by Nic Tatano
Sebastien nods. “It happened about a year after you were born.”
Mom slides a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me, along with a glass of orange juice, but suddenly knowledge is more important than food. “I’d never seen your father mad,” she says, sitting down next to me. “Never, ever. He was so kind to me. That’s part of what attracted me to him. Always on an even keel, very unemotional.”
“But you were in love, right? I mean, there was emotion there?”
“Different kind, apparently,” says Sebastien. “Anger, in his case, fuels his power. That emotion for him is stronger than love.”
“So something made him angry?”
Mom looks down and closes her eyes. “Yes.” She looks up at me, reaches out and takes my hands.
“What?”
“Jillian, you must not blame yourself for this.”
Now I’m totally confused as to what I could have possibly done as a toddler. “I don’t understand.”
“Sweetie,” says Mom, as a single tear rolls down her cheek. “When you were born you cried a lot in the middle of the night, as babies do. Your father loved you a great deal, but he wasn’t able to sleep. He got very irritable, started snapping at me for no reason. I knew it was because he was simply tired, that it would pass as you settled down. But when you were about a year old, he blew up.”
“He hit you?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, God no, Jillian. He never laid a hand on me. Your father was not the type to hit a woman.”
“But his anger revealed his second power,” says Sebastien.
“We were having a huge argument in the kitchen, right here,” says Mom. “And he’s getting madder and yelling, and you’re screaming and I’m crying. His face is turning red and then it happened.”
“What happened?”
“Every electronic device in the house went haywire. Things turned on, the television started changing channels, your toys started moving around, the car started by itself.”
“So my father is telekinetic.”
“No, your father is what is known as a technopath,” says Sebastien.
“A what?”
“Tek-no-path. He has the ability to control technology with his mind. I believe interface is the correct word as he can somehow connect with electronic devices. Meanwhile, the emotion took his abilities as a medium to a level never before seen.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Mediums contact those who have moved on,” says Mom. “And as you know, they try to stay away from evil spirits.”
“Your father sought them out,” says Sebastien. “We believe he’s in direct contact with Hell.”
***
I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m shell shocked from what Sebastien and Mom told me a few hours ago. It’s almost too much to process. You find out your father is alive after thinking he’s been dead, but oh, wait, he’s got the devil on speed dial and has some incredible ability to meld with technology. And, by the way, he tried to teach this to two other people with superior powers who ended up dead. Meanwhile, my ability to see the afterlife might be something genetic passed down from my father, and, one more thing, I may or may not have a second power which may or may not put me in contact with the forces of evil.
Which is why I’ve been pouring out my soul to Roxanne, who has been dutifully holding my hand, wiping my tears, and being as supportive as possible.
Finally, after a half hour of unloading everything on the poor girl, an idea hits me. “You have to help me.”
Roxanne nods. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need. You shouldn’t have to ask.”
“I don’t mean friendship stuff. I mean your powers. I want inspiration.”
She furrows her brow. “I’m a muse, Jillian. I work with screenwriters and composers and authors. People who make their living by being creative. I’m not sure I can do anything for you.”
“So, you’ve never done anything like a general inspiration?”
She shakes her head. “No. People come to me with specific problems. Someone is stuck for a great song, someone needs an ending to a novel, stuff like that. I’ve never had a client who didn’t work in the arts. Your problems don’t have anything to do with creativity.”
“I need creative solutions to my problems, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “I suppose so. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.” She gets a faraway look and slowly nods. “Okay, I think I know how to approach this. But let me talk to another muse first.”
***
I’m pacing in front of the couch, creating a trench in the carpet. “You don’t trust me, Mom. Bottom line, you don’t trust me.”
Mom’s on the couch, patting the seat next to her, hoping I’ll stop pacing. “Sit down, sweetie. Of course I trust you.”
I stop pacing and look at her. “Obviously you don’t, if you know the exact time I went to bed.”
Mom looks away. Bus-ted.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Will and I were just sitting here in the living room talking?”
“Were you?”
“See! You don’t trust me!”
“I remember what it was like to be seventeen.”
“And you didn’t get knocked up, did you?”
“No.”
“So why do you worry that it might happen to your daughter?”
“Because I had a father around and you don’t.”
The air goes out of my argument like a pricked balloon. I exhale my anger and take a seat next to her.
She reaches over and lightly starts to rub my back. “Jillian, I know you’re not the type to get in trouble. It’s just… I didn’t have any help raising you…”
Annndddd …. cue the tears.
I grab Mom’s shoulders and pull her close. “I’m sorry, Mom. You’ve done a wonderful job raising me.”
“I’m sorry too. I won’t spy on you anymore.” She wipes her tears. “I should’ve realized if you were gonna do anything stupid it wouldn’t be with a guy who bakes cookies in a hollow tree.”
Her comment seriously lightens the mood, as now I have the image of the Pocket Chippendale joinging the Keebler elves in a television commercial.
