by Paisley Ray
Funny thing about cigarettes. Pressing one between my lips provided clarity. Coming here was a dumb idea. What was I thinking? That Betts would slip up—admit that she was a con–in front of my mom? That Mom would realize how wrong she’d been to have left? The inner me put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. Yeah, that’s exactly what you thought.
Today had only proven how distant Mom had become. Her psychic quest left little room for those from her past. Physically she was my mom, the woman who gave birth to me, but inside…Hell, I didn’t know who she was anymore, and now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out.
Sitting upright, I toyed my fingers through the silk scarf tied to my head. From behind, someone flicked a lighter and placed it near my face. The flame startled me, and the unlit cigarette dropped out of my mouth. “Zorro?”
“My name’s not Zorro. It’s Lightnin’ Horse.”
I choked, “Seriously?”
“No,” he drawled. “This bench taken?”
Motioning my open hand, I retrieved my cigarette from the ground. “You’re from the south?”
Zorro left half a body space between us, and stretched his tanned left arm across the back. I noticed a chunky wrist watch, black with lots of dials. He reached his right hand to mine. “Jackson Kimball.”
His strong fingers encased mine longer than appropriate for a friendly introduction. “Rachael O’Brien,” I said, not feeling particularly chatty.
Jackson held his gaze on my face. His attention made me squirm, and I darted my gaze over my shoulder, looking for Travis.
“You alright? I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’ve got a plum swellin’ on your cheek.”
I winced. “Yeah. I had an altercation with my mom’s spiritual healer.”
He reached into a hidden pocket beneath his shirt folds, and pulled out several plastic tubes. They reminded me of the perfume and lipstick samples from the door-to-door Avon lady left behind. Sorting them in his palm, he asked, “What happened?”
“It’s complicated.”
Selecting a tube with clear liquid, he said, “Anything worthwhile is. May I?”
Nervously, I twitched my cigarette ash into a carpet of geraniums that grew in the planter next to me. “What is that?”
He tipped a drop of the oil onto his index finger. “Lavender. It’ll help heal the bruisin.’” Placing his free hand on my forehead, he tilted my head back, and ran his fingers around the crown of my head to the base of my neck, then delicately dabbed a drop onto my cheek. I didn’t know this guy, but his touch made my stomach do flip-flops.
Handing me the vial, he said, “Put a little on before you go to bed and in the morning.”
I stroked my cheek. “Thanks.”
Dragging two fingers across my eyebrow, he pushed some strands of hair to my temple. “How exactly did you enrage a spiritual healer?”
This guy’s company replaced my self-pity with lusty visions. The inner-me blew her whistle. Should you share this drama with a stranger? This herbal-healer was taking me for a Sunday drive, directionless, but highly therapeutic, and I kicked my pesky conscience aside. Tucking my knees under my arms, I rattled, “Last fall, two weeks into my freshman term at North Carolina College, Mom left my dad to find her inner-psychic self. We’ve barely heard from her, until now. She showed up two weeks ago with her head-healer. They have a booth inside. I confronted my mom.”
The disappearing sun gave way to a night sky that cast a soft glow around Jackson, his defined jaw, smooth neck, and broad shoulders. “What did you say to her?”
He was attentive, hanging on my words so I continued, “When I asked my Mom what was she doing with her life, her watchdog smacked me.”
Jackson’s mouth gaped. He sat up. “Who’s the watchdog?”
“Betts. I don’t know her last name.”
“Betsy McMurtie? Stalky woman, wears lots of jangly jewelry, fascination with mythical spiritualism?”
“You know her?”
“Aurora healer. Yeah. She buys from me. Wait a minute. Are you Maeve’s daughter?”
“Ya.”
Taken aback Jackson said, “Your mom is sweet. She told me all about you.”
Crap, this was the guy Mom had mentioned the night we ate pot roast, before the picnic table went up in flames. “What exactly did she say?”
Jackson’s lips curled into a smile. “That you were a Freshman at North Carolina College, studying art history.”
