Like a Fly on the Wall

by Simone Kelly

  “You all right, man?” Jerome asked, bringing me back to the present.

  I didn’t realize I was rubbing my jaw and my eye, where the club had socked him. I told him what his guide said and what I saw. “In this past life, you knew them both and the boss who beat you up, that was . . . that was your friend Omar in that lifetime. You betrayed him, and in this life you have an overwhelming sense of guilt and of course paranoia.”

  He sat back in his seat with his mouth open.

  I said, “I don’t sense anything going on. However, your jealously could bring them together if you continue. The chemistry you sense is because they were actually married.”

  “It’s gotta be something, ’cause he ain’t really easy on the eyes and I’m a pretty good-looking brother.” He snickered. “He got money, though. He handles his business. So I can see why some broads be into him.” He tilted his head to the side. “Sooooo . . . they not fuckin’ at all? At all?” He waved his hands like an umpire calling safe on the baseball field.

  “No, no, I don’t see it.” I shook my head. “I felt a genuine friendship between them, but all that Facebook posting stuff is in your head. You guys have a lot of the same circle of friends, no?”

  He nodded and cracked his knuckles.

  “So, they will bump into each other. It’s normal. I think in her mind, if she posted photos of her and Omar every time they were at the same event together, you would be jealous, too. Don’t make yourself crazy. Are you doing detective work? I see you in her stuff. Digging through digital things.”

  Jerome shifted his eyes, looking down and then up to the ceiling. “Yeah . . .” He started to sniffle, and his chest was heaving up and down. He tapped his leg nervously again and then out of nowhere he started to cry. It was like a volcano erupting and quite frankly took me by surprise.

  Jerome had so much pain and fear. He cried like a baby. I passed him tissues and I know he was embarrassed, but he couldn’t control it. He probably hadn’t cried in years.

  “Jacques, I follow her, I hacked into her email. I check her text messages when she is asleep. I bugged her phone with an app. I kept feeling something was off, but never caught them. That past life shit makes so much sense. And why was you holding your face?”

  “He hit me—well, hit you—really hard with a stick of wood right here.” I pointed to my right eyebrow.

  He leaned in and showed me a birthmark on his right eyebrow. “Like right here?”

  “Yeah, wow, that’s wild. Have you had that since you were born?”

  “Yeah, and I heard about that shit, too. That you could have a scar where you were shot in a past life. Chantell got me watching all these out-there videos on YouTube since she saw you.” He sniffled.

  “That’s amazing. It makes sense. You had to have had a ruined face after that beating. It was bad.”

  “When was it? Can you see that, too? Like what year?”

  I closed my eyes and saw the number 1827 almost as if it were on those big squares on Wheel of Fortune. Then I saw a map of the United States in my mind. The map zoomed in to south of the Midwest and then I saw the letter O. I said slowly, “Ohhh. Oklahoma, 1827.”

  “So . . . hold up, I worked for him and we were friends? Was I a slave?”

  “No. You were white, like a field hand, maybe a carpenter, since it looked like a lumberyard . . . or something of that nature. You had on overalls and a white shirt. He hit you so hard it was covered in blood. Oh, and a straw hat. You seemed much younger than your boss.”

  “So, she musta been a cougar.” He chuckled. “That’s fucked up how she ratted on me.”

  “I know . . . but she was about the same age. You were like twenty or twenty-one and he looked around forty-something.”

  “Yoooo, you have no idea how much sense this makes! Omar and I are the same age. We’re both thirty-four, but he’s been like a mentor to me. He acts older. He knows so much shit. Really smart dude. He showed me a lot about real estate. We are actually going in on a house together as partners . . . a duplex in Kendall. I’m soooo glad I don’t have to hurt homie.” He laughed and put his hat back on.

  “No, no . . . please don’t hurt him. You did enough damage in 1827.”

  “Ohhhh, that’s cold!” Jerome slapped his knee. “Yeah, you right though. You right. I don’t wanna go to jail. Man, this karma shit is real, huh?”