***
Fueled with advice from the senior muse in the neighborhood, Roxanne is pumped and ready to inspire me.
To do what, we both have no idea.
But, as she says in her Jewish mother accent, “It couldn’t hoit.”
Her “office” so to speak, is nothing like my seer cave. It’s a small loft over her family’s bakery, so the smell of fresh bread is heavy in the air. Skylights in the vaulted ceilings provide natural lighting to the room that’s decorated for an artist. Broadway show posters and photos of Roxanne with famous creative artists cover the walls, along with a giant cork board filled with ticket stubs. A credenza features movie scripts and props from various films. An old fashioned microphone and ancient film camera sit in one corner. A rack of dresses occupies another. It’s a miniature museum of Roxanne’s greatest hits, and damned impressive for someone her age.
“Oh, I got something to cheer you up,” she says, cocking her head at the dresses, as she shuts the door behind us.
“What? I can’t wear your size.”
“Nah, those are for you. I gave my fashion designer a free session in return for a bunch of size fours.”
I take a closer look at the rack, which is probably holding a few thousand dollars worth of clothes. I can’t help but smile. “Really?” I run over to the rack and start sliding the hangers, admiring the gorgeous wardrobe I’ve been given.
She follows me and smiles as she arrives at the rack. “Now you need some guy to take you out in them.”
“Too bad you don’t have a matchmaker as a client. Thank you, Rox, that’s really sweet of you.”
She nods, gives me a hug which I desperately need.
“So, how does this work?” I ask.
She gestures toward a burgundy leather love seat in front of an old fashioned si
lver radiator and we both sit. “Here’s the deal. We face each other and I need you to look right into my eyes.”
“Do we hold hands or anything?”
“It doesn’t matter. If it will relax you, then do it.”
I take her hands immediately.
“Now,” she says, “you’re going to take deep breaths and look as deeply into my eyes as you can. What’s going to happen is that I’m going basically lock on to your subconscious.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Everything you need is already in your subconscious. In the case of a writer, the whole plot or screenplay or whatever is already in there. My role as a muse is to go in there and unlock it. Clients call it inspiration, but I’m basically showing them things that are already there, just not accessible for some reason. You’ve heard of writer’s block?”
“Yeah.”
“If a writer gets stuck, I help him get un-stuck. I free up the subconscious, make it give up its secrets, which it likes to hold onto for dear life. In your case, I’m hoping something in the back of your mind already knows what to do about your problems. And maybe knows what your second power is. But, as I said, I’ve never done this for anyone out of the creative arts.”
“What did your senior muse tell you?”
“She wasn’t sure it would do anything, but assured me nothing bad would happen. But there’s an X factor in all this.”
“What’s that?”
“A muse has never done a session with a seer. Or anyone with a power of any kind. We’re breaking new ground here.”
“So, when you go into someone’s subconscious, what does that do to you?”
“I’m basically in someone’s head, giving that person my creative energy which is used to unlock theirs. It’s hard to describe. Sorta like using jumper cables on someone’s imagination.”
“Do you actually see things in my head?”
She nods. “Sort of, but not like a mindreader. Images that fly by at warp speed. Nothing concrete. Though the senior muse says that as I grow more experienced, I’ll be able to control the images and they’ll slow down.”
“Hmmm. Same problem as mine. Will I see you in my head?”
“You’ll know I’m there, but I won’t be visible. You’ll sense my presence. Clients tell me it’s very calming.”
“How long before the inspiration… takes?”
“Different for everyone. Some people leave knowing exactly what to do, some go home and it hits them a few days later. Anyway, you ready?”
“Yeah.” I bite my lower lip, and she notices.
“Jillian, don’t be nervous. You’re with me. Nothing bad will happen to you. Clients tell me it’s a feeling of euphoria.”
I exhale my tension. “Good. I could use some euphoria.”
“Okay, get yourself in a relaxed position, look into my eyes and try to think of nothing. Just focus on my eyes. And don’t talk.”
I nod and stare into her eyes. Nothing happens for a moment, and then I feel it.
Roxanne’s eyes lock onto mine, taking hold like a hypnotic stare. I’m powerless to move or break the connection. Not that I want to. Her eyes change color, from deep brown, to light brown, gradually growing lighter. They begin to shimmer, until they become diamonds. Everything except her face begins to fade, the colors around her washing out to sepia tones, then black and white. I feel her spirit moving into me, through my eyes.
And then the image of Roxanne begins to dissolve even though my eyes are still open. I see different images, actually see them with my eyes and not my mind! Slowly at first. Mom cooking, Sebastien interrogating me, Will picking me up for the dance, scenes from my crystal ball. The images pick up speed and I can’t keep up. I’m not frightened, as I sense Roxanne’s presence, like she’s in my mind with her arm wrapped around my shoulder.
Suddenly the images slow down.
I’m looking at a scene of a quaint little town, with old fashioned mom and pop storefronts and baskets of flowers hanging next to gas lampposts. My father is on the sidewalk, talking with someone.
