Death Omen

by Amber Foxx

  “But I had a cat scratch.”

  “Quite some time ago.” Don sighed. “Do you have a sore throat? Headache? You could be getting mononucleosis.”

  “Nah. Had that in high school. I remember what that was like. I just feel tired, sweat buckets at night, little feverish during the day sometimes, lost a few pounds. Not hungry. And once the weight started coming off I could see these glands. Like something laid eggs under my skin. Not as big as an egg, more like almonds or pecans, but it’s still creepy. And they hurt if I have any grog. Haven’t had a coldie in two weeks.”

  Don said nothing. Jamie grew anxious at the silence. “What?” he asked. “Is that weird?”

  “I usually see cat scratch disease in children. I wouldn’t know about interactions with beer. You need to see a physician. Rule out your other possibilities. Some of them are more serious.”

  The crowded feeling in Jamie’s chest grew worse. “Like what?”

  “Other infectious diseases. And possibly lymphoma.”

  William. Bloody hell. “Cancer can give you a fever?”

  Don’s words became measured and careful. “The sparkles Sierra detected may have been your immune system. That would mean you’ve been sick for a while, before anyone but an intuitive could detect it. You didn’t see your doctor then. You showed symptoms weeks ago and you didn’t see a doctor then, either. How long do you plan to put it off?”

  “Didn’t put it off. I called you.”

  “I can’t diagnose and treat you over the phone, and even if I could, I don’t want you to be my patient. You’re my friend.”

  “Thanks.” Had that sounded sarcastic? Jamie hadn’t meant it that way. “Really. For being a friend.”

  “Does that mean you listened to me?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see a doc. Soon as this knocks ten more pounds off me.”

  “Jamie—”

  “Bad joke. Yeah. I’ll take care of it. No worries.”

  They chatted about other things and ended the call. Jamie put on his shirt, socks, and shoes and picked his cat up for a parting hug. Dreading that William’s ghost would take his place, Jamie didn’t want to put Gasser down.

  Until tonight, he’d been able to hide the fear under his usual layer of anxiety, packaging it in with the general unease that took over when he wasn’t actively focusing his mind. He’d told himself the illness was of course cat scratch fever, and half-consciously had hoped that it would melt a good few pounds off him. And then go away, leaving him lighter and healthier. He’d invented a scenario in which he would go home to Mae looking great and she’d never know he’d been a fucking sick person, and he still wanted that story to come true. That meant disregarding what Gorman had said back when Jamie had been blaming his tiredness on excess weight and insomnia. “You should see your doctor. Especially if the fatigue doesn’t clear up.” He’d been sick before he got the fever. Don was right. Jeezus. What if Sierra was right? A serious illness?

  If she was, it could mean the rest of what she said was true, too. Karma, or something in Jamie’s infinitely fucked-up mind, could be summoning the sickness. Not just his score on the stress quiz. The medicine man who’d told him to do more as a healer had warned him that bad things could happen if he didn’t use his gift.

  Stop digging a bloody hole.

  Jamie deposited Gasser on the floor and left his room, heading for the elevator, then changed direction. He was strong enough to take the stairs. Half the time, he didn’t feel sick at all. In fact, as long as he didn’t think about being sick, in a way, he wasn’t. It was like the thought experiment of Schrödinger’s cat. If he didn’t open the box, he could stay suspended forever in an in-between state of possibilities. The Vitruvian man, perfectly balanced in his circle and square, two poses, two versions of himself at once. As long as Jamie didn’t know what was wrong, his illness could remain an ambiguous potential, unobserved and unmeasured.

  At the foot of the stairs, he let himself out into the cold night air and the bright lights of Montreal, singing as he walked to his van, one of his songs he’d translated into French. Un chanson d’amour.

  Jen called when Jamie got back to his hotel. He was worn out and wanted to rest, but he couldn’t ignore her, of all people. On his last tour, she and Hubert had gone out of their way to help him when he’d had problems with his old van. She’d loved his music before they met, and since forming that connection, she was even more enthusiastic, following his tour blog and his YouTube videos.

  “That song in French was beautiful,” she bubbled. “Even if I don’t understand it. It sounds so romantic.”

