Unseen

by Stephanie Erickson

  “I understand where you’re coming from. But that’s not how it works. Listen, David sent me today to find out if you’ll come back to our headquarters. That’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Wait, who’s David?”

  “The boss.”

  “Why does he care so much if I come back?”

  “Not sure. But he does. Think of it this way, just because you come back, doesn’t mean you have to stay.” He paused, pleading with his giant puppy dog eyes.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I pointed at him. “You’re using your powers for evil. Fine. But I’m only coming back on a fact-finding mission. If I don’t get the answers I need to make an intelligent, well-informed decision, I’m done.”

  He swallowed, and I hoped it was because my confident and confrontational manner was making him nervous. He smiled, but only slightly. “Fair enough.” After a few more steps, he looked over at me and said, “Mac, I hope you get the answers you need. I’d hate to have to say goodbye to you.”

  Before my girlish mind went into a complete tailspin, I called Gaspard de la Nuit to mind. Shutting my eyes, I let it consume my thoughts, allowing my feet to land where they may as we walked along the city street.

  “That’s a beautiful piece,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. It is.” I kept my answer short, not wanting to let him into my world, not when I still knew so little of his.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called Gaspard de la Nuit.”

  “Gasbag de la noot?”

  “Gasp—never mind. It’s my Everest.”

  He was silent as we worked our way back to my apartment. I wondered if he had an Everest.

  “Someday, I’d like to dive the Great Barrier Reef,” he said.

  “You scuba dive?”

  “Sometimes. I suppose the reef is my Everest.”

  I smiled to myself, having learned something tangible about him.

  When we got to my door, he gently reached for my hand. “Will you really come back?”

  I looked at him, and the mixed messages he was sending threatened to put me over the edge. He seemed eager to get to know me better, to keep me around, but he kept shutting me out. “You know, for someone who says he’d hate to say goodbye to me, you’re sure not giving me much to say hello to.”

  He dropped my hand, adding more bricks to the wall between us. Wrong move, I thought, but he ignored it.

  “You need to understand…”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do since the day I met Mitchell.”

  “What?”

  “Understand.”

  I thought I saw some sympathy in his eyes, but instead of responding directly, he said, “You’ll have to tell me that story someday.”

  I couldn’t keep up with the change of gears. “What?”

  “How you and Mitchell met. He won’t tell me.”

  “I thought I was an open book.”

  “You are. But I’d still like to hear it from you.”

  You build the wall up, and then try to reach out to me from the other side?

  This is how it has to be. For now.

  We stood in front of my door. I was so consumed by our conversation, it didn’t occur to me to invite him inside. “For now? You mean I’ll have the answers I seek once I commit? Once I effectively sell my soul to the devil?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Which part?”

  “We’re not the devil, Mac.”

  “Says who? Lots of people believe mind reading is witchcraft, devilry.”

  “Well, that makes you one of the damned right along with us.”

  I opened my mouth, but for the first time, I didn’t have a reply. He had me.

  He smiled triumphantly, deciding to take his winnings and run. “I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Well, if you don’t, you seem to know where to find me.”

  “Indeed, I do.” The charm oozing off him made me want to shiver, but I kept Gaspard safely in my mind as I turned to unlock the door.

  “Well, nice seeing you again,” I said awkwardly.

  “Yes. You too, Mackenzie.”

  My full name sounded nice on his lips. He smiled, knowing he’d gained another point with me.

  Exasperated, I sighed. “Goodbye, Owen.” I turned and closed the door on his triumph.

  “Bye, Mac,” he said from the other side of the door. I watched him walk away through the peephole, and once I knew he was truly gone, I threw myself face-first into a pile of laundry and screamed, letting the bottled-up energy and feelings explode into the clean clothes. They could handle it better than I could anyway.

  11.

  The next day, I resolved to go back to the Unseen and get some answers, but a phone call stopped me in my tracks.

  Normally, I didn’t answer unfamiliar numbers, but I changed my habits when my job hunt began.

  “This is Mackenzie.”

  “Ms. Day? Hello. My name is Shelly Goldstein. I got your resume from Marcia Peterson. I was wondering if you’d have time to come in for an interview.”

  “Sure! Yes! What’s the job?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I suppose that is pertinent information. I own my own psychology practice. I have no training in music therapy, and I would like to be able to offer it to my clients. I think the advances in that field are very exciting, and Marcia said you were the one to call.”

  It was a little jarring to hear Professor Peterson called Marcia, but I was very flattered. “It sounds ideal.”

  “Well, thank you. We can discuss all the details of the position’s pay, benefits, and work hours at your interview.”

  “When would you like me to come in?”

  “When are you available? I have an open appointment tomorrow at one.”

  “Perfect! I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, the address is 511 West Virginia Street. See you there at one.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  Completely dazed, I hung up the phone. This was the exact opportunity I had been hoping for, at least until I met the Unseen.

