by Tara Taylor
Okay. I have an appointment. Of course you’re expecting me.
“It is nice to meet you,” she continued. “And I enjoyed meeting your mom yesterday.”
Then she stared at me and seemed to look right through me with these mysterious, beautiful, almond-shaped eyes that made me feel as if I was looking into a black lake with no bottom in sight.
“I knew you would come,” she said. She didn’t smile.
Yes, I had an appointment.
I didn’t move to enter the room.
She got up and walked toward me, carrying a little brown leather journal-type book under her arm. Was she going to take notes on me? No way. I would not let her do that. Over the years, I had been to so many doctors, and they had all taken notes and diagnosed me with things like ADD and even ESP.
“Stay put for a moment. I have to lock the front door.”
My throat went completely dry as I stood without moving until Annabelle returned. If she noticed my discomfort, she ignored it, because she passed by me. “Follow me to the other room,” she said. “It’s down the hallway.”
A huge part of me wanted to go the other way and leave, but I followed her down a hall and made a sharp right. In the room, I saw a massage table and a couple of stiff-looking chairs. I wanted to be in the room with the comfy pink chairs. They had looked like chairs I could curl up in for a little nap.
As if reading my mind, Annabelle said, “I rent out this room. To a massage therapist, but I think it will be a better room for today.” She looked at me and cracked a smile. “I don’t want you to fall asleep on me.”
She motioned for me to sit across from her. Once I was seated, she looked at me again, and although I wanted to turn my face away, I couldn’t stop staring into her amazing eyes. They drew me in. She was a mystery, a piece of paper with writing in invisible ink.
“Who’s John?” she asked point-blank.
I turned away from her. Pain crashed through me as it always did at the mention of his name. I had to hold myself together and pretend that nothing was wrong. This woman could not get the best of me. My defense mechanisms kicked in, and I rolled my eyes.
“My mom must have said something to you about him,” I answered with a bit of cheekiness in my voice.
“You’re heartbroken.” She rested her hand on the brown book that now sat in her lap as if it were her cherished cat.
I refused to speak.
“His mother drinks a lot. That bothers him. And he doesn’t have a father around to talk to. He can’t commit, Indie, until he deals with the issues surrounding his father. Right now he is experimenting with drugs to try to forget. He will never find his father. At least not on earth.”
“I know that.”
She tilted her head and looked right into my eyes, which was unnerving.
I stared back at her, although I really didn’t want to. I had never told Mom about Mrs. Smith’s drinking problem. How could she have found out? And the only time she talked to her was on New Year’s Eve. But more important, how could she have known about John’s dad?
Without even a blink, Annabelle said, “You don’t need to tell him what happened.” Her words were matter-of-fact.
I sucked in a deep breath.
Annabelle continued talking about John, and as she did, I realized that so much of what she said my mother couldn’t have possibly known. I wanted to get out of the room. Catch a cab and go home. But I couldn’t move my body. I felt as if I were stuck to the chair with Krazy Glue.
After a while, she stopped. Then she stared me directly in the eyes again, and it was like sharp spears were piercing my soul. I pressed my back against the chair. The energy surrounding this tiny woman was massive. Even from across the room, she was invading my space.
“I know who you are,” she said.
I needed water. Hot air washed over me, and I started to sweat, last night’s alcohol seeping through my skin. I wanted to fan myself, but I couldn’t move. I tried to ask for water, but I couldn’t speak.
“You see and you hear things,” she said. “You’re like me.”
Suddenly, the room started twirling, making me woozy. I blinked.
I have to get out of here. I have to run!
Run!
Get out! Go.
I tried to move again, but my arms hung at my sides like floppy bunny ears. My feet wouldn’t lift, not even an inch. What had she done to me?
“It’s okay,” she said. She didn’t move from her seat. Instead she sat still, with her fingers casually placed on that brown spiral-bound book that sat in her lap.
No, this was not okay. Not okay at all.
