Occult Suspense for Mothers Boxset: The Nostalgia Effect by EJ Valson and Mother's by Michelle Read (2 ebooks for one price)

by EJ Valson

  We don’t appear to have broadband internet like Michael and I do....or had, I suppose. So I find a way to get dial-up running, like I did before Michael taught me how to maneuver technology. But did he really, or am I making that up? Still, if he hadn’t, then how would I know to do this now?

  I spend the morning researching temporary amnesia, antidepressant withdrawal, side effects, and brain trauma -- anything that can help me make sense of my current situation. But search engines are not as robust as they will be someday -- at least I think they aren’t. Most of what I find is related to injury or stroke. Did I have a stroke?

  I feel even more depressed when I finish my hour of research. This is my existence. This is the life I must have chosen after all. Yet every fiber of my being is telling me that I am Michael’s wife and Stella’s mother. That Olivia, Stella, Michael and I all live together in a house not far from where I am now. That I met Michael almost three years after my divorce from Joe.

  Michael and I had a two-year long distance relationship while he was in Sweden and I was still here. We made the most of our relationship through video messenger, emails and instant chat. We visited as often as we could. We maintained a great close relationship while we waited for his entry visa so we could be together. We were married almost two years after he left from his internship in the US to go back to Sweden. We enjoyed our lives, we had Stella, we made a family. Joe had moved to Idaho by that time, had remarried and had two more children. If it isn’t real, why do I know all of this detail? And why does every part of me resist the life that I am living at this moment?

  I sit in front of the computer screen. I stare at the search field box. I have no clue what to type in it. “Living in another time” is the first thing that comes to mind. I hit ENTER. The top of the search list provides something that intrigues me -- “Past Life Regression.” Hmmm, since I’m not sure which life I am really living, maybe there is something to this.

  I spend several minutes researching the topic. Most articles are focused towards getting a reading with a “psychic” to find out if you were Elvis or Cleopatra. Ugh, this is not what I need. At that moment I remember a flyer I found on my car windshield after grocery shopping one day, long ago.

  It was an advertisement for a free reading with a local psychic. I remember calling the number on the ad just for fun on the phone and the woman I spoke with, told me that she thought I needed to explore if the relationship I was in was right for me. I laughed it off because I thought that I was happy with Joe at the time. Later on I realized I hadn’t told her that I was in a relationship at all.

  I quickly go to the online telephone directory and search for psychics in the area. Only one name comes up. This could be her. I dial. I wait.

  Here goes, I say to myself, taking a deep breath.

  CHAPTER 11

  I ease the car onto a dirt driveway leading to a partially rundown house that sits just off the highway. I have passed this house what seems like a million times in my other life. But later it will be renovated and charming. For now it looks a little dilapidated -- enough to ordinarily make me a little nervous, but the small sign out front tells me I am in the right place.

  My heart is racing. I feel like I’m about to enter a place where I don’t belong. I have never been to a psychic or card reader, though I have always been fascinated by the craft. The anticipation of this new experience has me excited and a little frightened at the same time. The late morning summer heat bears down on my exposed legs. I suddenly feel vulnerable and naked, as I park the car and step out into the front yard. I hurry to the door before I am seen, though at the same time I question if I would really care if I was.

  Wind chimes drift a muted tune out into the slight breeze. Cars whizz by on both sides of the house, which rests in between the two lanes of the highway. I can smell some type of fragrance as I approach the front door. Above the doorbell a small sign reads, “The door is open. Are you?” I relax. I need to be ready and willing to accept whatever may come of this. I have no expectations, but I have hope.

  Just as I reach to turn the knob the door opens unexpectedly, startling me. “Hello, Jennifer,” a female voice says in a soft warm tone.

  A fifty-something year old woman stands before me, her face awash with a welcoming smile. She is draped in a long, flowing maroon-colored dress. Her abundant gray hair cascades down her back. Her hazel eyes pierce into mine. But they aren’t threatening at all -- they are almost inquisitive, as if she is reading into my soul. I want to stare back, but I oddly fear that I will expose too much.

  I shyly nod my hello as she opens the door wider and extends her arm to show me the way in. When the door is closed, I appreciate the cool air in the room. I try to conceal my fascination and curiosity about her living space. Her living room is cluttered with bookshelves, candles, plants and tapestries that feature vibrant colors and shapes of moons and stars. Her home is busy, yet inviting. Not my preference for a living environment, but I immediately feel a sense of comfort here.

  “Would you like some tea or water?” Astrid asks kindly.

  “No thank you,” I reply.

  “OK, then let’s get started,” she says, as she enthusiastically clasps her ring covered fingers together. She places her hand on the small of my back and guides me into a room down the hall that is concealed by a beaded curtain. I smile to myself. The room looks very cliché for a psychic. I ruefully wonder where the crystal ball is. There is a small round table in the middle of the room, flanked by two red velvet-covered chairs.