“That’s all she said?”
He gazed at me, sending an electric volt that stood my arm hairs on edge. “Is there more I should know?”
His caramel-coated drawl lured me toward him. God I had to get a grip. I didn’t even know this guy.
“So what exactly,” I asked, “does Betts buy from you?”
“Herbs and oils. Cleared me out of African Ginger.”
I scrunched my nose. Mom’s cooking spanned all ethnicities, Vietnamese, Indian, Moroccan. I’d never seen African Ginger in her spice rack. “What?”
Hunching forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and pondered the night. I followed his gaze. I didn’t see anything. Just a couple of guys unloading boxes off a van. “Generally, it’s used as a natural inflammatory and circulatory stimulant.”
I stared at him. Natural inflammatory, circulatory stimulant? Was Zorro for real or just another practiced bullshitter?
“A cure for indigestion, nausea, gas, and congestion. Although, some people use it for its magical qualities.”
“Magical qualities?” Here we go. I knew he was too cute to be normal.
Jackson’s thumb stroked my unblemished cheek. “It’s said to ward off trouble, and provide protection. Sometimes it’s used in spells for love and money.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shook his head. “African Ginger is a plant with large hairless leaves. The root is harvested. I sell it in powder form.”
“What color is the powder?”
“Yellow. The shade varies dependin’ on the region and growin’ conditions. The smell is pungent, the taste hot, biting. With all its medical uses, the plant demand can’t be sustained. There are import-export regulations. I have a hard time keeping it in stock.”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s my business. Herbal-U. I have a B.S. in Biology and Nutrition from Tulane.”
My eyes widened at the mention of the Bayou region.
“Have you ever been to Louisiana?” he asked.
Dragging my tongue across my eyetooth, I nodded but didn’t delve into any particulars regarding my swamp experience. “You conduct business at Psychic Expos?”
Leaning back, his hips closed the space between us, and he curled his arm around my shoulder. Is he hitting on me?
“Just the larger industry shows. I meet my target consumers, do some research on trends, and make wholesale contacts.” He brushed the tails of my scarf behind my shoulder, and leaned in. His breath tickled my neck. “And it seems I’ve even met the girl who—”
“Rach,” Travis shouted from behind.
TRAVIS PARKED HIS VOLVO in a guest parking spot outside of Trudy’s apartment building. She must have left around the same time we did. Her Volkswagen Cabriolet was three spots down. Dad’s annoying girlfriend sticking up for me had stirred my emotional cauldron. I’d spent so much energy convincing myself that she was a nuisance, but today she’d watched my back. Even tangled with Betts.
After a complete analysis in the car, he and I had determined that Betts was a control freak. More disturbing, she seemed obsessed with my mother, whom she wanted to keep as a love-slave. And my presence threatened everything Betts had worked so hard to secure. What we couldn’t figure out was why come to Canton? Was the expo worth the risk of reuniting mom with Dad and me? At least that was Travis’s and my take.
“Stop laughing,” I said.
“About what?” he giggled.
“Getting slapped isn’t funny.”
“Sorry. I just c
an’t get the pile up of bodies in the booth out of my head. It was so roller-derbyish”
“Jeez, I’m glad I have a friend who is so sensitive to my feelings.”
“It was like the Three Stooges in there.”
“Slapping me was stupid. I can’t believe Trudy, not my mom, lashed out at Betts. Isn’t that trait supposed to be wired into mothers?”
“Rach, she was in as much shock as the rest of us.”
“Did she ask where I went?”
Travis slid his arm around my shoulder and squeezed before he shook his head.
Had she ever even loved me?
“After you left, it was weird.”
“Weirder?”
“I stand corrected,” he said. “Weirder. Your mom was mostly embarrassed with the unwanted attention drawn to the booth. She seemed worried that Betts was mad at something.”
“Maybe I’m adopted,” I said, warming to the idea. Then I remembered I’d seen dozens of prego and newborn photo moments.
