by Nic Tatano
Now I’m scared. For the past two days, I’ve been dying to find out the truth. Now I’m not so sure I want to know.
But I have to know. “Okay, mom.”
She reaches for her purse that is sitting on another chair, opens it, grabs her wallet, opens that, and pulls out a photo. She slides it over to me. “This is your father.”
I eagerly pick up the photo and study it.
It’s a wedding picture.
My mom, twenty years younger, a thin and radiant bride (with red hair… I have to ask her about that). The groom, a slender man, maybe six feet, with deep set blue eyes, closely cropped dark hair and a strong chin. An inviting smile. He would qualify as handsome.
I look up at mom. “And his name would be?”
“Devlin.”
“You both look happy.”
Mom bites her lower lip and her eyes well up. “We were.” Her voice cracks with emotion. I take her hands and squeeze.
“So… after I was born… he just left?”
“It’s not what you think. There wasn’t another woman or anything like that. There certainly wasn’t another man. And you had nothing to do with it either. He was simply a guy who couldn’t handle fatherhood.” She pulls another photo from her wallet and hands it to me. It’s my father, holding me in his arms. I’m probably a year old.
Now it’s my turn for the tears to blossom. The words grow thick in my throat. “Okay. Soooo…”
“Shortly after you were born, right after that picture was taken…. his powers started to… develop.”
“So what were his powers?”
“I can’t tell you that part yet, but it will all be explained at The Summit this weekend.”
I didn’t want to push things. “I guess I can wait.”
“His powers started to grow, at a rate no one at The Summit had ever seen. They wanted to study him. He wanted to flex his muscle, use his powers. He became obsessed, out of control. And his powers were such that if used in the wrong way they could be dangerous.” She reaches across the table, grabs my soda, and steals a sip. “Tribute,” she says, taking a page from Roxanne’s Italian mother, using the term for the percentage Mafia members pay to their bosses.
“Sure. You can have the rest.”
“He changed, Jillian. He knew he was becoming more powerful than anyone, even those on The Council. Eventually they forbid him to use his new powers and tried to use some of their own to rein him in. But he was too strong and escaped. He left right after your first birthday and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Has he ever been in contact with you?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I’ve been in contact with him.”
Now I’m confused. “I don’t understand.”
“He left an address. It’s a mail drop in Connecticut. He told me to use it in case of emergency. Anyway, every year I’ve sent one of your school photos and a letter telling him how you’re doing. I have no idea if he receives these—”
“But they don’t come back, right?”
“No. And I do put a return address on them. But who knows if he still has the same address? It could end up in someone else’s box, could be thrown away. And if you’re wondering if he’s still alive, he is, because they monitor his activities at The Summit. They just can’t pinpoint his whereabouts.”
She looks down at the two photos on the table and I can tell the waterworks are about to burst. I get up, move around to her side of the table, crouch down and wrap my arms around her shoulders. “I hate to ask a stupid question… but, if he just vanished… are you two still married?”
“No. I waited several years hoping he’d come back. Eventually I petitioned the court and they granted me a divorce since he was basically a missing person.”
“I’m so sorry, mom. I had no idea.”
“He’s your father, Jillian. But he’s not your dad.”
“I get that. Mom.”
Her hands begin to shake, she starts to bawl. I pull her close. Her head rests on my shoulder, mine on hers as her sobbing grows deeper. I look at the two photos on the kitchen table.
And I know I have to find him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite the killer body and gorgeous face, Roxanne doesn’t go out on second dates a lot. In fact she’s never even had a steady boyfriend. She is to dating what one-hit-wonders are to the music industry. She’s a drive-by romantic, going through men like Kleenex. Some dates result in her going to confession, some not. We’ll leave it at that.
It’s not that she wouldn’t like to date a nice guy on a regular basis; but after one circuit around the dating pool at our school, she simply feels guys our age are too immature. (No argument here.) There there’s the deal with her father, the former linebacker of the New York Giants. Imagine a high school boy ringing the bell to pick up his date and having someone like that answer the door. Heaven help the poor soul who treats his daughter badly.
So it surprised me that the ‘favor’ she asked for on Sunday was such an unusual one.
She wants me to do a reading.
Over the years I’ve offered to do it for fun, but since romance is not on the front burner with her she’s always declined. I, of course, not being a playwright, author or composer, haven’t had the need for a muse. (Thought I might in the near future. More on that later.) So when it comes to our talents, we’ve kept them separate.
Her reason for wanting a reading, however, has nothing to do with romance.
She simply wants to make sure she’s not going to die in the next five years. I don’t blame her. I’d do one on myself if it were possible. She couldn’t care less about what I see as far as her romantic future is concerned, as she’s one of those people who wants to be surprised when Cupid’s arrow hits. She wants me to see if the images keep coming when they hit the five-year mark.
I’m already seated when Roxanne enters what she calls our ‘seer cave.’ It’s a ten by ten room, every inch of wall space covered with floor to ceiling deep burgundy curtains. A simple round antique oak table sits in the center along with two matching chairs. The soft lighting overhead is provided by a gorgeous old tiffany lamp my mother found at a garage sale years ago.
