Grinning at her, I rearrange my shawl and sort out the puffed sleeves of the gypsy blouse I'm wearing. “These people want the whole nine yards, so that's what I'll give them.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I know she's amused rather than disparaging. After all these years together, I know her as well as she knows me. Well, for the most part.
“How did it go with Drake today?”
I peek through the curtains again. Natalie's high-brow friends are interspersed with some pupils from David's class as well as others in the years above and below him. As I study the crowd, and the ghosts they've brought with them, summing up which ones will be easy marks to impress, I murmur, “It went well.”
“What was this? Date number six?”
I peer back at her, pulling my nose from behind the curtain once more. “Nope, date number eight, actually.”
“Ooh, excuse me and my poor counting skills.”
“I'll forgive you this time.”
“How kind of you,” she mocks. “Well, go on, was it good?”
“We only met up for lunch. But yeah, it was nice. He wasn't kidding when he said it was the best rye bread on the island.”
She grunts, and it's so close to my ear, it makes me jump. Something I know she did on purpose. Glaring at her, I rub the back of my neck. “Stop being facetious,” she chides me.
“Me?” I squeak. “I'm telling the truth.”
“Yeah, the wrong truth. You think I give a damn about the best rye bread in Manhattan? I want the deets! Spill.”
“It was nice, I told you already. We talked, but he was nervous about tonight. I tried my best to calm him down, but it didn't work. I know he won't be able to really relax until this is done and David either floats off or stays with me.”
“Which do you think he'd prefer?”
I smile at her perceptiveness. “I think that's the problem. He wants him to go to a better place, but he always asks after him and if David's with me, I'm a conduit. They still talk. I think he'd like him to stay, but feels selfish.”
“It's not often people get the choice.”
“Well, he doesn't really, does he? It all depends on David. How he deals with the aftermath of tonight. It's no wonder Drake was edgy as hell.”
“No. You're right. He's a good man, that one.”
Kenna hasn't been quiet in her approval of Drake. Her surety that he's good for me has been steadfast this past month, but that is the first out and out comment she's made to support him. “Yeah, I think so too.”
“Although, why you haven't fucked him silly is beyond me.”
“Kenna! Your mouth!” I wink at her. “I'd threaten you with a bar of soap if I thought it would work.”
She sniffs. “I'd leap on him in an instant.”
“That's because you're a hussy.”
“No, that's because I'm a red-blooded woman and he's a very, very attractive man!”
I grin. “He is, isn't he?”
“Yeah, so what are you waiting for?”
“How the hell should I know? It just hasn't happened yet.”
“You don't want to keep a man like him waiting,” she warns.
“Hang on a minute, aren't you from the 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free' generation?”
“Yes, but I've grown up since then. And I've read Cosmo with you. I know what a man wants.”
“Honey, no one knows that.” I peer through the curtains once more and see that the crowd has started to settle down. “I'm on,” I whisper. “Wish me luck.”
“You don't need it. And just start swaying back and forth if you get into difficulties.”
“Sage advice,” I mock.
“The sagest. Knock 'em dead, girl.”
I grin at her, but surge through the curtains in a wave of fabric. My skirt is huge, enough to make Scarlett O'Hara jealous, and with all the beads and shawls, I look like what they expect… someone capable of holding a séance.
The room's occupants are seated in a semi-circle around a single seat—mine. I'm at the direct center of everyone's attention and the instant I make an appearance, a hush overcomes the crowd. They study me for two seconds and the hush disappears, cascading into a waterfall of whispers as they comment on how I look, on their first impressions and perceptions.
Rather than take a seat on the armchair, I perch on the armrest and look around Natalie's post-modern exhibition of a living room. All white leather, sticks standing here and there, huge paintings that make no sense, I couldn't stand out more if I'd tried amidst the cruel minimalism.
The instant I raise my arms, the room inhales, and they exhale when I slash them through the air. “I'm ready to begin.”