  “Please sit,” she invites, as she pulls out a chair for me and sits down in the other one across from mine. She gazes at me for a moment. I am uncomfortable with the silence and her staring.

  “So,” she begins with a smile, “You are looking for something, I take it?”

  Without thinking I blurt out, “My life.”

  Astrid gives me an inquisitive look, then continues with her preparations. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. A moment later, she opens her eyes and stares square at me with a calm look upon her face.

  “OK, so I’m just going to concentrate a bit and bring up things as I see them in my mind. Please don’t respond to my questions with anything but ‘yes’ or ‘no’ unless I request more information,” she instructs.

  I nod in agreement and wait. She is deep in thought across from me. She is lightly rubbing her hands together and looking down at nothing while she tries to concentrate.

  “Hmmm, OK. I see there is a male with the initial ‘M’. Correct?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I answer. Inside I’m starting to feel excited at the tidbit of very accurate information, but I try to conceal my emotion.

  “Who is the male with the initials ‘J’ and ‘H’?” she asks, now looking at me.

  I feel a lump in my throat. “That is my….he is currently my husband,” I answer.

  She frowns a bit. “Who is the first male I mentioned?” she asks. I can tell she is perplexed.

  I clear my throat so I can speak. “He….he is also my husband,” I say, preparing for her to think I’m crazy.

  She sits in silence for a moment, trying to read my face. “I don’t see that you are married to both of these people at the same time, so is one your ex-husband?” she asks.

  “Yes and no,” I respond.

  Now I have confused her even more.

  “OK, my dear. I see these two men, both are showing me my symbol for spouse. But it’s as if they keep morphing into one body and I can’t separate the two or get an indication of a timeline,” she explains.

  My heart is racing inside my chest. I swallow hard and prepare to give her answers that she may not believe.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the hour that I sit with her I let go of all of my inhibitions and prohibitions and explain everything. I tell her about waking up next to my ex-husband eight years into my past. I tell her that I believe I’m supposed to be in 2013 with
my new husband and both of my daughters. I tell her that I think I might have had a stroke or am suffering from medication withdrawal or amnesia. And throughout the entire relaying of my story she sits and listens intently, not making any type of expression that makes me feel like I’m crazy or being judged. I feel free and safe.

  “So this has led me to you,” I finish. “You are the only hope I have.”

  I take a deep breath and realize that I have made the mistake of telling a supposed psychic everything she needs to know about me to take my money, tell me a few obvious answers and send me home with a magic cleansing potion. I’m an idiot!

  But at the same time it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care. If she is taking my money and scamming me, at least I have finally been able to spill my guts and be free of the stifled feelings I’ve been carrying around with me -- even if only for an hour. This was the therapy I really needed.

  “Jennifer, this is fascinating,” she says, again using my formal name.

  Call it what she wants, it is a freaking nightmare for me! She gets up from her chair and walks over to a bookshelf to pull out a navy-colored leather bound book. There is only gold writing on the front, no image or intricate illustration.

  She moistens her fingertip with her tongue before she opens the book, to prevent the pages sticking together as she flips through to the middle.

  “Have you heard of past life regression?” she asks.

  I nod and respond, “You mean like when people find out if they were famous or married to the same person before?”

  She chuckles. “Well, yes, but I would not consider it for that purpose.” She puts the book on the table and sits back down.

  “You see, time is just a way for humans to measure and mark our whereabouts. To help us feel like we are progressing through life,” she explains. “But some....well...me, believe life can be a loop or like a busy road with many intersections. I believe that sometimes there are parallel parts in our life that can cross or intertwine.” I sit for a minute, absorbing the information but still not quite sure what she means.

  She can see I’m confused. “Past life regression is what people may be more familiar with. However some people in the psychic community are starting to experiment with future life PROgression,” she continues, emphasizing the first syllable. “I am not an expert in it, though, and have only done a little research. But some say that it’s not about reading one’s future, or lifelines, or what have you. It’s about seeing your actual life in the future.”

  I try to digest what she has told me. It makes sense....sort of. But I don’t understand exactly how it helps me now.

  “So, are you saying that maybe I’m imagining my future life? That I am not really from my future and thrown back in my past, but that my memory of Michael and my kids is just me seeing my future?” I ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders. “It could very well be, my Love, but I’m not certain.” she says gently.

  I deflate. The controlling part of me that craves a solid answer needs to know the truth for my own sanity. If I know the truth, then I can deal with it. I don’t know how I will survive living in a “maybe” state.