Travis fetched his overnight bag from the trunk. Stars had emerged in the clear night sky. Moonlight reflected the man-made pond where crickets and frogs collided in a fiesta of chirps and croaks. I slapped the tender skin behind my knee too late. A bug bite began to swell.
Outside Trudy’s apartment, I peeked behind the bushes near the lamppost.
Travis tapped me on my shoulder. “Expecting someone?”
“Never mind. We should go up and get you settled into Trudy’s apartment.”
“I’m not sure she’s back,” he said. “Security made her leave the booth. They threatened to detain her, and she looked frazzled.”
“Her car is over there. She’s back.”
Travis wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and guided me up the stairs to the entrance of the building. “Did you give Zorro your number?”
Rubbing my tongue over my eyetooth, I was deciding how to respond.
Releasing my shoulder, he said, “You naughty trollop. Have you arranged to see him?”
“I have a hypothetical question. If Zorro had kissed me, and if I kissed him back, would that have been like cheating on Clay?”
“Are you telling me that in the ten minutes I left you alone, you managed to work your Rachael magic, and engage in a make-out session?”
“No,” my voice squeaked. “This is hypothetical.”
Travis slung his bag on his shoulder, and tapped me on the tip of my nose. “Technically you and Clay aren’t speaking.”
I pushed his hand off my face. “But I’ve been lusting after him for almost a year. If Clay is the one, I shouldn’t be interested in anyone else, right?”
“You don’t have an exclusivity agreement. You’re free to lock lips with whomever you please. So when are you seeing Zorro?”
“He didn’t ask me out on a date. He just penned his number on a scrap of paper.”
Travis nudged my arm. “Call him. It could be considered practice.”
Climbing the staircase to Trudy’s apartment, a flash of panic ignited. Sky and I hadn’t cleaned up after we’d slept over. Trudy would freak if she thought someone spent the night—which someone had. Crap, Sky and I were going to have to fess up otherwise she’d never move out of our house.
Trudy’s apartment door stood ajar, her keys hung from the door lock. I knuckle knocked. “Hey Trudy.”
Eyes-wide, Trudy’s hands covered her mouth. Even outside the gym, she wore a fitted spandex bodysuit under a sleeveless, torn neck sweatshirt. I watched the muscles in her forearms tighten as she rotated in a circle. I had a sinking feeling. Shit, she knew someone had stayed here.
Stepping beyond her foyer, I covered a gasp. Someone had cleaned up since Sky and I had stayed here. “Your apartment is so—clean.”
“It’s worse than I remember,” she burbled.
“What are you talking about?” Travis asked.
Seeing me, Trudy switched her facial contortions from shock to horror. “Oh Rachael. Your face—it’s swollen.” She guided me into a corner of her living room and twisted the knob of a halogen lamp to get a closer look. “We need to call your father.”
“Does he know you were at the expo?”
Trudy bit her lip and shrugged. “No.”
“Why were you there?”
“Mostly curiosity.”
“About my mom?”
Trudy nodded.
“I’m not telling Dad, and neither are you.”
Unwilling to referee this one, Travis plopped into a butterfly chair.
Trudy’s mouth flexed downward, and she made puppy eyes. “Betts is living under your father’s roof, and has assaulted you in front of your mother. This isn’t some little thing you can keep from him.”
“I’ll tell him, just not tonight. The Fourth of July is tomorrow. Travis is only here two more nights. I just want to wait until the holiday is over.”
This was the highest word count I’d ever spoken to Trudy. She crossed her arms and pondered my request.
Travis took it all in. I could tell his mind shifted into analysis mode. He knew I was up to something. I didn’t tell Trudy, but I had a loose plan that involved snooping, and if Dad kicked Mom and Betts out of the apartment, I’d be back at square one. I needed time to check on a few things.
“Please Trudy. Just stay quiet for a day. I’ll tell Dad when Travis leaves.”
She uncrossed her arms. “I want your word that you’ll tell him on Monday.”
“I promise,” I said.
“And.”
“And what?”
