by Sean Platt
“Really?” I laugh. “That’s what you think happened?”
So much for Danny having a good feel for people.
“I dunno. Nothing surprises me these days. And that mother looks like she’s guilty of something.”
“Probably, but I don’t think she’s a killer. Just a piece of shit mother.”
Danny laughs. “Maybe this news story is why you’re dreaming of being an abducted teenage girl.”
I’m not sure if he’s really suggesting that the dream could be a random memory misinterpreted, as Charles suspects they are, or if this is Danny’s way of backing down from the earlier escalation. Maybe this is how they avoid getting into bigger fights, broaching subjects with tact then backing away once a line’s been crossed.
“Maybe,” I say, figuring I don’t want to send him off to work all bummed out about our discussion.
Danny heads back to the bedroom to get dressed.
As he finishes getting ready for school, I watch the end of the report to see that Allie is still missing, then search for information on Vinnie.
I find an article on the Chronicle’s website about the shootings at the club. It isn’t until the end of the story that I see Vinnie listed as a club worker who is still in intensive care at the hospital. That’s it: a single sentence.
A man’s life reduced to thirteen words.
I click off the article, pull up the most recent document in Charles’s folder marked Client Work and pretend to work until Danny is dressed and ready to head out the door.
I walk him to the garage and kiss him goodbye.
“Remember, six o’ clock, we’re going to Madam Monique.”
I nod, having no idea who the hell Madam Monique is. My first impression, from the name, is that she runs some kind of sex club or something. Then I remember all the psychic-themed books lined in a row.
Is he taking me to see a freaking psychic?
This is going to be a long-ass day.
We say goodbye, and I head back into the office to look up Madam Monique. Her website is sparse — a black screen with her name, address, phone number, an image of tarot cards, and a note at the bottom:
Call for rates and to schedule an appointment to change your life.
Call for rates, eh? Is that so she can determine how much you’re worth and how much to milk you for? I have about as much patience for psychics as I do televangelists and other charlatans exploiting the desperate. I’m rather surprised by my strong reaction to the idea of seeing a psychic. I wonder if I’d ever crossed paths with one in my life before this body jumping, or if I’m drawing on memories from other hosts I’ve been in before. Over time, my memories from time spent inside a host always fades. Reminders gnarl in a giant ball that’s impossible to untangle. That’s probably good considering how difficult it’s been managing memories from Lara, Vinnie, and Allie.
I keep searching for information, whatever I can find on any or all of my last three hosts.
Finding nothing but variations on the same regurgitated stories, I end up sitting in front of the computer, staring at the screen, numb.
**
I spend the rest of the day stabbing at Charles’s client work. Fortunately, he’s well organized and ahead of schedule, so there’s not too much I need to do. I do some light copyediting, but don’t want to actually write new content. I’m guessing he’d notice new words when he returns to his body, and wonder who the hell wrote them.
**
Danny comes home at 5:20.
I greet him with a kiss, dressed and ready to see the psychic. He drives, while I try accessing Charles’s memories to see why we’re going. But like the rest of the day before now, I can’t find anything. I don’t want to ask, as I’m sure the reason is important to Danny, and if Charles has forgotten, it might injure him or their relationship. Like forgetting a birthday or something.
When I picture a psychic’s shop, I imagine a mysterious ancient building tucked away in a dark wooded area. A handful of creepy decorations outside, crystal balls, totems, or other supernatural items to create a specific strain of atmosphere.
Madam Monique’s shop couldn’t defy my expectations more. It’s located in a relatively new and upscale-looking town center offering all the latest trends: overpriced faux-French furniture, eclectic clothes, foodie havens, and esoteric boutiques.
Her shop is tucked between an artisan ice cream parlor and a shop called Berceuse Lullaby with lifelike child mannequins in the window frozen mid-frolic in fashionable clothes. The kids look eerily dead, like some psycho child killer’s staging of a crime scene, but hey, what do I know?
Madam Monique’s windows aren’t painted black or covered in drapes like I imagined. They’re large and open, revealing a small, modern shop that could easily belong to a realtor.
I find myself disappointed that there’s no attempt at atmosphere. I don’t know if this makes the Madam more or less suspect.
We go inside.
The front part of the shop is empty save for a few chairs gathered around a coffee table with magazines to approximate a small waiting room. There’s a front counter, and behind that, a door, which I imagine leads to the real show.
A young black woman stands behind the counter, wearing trendy clothes and a hipster hat. “Hello, Danny,” she says, smiling as she looks from him to me. “And this must be Charles.”
She reaches out to shake my hand.
I shake it.
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
I don’t know who she is, so I can’t exactly say the same thing. Is she a receptionist, or Madam Monique herself?
“This is Staci,” Danny says, relieving my confusion.
“Hi, Staci,” I say.
“So, are you ready for your first reading?”
So that’s what’s going on. I don’t know why I would’ve expected something other than a reading; why else would you go to a psychic? But for some reason, I hadn’t put two with two for the obvious answer.
I nod, unable to hide my nervous grin.
