35
Claire
During the first half of Mom’s visit, Cal and I took her to all the usual Sedona and surrounding area tourist stops. We visited the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a church that sits two hundred feet above the road and looks like it was dropped out of the sky and then wedged between two jutting red rocks. I’ve been there dozens of times, even though I’m not Catholic. With the floor-to-ceiling windows offering gorgeous panoramic views, it’s one of the most serene places you can go if you need to pray or just sit and think.
From there we went to Slide Rock in Oak Creek Canyon. It was still warm enough to sit on our butts in the shallow water and slide down over the slippery rocks in shorts and swim tops. The water was icy cold, though, and Mom bumped into a teenager and knocked him off his feet. Lots of cursing and apologizing followed.
We drove to Jerome, an old mining town that, after the ore ran out and the population dwindled, became practically a ghost town. Now, thanks to cute shops, great restaurants, and tons of motorcyclists, the town’s had an impressive resurgence.
As we traveled, I talked to Mom about how she was coping. She’d tell me she was doing fine, but I’d find her staring at one of the rock outcroppings with tears running down her cheeks. We’d hug and she’d tell me she loved me and that things would get better. For both of us.
By Thursday of that week, we are all touristed out and decide to hang around, take an easy morning hike, and then go to Tlaquepaque, a shopping area outside of town. It has nice galleries and an even nicer outside courtyard, where you can get drinks and a decent lunch.
An amazing thing is that, during the week off, I wasn’t having visions. Actually, I was having them, but for some reason, they weren’t coming all the way through. It was like a radio station with a low but constant level of static. I’d hear something or see someone, but the sounds were muffled and it was like the vision or message was covered by strands of cotton. I couldn’t make out what I was being shown or told, and pretty soon, I managed to relegate whatever was coming at me to the very back of my consciousness. It became like elevator music, ubiquitous and irritating, but able to be handled if ignored.
It’s over the restaurant’s signature crème brûlée that I decide to broach the topic.
“So, Mom, how’s business?”
“Good, honey.” She dives into the custard like the woman she is: one who only eats sugar on holidays, vacations, and birthdays. “Yummm, this is the most delicious dessert I’ve had this trip.”
“That’s saying something, since you’ve had dessert with practically every meal since we got here, including breakfast,” says Cal, laughing.
“True. And I’m not apologizing for it. Although I will need to do a thorough cleanse when we get home, wash all this out of my system.”
I start again. “Just curious, do you ever have times when your psychic abilities are more powerful than others? I mean, like, do they ebb and flow?”
“Ebb and flow?” she asks, licking clean the spoon before she drops it in the mini soufflé dish and then leans back with a satisfied sigh. A breeze lifts the branches of the tree shading us. It’s the kind of weather that feels perfectly right, like you’re submersed in a pool of your own body temperature.
“I mean, do they ever, um, disappear on you?” I take a sip of my iced tea, trying to look casual.
It doesn’t work. It’s almost impossible to try to hide something if you’re sitting across from one of the nation’s most renowned readers.
“What’s going on, Claire? Is it your job? Tell me,” my mother says, placing her hand on my cheek.
I glance at Cal, who says, “Go ahead, Ozzie, tell her.”
Grasping the side of the table, I take a long inhale and say, “Mom, I’ve been faking it.” It all gushes out of me: the years of pretending I knew what I was doing, and then the bizarre experiences of the past weeks, my 100 percent accuracy, the guy in the restaurant, the little boy in the grocery store, the multitude of customers begging for answers, the feeling of constant onslaught on my brain and emotions from every direction.
In the silence that follows, I can hear the cars on the main road that runs through town.
The waiter clears the dishes and brings our bill.
After he leaves, I continue. “I don’t know how to deal with this,” I say, looking down at my hands, which are clutched in my lap. “And I’m sorry, I really am, for lying to you all these years.”
I finally look at her, prepared to meet her disappointment, but, amazingly, she’s smiling.
“Oh, that,” Mom says. “I knew.”
“You knew? What do you mean, you knew?”
“It wasn’t too hard to guess. After all, it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out her daughter is making things up as she goes along.”
“But . . . for how long? How long have you known?” I’m simultaneously shocked and relieved.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “For a while now.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
Mom lifts her napkin to dab her lips.
“Your dad and I talked about it. I mean, you wouldn’t have been the first psychic to do this. Let me ask you a question. Did you ever consciously deceive your clients or purposely cause them pain?”
I think this over and say, “No, it was more like I tried to tell them what they wanted to hear based on what the cards said.”
“Like many, many other psychics would do, except they do not possess your skill level.”
“My skill level?”
“Oh yes, you definitely had amazing talents. Regarding what you call ‘faking it,’ like I said, Dad and I knew, but we decided that when you were ready to tell us, you would.”
“Did Aunt Frannie know too?”
“Yes, and it didn’t change her opinion of you one bit. Besides, we were all certain that eventually, those skills would return to you.”
“Return to me?” Then I ask the pivotal question, the real one: “How could skills I haven’t had since I was a child suddenly come back?”
