by Ann Cook
“If energy cannot be created or destroyed, consciousness might be a form of energy and continue on,” Brandy said.
“You won’t find a credible physicist or molecular biologist who thinks that.”
John turned onto West Smith Avenue for a few blocks before wheeling between the cemetery pillars. “I admit, your medium was an astute observer,” he said. He parked a few yards down the entrance road. On either side, the cemetery lay in the dappled shade of aging oaks.
“There’s been research, you know,” Brandy said defensively, “on ‘anomalous cognition.’ It’s a kind of intuition, a way of knowing something there’s no ordinary way of knowing.”
John looked over at her and raised his left eyebrow. “To verify an experience, you must be able to observe it objectively. You have to be able to replicate it. Extrasensory perception has never been verified.”
Brandy shrugged. “It occurs in moments of deep emotion. You can’t test emotions in the lab.”
They both stepped out of the car. “I’ll say one thing,” John guided her around the small cement figure of an angel, “at the risk of resorting to New Age physics, living with you tends to verify the uncertainty principle.”
The only sound came from the wind in the trees, the only smell from the moldy odor of decaying leaves. Brandy knew now why Adrian wasn’t buried here. Sybil survived him. She wouldn’t want him near his true wife. As it was, she had to live with his monument to Ada.
Cradling the flowers, Brandy led the way over a deep bed of pine needles and past weathered headstones and overgrown family plots. She stopped near the outer fence and a thicket of crepe myrtle and looked up at the memorial that had dominated her thoughts for weeks. The limb of a water oak cast a shadow across the base, but a ray of sunlight shone over the firm stone face, the uplifted arm, the purposeful stance.
Again Brandy read the still visible lines from “Lenore.” She whispered, only partly to John. “We finally exposed the ‘fiends’ below.’” She turned to John. “If you stare for a few minutes at Ada’s face now, she seems to smile.”
“Stare at any object long enough, and it appears to waver.” He took her hand and said, not unkindly, “An illusion. She isn’t really here, you know.”
But Brandy was only half listening. She was thinking again about her grandmother’s theory. “I don’t know where she is,” she said, her eyes still on the silent face and the line of its stone lips. For an instant they seemed to curve upward.
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