The afternoon light had grown soft behind a low sky. Through the windshield he could see across miles and miles of gray water to the flat charcoal clouds sitting above Canada. He said, “I wonder what they’re doing in Port Royal today.”
Jayme peered through the glass. “That’s what’s over there?”
“A whole other country. That’s always seemed remarkable to me.”
“How many miles?”
“As the crow flies? About twenty-four.”
“That would be one tired crow,” she said.
“A few years ago some guy swam it. All I remember is that he was fifty-five years old at the time.”
“So you’re not as old as you think, are you, babe?”
He knew her implication. Or thought he did. And no, fifty was not too old to become a father. He would be sixty-eight when his son or daughter graduated from high school. Seventy-two for college. Maybe seventy-five when he became a grandfather. That’s when things would start looking bleak, if they hadn’t already.
He gazed out the side window. The shrubbery around the cottage had been left in its natural state, tall and scraggly and wind tossed, Queen Anne’s lace and raspberry vines entwined with wild roses. A hot gust of air rocked his vehicle and caused Jayme to put her hand on the dashboard.
“Kind of windy up here,” she said.
DeMarco asked, “Am I supposed to pay her afterward?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“What do you pay a medium?”
“More than you pay a small, but less than a large.”
He gave her a look.
“You seem nervous,” she said.
“I feel like I’m being set up.”
“By Laraine?”
He nodded. Inside the house, a dog started barking.
“Great,” he said. “One of those yippy little rat dogs I hate.”
“Relax, sweetie. It’s probably just an angry spirit looking for somebody to possess.”
“You are an enormous help.”
“Love you too, babe. We going in or not?”
“We came this far,” he said, and popped open the door.
Forty-Seven
The scent of incense. Maybe some cannabis. Something cooking in the kitchen. He could smell tomatoes, garlic, and…peanut butter? It struck him as a strange combination.
The young woman who had answered his knock and ushered them into the small foyer smiled at the look on his face. “Sweet potato and peanut soup,” she told him. “For tomorrow. We like it served cold.”
She was only a little taller than an average twelve-year-old girl, delicate in every feature. She had a wide, beautiful smile, her perfect teeth a brilliant white, skin the color of liquid chocolate. Her eyes were full, dark yet glimmering, her black hair in tight cornrows. She wore a sleeveless summer dress of red, yellow, and purple that hung to three inches above her bare feet. No jewelry of any kind.
Her eyes remained fixed on DeMarco’s, held his gaze with their depth and insinuation. They were playful eyes, challenging, suggesting that she had heard all the world’s lies and had invented the best ones herself.
He felt himself warming to her, meeting her smile with his, then warned himself to take it slow, don’t fall for a pretty face.
Then the young woman turned slightly and made a little bow to Jayme. “I’m Lathea,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”
Jayme would have reached out to shake hands but Lathea kept her own hands clasped below her waist. “I’m Jayme. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Come in,” Lathea said, and turned sideways to the next threshold. “Would you like some herbal tea?”
“I’m good, thanks,” DeMarco said.
“Me too,” Jayme told her.
“Then follow me, please.”
In the next room, two young men and another young woman, all late twenties to midthirties, seated at desks along three different walls. The first male, a Caucasian, was leaning close to a thirty-two-inch computer monitor, sliding a wireless mouse in a jerky crosshatch motion over the mouse pad. The young woman, African American, was sketching on an iPad, and the second young man, possibly Hispanic, was turning an agate bead beneath a large magnifying glass, delicately shaping the bead with an emery board. A miniature cocker spaniel sat between the young woman’s bare feet and watched the strangers enter.
As Lathea crossed through the room, she pointed at each in turn. “Jessie, Taylor, and Matthew,” she said. “My partners. And that guy down there is Geraldo. The world’s worst watchdog.”
“Hola, ciao, how’s it going,” her partners said in turn. Geraldo tucked in his neck and lowered his chin to the floor.
“We can sit in here,” Lathea said from just inside the next room.
As Jayme entered the room behind Lathea, she said, “It’s so nice that you all get to work together like this. What business are you and your partners in?”
“We’re not business partners,” Lathea told her. “Life partners.”
“Oh,” said Jayme. “Oh, sorry. That’s great!”
DeMarco resisted taking another glance back at the three. He kept his eyes on the room just a few steps ahead, which appeared to be lighted only softly. Such a cliché, he thought.
As he stepped inside, Lathea said, “Would you mind closing the door, please?”
He did so. The room’s only illumination came from a wall sconce on each of three walls. The light was cast upward from each sconce in pale-yellow funnels. The room itself was furnished with several cushioned chairs, a chaise, and a love seat. The floor was carpeted, unlike the previous rooms. Heavy drapery hung over the windows.
Lathea took a seat in a red fanback chair against the far wall, then pulled a small table close to her. DeMarco could not yet discern what objects lay atop the table.
“If you would sit directly across from me,” Lathea told him. “And Jayme, why don’t you sit beside him?”