  “Oh, it’s verrrrrry real. Just learn to trust more and chill out on the detective work. Let Stacey breathe a little. She’s a good girl.”

  We ended up having an hour reading instead of the thirty minutes he originally wanted, so he could talk more about his career. I recommended a few books on relationships and the law of attraction. I also gave him a few videos to check out on YouTube about meditation to help him with his anxiety.

  He was very pleased when he was leaving. “Yo, Jacques, you the truth, man!” He gave me a pound and a hug. “Imma spread the word about you at the bus depot. Get ready, man. I know a loooot of people.”

  “Oh, send them on!”

  He waved and had extra pep in his step as he walked out. It was sessions like this that made me feel so fulfilled.

  My job, as rewarding as it is, can truly take its toll. Today’s sessions made me need at least one hour of meditation to release all my clients’ woes and cleanse my own aura. Vicky seemed to always know when it was a tough day for me. If she came home and my office door was closed, that was a sign: meditation in progress—do not disturb. Most guys had a man cave that was full of video games and a big-screen TV. Mine had a waterfall, dark curtains, incense, candles, and essential oils. She thought twice before she dumped on me all of her day, about gang fights, drug busts, or sexist and racist coworkers. Vicky knew I, too, needed to complain and I was grateful that she knew it. The day in the life of a psychic wasn’t all love stories and exotic past lives. Murders, missing children, molestations, countless infidelities, abuse, relationship dramas, crossing-over ghosts, and communicating with dead loved ones were what filled many of my days. Tough days usually started off with a minor headache and ended with a pounding migraine and extreme fatigue. And yes, even though I hate to admit it, watery eyes. It comes with the territory and is something I can’t control during emotional visions when I pull up a person who died but still has regrets. It is heart-wrenching to hear a spirit on the other side telling me he or she is so sorry.

  We are really the same person even after we die. The same spirit, but without the shell we call a body. Life can tug at your soul when you really go through it. Being the voice for these souls was my job. Being the mediator between their personal egos and their spirit guides was my other job. But the beauty, the real joy, is when you really help someone with a breakthrough into finding their passion when they have been stuck in the wrong career or relationship all their lives. It’s great when you help someone find his true love that was right under his nose. Or, most rewarding of all, helping someone fall in love with who she is deep down inside, shedding the layers of unnecessary masks.

  I enjoy encouraging people to be their authentic selves and to make no apologies for their greatness . . . helping every person recognize the God-Force within them gives me life! That part of my job isn’t really intuitive, but it certainly is what drives me. It’s what really keeps me coming back, because I know I am making a difference.

  Chapter 4

  Kylie

  Jacques can so get it. Damn, why did he have to be as fine as he sounded? And French to top it off! I know I’m a big flirt, but what are the chances of someone as sexy as him getting my photos by mistake? I never even usually print out photos there, but my printer was broken. Was that an act of God? Could be, since He knows the most action I’ve gotten in the last three months was my Brazilian bikini wax at the Hilton in Jamaica. Jacques’s eyes were dangerous—alluring even. Dark eyes and long eyelashes on a man is straight dangerous for me. He needs to wear shades for our next meeting, because it was hard not melting right in front of him.

&nbs
p; As much as I hate to admit it, I could be wrong about why I met him. Even though I know there are no coincidences, there could be another reason we met. I’m horny beyond belief, and there is only so much a trusty vibrator can do. He looked like a good prospect to take care of the release I so desperately need. But hey, even if he can’t help me “get my leg over,” as my British friend Olivia would say, he could help me with my career and warn me who to avoid. There is a bright side, even if he isn’t “the one.”

  But anyway, Jacques was really good, not a cheesy ten-dollar psychic from a street fair. He seemed very professional, down to earth, and just right on the money. He confirmed what my gut was screaming at me for all these years. My father is not the man my mom said he was. I hate her for lying to me, for denying who she is, and making me a product of her secrets. But I can’t say anything, not yet. A good detective doesn’t confront her suspect until she has all the facts and I’m nowhere near that.

