by Isabel Wroth
“I don’t have an appointment, I just um, I just came by to look around.”
“No problem, I’m here if you have any questions. Can I get you some cider? Fresh made this morning!”
Realizing the source of the warm scent, I opened my mouth to accept, but from somewhere farther in the back, I heard a creaky voice that sounded like it belonged to an old man scream,
“Get the door, asshole!”
“Peggy! You’re so rude!” Star huffed, hustling by me to open the front door, just as a woman at the end of six different dog leashes came striding around the corner.
Impressed, I watched her stretch out her long legs to keep up with the pack.
She looks like a fashion model on a rock-n-roll hippie photo shoot.
Her black velvet bell-bottoms rode low on her curvy hips, the white sweater she had on made her string of necklaces stand out between her ample breasts, and though the rich amber wasn’t my color, I absolutely loved the huge, crinkly faux-fur ruff on her shearling coat.
It was the same red gold color as her wavy hair, and the round sunglasses perched on her tip-tilted nose suited her face-shape perfectly.
I coveted the wide brim black hat she had on with a vengeance.
“Whew! It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there!” the woman declared as she and her dogs blew into the shop with a blast of cold air.
Star gave a bubbly little laugh as she shut the door and danced on her toes like a fox back to the desk.
“Come on, everybody! Line up.”
I watched in fascination as the woman let go of her leashes, and all six of the dogs pranced over to sit down in a semi-circle in front of Star, who knelt down and started pulling the booties off their paws, divesting them of their winter doggie jackets and accessories.
“Josephine Beauchene, right on time.” The warm voice made me turn and look back at the rock-n-roll hippie, right into her bright green eyes. “I’m Jolene St. Claire.”
Like an idiot, I realized I’d just been standing there staring like a boob, while Jolene St. Claire was holding her hand out for me to shake.
“Sorry, you reminded me of someone.”
A fission of electricity hummed pleasantly up my arm when my palm met hers, and Jolene smiled wide enough to make her emerald eyes sparkle.
“I’ll take that as a compliment; your mother was a beautiful woman.”
“Feed me, bitch!” the creaky voice shouted from the back.
Jolene let go of my hand to shout toward the back of her shop. “Put a sock in it, Peggy! Do you like birds, Jo?”
“Birds?” I guffawed, still stuck on that strange buzzing sensation. I had been thinking of the similarities between Jolene and my birth mother, and I had just let Jolene hook her arm through mine to tow me back through the big Hobbit door. “That’s a bird?”
“Sure is. Star, I’m freezing my balls off, can we get some cider?”
“Comin’ right up!” Star announced cheerfully, taking the last dog coat off, and I looked behind me to see the six dogs trailing after us with wagging tails and lolling tongues.
I couldn’t identify what kind of dogs the two little ones were, but the others were unmistakably, adorable pit bulls.
Unsurprisingly, I thought of Callum and his station nickname.
“I foster a lot of animals—hence the full dog house—but I’ve had Peggy for a while now,” Jolene told me. “The person who had him passed away, but not before giving Peggy an extremely colorful vocabulary.”
I had to agree with Jolene when I saw the big black bird standing on what looked like a modified coat tree. Peggy only had one birdie leg; his other was a little pirate peg leg.
“Is that a crow?”
“Raven. I usually keep him upstairs in the apartment during workdays, but he was determined to come down with me today.”
Jolene waved at me to sit on the pink velvet couch in her modern bohemian lounge while she took up a spot across from me on a huge green wingback.
The small white dog immediately jumped into her lap and snuggled. The other dogs positioned themselves around the room on big fluffy dog beds.
“He fell out of the nest as a fledgling, and a cat tried to drag him off for dinner but only got a drumstick.
“A kind man chased off the cat, nursed Peggy back to health, and once Peggy’s leg was healed up, Todd made a variety of little pirate legs to make it easier for Peggy to perch.”
