“No, but I don’t like wasting my time. Invite whom you want, Ginny. I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Probably of all of us, you will be,” she replied, which I hoped was prophetic even though I knew that wasn’t her sole reason for saying it. The sarcasm dripped from her lips. Still, I thought, maybe everyone had psychic powers and some just had more.
I laughed to myself. What if every high school in America had a fortune-teller in a booth in the lobby? After all, who needed a fortune-teller more than teenagers, people with limited experience, especially when it came to relationships? Teenagers were supposedly more impulsive and more indifferent about the future, believing and acting as though they were invulnerable, if not immortal. They took more risks with drugs and driving. They smoked without worrying about lung cancer and were more apt to drink too much alcohol, and they generally enjoyed disobeying rules and regulations.
Maybe because of how I was being brought up, I really was less of a teenager than my new friends were. Maybe that was why they thought I acted older, even accusing me of being like a mother. Being aware of consequences made you more cautious. It was worse for me. I not only had more awareness of consequences, but I envisioned them so vividly they made my head spin and my heart race.
We had just finished reading and discussing the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder in English class. In the third act, Emily Webb, who has died in childbirth, comes back but at an earlier time, and what’s tragic and sad about that, why she was warned not to go back, is that she can see everyone’s future and knows what sadness awaits, how old they will become, and who else will die early. It’s too much for her to bear.
The whole time we were reading it, I kept thinking of myself and looking at my friends in the class. I had the terrible thought that maybe someone like me shouldn’t have any friends and shouldn’t invest emotions and trust in anyone. I’d become too attached, and I’d eventually know something sad and tragic about them. I’d be like Emily Webb.
All my life so far, I had seen things others didn’t see, I had known things I couldn’t explain knowing, and I had heard voices whispering warnings. I had hoped that if I worked harder at making friends and being more of a normal teenage girl, I could put all that behind me. Maybe it would stop; maybe my parents wouldn’t be so worried about me; but mostly, maybe I wouldn’t be so worried about myself.
When my mother was there to pick me up after school, I told her about Ginny’s party.
“Lynch,” she said. “Why do I know that name so well?”
“Her father is president of the Dorey First Trust bank.”
“Oh, right. Well, what sort of a party is it?”
“Just a party. Not a birthday or anything.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
My heart sank. Wasn’t this the sort of thing she wanted for me, making friends and socializing? Were things going to be the same for me in this school as they were in my old school? Did more birthdays for me mean nothing?
“Oh,” she added quickly, “your uncle Wade is coming this weekend.”
“I’ll still see him during the day. The party’s at night, Mother.”
“We’ll see,” she said again.
I didn’t argue about it, but as soon as my father came home, she told him. I was in the living room doing some reading for history class.
“That’s good,” I heard him say.
“I’m not so sure.”
“Why not? If we want her to be normal, we’ve got to treat her like she is,” he said.
They spoke too low for me to hear the rest of it, but a few minutes later, they both came into the living room. I put my book aside and looked up.
“This will be your first party as a teenager,” my mother began. I smiled. They were going to let me go. “We’re not going to give you all the warnings your friends get from their parents, I’m sure. We trust you not to do stupid things. There is one rule you must obey, however,” she added. “You don’t leave the party with anyone. You don’t go anywhere else. We’ll come for you at eleven thirty. That’s more than adequate time.”
“Besides,” my father said, smiling, “if we wait until twelve, my car will turn into a pumpkin.”
I thought that was it. My father turned to go up to shower and change for dinner.
“Is there a particular boy you are going to be with?” my mother asked.
“No.”
She nodded, looking satisfied, but then looked at me more intently. “Have you told any of your girlfriends things about themselves that no one else would know? Are you still doing that sort of thing?”
She asked the question so fast that I held my breath for a moment. My father heard her ask it, too, and stopped in the doorway. So they knew about what I had done in my old school with Sidney Urban after all, and here I had done something like that again. She would surely be angry about it. There was no sense hiding it. She could find out just the way she had before.
“I gave one girl advice on how to win the attention of a boy she liked.”
“What sort of advice?”
“How to wear her hair, a color he liked, stuff like that.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Why?”
“Do you like the boy? Did you do it to keep the boy from liking her more?”
“Felicia!” my father said.
“Let her answer, Mark.”
“No. I did it to help her. I don’t want the boy for a boyfriend,” I said. Even though it was the first time she had accused me of such a thing, it brought tears to my eyes. “She’s my friend. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“And? Did it help her?”
“Yes,” I said.
She looked at my father. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked happy about my replies.
“How did you know what to tell her?”
“Just a feeling, an idea I had when I watched him with other girls. Lucky guess, I suppose, or maybe it was bound to happen anyway, and nothing I said or didn’t say would have made any difference.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Take my advice. Don’t do that again, Sage.”
“Do what?”
“Tell anyone how to get what he or she wants, especially new boyfriends.”