  I got back to True’s place—well, my place temporarily—and kicked off my sandals near the neat pile of shoes by the door. I turned on my favorite mix by The Brass King, a vintage soul mix of classic R&B instrumentals. I went for my favorite chair in the house, the big orange fur chair that looked like it was from the “Back to School” dorm section of Target. Phantom, my baby sister, almost plowed me down when she saw me beat her to her favorite chair.

  “Come here, Phantom, we can share.” Her bright eyes became honey-colored slits after she sat on my lap. She purred as I stroked the big brown patch over her eye. I got her when I was eighteen years old and named her Phantom because the patch over her left eye looks just like the Phantom of the Opera’s mask.

  I turned on the boob tube for a second and watched a rerun of Law & Order: SVU. The R&B music still played in the background. Noise, the comforts of home, and not feeling alone.

  I started flipping through the photos that Jacques gave me, stopping at a photo of my aunt Daphne, my two cousins, and Olivia laughing over a Jamaican brunch at the hotel. Shit, I better hide these bad boys. What True didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. She didn’t need to know my real reason for going on “vacation.” I quickly took those photos out of the batch.

  I was happy to be able to reconnect with an aunt I had seen only twice before.

  True had told me that she and Daphne had had strict upbringings, though they hadn’t lived together. My cousins were very well mannered, but almost to an extreme. They were about five or six years younger than me, but acted even younger. They spoke only when spoken to. Aunt Daphne spoke slowly and softly, sat up straight like a former dancer, wore hardly any makeup, and still had flawless cocoa-brown skin. She was very pretty and I was happy to say we all looked a lot alike. Same smile and eyes. Her hair was in a perfectly smoothed-back bun. She was the total opposite of her free-spirited sister.

  My mother wanted no part of her island roots and the bad memories she never talked about. It was as if she didn’t grow up on ackee and saltfish, dumplings and curry chicken, and mangoes from the yard. Like she didn’t chase lizards, pick ticks off the family dog, or run barefoot with her friends by the river. She keeps all these stories bottled up inside, so that I have to hear them from someone else. It was as if Paulette Collins never existed and “True” is her new truth in America.

  Finding out who my father really was is just a piece of the puzzle. Daphne claimed she didn’t know who my father was, yet she would never look me in my eyes when I asked about him. She would start to speak, then cut herself off as if she was holding something back. I know there’s more to the story than a young pregnancy and being shipped away to hide it. I know in my heart the Collinses were protecting a secret and now my session with Jacques confirmed it: my dad wasn’t the man I thought he was.

  Over brunch in Jamaica, Aunt Daphne sipped a mimosa. I had hoped it would loosen her tight lips but she fed me only morsels of the knowledge I craved. “We never really got on as children,” she said softly, with her proper Jamaican accent. It almost had a British twist to it. “We weren’t raised together. She grew up by Braes River with our aunt and uncle and I was in the city with my father. Our mother was very sickly and couldn’t take care of us. My father was a bit well off, owned a trucking business, and that, well, that caused a lot of jealously from Paulette.” She shook her head and frowned, as if the memories were too painful to bring back. “It was sad though, you know? She was really treated like a Cinderella. Our uncle’s wife made her clean all day. She was a wicked woman. Wicked. She hated us all. When I went to visit, I never wanted to go back. So, for Paulette to have to live there, to live with that woman full time, I don’t know how your mother survived.”

  That part of the story rang true with what I was told, but I had no idea they were half sisters. I thought all this time they had the same dad.

  I must have looked surprised or embarrassed.

  “Your mother never told you any of this?”

  I shook my head. She hadn’t. No matter how much I begged her, True would just brush me off and tell me it was better I didn’t know anything about them “damn Jamaicans.” It’s gotta hurt living daily in denial of your authentic self. It frustrates me that I never grew up with any culture, with the good down-home cooking most Jamaican kids grew up with. True made me spaghetti and meatballs and of course my favorite (’cause I didn’t know any better), franks and beans, at least until she became a vegetarian fifteen years ago.