I couldn’t help but notice the timid way the small black and white dog tentatively climbed up on the couch and warily studied me with big bug eyes.
“That’s Bugaboo. She came from a really bad situation and lost all trust in humans, especially women.
“If you wouldn’t mind just slowly setting your hand out on the cushion, don’t look at her, and see if she’ll get closer. I’ve been trying to socialize her as often as possible.”
“Of course,” I murmured, carefully and slowly reaching out to lay my hand palm up on the velvet couch, looking away from Bugaboo to focus on Jolene.
“Star made it sound like you’ve been expecting me. I didn’t even know I was coming.”
Jolene lifted a shoulder, but whatever answer she had for me was forestalled by Star’s arrival with our drinks.
With the smooth skills of a seasoned waitress, Star handed each of us a mug of steaming hot, wonderfully fragrant cider.
“Thanks, Star. When Alice calls, tell her Tuesday at three is already booked, she can have Wednesday at ten, or wait until next week. End of. Don’t take any of her shit about her husband’s busy schedule. He’s dead. He can wait.”
“Sure thing, boss lady!” Star chirped, braids bouncing as she danced out and closed the Hobbit door behind her.
I blew on my cider while trying not to laugh, glancing as slyly as possible to where Bugaboo had crept another few inches closer to my hand, her big bat ears moving around like satellite dishes trying to get a signal.
“So, you didn’t know you were coming today,” Jolene repeated with an easy smile.
I nodded, thinking it best to ease into things before I ran my freak flag up the pole.
“I knew where the shop was because a friend gave me your card, but I was honestly just wandering today. Early Christmas shopping.”
Jolene tipped her head and slurped at her cider. “I didn’t know Helena personally, but I have several clients who tell me she was a woman I would have liked.”
“I didn’t say her name,” I murmured, wondering if this is what Marcy had felt like the day she’d shown up at the warehouse hoping I would be able to use my psychic gift to tell her something about Mia.
Uncertain. Apprehensive. More than a little bit flabbergasted.
Jolene gave a soft snort, setting her cider down to pull off her chunky platform boots and swap them out for a pair of thick, comfy socks.
“Are we going to pretend that you and I aren’t psychic, dance around one another with small-talk for a while, or can we cut the bullshit?”
It wasn’t said unkindly, so much as teasingly and with great amusement.
No one liked having their time wasted, and I assumed Jolene St. Clair must have more clients lined up for today, even if I was on the books for some reason.
Could Jolene tell the future, like actually tell it?
I didn’t feel right about just coming out and asking, seriously still not sure what I was doing here, or verbalizing what I truly needed help with.
“I recently found out I have siblings—”
“No.”
My lashes fluttered in reaction to Jolene’s blunt interruption. “N-no?”
“We’ve got more important things to do, you and I.” The red-haired woman across from me held up a long, elegant finger, her gaze shooting up to the ceiling over my right shoulder.
“You do have siblings, three half-sisters and a brother, but that’s not why you’re here.”
Confused and already thrown way off guard, I could only dumbly reply,
“It’s not?”
“Nope. You’re hoping I can tell you what the hell is up with your gift,” Jolene explained confidently, as though she’d truly read my mind.
“I’ve never considered it anything other than a curse,” I blurted.
Jolene waved her hand dismissively, circling it in the air while she took a swallow of cider, her green eyes practically glowing at me in the mid-morning light.
“Seeing death is never pleasant, Jo, but you’re not cursed. Neither God nor your adoptive mother had anything to do with giving you this ability. It’s a hereditary trait.
“Well, ninety percent of the time, having true psychic abilities are hereditary.
“The other ten percent come from violent trauma, near-death experiences, or in the case of Tibetan monks and Yogis, dedicated practice from childhood. In my family, the gift of clairaudience is passed down via my maternal lineage.”
My ears rang with the revelation unleashed upon me and the fact that she not only knew what I thought about my ability, but she knew what it was and how I felt about being cursed by God...