And, of course, my trusty crystal ball sits in the center of the table.
I have foregone my usual cape (burgundy, matching the curtains) and jewelry since Rox is the only person getting a reading on this Tuesday night.
“What, I don’t rate the outfit?” she says, giving my FDNY sweatshirt the once-over as she sits down opposite me. “No bling at all?”
“It has no effect on the reading, and it’s just us tonight.”
She looks at the crystal ball. She’s never watched me do a reading since seers can get confused when there’s another person in the room along with the subject. “So, how does this work? Is that thing gonna fog up and show me the future?”
“It does fog up, but only I’ll be able to see what lies ahead when it clears.”
She scoots her chair closer to the table. “Okay, let’s rock. See anything yet?”
“Doesn’t work that way. First, you have to ask me a question, and it has to pertain to romance. Then we both close our eyes for a minute and focus on the question. The ball will then reveal images to me and I will try to interpret them.”
“Interpret?”
“Well, there’s no audio so I have to go on what I see. For instance, if the image is of a couple holding hands and smiling as they walk, then stopping for a kiss, I would interpret that as being in love or a good relationship.”
“Well, you don’t have to interpret any images you see of me being groped in a car.”
“Only if the guy doing the groping is worth mentioning.”
“Nah, I like being surprised. But I like the surprise the guy gets even more.”
“Okay, if we’re done discussing possible images of you giving guys a shot in the family jewels, can we get started?”
“Sure. Why can’t I just ask if I’m gonna be dead in f
ive years?”
“No. Has to be romance. Love, not death. And be specific. You ready?”
“Sure.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands.
And then it hits me. “Oh my God!”
“What? I’m dead already?”
“No. I just realized what happened the other night. The woman with the afterlife reading took my hands before we started. She was nervous.”
“Okay….”
“I usually have my hands on the crystal ball. I wonder—”
“Maybe her touch gave you a stronger reading?”
“Possibly.”
“Did you tell The Council about that?”
“No, it didn’t occur to me until you took my hands.”
“Did you hold her hands during the reading?”
“No, I told her to relax and then I grabbed the ball as usual.”
“Okay, so do exactly what you did the other night.”
It makes sense, so I let go of her hands and take the ball. “Go ahead, ask your question. Look right into my eyes when you do.”
“Will I ever have had a good boyfriend by the time I’m twenty-five?”
I nod. “You don’t need a seer for that, but it’ll take us past the five-year mark. Now close your eyes and focus. Make sure you focus on the specific question and not why you’re really here.”
“Got it.”
She closes her eyes and I do the same. I’m focusing as hard as possible on Roxanne and her question, more than I usually do for clients. I see her face, her smile. I recap memories of our childhood that are already burned into my brain. I’m smiling now, remembering our wonderful times together. I focus on her romantic future. I imagine her in a wedding dress, ready to head down the aisle. She’s stunning, that black hair contrasting with the white dress, framed against the colorful stained glass windows of the cathedral.
I open my eyes. Hers are still closed. “Okay, now look at me.”
She does so and locks her eyes with mine. I shoot her a soulful look, hoping to relax her, then turn my attention to the ball, which is already fogged up. Hmmm. Usually it takes awhile.
The image clears, and what I see makes my eyes grow wide. I gasp. “Oh my…”
“What? I’m dead?”
I shake my head as the images suddenly fly by at increasing speed, too fast to process, like they did in the afterlife reading. Everything disappears at the five-year mark. Roxanne is still alive.
“What, Jillian? Talk to me!”
I exhale deeply. “You’re not gonna die. Geez, that was intense. It has to be something to do with touching you.”
She grabs my hands and squeezes them, leans forward with fear in her eyes. “What, dammit? What did you see? You had this expression, like something shocked you. Jillian, if I’m gonna die and you don’t tell me I swear I’ll come back as a friggin’ ghost and haunt you forever.”
“No, honest to God, Rox, the images went the full five years. You’re not going to die.”
“So what the hell did you see that made you get react like that?”
I tell her and she immediately starts shaking her head. “No friggin’ way,” she says.
***
“That’s gotta be it, your touch!” says Mom, sipping a beer as she walks around the living room. “It’s the key.”
“Do you have any idea why?”
She shakes her head. “Not a clue. Have you ever touched a client in that manner before?”
“Uh-uh. I mean, I shake hands when I meet them, but nothing like this. When the woman, Donna, took my hands she was definitely a little apprehensive. She looked right at me and I could see a little fear in her eyes. I figured she was worried that I’d tell her something bad. Roxanne was nervous too, worrying about possibly dying.”
“Hmmm. The emotion might also be a factor. A handshake is casual. But if you’re connected when the client is emotional, that must somehow trigger a different kind of reading. You say the images are flying by?”
“It starts out normal, then speeds up, like a DVD on fast forward. I couldn’t possibly keep up with it.”
Mom furrows her brow. “At what point did the images speed up?”