  “Jennifer,” she says sympathetically, “I can tell this is troubling you deeply. I’m a psychic and I have the ability to sense and sometimes see the truth in the present, past and future. But to be honest, yours is very....cloudy. These two men both play a substantial role in your life, but I’m not sure which one is supposed to be with you…or when.”

  I meet her gaze and her eyes soften with empathy.

  “I want you to take this book. I know it may not give you all the answers, but it might help you cope with what is going on.” She moves closer and kneels down beside me with her hand on my shoulder. She is trying to console me.

  “I have never met anyone with your type of situation and I have to say I’m fascinated. I want to help, but I have to reach out to a few others to see if they have heard of this.”

  I look up at her and smile. I reach into my purse and take out my wallet. She quickly puts her hand over mine to prevent me from opening it and shakes her head.

  “I haven’t helped you in the way you need, so therefore I want nothing in return,” she states.

  I am surprised by her genuineness and I instinctively lean in to hug her. As she responds to my gesture I feel the embrace of a true friend, a mother, a healer.

  “Thank you,” I say, as grateful tears fall from my eyes. She believes me.

  CHAPTER 13

  I hurry home to shower and change so that I can leave again and still return home around the time I would typically get home from work. I don’t want Joe to know I played hookie. He is not the least bit sympathetic to the slightest sickness. Even though it would be fun to not have to do anything around the house for a day, he is not the kind of guy to pick up the household slack and cook dinner or clean up. Well, at least from what I recall.

  I quickly check my work email on the home computer -- not that I really care, as this is job and this life are hopefully temporary -- and respond to the few requests Ruth has sent. I grab a quick sandwich, my purse, my phone and get back in the car. I have about two hours until Joe gets home with Olivia, so I decide to go and rediscover my past.

  I make a left turn out of the neighborhood and head north towards the only major shopping center that exists at this time. I pass the manufactured home park my dad lives in, the fairgrounds that aren’t yet updated, and the little rural market. As I approach the main shopping center I realize there is no high-end discount store there yet. Bummer.

  I decide to head east towards the main thoroughfare and then turn south. A drive that in the future would normally take about fifteen minutes, now only takes ten. Buildings are more spaced apart and the new “big box” stores and restaurants that will later appear are just empty fields or old business buildings that will one day be torn down.

  I head downtown to the waterfront. The distance through which you can drive in this area now is about one third of the length it will be. Construction is starting on some of my future favorite hangouts and the fountains are almost finished. How is it that I can see all of it so clearly?

  I feel a beam of hope surge through my body. I’m grateful to Astrid and even find comfort in her name, which is Scandinavian. She left me with a feeling of peace and connection, something I deeply need as I float around in this state of limbo.

  After orienting myself with my past again in terms of my physical surroundings, I head back home. Again the drive takes almost no time at all due to the lack of congestion, students and traffic lights. I still have an hour to kill, so I decide to head to the manufactured home park to see if my dad is still living there in the double-wide he and my stepmom bought. Well...at one time they did...or maybe they didn’t.

  The community is still clean and quiet -- mostly older folks living in their fifth wheels for extended stays. Everyone here is friendly and they take care of their little gardens with pride. In later years the stereotypical trailer park tenants will inhabit it, but my dad will have moved out just in time before the druggies and ex-convicts move in.

  I pull in front of his mobile home and turn off the engine. The house appears exactly the same. The garden is full of roses and other plants I couldn’t begin to name. I hesitantly get out of the car. I wonder if I will run into anyone from the old neighborhood.

  I hear pots banging on the stove from inside through the screen door. Someone is preparing to cook. I quietly walk up the steps to the sliding door, just enough to peek in without being seen.

  The same woman who was in my dad’s car has her back to me and is washing something in the sink. I find a quick comfort in knowing this is still my dad’s home, but I’m saddened that it is not my stepmom in the kitchen. Well, the stepmom I knew. What happened to Nancy?

  “Hey!” a voice shouts from behind me and I almost fall off the step. I turn around to see my dad doubling over with laughter.

  “Dad, you scared the hell out of
me!” I say in shock, my heart pounding and hands shaking. His humor hasn’t changed. He still finds this type of thing funny, and at this moment I oddly appreciate it when ordinarily it would irritate me.

  He puts his arm around me.

  “Hey, Kid. Sorry. What are you up to?” he asks, walking into the house with me held close to his side.

  “Not much,” I reply. “Just wanted to stop by.”

  “No work today?” he inquires.

  Crap! I forgot about playing hookie. “I got off early,” I quickly cover.

  Mary turns around from the sink and smiles big when she sees me. “Hi, Sweetie,” she says, coming over to hug me. She smells nice, and her body feels warm and comforting. I have never seen this woman in the life I remember, but she feels familiar. “You hungry, or thirsty?” she asks.