“It’s okay,” Staci says, “you’re not the first skeptic, or the last. But I have a feeling you’ll change your tune once she talks with you.”
“I’ll try and be open-minded.” It’s an absolute lie. I’m already contemplating the ways which this “reading” will be rigged. Will she pretend to know things about me, when, in fact, Danny unwittingly supplied her with plenty of information?
I look over at Danny, grinning like an eager puppy, or maybe a dumb rube.
He’s so excited for me to experience this thing that’s changed him, I feel kind of guilty. He’s not sharing this with Charles, but with me. While I can sense Charles’s skepticism, perhaps he was a bit more open, or at least pretending to be for Danny. And worse, Charles will likely have no recollection of this event, which means no matter what happens, I’m robbing this couple of an important memory — one that could be foundation building, or decaying.
But it’s too late to try and get out of this now.
Staci says, “Come on, she’s waiting.”
Danny grabs my hand and leads me back into Madam Monique’s lair.
While the front of the shop looks like any other store in the center, the back delivers what I was expecting — new age music; enough lit candles to fill a cathedral; sweet burning incense; dark purples, reds, and black fabrics draping the walls; ebony shelving with crystals; dream catchers; statues; and other mystical knickknacks. The room’s middle holds the main attraction — a black medium-sized circular table with a large crystal ball, tarot cards, weird totems that seem odd and mean nothing to me. Five seats surround it.
And then there is Monique.
She is an old black woman wearing long flowing silks and a blue scarf around her long, surprisingly dark dreads. She’s at least eighty, maybe much older. I wonder if her age lends to her authenticity with the locals.
Her eyes are closed.
I’m not sure if she’s nodded off or if this is her atte
mpt at drama.
I look at Danny. He’s looking at Monique like she’s a maternal figure in his life. Maybe she is. From the scant memories I’ve seen, he’s led a difficult life until recently. He’s happy now. I wonder if it’s because of his relationship with Charles, or some revelation reached by Madam Monique.
His happy look sours my stomach. I don’t want this woman to be a fake, but how could she be anything but? I won’t go so far as to say that the world has no genuine clairvoyants — my own existence is proof of unexplainable phenomena — but there is no way there are even a hundredth of the so-called psychics out there looking to charge you for their spiritual guidance who are genuine. The odds are damn strong that Madam Monique is another charlatan robbing an innocent rube and telling him what he wants to hear.
I hate her.
Staci invites us to sit down then leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Danny sits beside the woman.
He motions for me to sit on her other side, leaving two chairs empty behind us. I don’t really want to sit that close to Madam Monique, but do as instructed.
Her hands are folded in her lap, and she still has her eyes closed. I’m weary of the act already. I’m tempted to say, “Hello!” nice and loud, with no social grace whatsoever.
But I remain quiet, respectful for Danny.
She opens her eyes.
She looks at Danny and smiles. “Danny,” she says warmly.
She turns to me, and for a second I see her smile falter. Even at only a flash I recognize what it is — a look of judgment.
Does she disapprove of my relationship with Danny because I’m black and he’s white? I can see in Charles’s memories how some of his older relatives had treated him when he went out with white girls, back when he was still trying to convince himself he wasn’t gay.
Maybe she’s not prejudiced. Maybe she simply recognizes me as a skeptic. She sees that pulling the wool over my eyes won’t be as easy as it was with poor, sweet Danny.
No, ma’am, the gravy train has come to its final stop. You’ll not be exploiting Danny any longer. Not after I expose you for what you are.
In the space of that look I’ve gone from wanting to maintain Danny’s illusion to hoping I can break it. I feel compelled to protect him. He’s not my lover, but I have feelings for him just the same. An urge to watch over him and protect him from predators like this.
“And you must be Charles?”
“Yes,” I say smiling as if to say, I’ve got your card, Sister.
“Danny says that you’d like a reading?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, then. Let us all hold hands, shall we?”
I look at Danny, still grinning like a naive idiot who thinks this woman is about to convince me. Convince me of what, I’m not sure. Why Charles needs to believe in this mystical stuff, I don’t know. But he has so much hope in his eyes.
Danny takes the madam’s hand.
I reach out and take Danny’s, warm to the touch.
Then I take Madam’s.
A spark of static electricity jumps between us.
I snap my hand back, embarrassed at how much it hurt, but trying not to make too big a deal.
Madam Monique laughs. “Ah, you’ve got a live wire here.”
Danny laughs.
She holds out her hand again for me to take.
Again, she closes her eyes.
She starts mumbling something. I’m not sure if it’s in another language, or gibberish, or maybe some variation of “Oh, what fools we have with us today. Please, Almighty Dollar, help me separate them from their funds in the most momentous of ways.”
I look at Danny to find that he’s closing his eyes, too. Is this some kind of prayer circle?
I keep my eyes open. If we’re going to do some sort of seance or summon spirits, or some other nonsense, I want to see the strings moving furniture around.
A long silence follows the mumbling. Danny’s eyes are still closed. It all feels ritualized. I wonder if other psychics do things this way or if this is Madam Monique’s personal brand of crazy.
