by Yvonne Heidt
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Does that say ‘I see you?’”
Sunny pulled the bar back with her mouse and played it again.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
Now she did feel fear from Mrs. Singer, so she jumped in to put her at ease. To offer the psychic impression that she’d received just this morning. Reaching for her hand again, she talked in a soothing voice. “I want you to relax and listen to me, okay?”
Sunny took a deep breath. Mrs. Singer’s reaction could go one of two ways, and she hoped it would be the one that could lead to some comfort. “Mrs. Singer, did you lose a child?”
“Oh, God.” She pulled her hands away to cover her mouth. Her grief erupted into keening sobs. “How could you possibly know that?” She swung around in her chair to look at the pretty, but empty, kitchen. “Is he here? Is my baby here?”
Sunny felt her pain stab at her own heart. “No, ma’am.” This was the hard part. Sunny felt the loss of that child as if it were her own, and tears stung her eyes while she tried to center herself. Not mine, she reminded herself. This pain didn’t belong to her.
“Ma’am?”
Mrs. Singer had rested her head on her arms. It was several moments later when she began talking. “Five years ago, before I met my husband. We were living in Montana with my parents.” She steadied a bit and sat back up. “Keith was three years old. It was the middle of winter and he got a cold.” Her eyes pleaded with Sunny for understanding. “A stupid cold and we were snowed in, trapped by the blizzard that swept through the state. Oh, we weren’t worried, my mother and I; we just did the normal routine that you do when your babies get sick.” She looked to the left, as if to a faraway place and a different time. “His temperature started to climb in the middle of the night, and I woke up my father. We couldn’t get out, and the nearest hospital was forty miles away on impassable roads. While my parents frantically tried to dig out the truck, my son died in my arms.” Tears ran silently down her face. “I felt his little soul leave me.”
Fresh grief spilled over her, and then Mrs. Singer straightened. “No one here knows about Keith but me. It was before I met my husband. Oh, he knows about my son; he just wasn’t part of my life then, or any part of the pain that you go through when you lose a child.” Her eyes almost looked fierce. “You tell yourself that you’ll die too. After all, how could someone walk around feeling like a knife is living in your heart and not drop dead from the pain? You think you’ll die, pray for it even, but you don’t. You wake up, you eat when someone forces you to, and you go to bed. Eventually, you add chores and other activities to your day, but it’s never the same, not ever.” She stopped and her eyes snapped back to Sunny’s. “Oh my God. Was that actually Keith? ‘I’m okay here. I’ll be seeing you’?”
Sunny nodded and rubbed at the knot in her stomach. “I believe so.”
Mrs. Singer got up, pushing her chair back. “I need some water.”
Sunny stared at her back. “He has a message for you.”
“A message? From my baby boy?” The eagerness in her voice broke Sunny’s heart a little more.
Sunny nodded again. Here goes, she thought. “He appeared briefly and he was holding the hand of a small little girl wearing pigtails and indicated she was his sister. He walked forward with her.” She let that sink in for a moment. “He says he’s happy and showed me pink paint and rollers. At first, I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but then he showed me a crib.”
Mrs. Singer slapped the table in shock. “I just found out this morning! Not two hours before you got here. How could you? Never mind.” Her face paled.
Sunny watched the disbelief race across her features, and then finally, hope transformed Mrs. Singer’s face, and she relaxed a little. Then she went on. “He says he didn’t mean to scare you and he wants you to be happy. He flexed his little muscle when he brought the little girl forward, a sign for big brotherly love. He says he is always with you.”
“A little girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not much, but an older gentleman came up behind him and lifted him onto his shoulders. They were both laughing and then they disappeared.”
“My grandfather. He always did that to me, lifted me up like that.” Mrs. Singer smiled softly. “He always smelled of peppermint and tobacco.”
The air shifted in the kitchen and Sunny felt the heavy grief in the room recede. She knew that Mrs. Singer would shed more tears, but she hoped they would be more of a healing nature.
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Sometimes, Sunny didn’t know where to put all the emotion after a heavy session like this one. She felt overloaded and wrung out. But she did know that she helped this grieving woman, and that’s what her gift was all about. She closed the laptop and stowed it in the leather case. “Do you want the recording?”
Mrs. Singer considered the question for a moment. “No,” she said slowly and pointed to her heart. “It’s right here. Thank you again.”
They walked out to Sunny’s car. After she was buckled in, Mrs. Singer leaned in the open window and giggled. “Pink paint? I think I’ll go and buy a gallon to sit in the middle of the kitchen table with my husband’s favorite dinner.”
“That’s sounds wonderful. Good luck to you.” She let herself be embraced and poured as much positive energy as possible into the hug before heading home.
Sunny got caught up in the shipyard traffic in Gorst, but it didn’t bother her. She always figured she was right where she was supposed to be at any given moment. Today, however, her heart ached with emptiness. Was it remnants of Mrs. Singer’s loss or was it her own? Her arms ached to hold a baby. To smell a sweet infant’s soft skin and kiss the top of a tiny head.