  Jamie kicked his shoes off and flopped on the bed. “Wendy got that on my blog already?”

  “I think it was from last night’s show. It was linked to a review in French, though, so I don’t know what it said.”

  “Guess I can’t ask you to tell me about it, then.” Jamie relied on other people, usually Wendy or sometimes a loyal fan like Jen, to read reviews for him and cushion the blow if there were bad ones. Wendy didn’t read French, either. It was a welcome problem, though. Translating his review would keep his mind off his symptoms. “What are you doing up so late? Newlywed, you should be tucked in with Hubert, y’know? Sort of newlywed, anyway.”

  “He’s helping his brother put an addition on their house. Hubert’s sister-in-law is having another baby. So he’s been up in Williamsburg for the weekend lending a hand.”

  “Jeezus. Building their own house. Well, part of it. I’m impressed. I can hardly fold a cardboard box right.”

  “I’m the same way. But Hubert’s having a blast. He loves to build things, fix things.” Her normally perky vocal energy faded. “I wish I could have gone. I like Williamsburg. I’m from Newport News. A long time ago, when I was little.” She sighed. “But I had to stay here with the girls.”

  “Why? Mae said they helped Niall with her deck. They like to build stuff.”

  “Hubert took Friday off. The girls had school. And I had to work. Anyway, he thinks it’s good for us to have some time together, just me and girls.”

  “Sounds like it isn’t good?”

  “We went to family therapy and it’s just not helping.”

  “Yet. Therapy’s slow. Even the short-term stuff takes six or eight weeks.”

  “I hope I don’t have to go through eight more weeks of this. Please don’t tell Mae, but the girls are acting awful. Awful. They keep comparing me to her and they won’t obey me. I got so mad at them I wouldn’t let them Skype her tonight. “

  How could Jen not see that was a bad idea, the most counterproductive punishment she could have come up with? “Don’t think that’s going to make ’em listen to you.”

  “They’re in their room now and they’re finally quiet. It was the struggle of the century just to get them to go to bed.”

  “Bet they’re not asleep yet.” They were good kids. If they understood that they’d hurt Jen’s feelings, they would come around. “Can I talk to ’em?”

  “I don’t want to get up and deal with them again. I’m having a glass of wine in the bathtub.”

  Wine. That might explain this chatty call. Jen was primarily a Facebook friend. “This the first time you’ve been in charge? Had to be their mum?”

  “They made it very clear that I am not ‘their mum.’ I don’t know how people do this, raise other people’s children. What did Mae say to them while she had them? Did she turn them against me?”

  “Bloody hell, how much have you had to drink?”

  “One glass. That’s all I can handle.”

  “Not sure you can handle one. You know Mae better than to say that.”

  Silence, then Jen said, “When we were in high school, she never noticed Hubert existed. I had a crush on him, though. We finally dated in community college. Then he had that thing with Edie, the girls’ mother, and then there was Mae ... But I always had this feeling like I was first. Like I was his real wife. Even though I’m the third. But the twins think it’s Mae. The
y didn’t want me to move into the room she and Hubert had shared. As if it was still her room! But it’s the master bedroom. It’s big, and it’s private, and it has its own bath. The other bedroom, the one the girls have, has the bathroom in the hall with just a shower. I couldn’t do what I’m doing now. Get away from it all.”

  How could someone with a family need to get away from it all? This was a hell of a way to be starting her marriage. If Jamie had been married for less than three months, he wouldn’t be calling Jen with his problems. Did she think he could talk to Mae for her? No, that was so roundabout. Whose communication skills were that bad? More likely her family and friends were tired of hearing about the issues.

  He sat up. It was hard work, but he had to drink plenty of water before the night sweats hit. He’d always run hot in his sleep, something that drove Mae crazy—or perhaps merely annoyed her a little, he wasn’t sure—but now he was soaking the sheets.

  “Are you there?” Jen asked.

  “Yeah. Drifting. Sorry. Buggered after my show, y’know? I was listening, though. You said you didn’t change bedrooms and the girls are pissed.”

