by Connie Lacy
“What gift?”
He sat down next to me on the sofa.
“The vision-sight,” he said.
27.
“What are you talking about?” I said, trying my best to seem puzzled.
“Well, you told me how you saw the little girl’s future – the little girl in your class – and how you saw your friend Tia’s future and your dad’s. And you described what happened in the hospital when your mom died.”
I sat for a moment, thinking back to someone holding my hand and the warm voice I remembered hearing. God, it was Brian. But it was all very fuzzy.
“And you told me you inherited it from your mother. That it ruined your life, that you don’t want to see people’s futures if you can’t do anything to stop tragedies from happening.”
I withdrew my hand from his, feeling completely exposed. He was studying me in a gentle sort of way. Good Samaritan, indeed. He’d found another needy person to help. And I didn’t like it.
“Well, you can chalk the crazy talk up to a concussion and lots of meds,” I said. “Sounds like I was raving like a lunatic.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve heard druggies ranting and raving before.”
I shifted slowly, wincing as I put my feet on the coffee table.
“I know you didn’t mean to share your secret,” he said. “But I think it’s good you finally told someone. It’s too much of a burden to carry all by yourself.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“Brian, really…”
“I’m honored you chose to tell me,” he said. “Of course, maybe it was easier to tell someone outside your inner circle. Sometimes that’s the way it is. And I want you to know I believe you.”
His kindness was hard to take. Not sure why, but it was.
“It happens when you look in their eyes?” he asked softly.
“Brian, there’s no such thing as – what did you call it – vision-sight?”
“But you don’t see everyone’s future, just the people you care about?”
I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the couch.
“And so you avoid looking at them,” he continued.
“Brian…”
“And that’s causing problems,” he said. “I guess everyone thinks you’re pushing them away.”
“It must’ve been a dream I told you about.”
But he charged ahead.
“Have you tried making a difference, you know, changing an outcome for someone?” he asked.
“Stop.”
I wanted him to leave.
“I was just wondering…” he said.
“Enough already!”
“…if you’ve tried to, you know, intercede to prevent…”
“Of course I have!” I blurted, letting my emotions get the best of me and immediately wishing I could take it back. He was using his counselor technique on me, tricking me into talking.
“But have you looked again to see…”
I sat up suddenly, flinching from the exertion.
“God, you have no idea what it’s like to see your own father’s funeral as his widow holds their little boy’s hand! You have no clue how painful it is! When I have one of these… these episodes, I feel like I’ve had the breath knocked out of me, like the blood’s been drained from my body. I’m weak and shaky and can hardly stand. I should never have told you anything! What the hell were you doing in my hospital room anyway?”
I pulled myself up from the couch and headed for the door, grunting in pain and wrapping my arms around myself, trying to keep my cracked ribs from moving. All this time I thought it would be a relief to tell someone my secret, but it wasn’t. He didn’t understand. He didn’t know how agonizing it was. And, although he said he believed me, I wasn’t at all convinced. He was obviously the kind of person who wanted to help people. In fact, he was probably humoring me – trying to help me work through what he viewed as a mental problem. Tears welled up again but I didn’t want him to see me cry so I stood with my back to him to regain my composure.
“I’m very tired,” I finally said. “And the physical therapist will be here soon.”
“Okay. But before I go, I want to tell you something. I have a gift as well. Not quite as dramatic as yours, but sometimes I can see people’s futures too. Like my buddy, Raymond. I saw his future the night I met him. That’s when I arrested him for breaking into an elderly neighbor’s house and pointing a gun at her. She caught him stealing the cash she kept hidden in her bedroom. He needed it for drugs. I didn’t have to look in his eyes to see his future.”
What I needed was another pain pill so I headed for the kitchen, Brian following right behind me.
“And when I look at you,” he went on, “I see a very talented, smart, caring, beautiful person plummeting to earth without a parachute. Anyone who crashes into someone’s house because she drank too much…”
“Get out!” I barked, grimacing in pain. I popped the Hydrocodone in my mouth, waving my hand at him.
“I’m trying to help,” he said.
“By giving me a DUI and making me lose my license for a year? Thanks a lot!”
“You deserve to lose your license. You could’ve killed someone, yourself included!”
“Out!”
I squeezed my eyes shut and doubled over.
“Jenna…”
“Go away.”
“You’re…”
“Who do you think you are?”
“I’m your friend. And I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Jenna…”
“I’ll call the police,” I said, looking for my phone.
By the time I found it, he was gone. I collapsed on the couch, wishing my shopper would hurry up and get here with the wine. Why had I told Brian all those things? And how dare he talk to me like that? He had no concept what it was like. None. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what I’d been through. I had been right to keep it a secret. No one would understand. They would all think I was crazy. My instincts had been correct all along. The best plan was to keep my distance from people. Simple as that. And I thought of Sam, the guy who sort of, but not quite, loved me. Who wanted to cast me in his plays. The guy who might be the key to my future in a place where I didn’t have to suffer through those nightmarish visions.