She justified it as an emotional hangover from the session. It wasn’t as if she would be pregnant anytime soon herself. It would certainly never happen by accident since she’d never even been with a man. Sunny had known from a very young age she was lesbian. Because she was homeschooled by her parents, it kept peer pressure from her door. Normal school had been out of the question. It was excruciating for Sunny to be around that many people and the emotions that flew around them like small tornados. She’d loved her parents as teachers. Anything that she wanted to learn, her parents provided the means for her to do so. They took field trips and day trips to the library. Learning was easy for her, people were not.
Look out!
Sunny heard the voice in her ear and slammed on her brakes, narrowly missing the car in front of her that had stopped suddenly.
“Thanks, Dad.” She paid close attention on the rest of the drive and was still shaking when she pulled into her driveway. She’d always had a fear of car accidents. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if she’d been in one, just that she did and she couldn’t get a bead on it. She wanted a bath, a long soak in water that would cleanse her, inside and out. Maybe a glass of wine.
Shade came barreling out the door and nearly knocked Sunny over. “Oh, hey. I’m sorry.” She reached out to steady her, instinctively drawing her closer.
Sunny was tempted to lean into her warm body. Just for a second, to let someone wrap her up and take care of her. But she really needed to be alone to decompress. Sunny felt selfish but took that moment of comfort from Shade and let her senses fill with Shade’s cologne. From the time Shade was a teenager, she’d always worn CK One. There had been so many nights Sunny had lain wrapped in that heady scent. Uh-oh.
Reluctantly, she pulled back and forced a smile on her face. What they had was in the past, and she wouldn’t lead Shade down a dead end, no matter how lonely she felt. “I’m okay.” She felt Shade’s concern wash over her and made an effort to brighten. “Where’s the fire?”
“It’s not important. I can stay here with you.” Shade held the door and ushered Sunny inside, hesitantly waiting for her answer.
“No, I’
m fine. I’m just going to go upstairs and take a long bath. Thank you for the offer, though.” She picked up two pink phone messages off the desk blotter. Thankfully, neither call needed to be returned until the next day. She turned and shooed Shade away. “Carry on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” Sunny grinned. “Sally?”
“Yep.”
“Lucky girl. Go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sunny locked the door behind Shade when she left. Please let there not be another interruption, she thought. Ash and Isis sat on the second-floor landing waiting for her. Silent sentries, they flanked her on velvet paws all the way to her room and stood at the door to the bathroom until she reemerged, warm and pink, climbed into bed, and quickly fell asleep.
*
Jordan hated this time of night. When the distractions were quiet and her mind traveled to the past again and again, like a tongue seeking out the sore tooth. She turned on the television simply for the noise and paced her living room. It didn’t help much; the walls still felt like they were closing in on her. She froze when the volume suddenly blared on the TV, blasting from the speakers. Jordan grabbed the remote and turned it off.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” she shouted, then immediately felt ridiculous standing in the empty room. Of course, there was nothing there, because there was no such thing as ghosts. Jordan rubbed the goose bumps that prickled the skin on her arms. Damn thermostat. She didn’t care anymore about scaring the landlady; it was just a screwed-up thermostat and she wanted it fixed. The building must have defective electricity as well, sending surging power through the electronics.
See? Now she had something to focus her rage on. She grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair and her keys from the counter. Jordan stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. She’d had enough.
By the time she got outside, she felt some of her anger ebb away. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t going to yell at that sweet old lady. Jordan shoved her hands in her pockets, oriented herself, and began to walk toward the water several blocks away. Wanting—no, needing—some space and distance from everything, including herself. Deep down, she knew that wherever she went, there she was.
There she fucking was.
Jordan wore her badass attitude like a piece of clothing; no one bothered her or even waved. Even the punks outside 7-Eleven gave her a wide berth. They were looking for victims, not another predator.
She turned left at the corner and continued up the hill toward Washington Street and the ferry docks, hoping the ocean would help soothe the ache in her soul. Jordan felt an air of confusion surrounding her, and it was puzzling. She always knew what she wanted and how to get it. Everything outside her apartment was normal and within her control, as it should be. Well, she admitted, except for her run-in with the ghost brigade the other night. Her palm burned and she rubbed it against her jeans absently.
Only a block to go.
*
Jordan balanced easily on the slippery rocks, stepping carefully until she found a place to sit. She closed her eyes and felt her shoulders relax while she inhaled the salt air. There was serenity to be found here.
She wondered if that was because one of the only happy memories she had was on the beach. Perhaps that was why she always sought it out.
She’d been about six years old and her mother had been in a good mood. Jordan looked back, and as an adult, she knew it must have been because her mother had been flush with enough money and drugs for the day to make her happy.
It was out of character for her mother to take her anywhere, but that day, for whatever reason, she decided to take her to the beach.
Jordan could still see her mother on that sunny day, so pretty in her cut-offs and long-sleeved peasant blouse. Jordan’s adult perception also told her the sleeves covered her mother’s needle tracks. Rarer still that day was the absence of one of her mother’s men to take away attention from Jordan.
They held hands and raced the waves while the seagulls circled with manic energy, screaming and diving for their hot dogs purchased from the beach vendor.