“C’mon, Felicia,” my father said. She looked at him. “Teenagers giving each other advice is just them being teenagers.”
“Never mind what other teenagers do. You be careful. You especially don’t start talking about those visions you used to have, understand? Do you?” she demanded, her eyes big, her pupils floating in some unimaginable fear.
I nodded quickly. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. You know how it frightened the parents of other girls at your old school when you warned them about certain things they did, how something could bring them great harm.” Then, to drive it home, she added, “That was why you never had any real friends. They didn’t want to hear such things.”
“That wasn’t why,” I countered. Rarely did I ever do that. “You wouldn’t let me do anything with them.”
She stared at me a moment, her eyes darker.
“She’s partly right,” my father quickly interjected.
“Maybe, but she still frightened their parents,” she insisted. “She’d better not do anything like that in this school.”
He didn’t disagree. In fact, he nodded.
She finally turned to leave.
Don’t tell anyone how to get what he or she wants? Don’t reveal any visions even if it might help someone? Parents would keep their children from being my friends again? Soon I’d be too terrified to open my mouth or offer an opinion about anything, even homework.
What parent anywhere in this city, I wondered, would tell her child such a thing? And look so terrified about something so harmless?
Or wasn’t it harmless?
The cloak of mystery that had surrounded me in my house all my life wasn’t opening as I grew older. Secrets weren’t being revealed.
If anything, they were multiply
ing like rabbits.
4
The moment I awoke Saturday morning, I knew Uncle Wade was in the house. From as far back as I could remember, as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, I could sense the current mood in my home. If something was troubling either my father or my mother, I would feel the tension in the air, no matter how bright the morning was. My senses went beyond the music of singing birds or the richness of a soft blue, cloudless sky. It was as if heavy waves of troubled thoughts flowed under my door and into my room, whirling around my bed.
Most of the time, my parents would not tell me about anything that brought worry or unhappiness to them. The tree of secrets grew more leaves. I could see them in the way they looked at each other, and I could hear them in the deep silences that fell between their words to me and to each other. I was always afraid to ask what was wrong. If I did, my mother’s eyes would widen with panic, and I would feel like I had done something to add to their problems just by sensing they were there and that they thought they could hide them.
Perhaps they could—from others, but never from me.
I had never known a time when Uncle Wade’s arrival had brought any cold winds or dark clouds. It was always just the opposite. When he appeared, it was as if all the air in our house had been replaced with a fresh new atmosphere in which smiles and infectious laughter could float through rooms with ease. There was a new lightness in my parents’ voices, and whatever fears or worries they had about me or anything else could be put away on shelves or stuffed into drawers for the time being.
I always had a new injection of energy when he arrived, too, and that was especially true this morning. I hadn’t seen Uncle Wade in months and months, and besides looking forward to seeing him, I anticipated his bringing me some sort of unique gift from somewhere he had performed.
As quickly as I could, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I chose something bright to wear, a sea-blue top with one of my newer pairs of skinny jeans. Lately, I had been wearing my hair down. It had grown to about two inches below my shoulders. Until now, my mother had insisted on having it cut shorter. Every day, I expected her to demand that I do just that, but she had yet to make an issue of it. I put on my amber necklace, slipped sockless into a pair of black and blue Skechers, and practically bounced down the stairs. They were all in the kitchen nook.
“Can this be the little girl I saw here the last time I visited?” Uncle Wade cried the moment I appeared. “Did you two take in another beautiful child?” he facetiously asked my mother.
She grimaced, but she didn’t look disapproving.
He rose when I went to him, and he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “I have something special for you,” he said.
“Let her have her breakfast first, Wade,” my mother told him. “You’ll get her too excited.”
“I’m the one who’s too excited,” he said, “but right, right, first things first.”
My mother rose. “We have your scrambled eggs and cheese,” she told me.
It was Uncle Wade’s favorite breakfast, too. I started to help her.
“Just sit,” she said. “And tell your uncle about your new school and your new friends.”
I glanced at my father. He was smiling, but I sensed there was something else going on. They didn’t simply want me to pour out my descriptions of the school and the other students. They wanted Uncle Wade to listen keenly, like someone who was here to evaluate every word.
“My classes are smaller, most with fewer than fifteen students. I have very good teachers, and I’ve made friends with four of the girls in my class, one of whom is having a party tonight,” I rattled off quickly.
Uncle Wade’s smile widened. “And boys?”
“There are boys invited,” I said.
“Anyone special yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I haven’t been there that long,” I offered as an excuse.
His smile froze, but his voice changed just enough for me to recognize something more serious behind his words. “Don’t be too harsh in judging them, Sage. Everyone has some flaws. Even your father and I, as hard as that is to believe. But we have plenty of good qualities,” he added.
“Why haven’t you married yet, then?” I came back at him, maybe a little too quickly. His smile became more a look of surprise.
“Sage!” my mother snapped.