“I want you to start coming to step aerobics three times a week to strengthen your calf and dodgy shoulder. Starting tomorrow.”
“That’s blackmail,” I said.
She smiled.
Trudy handed Travis her apartment key, and moved to turn on a hallway light. “Help yourself to the refrigerator.”
“Sorry you can’t stay at the house, but it’s at capacity,” I said loudly. Lowering my voice, I leaned toward Travis’s ear. “Dad would die before he let you sleep in my bedroom, and I’d die if I had to share it with Trudy.”
Travis hugged me. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Make sure you lock the door behind us,” I said.
“Definitely.”
Trudy and I made it to her car without bumping into Mrs. Curtis or Doneski, which was a bonus.
“Wanna drive home with the top down?”
“Okay,” I said, secretly stoked. I so loved her car.
TRUDY SLOWED DOWN AT a yellow light and stopped for a red. I had fifteen miles of close quarters with her until we got home. Her Volkswagen Cabriolet was the only car at the intersection, and I so wanted her to gun through the light. I was anxious to get home and into my room without Dad seeing my face.
“Travis is a good guy,” Trudy said. “He talked security into letting me go.”
“He didn’t tell me that. What did Betts and my mom have to say for themselves?”
“Were you there when I had Betts pinned between my knees?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Did Aunt G teach you that?”
Trudy smiled. “I should’ve guessed Aunt G wrestles. I haven’t had the pleasure of a lesson from her.”
The light turned green, and as Trudy accelerated, warm summer air fanned my face.
“Betts went all limp like, shut her eyes then popped them open. I thought she was having an asthma attack or something, so I released my leg grip.”
“Trudy, she was faking it.”
“I’m not so sure. I mean, her eye rolling, going all stiff seemed so bizarre. Even her cheeks lost their color. How could anyone turn that on so quickly?”
“She’s a con. She probably started this crap as a kid, when she didn’t get her way. I’m guessing she’s had years of acting experience. So how did you leave things?”
“As I left with a security escort, Betts went into a spasm. Her breath became erratic, and her face grew pink blotchy patches. She started telling some sort of prophecy in a really we
ird, deep voice.”
I scoffed. “Like what? ‘The world is going to end unless you donate a massive sum to Betts’s aura reading?’”
Trudy bit her cheek.
“What did she say?”
Trudy sighed. “I think she cursed me.”
“Did she call you a shithead or something?” I jeered.
“Not a swear curse, a real one.”
Pressing her lips tight, Trudy concentrated on the road.
“Come on Trudy. What are you afraid of?”
“That it’ll come true. She told your mom and security that an unwanted spirit entered her. And it, not her, slapped you.”
My blood simmered. “You’re shittin’ me?” She is completely mental.
“Your mom believed her. Told security she’s seen it before. When Betts does too many readings, her defenses weaken, and spirits are able to enter her aura.”
“Betts is f’d up. Thanks for being there,” I said, not believing that I was thanking Dad’s girlfriend. The one I thought was a complete airhead. At the moment she seemed to care about me more than Mom.
The streets were quiet, and only a few cars passed us on the winding road. Trudy shifted into third gear and gnawed her lip.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
She tilted her back, and I was worried that she’d crash into something. I pressed, “What is it?”
“Betts said you and I are in danger, and that it’s no use running from our destiny.”
Pushing back against the headrest, I shut my eyes. How the hell was I going prove that Betts was a scammer?
NOTE TO SELF
Does inhaling patchouli strengthen opposing-personality tolerances? Not feeling as annoyed with Trudy and not sure why!
CHAPTER 9
High Highs And Low Lows
Travis motored us along a country road that was surrounded by fields of corn. The leafy stalks were seven feet tall with ears growing on the tips. Wind swayed the hairy tassels that grew out of the husks. I’d barely slept. Now, in addition to the bruise on my cheek, I had dark circles under my eyes. I’d applied layers of powder and foundation that Mom had left behind. Flipping Travis’s car mirror-visor up, I asked, “Can you see a bruise?”