I wanted to thrash, fight so I could get out of this stuffy room. But chains seemed to encircle my entire body.
“It’s time to face this,” she said.
Face what? What did I have to face?
I didn’t want to be here, in this closed little room, feeling as if I was going to pass out. Nothing about the room was okay.
Nothing.
“Indie,” said Annabelle. “You have to stop being selfish. You are here to help people, and you’ve been delaying too long. That’s why you’re here on earth.”
Her direct, almost scolding tone burst a dam in me, and I started sobbing, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Was I being selfish? Was I here on earth to do something bigger than me? I had helped Juanita, and it had felt good, but I was scared. So scared. Scared of who I was. Who I was supposed to be. It was as if I were being forced to be someone I didn’t want to be.
Tears streamed down my face like a released river.
“It’s not okay.” My body heaved up and down. I couldn’t catch my breath. “Noth … nothing is okay. I have to … I have to … I have to get out of here. This is … all … wrong. Wrong.”
My arms were still hanging limp, and my legs felt like bags of concrete. I couldn’t get enough oxygen. I gasped, trying and trying to get air into my lungs.
“Relax,” said Annabelle gently. “Breathe.”
Oxygen. I need oxygen. I can’t breathe.
I wondered if this was what it felt like to drown.
In, out. In, out. Breathe.
I knew I was hyperventilating, but I couldn’t do anything to stop what was happening. The room closed in on me, the walls pushing toward me. Pushing. Pushing.
Darkness swam in front of my face.
I could still hear Annabelle talking, but she sounded tinny, far away. “Everything that is stopping you from following your path is being taken from you,” she said. “All your negativity and doubt. Keep breathing.” She didn’t reach forward to touch me.
I inhaled and held the breath for as long as I could. Then suddenly the dark stopped swimming; it ceased moving and seemed to swallow me.
My world went completely black.
Crystal blue lights shone like little sapphire gems in a massive circle around me, shedding a light that warmed me with the most peaceful energy I had ever felt. Bathed in luminosity, I stood in front of my body, staring at the disheveled blonde girl slumped on the chair. I slowly turned to glance at Annabelle. She was staring at the body in the chair.
I turned back to stare at me, too.
I could see my body because I was standing outside of it. The world around me was 3-D, and everything had shape and form, lines and depth.
Then Annabelle started humming, what song I don’t know, nothing I recognized, but she hummed. A loud chorus of high-pitched melodious singing or chanting, again I’m not sure what, joined Annabelle’s humming, and the harmonious music was pitch-perfect. Peace overwhelmed me.
And then, like a sputtering halogen bulb, it all faded.
Thud.
Annabelle’s hand was resting lightly on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Everything is done now. Much has been pulled out of you. You should feel lighter. Your abilities to see and hear should be clearer and more focused. Your divine team will have better access to talk to you—and for you to talk to them as well, be
cause you won’t be so muddied inside.”
Brought back to reality with a harsh jolt, I sat up in the chair. I glanced around the room. I was no longer standing. I was sitting in the chair, but instead of hyperventilating, I breathed easily, in and out.
“You were meant to meet me in order to move forward,” said Annabelle.
I shook my head and looked at the clock sitting on a little shelf beside me. It read 10:47 A.M.
“Is that clock right?” I asked.
Annabelle nodded her head. “Yes. Should we go into the store now?”
“Okay,” I replied, without hesitation. Again I looked at the clock. I had been out for exactly one hour. How was that possible? When I stood, I felt so weird, so light and free.
I followed Annabelle into the front of the store without question. Again, she carried the brown book under her arm. I wondered what was in that book. But I didn’t ask. And I didn’t even ask about how it was now almost 11 or where I had been for the last hour. I had so many questions for her, but I couldn’t seem to talk.
Yes, I wanted to know about Isaiah. Who he was really? Had he chosen me? Or had I chosen him?
And what I was supposed to do with my visions?
