Born of Illusion

by Teri Brown

  Someone screams and rushes out of the theater. A plant.

  Mother waits until the slamming door reverberates through the auditorium. “Anyone else is more than welcome to leave if they feel uncomfortable.” She presses her hands together, eyes cast downward, looking like a grave madonna.

  No one ever moves a muscle. In all our years of doing shows, no one has ever left.

  She turns to me. “This is my daughter and assistant, Anna. She is going to entertain you with some magic while we wait for the spirits to respond to my presence.”

  Though she introduces me as her assistant, in reality, she is more my assistant than I am hers during this part of the show, which makes us both edgy and uncomfortable, though neither of us has ever said it out loud. Mother hates me being the center of attention, and I hate having to depend on her. I learned early on that my mother isn’t exactly the dependable type.

  I begin with easy magic tricks—making a cage of disgruntled doves disappear and reappear in different places, cutting a rope and making it whole again, plucking a scarf from a ball of flame. Mother is adept at keeping audience eyes elsewhere while I do the sleight of hand the tricks require.

  We communicate by gestures and eye contact. A wink means keep it up. A twist of the wrist means to skip the next trick and move on.

  The audience oohs and aahs in all the right places, and my movements get more dramatic as I warm up. Enthralling the audience is the best part, the part I love. I hate when people call magic trickery. What my mother does is trickery. What I do is entertainment.

  As I work, my senses go on high alert and a million details run through my mind: the location of the audience in relation to where and how I’m standing, my mother’s movements, even the collective mood of the people in the first row.

  Tonight the show goes well. My mind lights up with excitement. The audience has never been so attentive, the stage lights never so bright. When I finally stop, I’m breathing hard and my heart is pounding in my ears. The clapping is deafening as my mother steps beside me with a brittle smile.

  “As you can see, my daughter, Anna, is a very unusual girl.”

  The audience fades as reality settles in. My mother is furious. I can see it in the tautness of her jaw and the tense line of her back.

  Why? Is she angry with me for being good at what I do?

  “She reads muscles as easily as I read minds,” Mother continues. “Right now, we’re going to blindfold her and choose someone in the audience to hide a needle. Just by touching the person’s arm, my daughter will be able to find the needle.”

  The stagehand brings out a blindfold and my mother ties it, pulling far harder than necessary to show her displeasure.

  I hear whispering as the volunteer hides the needle.

  My mother always has a sense of humor when choosing the volunteer. Sometimes it’s a handsome young man who makes me blush. Other times it’s a fat, red-faced gentleman with bad breath. Ten to one it’ll be bad breath tonight.

  We began doing this trick last year, after seeing it in a rival’s act. My mother tried and tried but couldn’t do it, and it gives me childish satisfaction that I can pull it off each and every time. It’s called muscle reading, and the perceptive person is supposed to be able to find the needle through the tension in the person’s arm as they lead you around the theater. My mother, as skilled as she is, just can’t seem to pick up the signs.

  I, on the other hand, have a one-hundred-percent success rate. Of course, my mother doesn’t know why.

  My mother leads me off the stage, then lays my hand on someone’s arm. I clutch it, letting all the sounds and scents of the theater fall away, reaching to connect with the person beside me. In my mind, it’s like a silver cord or thread stretching from me to the other person. For years, I thought everyone experienced the same thing when they touched—that everyone communicated on a level deeper than just words or actions. I figured that was why people shook hands when they greeted each other. But things didn’t add up. Why couldn’t my mother tell when our manager was going to skip out on us? Or that the nice woman at the boardinghouse was only gathering information for the sheriff? It all seemed so obvious to me. After a time, I realized that she couldn’t feel what I could—and that no one else could either. By then, I already knew enough to keep my mouth shut. My ambitious mother would happily turn me into a circus sideshow to further her own career. Or maybe in a fit of jealousy take me out of the show altogether. There’s no way to tell.

  Usually, the first emotion I sense while doing this particular trick is excitement at being chosen, quickly followed by doubt that I can really do it. This man—for it is a man’s arm I feel under my fingers—is different. He’s intensely curious about me. I sense a barely concealed anticipation. There’s also a low buzz of suppressed energy coming from him, as if he’s thrown up a dam that is barely holding. I’ve never felt anything like it. Puzzled, I let him lead me through the theater, trying to pick up on his other emotions. Normally, the guide becomes a bit agitated as we near the needle, but that doesn’t happen tonight. He seems calm, patient. But there’s also something else. An emotion I can’t quite identify. Panic assaults me and my heart accelerates. Surely it’s been too long! Will I just wander around the plush aisles of the theater until the audience realizes I’ve failed?

  I probe again, my hand tightening on his arm, and beads of sweat break out on my upper lip. Then it flashes over me as clearly as if he’s whispered it. I stop short, a sly smile coming to my lips. “Tricky!” I say, projecting so everyone can hear me. “The gentleman hid two pins! One over there”—I point vaguely toward the center of the theater—“and one in his pocket. The one in his pocket is the one I was looking for. The other is a decoy!”

  Laughing, I whip off my blindfold.

  And stare straight into Colin Archer’s handsome face.