“All right,” she says, opening her eyes, “we may begin.”
Madam Monique looks down at the tarot cards as if she’s considering a reading, but then her hands move toward the crystal ball as if drawn by magnets. She moves her hands over the glass in practiced, fluid motions, fingers gliding a hair from the surface. It’s hard not to be mesmerized by her showmanship.
I watch the ball, not sure what to expect. Will it glow? Will it fill with smoke? It’s completely clear, and to me, looks like an ordinary glass globe supported by a fancy black and gold stand.
She’s looking into the ball, lips twitching as she mumbles.
I look up at Danny. His eyes are on the ball, clearly entranced.
“You are at a crossroads,” she says.
I chuckle inside. Just the sort of vague statement that anyone can interpret to mean more than the madame is saying. I wonder if this is the sort of mystical wisdom that has fooled Danny into thinking she was the real deal. So far, I’m not impressed.
“You’re tormented over your choices. Unsure of what to do.”
Again, that could be true of anyone. I look at Danny. He’s looking at me, likely trying to gauge whether I’m convinced.
A suspicion crosses my mind. I wonder if Danny and the psychic are in on this together. Maybe he told her that he wanted me to come out, so she said, “Bring him here; I’ll convince him.”
I meet Danny’s eyes, searching for any sign of his duplicity. He looks too sweet, too naive, to ever lie to me like that.
I look back down at the ball, waiting for Madam to say something else.
“Oh,” she says, her face twisting as if she’s seen something she wishes she hadn’t.
Ah, here comes the part where she reels me in with some artificial vision.
Her face continues to contort, her hands now on the ball as if stuck. Danny is looking at her, brow knotted in confusion, or maybe concern. This isn’t part of the usual show.
“So much blood,” she says.
I swallow, sure I didn’t hear what I think I heard.
I wonder if I should interrupt. Danny must be reading my mind, as he gives me a look telling me to hold tight.
“Allie needs you.”
I feel as if someone has hit me in the chest, hard enough to stop my heart. I stare at Madame Monique as she turns to me.
Her eyes widen.
“You’re not Charles. Why are you here?”
She looks terrified, hands now off the ball, arms crossing her chest as if ready to defend against an attack, from me.
“What?” Danny asks.
“Huh?” She raises a hand to her head. “Oh … I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Can we reschedule?”
I’m not ready to leave. “What did you see?”
She starts to get up, eager to get as far away from me as possible.
I can’t let her go. There’s no way this can be a coincidence. She sees that I’m not Charles. She saw Allie. She saw the blood.
I grab her arm.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide on me, shocked by my touch.
She pulls back, nearly falling over, pushing herself back from the table and toward a door behind the room.
“Are you okay?” Danny asks, his face wracked with confusion, his eyes darting between me and Madam.
“Yes, yes, I just need to rest. Please, reschedule with … ” She seems to forget her assistant’s name. “Get with Staci, and reschedule.”
She rushes through the door, closes it behind her. I hear the deadbolt turning.
I go to the door, bang on it. “Please, Madam, I need answers.”
She doesn’t respond.
I bang again.
“Charles!” Danny grabs my arm and pulls me away from the door.
I ignore him.
“Madam, please. I need to know what you saw.”
Still no response.
The door behind us opens. Staci is standing there.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Danny tells her. “She said some weird things, then that her head hurt. She asked us to go.”
“I think she saw something in my future that scared her,” I say, manufacturing a lie to explain my urgency. I can’t come right out and ask how she knows I’m not Charles. But I can pretend that I’m scared by her glimpse of my future. “I need to know what she saw.”
“Madam wasn’t feeling good this morning.” Staci gives us a polite smile. “I’m sorry. Just call me, and we’ll reschedule, for free.”
But I don’t want to leave. I can’t reschedule. I’m sure I won’t be here tomorrow.
“Come on,” Danny says, tugging on my arm.
Judging from the way he’s looking at me, my assertiveness is out of character. I need to walk away, reconsider my options.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “of course. Let’s reschedule. The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll call you later, Daniel. Right now I need to tend to Madam.”
“Of course,” Danny says. “Tell her we hope she’s feeling better.”
We leave.
Our walk to the car is quiet. So is the ride home.
Halfway to our apartment, Danny asks, “Who is Allie?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
Danny is quiet. I don’t think he believes me.
I’m not sure what to say, so every thought stays inside me. I’m trying to suss things out in my head. What did she see? Did she see what happened with Lara or Vinnie? Or did she see something in the future, or maybe happening to Allie right now?
So much blood. Allie needs you.
Could she have seen Allie’s blood? Is that monster hurting her now? Or is it something he’s going to do? Can Madam Monique really see the future? She certainly saw Allie’s name, and said I wasn’t Charles. I can hardly believe it, but she is the real deal. And I need to talk to her again.
Danny is quiet as he drives, his wheels turning.
“Why did she say you’re not Charles?”
“I don’t know why she said any of that crazy stuff,” I say, desperate for Danny to believe me. “The thing about blood? That name? None of it makes any sense.”
