’d ended it in Julia’s odious presence, fuck her. My life was exactly the way I wanted it. Her suggestion that I was some kind of loser was as ridiculous as her mediocre dye-job.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 33