Okay. Cutting the bullshit. Can do. “Clairaudience means you hear shit, right?”
“That’s exactly what it means.” Jolene laughed delightedly, and with another sip of cider warming my belly, I started to relax a little. “I hear shit from people—living or dead—sometimes animals, and very rarely from nature.
“You paint what it is you see, so your gift is more on the clairvoyance and psychometry spectrum. I know it’s a new thing for you, talking openly about your abilities, but there’s no one here to judge you or call you crazy.
“Tell me about the first time you painted death. Take your time; I cleared my schedule for today.”
Jolene tilted her head curiously, settling in her chair more comfortably, and attentively waited for me to begin telling her my story.
I felt a cool brush on my fingertips and surreptitiously glanced through my lashes to see Bugaboo a hair’s breadth away from my hand, her nose wiggling as she sniffed at my skin.
It seemed easier to tell Jolene about my first Portrait of Death while looking at the sweet-faced dog.
“It was a horse, and I didn’t see anything. I held a section of his tail hair in my left hand, a paintbrush in the other with the intention to do a commissioned portrait of him standing on a hill, and I don’t remember what happened next. I never do.
“I pick up an item at random when I’m out in the city running errands, getting coffee, pumping gas, buying presents ... As soon as I get home near my art supplies, I black out and come to hours later with a messed up, completed painting or sketch of a murdered person in front of me.”
It was like the floodgates opened, and I went from telling Jolene about my first POD to telling her everything.
From Red, to my time at the asylum, to how I’d met Callum and his family, to the interaction I’d had with Mia’s ghost, and continued all the way up to the point where I’d taken Sheriff Davidson’s hand and seen his death, twice.
“The new twist on my curse went away, but the fact remains I have no control over what I see or when I see it. If that’s what you consider a gift, I’d like to speak with customer service about a return.”
Jolene gave a humorless laugh, lifting her mug in a commiserating toast. “You and me both, sister. Hearing the innermost thoughts of everyone around me is no cakewalk.
“I saw your interview with Helena on TV. You went through a shit ton of electroshock therapy and medication reserved for schizophrenic patients, right?”
“Yes. My adoptive parents institutionalized me. I was there for a little over two years, getting my brain reprogrammed.”
“Douchebags,” Jolene muttered with an angry roll of her eyes. “So, look. Most psychic abilities start manifesting when we’re young.
“I started hearing the thoughts of my classmates when I was in kindergarten, and thankfully my mom took me to my grandmother, who has the same gift.
“My mom was more like you, that she touched shit, and saw shit. Her gift manifested at ten and got stronger over time.
“Your brain was fried, you were medicated, and clearly it wasn’t just your memories that got repressed.
“The ECT fucked with the synapses and natural pathways forming in your brain—both physical and metaphysical—which fucked up the flow of your ability.
“Think of a toaster that’s been dropped a few times, has a chord with a knot in it, and a crooked contact prong.
“It still works when you plug it in, but the electricity doesn’t move correctly through the wiring, so the bread gets unevenly toasted.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about my brain being compared to a busted toaster, but I understood what Jolene was trying to tell me.
“If I hadn’t gone through the treatments, my ability would have ... moved along naturally, and I’d be able to control it?
“Choose whether or not I wanted to paint murder victims, or at least remember what I’m doing and have the control to walk away before passing out from exhaustion or peeing on myself?”
Jolene opened her mouth to answer, frowned, tried again, then gave a short shake of her head.
“Your trances go on long enough that you pass out or pee on yourself?”
Embarrassment turned my cheeks crimson, but if Jolene could read my mind, there wasn’t any reason to hold back.
“As best I can tell, the shortest blackout I’ve ever had is seven hours. I don’t stop for anything. I don’t notice if there are people around me; I don’t take breaks. My hands hurt so bad afterward they curl in on themselves in extreme Charlie horses.