Amused at their dropped jaws, I realize this is actually fun. I'd been dreading it. Been terrified I'd be struck with stage fright or something. That my tongue would lock, and fear would paralyze me. But as it is, I can dig this.
New York's elite is here, and they're at my feet.
The sensation is rather heady.
I let my gaze dart over everyone once more, spotting the ones with ghosts, and I notice a girl dressed in too-skinny jeans and a shirt that bares more than it reveals. At her back, the ghost of an older woman stands, hunched over, a disapproving glare aimed at a boy standing too close to the girl. When the woman realizes my eyes are on her, her brows lift. “What's her name?” I ask, but the crowd starts looking among themselves, wondering just who it is I'm speaking to.
“Jessica. Jessica Maribel.”
I smile at her. “And your name?”
“I'm her Aunty Louise.”
“Do you have a message for her?”
Aunty Louise's head tilts to the side, curiosity striking her at the attention I'm giving her.
“You'll tell her exactly what I have to say?” When I nod, she grins at me, revealing two crooked front teeth. “Tell her that bastard at her side is having it off with Lizzy Bennet in the year below her.”
Brows lifting, I have to raise a hand to cover my smile. Pursing them to further hide my amusement, I murmur, “Jessica, your Aunty Louise has a message for you.” When she points to herself, I nod. “You do have an Aunty Louise, don't you?”
Jessica blushes when the room's focus switches to her. “Yes. She died when I was five.”
“Well, I'd say she's been protecting you ever since. She has a message for you.”
“She does?” The eagerness in her tone is bittersweet, she's excited to hear from her aunt, but the message Louise has to give her isn't exactly nice, is it?
“Yes. Is that your boyfriend?” When she nods and reaches for the boy's hand, I murmur, “Louise says he's sleeping with Lizzy Bennet in the year beneath you. Which, young man, is statutory rape.”
At my announcement, everyone freezes, and once again, the desire to chuckle overcomes me. Natalie gawks at me, and I can see her gratitude for dropping such a scandalous bombshell in her salon beaming from her eyes.
“I-I'm not!” the boy whines, his voice reverting to its high-pitch of childhood in his horror at my revelation.
“Aunty Louise says differently,” I tell him, a chiding note to my voice. “Do you have anything else to say, Louise?”
“Well, other than thank you, no. I've been watching this fool girl of mine making a ninny of herself over this boy for the last three years. You've just saved my sanity. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I smile at her, then shoot a commiserating glance at Jessica who hasn't moved since I uttered the revelation. My words, however, trigger a reaction. A sob escapes her and she rushes off, the spotty boy running after her. With their attention on her, my soft murmur doesn't go unheard, “As you can see, the truth hurts. Are you sure you're all ready to handle the brutal honesty of a ghost's remarks? They know no other way to be.”
Some of the crowd look uneasy, and who could blame them? But others remind me of a Doberman with two pounds of ground beef dangling in front of his face. I'm not sure which I despise the most. The eagerness o
f the gossip-mongers or the uncertainty of those with secrets they want to keep hidden.
“I'm sure we can cope, Jason,” Natalie calls out, her salacious need disturbing me at a basic level.
I nod, because I had no intention of stopping, but I had to give them a fair warning. It's not in my nature to let people fall like lemmings over a cliff. Despite my bad press, I'm actually a decent human being, unlike the pond scum in here. Okay, so that might be a tad unfair, but I'm not feeling particularly generous tonight.
Perusing the crowd, I see a woman on a love seat. Legs firmly tucked together, neat as a pin, her hair in a painfully perfect chignon. She's so wrinkle-free, I feel like a bag of creases in my slouchy gypsy outfit. At her side, there's a man. Equally as ironed. What that says about her level of neatness, that she's as well-pressed as a ghost...well, I won't comment.
“Why are you here?” I ask him, but the woman presses a hand to her chest, shocked at being picked out. I ignore her, as I usually ignore people, and focus on the ghost. She looks to her left and then her right, but I keep on staring at her partner. “Is there a message you wish to give?”