  I do try to see her side of it all, though. She was on her own and a single mom at sixteen. True told me she was shipped off to the States, in fear of the rest of the family and community learning that she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. There’s no doubt she wears battle scars heavy on her heart. But why should I be severed from my family ties? Because she has issues getting over her past? It’s my family, too. I need to know my roots!

  Before I left for Jamaica, True kept asking me where I was staying, so I made sure I showed her all the brochures of the resort in Ocho Rios—three hours away from her family. She had no clue about my reconnecting with her sister. When I arrived back from my trip, True picked me up. I was excited to see her and wished I could tell her about my cousins, about how beautiful Aunt Daphne still looked, but of course . . . she would’ve lost it.

  I walked outside the airport, looking for her car. First, I spotted her bright red ’04 Mustang with thousands of bumper stickers on the back displaying causes she supported: BURGER KING RULES: IF YOU LIKE DINING AT THE MORGUE, SAVE THE WHALES, SAVE THE RAINFORESTS, and WOMEN FOR PEACE.

  She sat in the car with her tweezers between her fingers, looking in her rearview mirror. True was going to town on all those unwanted ingrown hairs she affectionately referred to as her “girl whiskers.” Great! If that’s in the genes, I have something to look forward to in my late forties. I ran my hand across my chin, doing a quick peach-fuzz check. She still didn’t notice me coming toward her dragging my luggage as she plucked away.

  I bent down to the window and yelled, “Okay, okay, that’s just gross, True!”

  She laughed, a bit startled. “What’s so gross? Girl whiskers are a part of life. You still have a good fifteen years before you get them,” she teased as she got out of the car and gave me a quick hug and a pat on the back. True was not affectionate and never had been.

  I put my two small suitcases in the trunk and mumbled, “If I’m lucky, I’ll have more of my father’s genes.”

  “Yeah . . .” She cleared her throat nervously and strapped on her seat belt.

  “What’s wrong? How come whenever I bring up my father, you get all weird?”

  “Weird? You’re being ridiculous. Tell me about your trip to that third-world island with those damn Jamaicans. Did you have fun?” She laughed, halfheartedly acknowledging that she, too, was from that third-world island.

  “Yeah, I had a blast, but you’re changing the subject. It would be nice if you could share more info, just once. It’s like pulling teeth to find out anything about my father!”

  T
he rumbling sound of the muffler choking shook the car. Then George Benson singing “Turn Your Love Around” blasted over my complaints as we drove away from Miami International Airport with the tall row of palm trees lining the road leading the way out. I turned down the music, refusing to be drowned out.

  “There’s nothing more to share, Kylie. I’ve told you all this a million times. He was my boyfriend. I got pregnant from messing around way too young. They shipped me off to the States to live with my aunt to have you, so no one would know. They abandoned me, so why should I care about them? Your father didn’t give a damn and never wrote me back. I heard he died in a car accident when you were five. You’ve asked me a thousand times, the story won’t change.” She reached for the volume knob and began to sing along. “Turn your love around!” Her blond ’fro swayed to the music.

  I lowered the volume again. “There’s nothing more to know? What about his family? How come you never at least told me about any aunts and uncles or cousins I have?”

  “He was an only child, Kylie. I told you this before!” she yelled. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  “Maybe Aunt Daphne will.” I baited her to see what she would say.

  “You didn’t see her, did you? Did you see her?” She took her eyes off the road and stared into mine.

  “No,” I lied. “I don’t have a number for her. Heeeeey! Look at the road!” A car almost sideswiped us going ninety miles an hour. True swerved just in the nick of time.

  “Well, I don’t have one, either. She wants nothing good for either of us. She’s been jealous of me since the day I was born. We don’t need any of them. Any of them!” She picked up speed as her pain seeped into her voice. I reached down to make sure my seat belt was on tight. True had so much anger inside. That’s how I knew there had to be more to the story.