I curled up in a fetal position on the couch and the next thing I knew the physical therapist was ringing the doorbell. I tried to beg off, telling her I was very sore but she insisted I do my coughing exercises. She nagged me and reminded me I was supposed to be doing the exercises on my own as well.
“You could develop pneumonia if you don’t keep your lungs healthy,” she said.
“Okay, okay!”
“And make sure you don’t drink any alcohol,” she said. “I’m sure the doctor told you that mixing alcohol with your meds could be lethal.”
“I know!”
And she slapped a blood pressure cuff on my arm before I could object and told me my blood pressure was too high. But that didn’t stop her from forcing me to do the damn exercises. By the time we finished I could hardly move and I was so pissed off at everyone in my life – myself included – that I wanted to scream. But I knew it would be agonizing for my ribs so I just gritted my teeth and held my head in my hands.
Just as she was packing up to leave, the doorbell rang again and my shopper was bringing in the groceries I’d ordered. Brianna showed herself out as I led the shopper to the kitchen. By law, she had to card me for the wine.
I was finally alone again with a bottle of red and a bottle of white. And then my phone rang in my pocket where I’d stuffed it after threatening to call the cops on Brian. I looked at the screen and debated whether to answer when I saw it was Mrs. Robertson. I finally relented, hoping for information about my dad.
“Jenna, you won’t believe what I’ve discovered!
�
�Uh…”
“It’s a first for me, that’s for sure.”
“I…”
“I’m not far from your house. Mind if I stop by? I’d really like to tell you in person.”
I wanted badly to say no but she sounded so excited that I gave in. I was going to open the white wine and offer her – and myself – a glass but I couldn’t find a corkscrew. Just as the doorbell rang I realized Dad had been more thorough than I realized when he stole my Jim Beam.
“Lovely home,” Mrs. Robertson said, filling the living room with her smile.
“I don’t have much in the way of drinks but would you like a cup of tea?”
“Ice water would be perfect,” she said, following me into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table like she owned the place. “I find I have more energy if I avoid caffeine and sugar. You should try it!”
I smiled and fixed us both a glass of ice water, setting them on the table along with a couple of napkins.
“Okay,” she said. “Are you ready?”
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders at the same time. We were sitting directly across from each other and she leaned in like she was about to whisper a huge secret that she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“You’re descended from a woman who was burned at the stake as a witch.”
28.
Mrs. Robertson laughed. I did not. Of course, she had no clue that it confirmed my worst fears about my gift, or curse, or whatever you want to call it.
“She’s the reason your ancestors left Ireland to come to America. They had to salvage their reputation somehow so they packed up and moved to the new world.”
She took a sip of water, then pulled her laptop from her bag and opened it on the table in front of her. She referred to her notes as she continued.
“Sarah Campbell was your twelfth great grandmother. She was born Sarah Brown and married a man named Donald Campbell in 1701. But twelve years later she was tried for witchcraft and sentenced to death. Some of the villagers said she claimed to see their future. And when she predicted a neighbor would have a stillborn child and it came true, her own family turned against her, believing she put a hex on the baby.”
She shook her head as she continued talking, not noticing my distress.
“Even though Sarah had two children of her own, she was burned at the stake.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine?”
I swallowed hard and took a sip of water, not knowing what to say because the fact of the matter was – I could imagine.
“So Donald took the children and left County Tipperary, making the long ocean voyage to America. They became indentured servants in Virginia, all three of them: Donald; his eleven year old son, Seamus; and his nine year old daughter Brigid.”
She shook her head again.
“I’ve never uncovered anything like this. And I have to tell you my mouth fell open as I read the account in a letter from Brigid to her daughter many years later. Obviously, the experience of losing her mother like that really hit Brigid hard. She warned her own daughter to keep to herself and not let other people know her business. She also told her if she ever thought she was having a premonition, not to tell anyone about it. Understandable under the circumstances, don’t you think?”
While I knew no one would be burned at the stake anymore, I was petrified that if people thought I was psychotic… well, only bad things could come from that. And I wondered if Brian would keep my secret. He was close to his sister. What if he told her? And then what if she told someone else? And what if Brian went to Dad and Tia and told them? Was it possible they might try to have me committed?
“But Brigid’s daughter, Eileen, apparently ignored her mother,” Mrs. Robertson continued, referring to her notes again. “She became a psychic after Brigid died and actually earned money telling customers’ futures by gazing into a crystal ball. Isn’t that fascinating?”
She was grinning from ear to ear, reveling in her successful sleuthing. I forced myself to smile in reply even though there was no joy in my heart. Maybe she finally noticed my discomfort because she shifted gears then.
“I should’ve asked how you’re doing,” she said. “I heard about your accident. Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Not too bad,” I lied.