“A child? Oh, darling, you had your psychic abilities way beyond childhood. Don’t you remember?” my mother asks with a look on her face that’s troubling, although I can’t decipher its meaning.
“Remember what?” I ask.
“Claire, what was the last vision you remember having—well, prior to these past couple ofweeks?”
It doesn’t take long to recall, the way a football player in his old age can replay the memory of that final great game of his career.
“My birthday party. I was three. After that, I remember you trying to teach me, but I couldn’t do it,” I say, the guilt and frustration rushing in as if I were still in our front room failing to guess the right numbers or colors on the cards my mother held before me.
“You don’t remember any other visions after your third birthday party?” Mom asks.
I don’t, but then she reminds me and it all comes back.
36
Rena
“Up. Up. Let’s do our exercises,” shouts Susan. She’s waving her hands in the air. Everyone at Mommy Loves Baby gets up to dance, except for Stephanie and me.
They all wiggle around to “The Wheels on the Bus.” Susan stops the tape and asks, “Rena, don’t you and Stephanie want to join us?”
I reach out and pull Stephanie closer to me. She squirms away.
“We can’t. Well, Stephanie can’t. She just got out of the hospital yesterday.”
“I’m so sorry. Stomach again?”
“Worse than ever. I thought I was going to lose her.”
One by one, the moms all come over to kiss or hug me and Stephanie. They say things like “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Feel better. Hang in there.”
Susan says, “That’s okay, we’ll just cut our exercises a little short today. Leaves more time for games and reading.” Everyone cheers.
At the end, I help Susan and Felicia pack up the games they brought. There’s Candy Land,
Ants in the Pants, Twister, and more. Everyone seemed to like them a lot. Even Stephanie smiled a little bit after she beat Rex, the fatty, at Candy Land.
“You sure do have a lot of games. I can never find all the damn pieces to any of the ones we have,” I say.
“I have a system. Felicia has to put one away before she can bring out another game. Seems to work—most days anyway,” she says, pointing at Felicia to get the wooden pieces of Blockhead back into the box. I hold the other end of a large plastic carryall, and Susan shoves in a game of Uno and a travel chess set. Of course, nobody knew how to play chess. I think Susan brought that just to show off.
“Sounds like a good method. Have to try that one.”
When everything’s packed up, we walk through the consignment shop to the front door. Susan stops to look at some clothes. She asks Felicia what she thinks about a yellow flowered summer dress.
“You’ve had quite the time of it, haven’t you?” Susan asks me. She pulls out shorts and holds them up to Felicia’s waist.
I look around for Stephanie. She’s near the front door, and I mouth for her to come to me. She shuffles her feet but finally starts moving in my direction.
“Definitely. It was so scary. I mean, you’d think I’d be used to it. We’ve been in the ER so many times before, but this time . . .” I start to cry.
Susan puts her arms around me, pats me on the back, and says, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. How awful. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
I pull back and sniff, “What I really need is a break. A break from all this stress. It’s been so hard.”
“I’m sure,” says Susan. “On you . . . and Stephanie.”
“For now, at least, she seems to be stable. We’re waiting for some more test results, including the PET scan the doctor finally agreed to do. They said I should have those by Monday. I’m really, really nervous. I’m trying to figure out some way to occupy my mind over the weekend. Maybe get away or something.”
“That would be great if you could. Where would you and Stephanie go? Might be nice to go north, maybe Sedona? Certainly cooler there.” Susan hands ten dollars and the dress and shorts to the cashier.
“You know, I was thinking that exact same thing, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to have Steph travel. Too many germs, you know?”
“Oh, you’re probably right. I didn’t think about that.” She puts the two dollars and a quarter in change into a jar next to the register. It has a note on it: HELP FEED OUR HOMELESS.
“I was thinking about asking my neighbor who watches Stephanie when I work if she’d keep her for the weekend. But she’s the one who gave her the damn bologna sandwich that put her in the hospital. So no way.”
We walk out of the store. The sun bounces back off the white sidewalk and actually hurts my eyes. I can already feel the sweat dripping down my armpits.
“I can see why you’d be afraid to have her go there again,” Susan says.
“The days I work, maybe it might be okay. Because it’s not for very long and I can bring her Steph’s food. I have no doubt at all that now she’ll feed Stephanie only that food and nothing else. But I’m too scared to have my daughter with her for a whole weekend.” I sigh and start to cry again. “Man, I need to get away, though. I’m so tired.”
Susan looks at me and then bends down and puts an arm around Felicia’s shoulders. “Hey, what do you think about a sleepover this weekend? Want Stephanie to stay with us for a couple of days?”
Felicia jumps up and down and shouts, “Yes, Mommy, please.”
“I guess we have our answer, then, but . . . ,” she says to me in a low voice, “. . . is it safe for Stephanie to be with us? I mean, if she’s just out of the hospital and all?”
“Definitely. Her doctor gave her a full release,” I answer. “I can get you a note, if you want it,” I quickly add.