The image widens, though it seems as though he’s talking to no one.
But he’s looking right at me.
“Jillian?” he says. He reaches out and takes my hand. His is ice cold.
And then I realize I’m not looking at a scene.
I’m in it.
And then everything goes black.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roxanne’s voice sounds hollow and seems to float into my brain from far away. “Jillian! Jillian, wake up!” I feel a slight warm touch on my face. It starts to get stronger, along with the voice. “God, Jillian, please wake up!”
My eyes flutter open and the image of her face clears. I’m looking up at Roxanne wearing an incredibly worried look, and realize I’m lying down with my head in her lap.
“Damn, you scared the hell out of me.”
I start to raise my head but get dizzy, lie back down again and grab my head. “Whoa. What happened?”
“You blacked out. You’ve been out for two minutes. I was about to call 911.”
“I’m okay,” I say, though my head is still spinning.
“You went white as a ghost. What do you remember?”
“My God, Roxanne, that was incredible. Your face… it changed…. and you had these diamond eyes. And then you disappeared… you dissolved… into these images. I could see them even though my eyes were still open.”
“Okay, that part’s normal. Could you sense I was with you?”
“Yeah. And… someone else.”
“Excuse me?”
“My father was there.”
“You mean you saw an image of your father.”
I shake my head. “No, no. He was there, standing in front of me as plain as day, looking right at me. And then he talked to me. I wasn’t watching, Rox, I was actually standing there. He touched my hand. I felt it, Rox, I wasn’t imagining it.”
Roxanne’s eyes grow wide and I know she’s never experienced this before. “That’s incredible. What did he say to you?”
“He said my name, took my hand and then everything went black.”
Roxanne reaches over me to the coffee table, picks up her can of Dr. Pepper and hands it to me. “Here. Get some sugar in your system.”
I sip the soda, feel my blood sugar spike and my dizziness fade as the cold sweet bubbles run down my throat. I begin to sit up and the world does not spin.
“You’re getting your color back. You think you’re okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I sit up straight now, next to her.
“Dammit, you scared me.” She wraps one arm around my shoulder and pulls me close, then gives me a misty look.
“So, I take it you’ve never had a client with an out-of-body experience before.”
“Never. They usually see themselves doing things. You’re supposed to be an observer of your own life. The things you see are meant to unlock your creativity. I’ve never had anyone interact with anyone. Or touch someone.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It means I need to tag along the next time you go to The Summit. But first we need to talk to my senior muse. Meanwhile, do you feel inspired in any way?”
I drain the rest of the soda and look around the room. Everything is brighter, crystal clear, the colors more vivid, like the image of the afterlife I’d seen in the crystal ball. The smell of the fresh bread is stronger, more powerful, the air is like pure oxygen. My mind is processing things differently, seeing things in a different light.
Then, in an instant, the revelation.
My head snaps up. “Rox, I know I have a second power. I know it. I’m sure of it.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I have no idea. Which means we’ll have to do this again.”
***
This is not a typical Monday morning. Where last week I was pissed off giving everyone the Little Mermaid death stare, now you can add confused, scared and hurt into the mix
.
Which means anyone who crosses my path could become collateral damage.
Our geometry teacher is out sick today and as usual they send a substitute who looks as though he can’t add or subtract, much less determine the area of a sphere. So he’s turning this period into a glorified study hall, telling us to use the time to catch up on homework or review problems with our classmates. Which, of course, is like giving criminals a license to steal. The guy reeks of cheap cologne, so I pick up my books and move to an empty desk in the back next to an open window just to get some oxygen.
The guy’s sitting at the desk reading a magazine while various conversations go on around the room, none of them having to do with math. I’ve been making a list of all the paranormal powers in the neighborhood, trying to figure out which one I would like the best as my second power while racking my subconscious for the answer I already know is there. This is the ultimate do not open till Christmas gift, except I have no idea when I can open it. Or if I can. Or where the gift is.
My train of thought is broken as a paper airplane slowly floats down my row, takes a slight left turn, hovers over my desk, does a loop-de-loop, then executes a perfect landing in the middle of my notebook.
Jake.
I look up and find him smiling at me from the second row. He points at the airplane.
I pick it up and unfold it.
Jillian, I heard you looked smokin’ hot Friday night.
I shoot him a smirk. He gets up, says something to the sub about needing help from the smart girl in the back, and heads in my direction.
And like I said, I’ve got no patience for bullshit this morning.
He slides into the next desk, opens his book and points at it, pretending to ask me about a math problem.
“So, Jake, need help with the degree of the angle between the wrist and an extended middle finger?” I ask.
He smiles, takes a quick look at the sub, then turns back to me. “Nah. Wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“Didn’t you get my note?”
“Yeah. What’s the deal, you have your minions doing reconnaissance at school dances now?”
“I hear things.” He cocks his head at the paper airplane. “I heard that from more than one source.”
“How do I know you actually heard anything or if you’re just making it up?”