  The clock always seemed to move so much slower when Maddie was at work, and I had something to tell her. At 2:15, I couldn’t wait any longer. I knew she’d still be at school, but the kids left at 2:00 and I needed to tell her about my interview.

  “Hey, Mac! What’s up?” I knew she’d pick up on the first ring, but a small part of me was still relieved to hear her voice. She would help. She always did.

  “Hey, so… guess what?”

  “You took the new job and it’s the most amazing and best decision you ever made, except for making friends with me.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well! What is it?”

  “I’ve landed an interview with a private firm interested in expanding to music therapy.”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. What the hell are you going to do?”

  “I was hoping you might offer some insight on the matter.”

  “Good God, Mac. I don’t know. I will tell you one thing though. It could be worse.”

  “How on Earth could it be worse?”

  “You could be facing the imminent end of your grant money with no job offers or prospects.”

  “You’re right. If I’m going to have problems, these are the kind of problems to have.” I sighed. “I’m just afraid if I make the wrong decision, it could shape my whole life.”

  “Mac, wrong decisions don’t shape your life. Right ones do. Wrong decisions simply change the way you get to the right shape.”

  “But if I take the other opportunity, and it turns out to be the wrong choice, this music therapy job probably won’t still be available.” My mind was on a downward spiral.

  “You’re going to plan your life on probably? That’s weak, Mac, and you’re stronger than that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “And you know what I mean. If it’s meant to be, it will be.
Did you apply for an opening with the firm? How did they get your information?”

  “No, apparently Professor Peterson gave the psychologist my information and said I was the person to call.”

  “Hmm. Sounds to me like the job is yours if you want it.”

  “Hence my problem.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Do you want it at the expense of the other opportunity?”

  “I don’t know. It would mean never…” I hesitated, biting my tongue to stop myself from blurting out what I wanted to say—it would mean never getting answers. “It would mean I would never get to find out for sure if I made the right decision.”

  “That will happen no matter what you do. You can’t walk two paths before committing to the one that’s right. That’s not how it works. You could always do what Robert Frost did.”

  I paused, trying to follow her train of thought. Being best friends with a Literature buff made it hard to keep up sometimes.

  “Take the road less traveled.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re the one standing in front of the ‘two paths diverged in a yellow wood.’ You tell me!”

  I didn’t have an answer. The paths before me appeared equally treacherous and enticing.

  Maddie filled the silence. “At any rate, I don’t think either decision is necessarily wrong. Even if you do take this other opportunity that doesn’t have anything to do with music therapy, you’ll still have the last six years of training. This decision won’t make that disappear. If you change your mind, you can always go work at a school or in a hospital program if the opportunity with the firm is gone. That was your plan anyway, to work your way up.”

  “Sounds like you think I should pursue the music therapy job.”

  “I’m not trying to push you either way. I mean, I don’t think you can go wrong with the music therapy job. It’s been your dream forever. If you do take it, I think you’ll be very happy. What more could you want?”

  Answers. Others like me. Freedom. “Right. What more could I want?” I murmured.

  “Right,” she said, her tone unreadable. Sometimes when we talked on the phone, I was glad I couldn’t read her, but not this time. I wanted to know what she really thought, so I could decide what to do.

  Anger bubbled up at Owen and the Unseen. “I wish the other opportunity had never come along. I had everything planned out so perfectly until this happened.”

  “Oh, my lovely.” I could tell she was shaking her head when she said it. “And there’s your fatal flaw. Life loves to take your perfect plans and dump a bucket of paint on them. It’s your choice to call it garbage or make something beautiful of it.”

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Don’t you know me at all?”

  I laughed. “Yes. I forgot myself for a moment.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.” She eased the tension, but only momentarily. “So, whatcha gonna do?”

  Every time she said that to me, I always started singing the COPS theme song in my head. “Well, I’m gonna do the interview, that’s for sure. Then I’ll make a decision, I suppose.”

  “Assume the music therapy gig offers you tons of money, a great benefits package, and is everything you ever wanted, then what will you do?”

  “I’ll still wonder about the other job.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, I think—” she cut herself off, censoring her response. “I think I’d better get some work done so I can get home. Only two days left with the kids, baby!”

  “Bring on the summer debauchery!”

  “Get ready!”

  “Oh, I am.” I smiled, picturing all the fun we’d have this summer if I weren’t part of some borderline cult that might try to keep me somewhat isolated from her.

  “Say goodbye, Mac.”

  “Goodbye, Mac.”

  “Smartie pants. Call me after the interview tomorrow, okay? What time was it?”

  “One.”

  “Okay, good luck!”

  “Thanks, I’m gonna need it.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re gonna totally nail the interview!”

  “That’s not what I’ll need the luck for.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah, good luck with that too,” she said in a better-ye-than-me tone.