DeMarco slid one of the slipper chairs close to Lathea’s table, then pulled another alongside his for Jayme. The moment they were seated, Lathea smiled at each of them in turn. “I’m sure you must have some concerns or questions for me before we start.”
He asked, “How long have you been seeing Laraine?”
“Three times so far. A client of mine is a nurse. She suggested to Laraine that she might like to visit. And I’m glad she did. She’s getting stronger. Finding her center again.”
“Good,” DeMarco said. “Good.” He felt a warm flush of resentment go through him, just as he had when he’d been forced to meet with a psychologist after shooting Carl Inman. He did not like feeling so exposed to anyone. Did not like having the door to his secrets pried open.
“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about,” Lathea told him.
“I wouldn’t,” he said.
“I think it’s good for Laraine that you came. She wants to help you. Lots of people want to help you.”
“Lots of people?” he said.
She smiled again, then reached to the center of the table for what he now saw was a small black bag, not much bigger than a cell phone. She opened the drawstrings and poured out several polished stones of various shapes and colors, the smallest the size of a marble, the largest the size of a shooter. He’d had a big bumblebee shooter as a boy, black with yellow stripes, plus a bagful of aggies and jaspers and a single cat’s eye. He had never played marbles with anyone, though, because he had no friends until high school and also didn’t want anybody to know he had shoplifted the marbles. But he had liked to hold them in his hand at night before he went to sleep, liked to feel the cool glass warming in his fists. More than once he had fallen asleep with both hands stuffed, and in the morning had to search among the covers and sheets to gather the marbles up again.
Lathea said, “These are just my c
hakra stones. Holding them helps me to cleanse and center myself before contacting Spirit.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Do you meditate, Ryan?”
“No.”
“It’s a very healthy discipline.” She looked to Jayme. “Good for both of you, in fact.”
“I’ve thought about starting,” Jayme said.
“Have you?” DeMarco asked.
“Several times.”
Lathea picked up the amethyst then, closed it in her palm, and fixed her eyes on Jayme. “It would be very good for you right now,” she said.
Jayme pressed her knees together. Felt her stomach muscles twitch. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” said Lathea.
“Have you ever heard of anybody getting a sound inside their head like that of a door slamming shut?”
DeMarco had not wanted to turn and look at her so quickly, but it happened. Lathea glanced at him, then back at Jayme. “It’s more common than you might think. From a spiritual point of view, it means that Spirit is trying to wake you up. Has this been happening to you?”
“No,” Jayme said. “No, I was just curious, that’s all. It’s not a symptom of having a stroke, or a seizure, or anything like that?”
“If it happens frequently, or has severe pain associated with it, it’s something you should get checked.”
Jayme looked peripherally at DeMarco. “I don’t know how, uh, frequent it is…”
Then she and Lathea remained silent. Jayme tried not to look at DeMarco.
And finally he said, “Maybe three times in two years. No pain. Just a sudden bang.”
Lathea nodded. “It’s an emphatic nudge. For you to wake up.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
More awkward silence. “Okay,” Jayme said, hoping to ease the tension in the room. “That’s more or less what I read online. So thanks. It’s good to have that confirmation.”
Lathea turned to DeMarco. Smiled warmly. “What has Laraine told you?” she asked. “About why she wanted you to come here.”
It took him a moment to speak; it would sound so foolish. “She said you had a message to convey. From our boy. Ryan Jr.”
Lathea held the amethyst a few moments longer, then laid it atop the table, picked up the red malachite, and enclosed it in her hand. She closed her eyes briefly. Then opened them and said, “The way this works is, I don’t hear voices in my head. Some mediums do, but I don’t. Usually I get images, and typically the images are metaphors. Symbols. Open to interpretation. And because I’m also an empath—I read feelings and emotions—the image might be accompanied by a strong emotion. So I might cry, I might get a stabbing pain in my back or stomach. It can be anything.”
“Okay,” DeMarco said.
She nodded. Cocked her head. Seemed to be listening intently. “He says you’re not going to like this.”
DeMarco said nothing. Felt his body tense.
“Just so you know,” she told him, “I don’t tell my clients only what they want to hear. I tell them what Spirit wants them to hear. But you have the choice to tell me if you don’t want to hear anything at all.”
He told her, “Go ahead.”
Again she cocked her head as if she was listening. Nodded. Smiled. And said, “He’s holding his hands cupped together, holding something…oh my.” She chuckled.
“What is it?” DeMarco asked.
She said, “He wants you to know that guilt is poop.”
Jayme stifled a laugh.
DeMarco held his mouth tight, jaw stiff.
“Shall I continue?” Lathea asked.
“Why not?” he said.
Several seconds passed. “Okay. Yes, I think I have it. He’s letting me see that you are like a toddler who is so proud of his first poop in the toilet that he has to carry it around and show it to everybody. And that you need to stop.”
This time Jayme laughed out loud, a short gasp of surprise she smothered with her hand.