“Well, I better go. You look like you need some rest.”
She closed her laptop, slipped it back in her bag, took her glass to the sink and strode through the living room as I followed her to the front door.
“You want me to keep poking around?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Sure, that would be great,” I said, although, at the moment, I was uncertain whether I really wanted to know any more or not.
“All righty, then. I’ll be in touch again soon. Feel better!”
*
I was in agony. Excruciating pain. I writhed as the flames scorched my flesh. I was tied to a tall pole, ropes wrapped tightly around me. My clothes were in flames and the ropes were burning as well. An angry, self-righteous mob watched with cruel satisfaction as the fire grew hotter. Not an ounce of pity in those hateful eyes. I opened my mouth and a terrifying scream rose from the depths of my soul and I bolted upright, with tears streaming down my face. I grabbed my rib cage and looked around the room.
I’d fallen asleep on the couch with my laptop beside me. I never should’ve looked at all those awful drawings and paintings posted online of witch burnings.
*
Because I stayed up half the night, spooked about having another nightmare, I was very late getting up the next day and barely had enough time to get to my doctor’s appointment to check my ribs. I took a cab, preferring not to ask anyone for a lift.
Dr. Abrams told me I was doing all right but to continue my coughing exercises for another week and to be patient. Which was irritating because I didn’t want to be patient.
On my way out, I felt someone staring at me as I walked through the waiting room, and glanced in her direction. It was Randall Hayes’ wife, Wendy. Her blonde hair was pulled into a pony tail and she had on minimal makeup and was wearing black slacks and a grey jacket – nothing like the plunging cocktail dress she had on the last time I saw her. I kept walking, but she called my name and followed me to the door. When I stalked out of the cast party that night after telling her I wasn’t the one Randall was cheating with, I was hoping I’d never see either of them again. But no such luck.
“I’ve got a taxi waiting for me,” I said.
I pushed the door open and stepped outside in the heat and humidity. But she was right behind me.
“I just need a minute,” she said.
Although it crossed my mind she might pull the gun on me that she’d bragged about, I reluctantly turned to face her.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said, totally taking me by surprise. “Even though it was a humiliating scene at the party, you helped me face the truth. I left Randall and I’m filing for divorce.”
I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say.
“I’m taking drama classes and auditioning for a role at a little theater way out in the suburbs. I don’t know why I let him treat me that way, the rat. A repeat offender, as you put it.”
“Wow,” is all I could think of.
“So…”
“Well, I wish you the best. I really do,” I said.
She nodded and I nodded and then I walked to my cab as she went back inside.
The cabbie drove like a maniac – too fast, too slow, turning at the wrong places. My body was trying to compensate, my foot pressing the floor, instinctively attempting to apply the brakes, my hand squeezing the arm rest, trying to steer the car. Finally, we reached my grocery store and I went in to get a couple of things, including a corkscrew, before heading home.
I opened the Chardonnay and poured myself a glass and collapsed on the couch, checking emails and messages. Three from Brian, one from Dad, one from Meg and one from Sam.
Surprisingly, Sam answered on the second ring.
“How the hell are ya?” he asked.
“I’ve been better but I’ve been worse,” I said, trying for a light tone.
He laughed.
“Are you able to move around?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. I just have to take it kind of easy. How are you?”
“Love it up here. Course, I knew I would.”
I think I was hoping he’d talk about missing me or say something about looking forward to my joining him or something, but he didn’t. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something about missing him, but I wasn’t sure I did. I was sort of hoping to feel a stirring of emotions but it didn’t happen. Neither of us could think of much to say.
“Well, my physical therapist just pulled up in the driveway,” I lied. “Good luck with everything.”
I took a big swig of wine. And then several more before laying my head on the back of the sofa.
And then I was being burned alive. Only this time I was somehow able to pull the ropes from my body and leap over the flames and run through the darkness to a taxi parked beneath a tree. I opened the driver’s door, climbed inside, cranked the engine and pressed the gas, tires squealing as I raced down a country road with trees close on both sides. But I panicked when I realized there was no steering wheel. There was a crystal ball on the dash instead. I reached for it and pulled it close against my stomach as I leaned left and right, trying to keep the car from running off the road and into the trees. The car careened along the winding road until finally, I put both feet on the brake and the car came to a screeching halt. I was bathed in sweat. As I opened the door, the crystal ball slipped from my hands and shattered on the pavement.
My ribs were killing me when I woke up and realized today was my first appearance in DUI Court.
29.
My attorney’s name was Paul Dixon – pudgy, middle-aged, grey-suited – recommended by a friend of a friend. He gave me an irritated glare when I arrived ten minutes late in front of the courthouse. But I think he approved of my appearance. I had chosen black slacks, a pale green, three-quarter sleeve top and low heels. My hair was on my shoulders and I was only wearing lip gloss and some Erase under my tired eyes.