What about my vision about John’s mother? I hadn’t told anyone yet about seeing John’s mother kill his father. I was confused about so many things. It was as if this crazy world of mine that existed in my head and body had no rules to follow, no regulations. If I had a vision, I could tell or not tell, and I was supposed to be able to figure out what was right. It was a huge responsibility … that I had been avoiding. Was I really going to be clearer now? I wanted to know why I saw and heard things the way I did. I wanted to know how to figure out the visions that were like puzzles. If I had a responsibility, then they did, too. Even if I really didn’t know who they were.
And I wanted to know how to talk to ghosts. I’d promised Natalie and Sarah I would find this out. Yes, that was my responsibility.
But I said nothing, because deep down I knew Annabelle was in my life to provide those answers. One day. Not today. And maybe I didn’t want to talk because I was immensely enjoying the feeling of peace that surrounded me, and I didn’t want to break the spell it had on me.
When I walked into the front of the store, the room again filled me with serenity—only the feeling was much stronger now. Once again, the angels seemed to swaddle me like a cozy blanket.
“Take care of your finger,” Annabelle said to me, bringing me right back to reality.
“You noticed,” I said.
“You did the right thing yesterday. You listened.”
I thought back to my conversation with my mother. Had I told her about Miles before she went to see Martha? I couldn’t remember.
Annabelle closed her eyes and pressed her fingers in the middle of her forehead. “I’m being told you saw something in the hotel room.” She said this as if she had just read my mind. “There’s more to whatever that is.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She opened her eyes and shook her head, her forehead still creased from thinking. “I don’t know. The messenger is gone. I guess you’re to figure it out.”
The warmth and peace I had been feeling suddenly vanished, and now I just felt stupid that I was still in her store. I had moved to the door to leave, because I really wasn’t sure what to do next, when the light that had been streaming through the front windows disappeared and the sky outside went black. All shadows dissolved.
“Oh, isn’t that strange,” said Annabelle, unperturbed.
Really strange. Am I in some kind of sci-fi movie now?
Suddenly, the front door blew open and a woman rushed in and headed directly to Annabelle.
“I can’t work here anymore.” The woman handed Annabelle a set of keys.
“You didn’t give me any notice.” Annabelle said.
“I know. And I’m sorry. But I can’t do it. I can’t work anymore. My husband, he doesn’t want me to work here anymore. He says it is changing me.” Then she turned and left the store.
Annabelle tossed the keys in her hand for a second, then walked over to me and opened my hand. I didn’t pull away from her.
A little stream of light filtered through the clouds and into the room at exactly the moment Annabelle said, “Guess you’re working for me now.”
There are no coincidences, Isaiah whispered in my head.
Chapter Six
I sat in the backseat of the cab and stared out the window at the trees and the people walking their dogs and shopping and going about their normal lives. Why couldn’t I be one of them? I had just had an incredibly weird morning that had left me exhausted. When I got back to the apartment, I was going right back to bed.
My finger throbbed.
The cab pulled up in front of the apartment, and when I saw the red OPEN sign on George’s store door, I wondered if he could help get my ring off. I entered the store, and George was busy shining a beautiful four-poster bed with some sort of brass polisher.
As soon as he saw me he stopped his polishing and smiled. “Indie. How are you?”
I wanted to lie and say “good,” but I was anything but good right now. “Would you have some sort of metal cutter?” I held out my hand. “I need to get this ring off.”
He took one look at my hand and said, “Yikes, that looks nasty. Although I’m no doctor, I did this exact same thing for Claire once. I’ll see what I can do.”
I stood on the other side of the counter as he rummaged through a drawer, pulling out something that resembled a nail clipper.
He held it up, “This little gadget cuts through metal. Let’s see if we can get that ring off.”
A few clips later, the ring snapped apart at the back, loosened from my finger, and I was able to slide it off. My finger throbbed, but I instantly felt relief from the pressure. George placed the ring on the counter and said, “You want to keep it?”
“Sure,” I said. “It was a gift.”
“I sold the one I had; otherwise, I would give it to you as a replacement.”