“No, no, that’s not necessary. We’d love to have Steph stay with us.”
“Oh my God, really? You are so sweet. I can’t believe you’d do this. Really?”
“Of course, anything we can do to help. We moms need to stick together, right?”
“You bet. Listen, give me your address, and I’ll be sure to pack up her food. Can I drop her off at, like, nine on Saturday morning? I want to get a real early start.”
“That should be fine.” She writes down her information on the consignment store receipt.
“Thanks again. Thanks so much,” I say, walking with Susan and Felicia to their car.
“Stephanie, won’t that . . . ,” I start to tell my daughter but then realize she’s not there beside me. I go back in the store. She’s standing in front of some old ladies, trying on necklaces.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking her hand. She pulls it away from me.
“Stephanie, now,” I say.
When I get home, I call Louis to let him know we’re on for the Sedona trip.
I drag the suitcase out from under the bed. Most of Stephanie’s clothes are still in there since we only have the one dresser.
Underneath her pajamas and underwear, I find the paper. Written on it is:
Claire
Mystical Haven
1 Canyon Village Way, Sedona
37
Claire
“Maybe we should move this party elsewhere,” Cal says, pointing to the waiters who are beginning to reset tables for the dinner crowd.
When we get home, I set out a pitcher of ice water, cut some lemons, and pull together an appetizer platter with whatever we have around, which amounts to a slightly hardened block of cheese, some saltines, and a bunch of grapes. We’re not hungry right now, but in case we want to nibble, it’s there while my mother tells the story of my found and lost (and found) psychic abilities, which, until now, I was certain had ended at age three.
Mom and I sit on the couch, and Cal leans against some throw pillows on the floor.
She begins, “As a child, you weren’t all that interested in reading tarot or learning the various other methods of the psychic arts. I was sure you had the gift and wanted to urge you to study, but your dad convinced me you should enjoy your childhood, and when and if you were ready, you would come to me to learn. That seemed right, so I backed off. Occasionally, you would sense something from a client and mention it to me after she left. You were nearly always right, but that was the extent of it at that time.”
“What changed?” I ask.
“It started two weeks before your dad had his first stroke at the beach house.”
I try to think back. What was going on in my life that summer in the weeks before we went to the beach? Nothing specific comes to mind. I was twelve, so I’m fairly certain whatever it was, it was age-appropriate and mundane. Learning to shave my legs? Mooning over some rising boy band? More than likely, I was running. Even in the off-season, I would train on my own, taking long runs and then stopping at the high school track to challenge my sprint times.
I shake my head and say, “I can’t remember anything particular about that time.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t remember. Sometimes our minds protect us by blocking out what’s difficult to handle emotionally,” says Mom.
“Why? What happened?” I ask.
She pours herself some water and adds a squeeze of lemon. She takes a sip and says, “At the time, we thought it was a seizure of some sort.”
“What? I had a seizure?”
“That’s what we thought. The first time it happened, I was in the front of the shop, about to open for the day, and I heard a crash from the kitchen. I ran in and found you on the floor on your back. You were wedged between the oven and that red step stool. You know the one we keep there to reach the pasta pot on the very top shelf?”
“Yes.”
“I figured you needed something and then maybe fell off the stool. I tried to help you up, but you wouldn’t move.”
“What do you mean ‘wouldn’t move’?�
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“Actually,” she says, glancing at Cal, “it was more like you couldn’t move.”
“Was I having a seizure?”
“Like I said, that’s what I first thought because you were so stiff. Your eyes were open, but you were definitely not focused on me or on anything at all. I was calling your name, but you didn’t move. Except for your eyes, which kept darting back and forth. I was really scared. Your dad was at work, and I didn’t know what to do. I ran to grab my phone to call 911. Then, all of a sudden, you sat up, shrieking, ‘Daddy. Tell Daddy—tell him right now. He needs to know.’”
“Oh my God. You must have been terrified,” I say, touching her knee.
She nods and continues, “I raced back and held you. You were shaking and kept crying and yelling that I had to tell your dad. When I could finally get you calmed down, I asked, ‘Tell Dad what? What do I need to tell Dad?’ And you said, ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’”
“I didn’t remember what happened after it was over?”
“Nope. It was as if the whole thing, which had lasted maybe ten minutes, had never occurred. You told me you were tired, went to your bedroom, and slept for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. When you woke up, I asked you again, tried to prompt you into remembering the episode, but you looked at me as if I were making the whole thing up. It was all very strange.”
“What did it mean? What was I screaming about? And was it a seizure? Did you take me to the doctor?”
“Give her a chance to talk, Claire,” Cal says, chuckling.
“Sorry, but this is more than a little bizarre.”
My mom says, “Of course. It was for us too. The next time—”
“There was a next time?” I ask, my voice rising.
“Actually, two more times. Once the next day and one more the day after that. Of course, after the first one, when you got up from your nap, I did take you to the doctor’s office. She checked you out, said nothing seemed wrong, but that we should keep an eye on you.”
The Perfect Fraud Page 18