“Sometimes I can’t stand up, and yeah, one time I went for so long, I peed right there where I was standing and didn’t know until I’d come to, on my ass in the puddle where I’d fallen down. It’s like I get possessed or something.”
Jolene’s gaze again strayed to a point over by the Hobbit door, like she was looking at someone, her lips pursing thoughtfully for a moment before her attention came back to me.
“Possession is a whole different animal and leaves a stain on the aura that you don’t have. I can’t tell you for sure what would have happened if you hadn’t undergone the ECT and stuff, but I can tell you this: you’re not cursed.”
Jolene said it with absolute conviction, so I had no other option except to believe her. I wanted to believe her so badly, I did.
The weight that lifted off my shoulders was so great, I felt dizzy. Like the stone hung around my neck had been the only thing keeping me from floating off into the clouds.
“Yes, your psychic radio station is tuned to one channel,” Jolene went on matter-of-factly, and I quickly wiped my eyes to prevent any of the tears pressing at my lids from falling.
“And it’s full of static because of the trauma you suffered, so what you get is disjointed and uncontrollable.
“It’s very curious that after the hypnosis, your gift manifested in a completely different manner, but still came through your hands.
“It wouldn’t be terribly farfetched to think that’s how your ability might have naturally progressed as you got older, but then it would have become a matter of you seeing death in every single person you touched, versus just the narrow window of murder.”
“That sounds equally as unpleasant,” I told Jolene, shuddering to think about how many people I shook hands with or touched in passing.
“Like I said, seeing death is never pretty. I can try to help you learn to gain some semblance of control, but I can’t show you how to make the ability go away. It doesn’t work like that.
“We have what we have, no returns or exchanges, and we have it for a reason. I’m still working out my own reason why, and I may not ever know why I can hear the things I hear. Thems the breaks.”
“Can I stop the murders from happening? When I shook the hypnotherapist’s hand and saw her die from a heart attack, I told her the cardiologist she’d seen was high. That he’d missed something and she needed a second opinion.
; “She called the other day to tell me if I hadn’t said something, she would have been dead in three months.
“And the sheriff who I saw kill himself, I told him to think twice before going through with it, and then saw him as an old man in his recliner. So it’s possible, right?”
If I hadn’t gotten so fucked up, could I have stopped two hundred and twenty-eight people from being killed? Could I have saved Mia? Or Elliot? Or my mother?
Jolene’s expression softened to one of absolute compassionate understanding, and a lump formed in my throat because it was the first time I’d admitted truthfully to myself that I did, in fact, feel responsible for all of the deaths I painted.
“It’s possible, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t know, Jo. Death is inevitable for all of us. Murder is ... it’s a choice, and if it’s pre-meditated, it becomes a fixed point. You painted Helena, right?”
“Yes. She was the first victim I could sit down and talk to, to explain what I saw. Up until her, every victim I painted died within seven to ten days.
“Helena said the outfit I described her wearing was her favorite, and with the forewarning, she locked it up in a trunk.
“She lived for three weeks before she couldn’t take not knowing, and after writing me a letter to explain, she put on the outfit and was dead within a few hours.”
Jolene nodded slowly, as though that made complete sense to her. “Well, in her situation, she had to be wearing a specific outfit for the future to come true as you saw it.
“My mother told me she could sometimes feel the psychic energy clinging to an object before she ever picked it up.
“Maybe with enough practice, you’ll someday be able to pass your hand over an object and know the necklace in the pile is the item with the portent of death attached to it.
“You already said you’ve been able to speak to the ghost of your lover’s sister in dreams. That’s a subconscious state, and truth be told, it’s always easier to experience psychic events when your conscious mind isn’t in play, which is why you had such a detailed experience during the hypnosis session.
“In my personal opinion, the grave-digging incident had more to do with your birth mom trying to communicate with you, and it went a little sideways.”