DeMarco sat motionless for a moment, holding every muscle tight. Then he stood with the least abrupt movement he could muster. Very softly, his voice tight, he said, “Please tell Laraine that I’m in favor of anything that makes her stronger. But that she shouldn’t feel the need to include me in any of it. And that what I particularly do not appreciate is her using my son for her own purposes, whatever the hell they are.”
He turned away and headed for the door, but paused for a moment, still facing the door, when Lathea spoke.
“Not all dreams are messages, Ryan. But many of them are.”
He remained perfectly still for three seconds, then continued forward and walked out past Lathea’s three partners without taking his eyes off the next doorway, then out through the foyer and to his car.
To Jayme, who was still half-turned in her chair, looking out through the empty doorway, Lathea said, “People who ignore their dreams are ignoring a very important part of their lives.”
Jayme turned, and started to rise. “I’m so sorry about that. He’s just…he’s struggling.”
“And you?” Lathea said.
“And me what?”
“You and I can talk, if you wish.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to be talking about him behind his back.”
“Not about him. About you. Do you have any questions? Anything you would like to discuss?”
“Me?” Jayme said. “No, there’s nothing…nothing I can think of right now.”
Lathea cocked her head and smiled.
“Okay, I do have a question,” Jayme said, and sat down again. “Did Laraine tell you about the dreams Ryan had in Kentucky? In the mountains?”
“I really can’t discuss anything she and I talked about.”
“Well, he had two dreams about his son. And in both of them, Ryan Jr. looked to be twelve years old or so. The same age he would be had he lived. How is that possible?”
“It’s more complicated than this, but, to put it simply, Spirit comes to us in the form best suited for its purposes. To appear as a baby wouldn’t have served Ryan Jr.’s purposes. Plus, we don’t stop growing when we pass into Spirit, and I don’t mean that just in a physical sense. Spirit is ageless, so it can appear however it chooses. It takes a lot of energy to do that, though. And Ryan Jr. has a lot of energy.”
Jayme sat very still, her eyes on the edge of Lathea’s table, forehead furrowed.
Lathea said, “I know it’s not easy to understand. Would you like to borrow a few books on the subject? I have a pretty good library of material.”
“No,” Jayme said, drawing out the word. Then she looked up and offered a smile. “Things are really busy right now, so…some other time maybe.” She stood again, and so did Lathea.
“Are you sure you don’t have anything else you want to talk about?”
“I would but…we have an appointment in Canfield this evening.”
Lathea came around the corner of her table. “Are you sure?”
Jayme looked over her shoulder. Saw the doorway still empty. Inhaled.
The car horn blared outside, making her jump.
She reached into a pocket. “Let me pay you something for your time.”
“I don’t take money for this,” Lathea told her. She turned and reached back across the desk, slid open a drawer, took out a card and handed it to Jayme. “My number’s on here. Call me when you have time to talk.”
Jayme looked at the card, nodded, palmed it, and turned to the door.
“Jayme?” Lathea said, and Jayme looked back. “There is a reason for everything.”
“Okay,” Jayme said.
“I want you to know that. And remember it.”
“There is a reason for everything.”
“God bless
you,” Lathea said.
And for just a moment, the tiniest blink of time, Jayme saw Lathea not as a petite young woman but as very old, and while not physically large, immense and ancient. It was a dizzying impression, a rush of warm, scented air across her face. And then it was gone.
Forty-Eight
He had his head back and eyes closed when she climbed into the car. Cold air was blasting through the air conditioner vents. Her body felt odd. Everything felt odd. Vivid yet dreamlike.
She said, and heard the odd slowness of her voice, “Was that really necessary?”
He opened his eyes but did not look at her. Stared straight ahead. “Sorry. I bumped the horn.”
“Long bump,” she said.
He put his hand on the gearshift but did not pull it into Drive. Squinting, he gazed out the windshield, out across the gray water. Finally he said, “The smartest thing a person can do is to learn to identify the difference between people who are more intelligent than you and the people who are too stupid to realize how dumb they really are.”
She snapped her seat belt into place. “Are you talking to me or to yourself?”
He did not reply.
She said, “I hope you take your own advice.”
She said nothing for most of the next hour, until they were off the interstate, halfway down OH-11 and still speeding south. There was too much to think about, too much to process. The portentous quality of Lathea’s last statement. The melancholy smile that accompanied her blessing.
DeMarco was driving faster than usual. Passing every vehicle they encountered. As if he intended to blast his way through space and time. Whereas Jayme felt strangely stilled. Suspended in a bubble of motionless time.
She really did not want to break that suspension, but it was difficult to sustain with DeMarco so tight and tense beside her. Lightly, she said, “So what about that whole thing with Lathea’s life partners? I mean, four of them? A ménage à quatre?”
He looked at her. Looked back at the road. Looked at her again. And apparently saw something that made him blink. Made him shake his head and blow out a breath.
A Long Way Down Page 19