  “Ha, thanks. All right, I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for being amazing, as always.”

  “I can’t help the way I am.”

  I laughed. “Bye,” I said and hung up. Although the conversation was over, her words stayed with me. She was right; life had just dumped a huge bucket of paint on my plans. So, what could I do with the resulting mess? Of course, I wanted to make something beautiful, who wouldn’t? But how?

  Ravel and my keyboard kept me company late into the night. I slept in the next day, getting up with just enough time to get ready for my interview and go.

  The one decision I did make the previous night was to wear my iLs to the interview. I knew it would probably be just Dr. Goldstein and me, but I didn’t want to know what she was thinking. If it was good, it would be that much harder to say no, and if it was bad, it would hurt my feelings and the knowledge that Professor Peterson had recommended me would be humiliating. So, iLs it was.

  The office was actually within walking distance, but I drove anyway. It was getting warm out, and I didn’t want the hard work I’d put in to make myself presentable to go to waste. But, if I did take a job there, it would be nice to walk to work in the cooler months.

  I ended up driving past the address a few times, because it was set back behind some other buildings. Flustered, I tried to take some calming breaths before heading to the door. Despite getting turned around, I had still arrived five minutes early. Nothing to stress about here.

  The reception area was decorated with a minimalist hand and a token potted plant sat perfectly in the corner, not a speck of dust on its leaves. The receptionist greeted me warmly and told me Dr. Goldstein would be out any minute, so I had a seat on the immaculately clean couch to wait. I pulled my phone out to distract myself, but I didn’t get very far before Dr. Goldstein appeared.

  “Ms. Day. Hello, I’m glad you could make it.”

  I stood and shook her hand. She had blonde hair cut short in a severe bob, with streaks of silver throughout. She was dressed smartly, with grey slacks, a light pink blouse, and steel-framed glasses perched high on her nose.

  “Thank you so much for the opportunity,” I said.

  “Follow me to my office, and we’ll get started.”

  The room was painted a calming light blue color, and a couch and two chairs were arranged on one side, while a desk and some bookshelves took up the other half of the room.

  “Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the couch.

  I sat down and, surprisingly, she sat on the couch with me. I’d expected her to sit in one of the chairs, keeping some distance between us, although I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because she was a psychologist, and they were always analyzing people from a distance? Don’t be judgmental, I chided myself.

  “I see you have an iLs.”

  “Professor Peterson didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She simply said you were highly qualified for the position.”

  I smiled awkwardly, second-guessing my choice to wear the iLs. “Yes, well, that’s why I wanted to be a music therapist in the first place. I want to help people the way I was helped.”

  “How long have you had your iLs?”

  “Since I was five.”

  “Wow, I thought successful music therapy weaned the subject off after a time.”

  “Technically, yes. However, I still consider my case a success, because even though I still use an iLs, I’m highly functional.”

  “I see.”

  Her tone was hard to read, but I pressed on. “I think with a music therapy program, you need to see the potential for success in every case, then work to achie
ve it.”

  She leaned back, getting a little more comfortable on the couch. “I think that applies to almost anything, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  “The program is obviously in its infancy, and it would be your responsibility to shape it, acquire resources, and find clientele.”

  My mind raced. My program to shape. It really was a dream come true. “Sounds ideal,” were the only coherent words I could form at the moment.

  She gave me a slight smile, showing her approval. “Can you tell me a bit about what your vision would be for the practice?”

  “Well, I’d probably want to start out small, focusing on a few clients at a time. That would allow me to customize my treatment to meet their specific needs.” I paused, thinking of the case studies from my thesis. “For example, if someone’s more tactile, I might include some instruments in the therapy to make him or her feel more involved in the process. If a technophile teenage boy came to me, I’d get some mixing software to let him play around with. Anything to achieve a breakthrough.”

  I paused, my mind starting to move faster than my mouth with the possibilities. “They’re developing new techniques all the time, so the opportunity to constantly evolve is very exciting.”

  Her smile stretched wider. “Right. Okay then. Let’s talk money. Starting pay is fifty thousand, with full medical. Unfortunately, I don’t have a dental package available yet, but I’m working on it. You could probably expect that in the coming year or two.”

  “Whoa.” It slipped out.

  “I know, but if you can hang with me, I promise it’ll be a great place to work. Oh, and you start with two weeks paid vacation and get an additional week every five years you work here. We close the week of Christmas, so you don’t need to use your vacation then.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think it could get any better.”

  She beamed. “Wonderful! When can you start?”

  My throat closed. Accepting would mean never going back to the Unseen. Never seeing Owen again. My throat closed a little more. I coughed, trying to clear it.

  “Would you like some water?”

  I nodded.

  She went to a mini fridge behind her desk—brilliant, I thought, then wondered if I would have a mini fridge in my office—and came back with a wonderfully cold bottle of water.