  “Resentful. I mean, I know they like me. But they don’t respect me. Or something. Did they like you? Respect you?”

  Jamie padded to the bathroom, gulped two cups of water, and checked his neck in the mirror. Creepy, those lumps. Good thing he had let his hair grow longer. Finding someone to cut it was too much hassle in a strange place. Now it floated around his shoulders and hid the lumps. “They liked me, yeah. We had fun.” He sat on the toilet lid and began brushing his hair, a calming ritual. “Didn’t have to be an authority figure, though. Just a mate.”

  “So why do you think you could talk to them now?”

  “Dunno. Just wanted to help.”

  “I’m sorry. I must sound like I called to dump my problems on you. Actually, I called to ask you to sing at my cousin’s wedding. When I heard that song, it finally hit me what I could give her.”

  What was she thinking? “But you live in North Carolina, and I live in Santa Fe.”

  “Olympia lives in Portland, Maine. She’s getting married three days after your final stop in Fredericton, New Brunswick.”

  “So you want me to swing through Maine on my way home?” He meant to suggest it was inconvenient, which it was. He wanted to rest at home before he did the retreat with Yeshi Ngarongsha. The drive back to New Mexico would take three days if he did it like a madman. If he made it a more leisurely drive—and he might have to, the way he felt—he would arrive in New Mexico with less time to recover before the retreat. If he stopped in Maine, he would have to do the three-day drive and go straight to T or C with no break at all.

  Of course, now that he knew the bloke running the retreat was Sierra’s boyfriend, maybe he could get stuck in Maine. No, he had to do what Mae said, call Yeshi, ask if Sierra was involved, and explain that he couldn’t deal with her. What a bloody coward. But he didn’t want Sierra to win and see him sick.

  “Yes. Could you?” Jen asked. “Olympia’s hard to buy gifts for. She’s from the Greek side of the family in Newport News, and they’re all really successful business people. She’s marrying a Greek guy who owns a nice restaurant, and they’ll have this awesome house. What do you get someone like that? Anything I could pick out as a thing would be so paltry.”

  Jamie vaguely recalled Jen mentioning a Greek grandmother the night he’d gotten drunk in a Greek bar in Norfolk where he’d gone with Jen, Hubert, Mae, and Mae’s boyfriend of the moment, a Greek. Jamie and the boyfriend had both behaved badly, but Jamie had enjoyed it. “What about a bottle of retsina?”

  She giggled. “I’ll buy you one if you come.”

  “Nah. That stuff is designed to give you hangovers.” And alcohol made his glands hurt. How bizarre. Would he be well by then? If he stayed in Maine, he could finally have time to see a doctor, with no finagling about Canadian health care and American insurance. Niall had relatives in Maine. Jamie could ask for an introduction, stay with one of them, and get a checkup. That meant waiting two weeks. But if this was cat scratch fever, it would be okay to wait, just a pain in the arse to live with. “Let me think.”

  “It would be good to see you. We’re all flying up, me and Hubert and the girls, and my parents and grandparents.”

  “That’s a lot of people. They should have the wedding in Newport News.”

  “The groom is from Portland. And everyone’s excited about Maine in October. They want to see the leaves.”

  Jamie switched the phone and the brush. His brushing arm was getting fatigued. How did he get through his shows? Adrenaline? He would have to translate that review and see if the writer thought Jamie had gotten through his show. “See the leaves, huh? They that good?”

  “I guess. I’ve only been to Maine in the summer since Olympia moved there. It’s pretty. Portland’s nice, too. City but not too city-ish. You’ll like it.”

  “Easy to get around? How far is it from ...” Where was Niall from? Weird name, little town on the coast. “Round Pond?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t they already have music planned? I mean, if they booked the Portland symphony or something, they don’t want me showing up.”

  “You wouldn’t sing at the actual wedding. More like a house concert at the rehearsal dinner. She’s doing an afternoon one, like a super-fancy luncheon, but not real formal. You’d be perfect for it. I’ve turned everyone I know into a fan of your music. She’ll be thrilled.”