  His eyes search mine for a moment before he bends to formally kiss my hand. “Well, done, Miss Van Housen,” he says in a low voice. “Truly impressive. You passed that test with flying colors.”

  Surprise at his words silences me on our way back to the stage as the audience claps wildly. Test? Did Mother know about this test? I wonder as I join her onstage. And what kind of test was it anyway?

  Woodenly, I curtsy and wave at the crowd. I have no time to ponder what Colin meant, however, as we move quickly into the next portion of the show. Now it’s time for my mother to amaze and awe.

  I bring her the basket of audience questions and blend into the background while she answers the ones I’ve pre-chosen for her. Then the lights dim as she calls up audience members, purporting to read their minds. They, too, were all pre-chosen. One of the bellhops was assigned to talk with the audience as they came in. Then he reported back to Mother. Jacques has also helped. He knows everything about everyone in New York society and sent out special invitations for the grand opening. Once he saw who would be in the audience, he fed us tidbits of gossip, which have now become a part of the act.

  I hide a smile as the amazing Madame Van Housen shares some new insight with a stout lady whose turban glitters with rhinestones as she moves. The audience gasps in shock and admiration at my mother’s perception.

  The truth is, my mother isn’t really a mentalist, a medium, or a magician. She’s just an actress with the ability to make people believe what she wants them to. And at the end of the show, as we take our bows to thunderous applause, we have several hundred new believers.

  Four

  After the show, the evening becomes a blur of congratulations, best wishes, and interviews with the press. I respond to their questions with well-rehearsed answers.

  “Yes, of course, I love performing with my mother.”

  “No, I didn’t miss a normal childhood. I love traveling!”

  “I’ve always loved magic so it just seemed natural to add it to my mother’s show. . . .”

  Then posing for pictures with my mother. Click, snap, poof.

  By the time we finally ge
t back to our apartment, I’m exhausted.

  “Make some coffee,” Mother snaps after my third yawn. Her charm disappeared with the newspaper men. She flips on the electric light. “I need you awake.”

  Of course she does. It’s time for the evening’s big finale, an “honest-to-god” séance, performed for some of the city’s swankiest sophisticates.

  I wonder what she’d do if I refused to participate.

  On second thought, I don’t want to find out. Her temper is monstrous, and though she’s never hit me, I’ve seen her bring grown men to their knees with one small, well-placed fist.

  We have about an hour until midnight, when the “guests” will arrive. I make a pot of coffee and pour my mother a cup to take back to her room as she prepares for the next “act.” She usually changes into something more mysterious for the séances. I can wear whatever I want.

  She takes a step into the hall and then turns. “How did you know about the two needles?” Her forehead knots with puzzlement.

  The coffeepot in my hand jerks as I’m pouring myself a cup. I set it down with a clatter and grab a rag to mop up the spill. So she didn’t know. I babble away, not meeting her eyes. “What do you mean? The same way I always do. It’s not that hard. And this fellow was really easy. . . .”

  “Hmm” is all she says.

  Silence.

  Then the measured clicking of her heels as she moves down the hall.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t need any special powers of perception to know that this isn’t the end of the discussion.

  My mother stays in her room for the next hour, leaving me to set up alone and giving me plenty of time to wonder about Colin Archer. Does mother know he lives downstairs from us? Why else would she pick him out of an audience of hundreds? I don’t believe in coincidences, but on the other hand she really didn’t seem to know about the two pins.

  By the time the first knock sounds on the door, I’m wide awake and as ready as I ever am. Tension creeps down my spine as several guests enter our drawing room. There are so many bad memories associated with these séances—I’ll never be able to take them for granted. Once, after one of our séances was busted up by the law and my mother was led off to jail, a well-meaning townswoman bundled me up and took me home with her. I was only seven years old, but nothing she said could induce me to move from her front window. I even slept on the window seat, my cheek pressed against the pane. I think some part of me was terrified my mother would just move on without me. Three days later, I had my first and only fit of hysterics when I saw her coming up the walk with our bags.

  Even now, habit compels me to continually evaluate our guests with one vital question in mind: Are we safe?

  I glance furtively around the room at the high-society crowd who’ve come to enjoy my mother’s unique set of talents. The bored gentleman wearing a small bejeweled blonde on his arm like the latest accessory—he looks like a high hat who’s never worked a day in his life and probably wouldn’t take the time or trouble to complain to the authorities, even if he thought he had cause. And the bosomy woman whose pince-nez glasses keep slipping down her nose seems far too kind to turn us in.

  Jacques is lurking in the background, but I’m still puzzled by the low number of attendees. I know we were going to be exclusive, but three people are hardly worth setting up for. As if on cue, a knock on the door sounds and Mother indicates I should answer it.

  Colin Archer.

  Shock freezes me in the doorway and I stare, speechless. What is Mother up to?

  “Miss Van Housen.”

  He greets me quietly, and for some reason a shiver runs down my back. Who is this fellow? Why is he always turning up? Is he a cop? I finally find my voice. “Are you here for . . .”

  “The séance. Yes.”

  And here I was hoping he’d come to borrow a cup of sugar. My heart speeds up, but I just give him a nod. “Please come in.”