“That’s okay.” I opened my palm and let him drop the ring in it. Then I tightened my fist. “I can just keep this one.”
“If another one comes my way, I’ll let you know.” He put the little clipper away in the drawer. When he turned back to me, he suddenly waved his finger at me. “Oh, by the way, I found out more information about the owners of the building. Funnily enough, the next day after we talked, the grandson came in to say hello. Such a strange coincidence.”
“Tell me, tell me,” I replied quickly.
“It’s a real Anne of Green Gables story,” he said. “Mrs. Schmidt wasn’t German. She came over from England as a child. Her parents died of influenza, and she ended up in an orphanage.”
“I think it would be horrible to be an orphan,” I said. My mother was like my best friend.
“I’m sure conditions were less than desirable.” George kept on talking. “But when she got to Ottawa, she was adopted. I’m not sure if they treated her real well, though. Gerald, her grandson, said she wouldn’t talk about her adopted family, and he couldn’t remember meeting any of her relatives.”
“How did she meet Mr. Schmidt?”
“She cleaned his house. Probably the only job she could do.”
“I know all about that,” I muttered. Then I said, “They must have had children.”
“Three. They had a girl named Elizabeth. Then four years later, they had twins, a boy and a girl. They named them Henrietta and Henry. Not exactly creative.”
Henry!
My body started shaking, but George obviously didn’t notice because he continued talking.
“Little Henry had been quite sickly for most of his life, and he died of some sort of fever, probably scarlet fever at that time. I think, but don’t quote me on this, he was around eight. He was the only boy, and I guess he was his mother’s pride and joy.”
I swallowed before I asked, “Did he die i
n the house?”
“I believe so.” George glanced at me.
“He died of a sickness, though, right?” I asked quietly.
“Yes. And from what Gerald said, poor Mrs. Schmidt was never the same afterward. He said she scared the bejesus out of him when he was little. When they would visit, she’d sit in the rocking chair holding a doll, just rocking back and forth for hours. And his parents always warned him and his sister not to say anything about Uncle Henry. Looking back on it, they figure she probably had a nervous breakdown. She just couldn’t accept that Henry was gone.”
“Did she die in the house, too?” I asked.
“Yes. After she died, Gerald’s mother turned it into a boarding house. And the parlor into a store.” He waved his hand as he looked around his place. Then he turned back to me. “And eventually, they sold the building, and it was renovated into separate apartments.”
“That’s quite a story,” I said. My mind was spinning with all this new information.
“That’s why I’m into antiques. They tell a story.” He tapped my hand, the one that held my ring. “I know that ring meant a lot to you.”
“It’s okay.” I tried to sound cheerful.
He smiled and winked at me. “Just focus on where you got it from. And if you want to, focus on the historical meaning behind it.”
It meant afterlife. What did that mean exactly? The woman in our house obviously hadn’t gone to any kind of afterlife. She was really stuck.
I had to figure out how to help her. Maybe Annabelle would know.
On Monday morning, the little bell on the door of Annabelle’s Angels rang when I walked in, and it sounded like a gong being struck.
Annabelle cracked a tiny smile and said, “Good morning.”
“Hi,” I replied.
“You can put your purse in the back storeroom.” She pointed. “Or you can put it under the counter, here. It’s up to you.” Then she glanced at her gold watch. “I have thirty minutes before my first reading, and I have to teach you how to work the cash register.”
I opted to put my purse under the counter, because I really didn’t want to go to the back. After finding a place for it on the bottom shelf, I stood up, pressed my hands down my skirt, and adjusted my blouse. Glancing around, I took in all the stuff again: the angels and feathery things and cards and books and stones. They all had price tags, so this job could end up being mindless, because all I would have to do was just sit at a counter and ring things in for people. Did anyone actually come in this store? Who bought this stuff? I wondered if Annabelle had any magazines hidden behind the counter. Cosmopolitan. Elle. I would even read National Geographic just to make the time go by.