  Could Jen afford to pay him for this? Flying the whole family there would be expensive enough. Was she expecting a favor? He owed her one from his last tour. When his van had broken down in North Carolina, Jen had loaned him her car while Hubert fixed the van and then undercharged for the repairs. Jamie should at least undercharge her if she offered to pay or do it as a thank-you if she didn’t. He was grateful for the word of mouth marketing she did, too, turning people into his fans.

  Including Brook and Stream.

  Jamie said, “Just had an idea to make the girls happy with you tonight. Won’t start any fights, I promise.”

  “What?”

  “Put the phone on speaker and slip into their room, and I’ll sing them a lullaby.”

  “Jamie, they’re seven. That’s too old for a lullaby.”

  “Nah.” He eased into a personal favorite, “Goodnight” from the Beatles’ White Album, and then paused. “Isn’t that nice? Wish someone would sing it to me sometimes. You’re never too old for a good lullaby.”

  “And this is going to make the girls happy with me?”

  “Yeah. Peace offering, out of the blue. And, y’know, not to be egotistical or anything, but my music is something you share with them, right?” There was something else he couldn’t quite explain. The balance. Their dad’s new wife giving them music from their mum’s boyfriend.

  “All right. Hang on.”

  He heard a slosh, water glugging down a drain, and imagined Jen getting out of a big old claw-foot tub, and then hastily pared the image down to her drying her feet. Briefly and unintentionally picturing pert little sandy-haired Jen naked reminded him how often Hubert had seen Mae naked, how many years he had slept with her, living the life Jamie wanted with her. He didn’t want to think about that, either.

  “Okay,” Jen said. “I hope this works, because it’ll undo all the bliss of a hot bath and cold wine if it doesn’t.”

  Jamie listened as a door clicked, then another door, and Jen’s soft steps pattered through a quiet house. She whispered, “Ready? I’m putting the phone on speaker. We leave their door ajar a little, so you won’t hear me knock or open it. I’m just going to stick my hand in and surprise them.”

  Jamie began the song. In his mind, he was singing it to Brook and Stream in Mae’s house in T or C. After two verses, he faded to humming and then ended the song. Jen whispered, “That was a gift from me and Jamie.”

  A door creaked slightly. He imagined her opening it a little
wider to look into the girls’ room and see their faces, drowsy and smiling in dim light spilling from the hallway. Maybe Brook, who seemed to be the spokesperson when one was needed, would mumble thank you.

  Jen shrieked. “Oh my god, they’re not here!”

  Jamie flashed back to Mae’s fear that she’d lost the girls when they’d hidden under a table in the Railyard Park, and then her talk with them after. “Don’t panic. Mae doesn’t like it, but they got into hiding to make her use her psychic sight to find them.” As far as Jamie could tell, the children hadn’t been dissuaded. “That has to be what they’re up to. Look around. Bet you’ll find ’em.”

  *****

  Mae tried to sound calm, but she was somewhere between furious and terrified. “Did you look everywhere?”

  Jen’s voice trembled. “I checked the attic and the shed and I even looked in Ronnie’s yard and under his hedge. I was trying not to bother him, so I didn’t dare go in his outbuildings.”

  “Why not?” Mae’s temper broke through. “His cats don’t bark.” The next-door neighbor, perennial mayor of Tylerton, was a farmer with around twenty cats. The solitary widower would be sound asleep. Jen could have checked his outbuildings. “And did you look under your house?”

  “Eew. The crawl space?”

  “Yes, the crawl space.” Mae turned off the hot spring pump with only an inch of water in the tub and went back indoors. With Jamie on tour and acting a little off-balance, she’d brought her phone out in case he called. The last person she’d expected to hear from was Jen. It was eleven at night in North Carolina. “The girls aren’t squeamish.”

  “I am. But I guess their going under the house would be better than running away.”

  “By a long shot.” Mae gazed at the girls’ pictures on the living room wall. She fought down the fear that they could have run off. They were stubborn and fearless, but surely not as reckless as that. “What Jamie told you was probably right. They’re trying to get me to use the Sight to find them. And I hate to say it, but they may be up to more than that. Like making you have to call me because you didn’t let them Skype earlier. And making me succeed and making you fail.”