  I lead him down the hall and into the sitting room, where the others are talking. Mother’s face registers a moment of confusion before Jacques steps forward, his hand outstretched.

  “Mr. Archer. Thank you so much for joining us this evening.”

  I stand aside as Jacques introduces him to Mother. So she didn’t know he was coming.

  But Jacques did. He whispers something in my mother’s ear. Her eyebrows arch and she gives a small smile and nod. What are they up to?

  I watch Cole carefully as I go about my hostess duties. His quick scrutiny of everything and everyone makes him seem as wary as I am, but he’s wearing the wrong shoes to be a police officer. They’re shiny, flat on the bottom, and look as if they pinch. Policemen wear comfortable shoes and always walk as if their feet hurt. Plus, he’s a bit too young. And handsome. But if he’s not a cop, why is he here?

  “Anna,” Mother calls. “Could you light the candles, please?”

  As I keep a sharp eye on our guests, my mother fiddles with a deck of tarot cards, her long fingers expertly shuffling and cutting the deck as she waits for her clients to tell her what they want. She taps the deck three times on the table and glances at me for the answer.

  I tuck my hair behind my right ear, letting her know that the spirit cabinet is prepared if that’s the direction tonight’s séance goes. The tenor of each séance differs depending on the needs and desires of the clients involved. It’s my job to be prepared for every possible variation. Considering the fact that I don’t trust our new neighbor, I pray she won’t want to use it.

  The flickering lights transform our lovely, warm sitting room into an eerie cave marked by long, ghostly silhouettes. The apartment came fully furnished, but we’ve rearranged the furniture to maximize the shadows spilling across our guests.

  I notice the couple darting curious looks my way and my face flames with embarrassment. Mother must have “accidentally” let my supposed father’s identity slip. Once again, I’m reduced to being a celebrity’s bastard daughter. I widen my eyes and stare fixedly at the blonde, sending all the scorn and anger I can muster through my gaze. To my surprise, instead of turning away in embarrassment, she gives me a sly wink.

  Cole coughs and I turn to face him. He’s also staring at me, but rather than delight over a possible scandal, his dark eyes hold curiosity. He probably hasn’t heard the rumors. No matter, it’s my duty to blend into the background during this part of the evening, so I keep busy, dumping ashtrays, serving finger foods, and freshening drinks from the illegal bottle of gin my mother keeps locked away with the rest of her prohibited liquor.

  As I perform these mundane tasks, my stomach twists itself into painful knots waiting for the inevitable moment when their stories will emerge, brought out by my mother’s skillful questioning. Every time I touch them, which happens quite a bit, I’ll hear their pain and feel their loss as acutely as if it were my own. It’s one of the many hazards of this job.

  Cole’s presence isn’t helping; it’s making me even jumpier than usual. I catch him staring every time I turn around, but he pretends he’s looking at something over my shoulder.

  As my mother talks quietly to the older woman in one corner of the room, Jacques, Cole, and the society couple, Jack and Cynthia Gaylord, are discussing spiritualism in the other.

  “I just find it fascinating that people can actually talk to the dead. Think of all the things we could learn!” Mrs. Gaylord says earnestly. She looks up to her husband for confirmation, but he’s staring, disinterested, at his drink.

  “Like what?” Cole asks.

  My lips twitch at the amusement in his voice.

  For a moment Mrs. Gaylord looks blank. “Well, all sorts of things. There are some very important studies going on right now. One organization in London is doing some groundbreaking scientific work in the field of psychic phenomena. There are even rumors that they have a secret laboratory where they test real psychics and mentalists. It’s all very hush-hush.” She turns to me. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s called the Society for Psych
ical Research.”

  Next to me, Cole starts, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass and onto the floor. “I’m so sorry. Clumsy of me, that.”

  Surprised, I hurry into the kitchen to get a rag, and when I return, the others have joined my mother at the table. Cole’s still standing there looking tense and miserable.

  “I really am sorry,” he says. “I’m a bit of a bungler, actually.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I say without thinking. “You move like an athlete.” My cheeks redden. Now he knows I’ve been watching him.

  “Oh. Er, yes. Indeed,” he replies pointlessly.

  Wonderful. Now I’ve embarrassed both of us.

  I stand and smile brightly. “We should join the others.”

  He nods and moves away, and, after tossing the rag on a nearby table, I follow.

  “I just want to know if you can really talk to my dear son, Walter,” the woman with the glasses sniffs. “He died in the war, you know.”

  My mother stops shuffling and lays her slim hand over the woman’s fat one. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Mrs. Carmichael. How old was Walter when he passed?”

  Cole snorts. “Why don’t you ask Walter?”

  This seems so out of character that a surprised giggle escapes my lips. I turn it into a cough and watch as he fights the smile curling the corners of his mouth.

  My mother stiffens and then relaxes her shoulders. “The young are always more difficult to reach. I need to know this before we begin.”

  Cole lapses back into silence. Not many men can resist my mother’s smile.

  “He was eighteen,” Mrs. Carmichael says softly.

  My chest hollows. Not much older than I am.

  “Oh, dear.”