“I'm her husband, Lionel Bridges.”
“Your husband is here, Mrs. Bridges.”
“Eleanor,” Lionel inserts helpfully.
“Apologies, Lionel says your name is Eleanor. Is that correct?”
Eleanor nods, looking uneasily to her side. “He's there?”
“Yes. He is.”
“Why is he there?”
“You heard the lady, Lionel. Why are you here?”
“To protect her.”
“From what?”
“Herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She tried to commit suicide when I passed. I couldn't leave her. Not when she needed me.”
I freeze at that, and rather than announce it to all and sundry, I step closer to Eleanor and crouch down in front of her. In a soft voice, one that doesn't carry, I murmur, “He's here to protect you, to watch over you. To make sure you don't do something silly.”
She blinks at me, tears already brimming her eyes. “He really said that?”
I nod. “Yes. He's watching over you.”
Her smile is watery but bright when she looks to her side again. “Thank you,” she breathes, and I'm not sure if it's to me or to Lionel.
When I stand up, I can see some of the crowd are disappointed they missed out on the gossip, but others are relieved that I show some discretion.
I've never appreciated elitism. I'm fortunate to have money with which I can do whatever I want, but hell, there has to be some perks to living with freakin' ghosts! I've never considered myself above anyone else, though. Never. And yet, these people do. They lead their lives, believing themselves to be intrinsically worth more than others. I despise what they stand for, even if I let them be clients. If that makes me a hypocrite, then it makes me a hypocrite, however, you have to understand, I accept the ghosts. Not the people they're attached to.
Bored by the hungry socialites gawking at me like I was a huge steak dinner with extra fries, I take a seat and sit back in the armchair. I take my time, looking among the crowd, enjoying the uneasiness my attention stirs. It's cruel of me really, but damn, this has to be another perk.
Head tilting to the side as I see a young woman seated beside an older one, curiosity strikes me. When you see nothing but ghosts, it's not often you can be curious, so I ask her, the ghost, “What's your story?”
She points to herself, as they usually do. They don't often get spoken to, quite naturally, so there's always a faint buzz of astonishment on their parts.
“Yes, you. What's your name?”
“Linda. Linda Townes.”
“What's her name?” I ask, pointing to the woman at her side.
“She's my sister, Deanna.” She smiles wistfully at the other woman. “I drowned when we were young, and she blames herself for it.”
And there I have the answer… curiosity struck because there was too much of a resemblance between the two women for them to be mother and daughter. Siblings made far more sense. The cheekbones never lie, as my grandmother used to say.
“Does she have a reason to blame herself?” I ask, studying the pristine sister in the pristine parlor. She's another Stepford wife.
“No, actually. She doesn't. She was listening to music by the side of the lake, and she didn't hear me calling for her when I got tangled up in some old fishing line. That's not her fault but still, she feels guilt.”
Softening a little in my self-righteous stance, I murmur to Deanna, “Linda doesn't blame you, Deanna. She says she understands why you feel guilty but it's not your fault and she knows that.”
Deanna's eyes pop open wide, almost like she has matchsticks propping them apart. “Linda's here?” she whispers, physically turning to look around herself in the vain hope she'll see her sister.
“Yes, she's here.” To the rest of the room, I call out, “Nearly every single one of you has a ghost, or even ghosts attached to you.” Actually, there was a fierce congregation of spirits in this room, more so than usual. What that says about this crowd, I'm not entirely sure, but it can't be good. “They're not your guardian angels, they're not even guardians. They're watchers. And it's a sad fate, because all they can do is watch. They see you make mistakes, they see people around you fool you or betray you, and all they can do is just stand by and see you hurt. They're there, constantly, but they give you privacy when needed, fear not. They don't want to watch you masturbate as much as you don't want them to see you under the sheets.” My wry voice dispels some of the flushes of embarrassment my words cause. That was my intention anyway. I'm not a complete social dingbat.