“It’s all right, Felicia. This girl is growing up fast,” he said, turning back to me. “Simply put, I haven’t found anyone who would be willing or happy to live the life I lead, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. I am looking. When I was in France last week—”
My mother cleared her throat emphatically, interrupting him.
“Besides,” he said, “you’re still my favorite girl.”
“I’m too young for you,” I said.
“Apparently, your uncle has regressed a bit. Maybe you’re not too young for him after all,” my father teased.
Mother served my eggs, and I asked Uncle Wade to describe where he had been. He always had a wonderful way of spinning his tales of travels, the people he had met, and the beautiful things he had seen. Whenever he finished, I was filled with a traveler’s hunger and vowed to myself that I would go to these wonderful places someday.
After we finished breakfast, Uncle Wade produced a small box wrapped in lavender paper. I saw from the way he was anticipating my reaction that he was just as excited giving it as I was receiving it. In fact, all three of them were interested in my reaction. I began to open the box. Unlike the present my parents had given me on my birthday, this one remained a mystery. I’d had no visions about it. It was as if there was an invisible magnetic wall around it. When the box was open, I looked at a silver and black ring. Carefully, I plucked it out and turned it in my fingers. It looked ancient and very special.
“I found it in a small antiques shop in Budapest,” Uncle Wade said. “It called out to me, and I heard your name. Sage . . . Sage,” he sang. “I had to buy it.”
I studied the carvings on the ring.
“Yes, the dragon of the east, the messenger of heavenly law, facing the dragon of the west, keeper of earth knowledge. The truth that links them involves mind, body, and spirit, also birth, life, and death, all bound together in the timeless circle as one. The ring symbolizes perfection and luck. Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much,” I said, and tried it on my right ring finger. “It fits perfectly.”
“Of course. It called your name to me. It’s very old, a few hundred years.”
The way he said it sounded as if he believed I had lived another life and had worn this very ring before.
“Really?”
“Yes. The antiques store owner had no idea what he had. I got a great bargain,” Uncle Wade told my parents, but they didn’t look impressed with that. Their attention was fixed on me, both of them looking at me so hard I felt self-conscious and took my other fingers off the dragons instantly.
“Is it uncomfortable on your finger?” my mother asked.
What a strange question, I thought. “No. It feels fine,” I said. “Thank you, Uncle Wade.”
“You’re welcome.”
Everyone was still looking at me hard, so I rose and began to clear the table. Uncle Wade continued to describe some of the shows he had done and the theaters he had performed in, especially ones in eastern Europe that he described as old movie theaters with pipe organs that accompanied silent films, canopies of lights, great arches, and red velvet curtains. The seats were old but plush, “and you could smell time,” he said. It did sound as if he had gone back in time and traveled through ages, not just miles.
After I helped clean up our breakfast dishes, Uncle Wade surprised me by asking if I wanted to go for a walk.
“I need some fresh air,” he said. “I’ve been riding in trains, staying in hotels, flying, and taking taxis so much I forgot what a nice fall day can be like. Let’s walk around the lake.”
I looked at my father to see if he would be coming, but
he continued to read his newspaper. Uncle Wade and I started out toward the lake next to the house. I looked back, anticipating some sort of warning from my mother, but she was still in the kitchen.
The air was crisp but not too cold. Clouds moving west were racing against the light blue sky. Tree branches danced to the rhythm of breezes, and off in the distance, we could hear a mournful car horn, mournful because it sounded like the last desperate cry of a nearly extinct animal. It came from beyond the woods, but all sounds traveled faster and clearer on days like this, I thought. I even picked up the caw of a crow deep in the woods on the south side of the lake.
When we stepped out and walked down the sidewalk, the world around us suddenly grew silent. Looking up, I thought even the clouds had stopped moving. Way off on the western horizon, I could see a jet trailing a thin streak of pure white exhaust. Uncle Wade clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly, like some ancient philosopher sculpting new thoughts into a grand idea. I smiled to myself because I could feel his struggle to begin our conversation.
“Ask me whatever you want, Uncle Wade, whatever you were afraid to ask in there,” I said.
He paused and then smiled as he nodded. His blue eyes were never brighter, never more filled with glee. “I should have realized you would hear more in the silence.”
“Why?”
“I’ve always believed that you have the third eye,” he said. “I think you’ve realized it yourself, but you’ve been afraid to say it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most people who want it spend their lives trying to find it. Many religions recognize it exists. You were born with it, and you’re just learning how to use it, but it’s like any new skill or talent. If it’s not treated well, developed properly, it could end up doing more harm than good, sort of like a brilliant scientist who uses his brilliance to develop a nasty weapon instead of a cure for cancer.”
“The third eye? I don’t know what it is, so I don’t see how I could realize I have it. What is it exactly? What does the third eye give me?”
“Better perception, awareness, ability to envision outcomes and results more than most people.”
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