God, she hadn’t thought of that day in years. Mostly, she remembered the loneliness and pain. She never knew if her mother’s approaching hand would smooth her hair or slap her. More painful was the question that wasn’t answered, never knowing why her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love her. Jordan had tried so hard to be a good girl.
Logically, as an adult, she understood the junkie mentality. There wasn’t room in a house full of drugs for love. Before Jordan could stop the slide, she was catapulted into the past, and the memories came at her like a sledgehammer.
Being eleven years old and coming home to the one-bedroom tiny apartment. The ugly drapes were closed like they always were. Stale cigarette smoke and the sour smell of alcohol stung her senses. Her mother’s bedroom door was shut, also not unusual. Her mother slept most of the day and stayed up all night.
Jordan put down her backpack and went into the filthy kitchen to find something to eat. She opened the refrigerator even as she asked herself why she bothered, since it was always empty. Today, a shriveled apple and tiny piece of cheese lived in there. She sighed and went to open a cupboard instead, revealing half a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter but no jelly. She made a sandwich to eat in front of the tiny television in the living room that also doubled as her bedroom where she slept on the couch. She hated it, people coming and going all hours of the night. The only good thing about it was she was visible to her mother, and the men she ran with didn’t bother Jordan. Not like they did when she was younger and she had her own room. She kept the volume low so as not to wake her mother and watched television until it was dark outside, waiting for the bedroom door to open.
Jordan didn’t know when she fell asleep, only that when she opened her eyes, the gray light of dawn was coming in around the closed curtains. She was surprised she hadn’t heard her mother get up during the night.
The room was chilly and Jordan felt a little weird. She crossed quietly to the closed door.
“Mom?” No answer. Jordan tapped her fingers slightly on the wood. “Mom?”
Jordan’s stomach twisted and she felt nauseated, but she turned the knob anyway. Her mother lay on the top of the dirty blankets, her legs crossed in a figure four. Long, blond hair covered her face, and her arms were stretched to the side.
The smell was horrible. Jordan cautiously stepped into the room, ready to duck and run if she needed to. “Mom?”
Her mother didn’t move and it was then that Jordan saw the needle hanging from her mother’s elbow and pink rubber tubing by her side.
She leaned over carefully and moved the veil of hair, stifling a scream when she saw the vomit caking her mother’s cheek and blue lips, and her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling.
Jordan remembered choking on bile and how she’d run to the bathroom to throw up before she’d cried and rocked for what seemed like hours on the cold tile floor. There was a blurry recollection of finally going to the neighbors to use the phone.
Social services picked her up and took her away from the house where she’d found her mother dead. It was the last time she’d cried.
The sound of laughter from the boardwalk above her brought Jordan back to the present. The sharp ache of grief in her chest surprised her. Jordan thought she was over that emotion years ago.
She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Okay, enough with the tripping over things she couldn’t change. She wasn’t that young girl anymore, and hadn’t been for a very long time. Jordan had grown up without affection, and in the years since, hadn’t felt as if she even needed it. But she had to admit that as she got older, there were a few times her arms ached to hold someone who could love her back. Was she so unlovable?
An ugly voice from the past whispered in her ear. What have you ever done to deserve love? Jordan felt her shoulders tense again. Then, out of nowhere and clearer than the first, she hear
d another, sweeter voice ask, What have you ever done to not deserve it?
Chapter Five
Sunny walked her client to the exit. The old woman hugged her close. “See you next month.”
Sunny smiled. “You take care, now.” She loved this woman who had been a regular for almost five years. She was a lonely widow, and they enjoyed their time together, which was always more social hour than spiritual work.
Sunny’s mother was answering the ringing phone, but waved good-bye to their favorite customer enthusiastically from the reception desk.
“S.O.S. How can I help you?” her mother said into the receiver.
As Sunny drew closer, she could hear the hysteria in the caller’s voice.
Her mother put the call on speaker so Sunny could hear the conversation.
“We’re booked solid for the next two months.”
“But it’s getting worse every day!” Harsh sobs left the woman almost breathless, and her fear was palpable even over the phone. Her mother pushed a notepad toward her with the caller’s name written on it, circled in black ink.
Sunny couldn’t stand it. “Agnes? Breathe, please.” She talked soothingly to her until small hiccups replaced the crying. Her mother got up from the desk, giving her a seat, and left the room.
“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? I’m Sunny.”
“Okay,” Agnes said in a tiny voice.
“Uh-huh. Yes, I know the place. Uh-huh.” Sunny took notes while listening. “Well, let me talk to my team and I’ll get back with you, okay?”
Sunny winced when Agnes started crying again. “I promise. Good-bye now.”
Her mother handed her a bottle of water. Her displeasure was obvious in her expression. “If you keep working on your days off, you’re going to burn out like I did.”
Sunny knew it was concern that had her mother all tied up in knots. When her mother had disappeared into the gray fog, Sunny had experienced it right along with her. She went around the desk and kissed her. “I’m fine. She needs help. The poor woman is terrified. I couldn’t get a sense of anything but her fear.”