“Well, with Donna, it was right after I saw her murder. The afterlife image started at normal speed and then it did the same thing. With Roxanne, it was right after I saw… you know, what I told you.” I see the image in my mind again and it makes me cringe.
She slowly nods. “Both caused emotional responses in you. Donna’s reading scared you, Roxanne’s upset you. Had they not, I would guess you would have seen the images at your normal speed.” She pauses a moment, looks up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration, then back at me. “I need to get in touch with The Council about this so they can explore it before we get there this weekend. Perhaps there’s some precedent they know about.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Try taking the hands of a few clients this week. See what happens.”
***
I’m bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and the image that played on an endless loop making my imagination run wild. My mind has created many upsetting scenarios, all of which include something physical. Roxanne slides her tray onto the table and takes a seat across from me. I’m about to make my case and open my mouth when she cuts me off before I can say a word. “Don’t even start with me.”
“Rox, really, you have to go—”
“No. I’m not having this argument again.”
“Honestly, it won’t bother me.”
She rolls her eyes. “What a steaming pile of horse shit, Jillian. Of course it will bother you and I know it’s been bothering you. It would bother me if the roles were reversed. Look, one date in high school doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other, and I’m not hurting my best friend.” She looks around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then leans closer and drops her voice to a tone that tells me she’s digging in her heels. “I am not going on a date with Ryan. When he asks me out I’m politely turning him down. End of story.”
The image flashes through my mind again and makes me cringe ever so slightly though I try to maintain my game face. Ryan stopping by her locker, asking her out to the dance…
And then, of course, everything went into super fast forward so I have no idea what happened next.
Because, as Mom theorizes, I was upset at the thought of the guy I desperately want for myself going out with my best friend.
Well, make that one of the guys I desperately want. (Hey, cut me some slack, I’m a teenage girl. I can like more than one guy, okay? And no, I don’t wanna share.)
Still, what do I do? Maybe that’s the first date of a long relationship. Maybe Ryan and Roxanne are soul mates, and meant for each other, would have a happily ever after ending.
Or maybe I’ll grow a pair and ask him out one day.
But she deserves the chance to find out if he’s the one. “Look, he obviously likes you or—”
“Stop it. I’ve known him as long as you have. Sure, we like each other well enough… as friends… and he’s a great guy. But he’s not my type. He’s your type.”
“My type might also be Jake. What, I’m going to call dibs on all the guys at this school I might have a crush on and forbid you to consider any of them? That’s not exactly fair.”
“Jillian, he’s your best male friend. He might one day become your true love. You’ve had it bad for him the last year or so since you started looking at him differently. And you know boys mature later than we do. Give him some time to figure things out. Wouldn’t that be cool, to marry someone you love who’s also a great friend, someone with whom you have everything in common? I’m not going to come between that possibility. No, he’s yours. Besides, I aint datin’ no mindreader. One look inside this head and he’d leave skid marks running away. And like I said, he’s not my type.”
“Okay, so what is your type?” I already know, I just want her to admit it.
“Doesn’t exist at this school.
”
“Now who’s shoveling the horse shit? I’ve seen you bite your knuckles when that Brian Kale walks by. You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s pretty hot.”
“Yeah, but he’s a crash test dummy. You ever talk to him? He’s TSTL.” (That’s too stupid to live for those who aren’t privy to teenage girl acronyms.)
“Rox, I know you like Ryan. You always have.”
“End. Of. Discussion.”
She gives me the Sicilian death stare usually reserved for losers who hit on her and I know it’s time to back off and drop the subject. I’ll be honest here; I’m relieved she’s not going out with him. Time to fess up. “Thank you,” I say softly, dropping my head and staring at the mystery elbow macaroni casserole that might actually contain the elbows of some poor creature.
She reaches across the table and lifts my chin so that I’m looking at her. “I could never hurt you, Jillian. Just like you could never hurt me. I’ve always got your back.”
She’s protected me from bullies, now the game has changed. Still the big sister keeping me from getting hurt. “You know, for a muse you inspire a lot more than creativity.”
She begins eating her lunch. “By the way, on the subject of hot guys…” Her eyebrows went up and so did her voice, into a sing-song third grade lilt. “I know someone who likes Jill-i-an…”
***
His name is Gavin, and he’s a new client. He greets me with a warm handshake and I gesture toward the seat opposite mine. He’s maybe thirty, tall and slender, expensive charcoal gray windowpane suit and a red paisley tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Classic square jaw, jet black hair, deep blue eyes I could get lost in if I were ten years older or he were ten years younger. Champagne Rolex on his wrist, french-cuffed shirt with gold cufflinks. Tells me he manages a mutual fund. I’m wondering why the hell a guy who looks this good and is obviously loaded needs help with romance.
And then he tells me. “I’m thinking my fiancée is cheating on me.”
“I’m thinking your fiancée is an idiot,” I mutter.
Oops, he heard me. He furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”
I smile and laugh a bit. “Forgive my attempt at humor. But what you said surprised me. I mean, well, I would guess women would be beating a path to the door of a guy who looks like you and wears a watch that costs more than most cars.”