Deanna clears her throat, drawing my attention back to her. “Is she okay?”
“No, she's not. I don't even have to ask. Not a one of these spirits are okay. They exist in a half-world. A miserable, miserable place. Only people like me can help, and people like me are denigrated as fools or kooks, or worse, charlatans.” Folding my arms across my chest, because that one insult really pisses me off, I continue, “You want me to further prove my gifts, then ask me questions, and the spirits who follow you, will give me the answers.”
I look around the semi-circle surrounding me and point to a boy in a striped shirt. “You. You have a spirit. It's an elderly man, in his seventies—” The ghost pipes up with his name. “...goes by the name of Walter. Ring a bell?”
The boy stutters, “T-That sounds like my g-grandfather.”
“Give me a question that needs an answer only you two would ever know.”
When the kid gawks at me, I can tell he's racking his brain for something. I can almost see the light bulb go off above his head when he blurts, “What was the name of the candies he used to bring me back when he went away?”
“You heard the kid, Walter, what is it?”
The old man grins at me. He's the only one among the bunch that doesn't really fit in. When a person dies, they tend to revert to the spirit world in, crazily enough, a favored outfit. So, from Grandpa Walter's wardrobe choices, I'd say he was more than a keen hunter.
He looks like a geriatric Bear Grylls.
“Necco wafers, of course. But he also liked Salem's salt water taffy. His favorite company died out about a year before I passed. Mrs. Lysson's Taffy was always his favorite.”
I smile at the fondness in the ghost's voice and pass on the message. Leaving the boy looking thunderstruck, I point to a woman wearing a Beavis and Butthead shirt. “You've got a spirit. Girl your age. Passed recently from the looks of that Donna Karan skirt.” When the ghost tells me her name as well as the B & B fan's, I continue, “Do you have a question for Tara, Samantha?”
Samantha's mouth works for a second, then she murmurs, “Tara's with me?” Then her brow crumples. “Why can't she pass over?”
Her genuine emotion makes me sigh. I get asked this a lot, and it never gets easier to answer it. “There's usually a tie bin
ding them to this world.” I shrug. “It's different for everyone. We're born unique and we die unique, that's the one constant. Now, what question do you have for her?”
“Where did you put the key, Tara?”
“Tell Sam it's under the washing machine. There's a compartment that slots off to attach all the plumbing, do you know where I mean? Well, it's there. Tell her I love her.”
The relief that comes from passing on that particular message makes me smile. I have no idea what the key opens, nor do I care, but it's obviously something important.
That's the one thing that never changes in my world. The emotions I and my talents inspire in people, when they get their message, and when I tell them their loved ones loved them and still do, it—even if the gift makes my life miserable on most days—kind of makes it all worthwhile.
David pops up, almost as though he knows the time is approaching for the main act of this little farce, and he hovers close to a girl at the front. She's kneeling, and I'd say she was seated with her mother. “Who are you?” I ask, staying true to my role.
“This is my friend, Anya. She was the only one who really knew about the bullying. She was bullied too.”
“A real nice school you went to, David.”
Anya gasps when she sees my attention is on her. “David? David's here?!”
At her outburst, a small fountain of noise bubbles over. The volume in the room soars, words cascading here and there, flowing like fine champagne on a hot summer's day. I hold up a hand and immediately, silence falls. “Yes. David is here. David Edwin.”
She swallows. “Is he okay? D-Did he…?” She closes her eyes. “They said he overdosed. They said he…but he didn't. He never took drugs. I know he wouldn't do that.”
David smiles at Anya, turning to her with a fondness I've not seen in him. Ever since I've brought him to my home, he's been, well, peevish is the nicest way to phrase it. A brat, in other words. Kenna's had her hands full trying to keep him in order, but otherwise, he hasn't been the good boy Drake claims he is.
Not that I can blame him. There's always a transitional period, and for David, that transitional period means him popping in and out of my bedroom and bathroom trying to catch me in compromising positions.
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