by Teri Brown
“Yes.” The lines of the older woman’s face crinkle in sorrow and my breath catches at her anguish. “He died of dysentery soon after he landed in Europe.”
“I will do my best,” my mother promises. She turns to the Gaylords. Mr. Gaylord takes a case out of the pocket of his vest and lights a cigarette. His young wife hunches forward, eager, excited.
“And what do you wish to gain from tonight’s séance?” Mother asks.
“Oh, I don’t know!” The blonde twitches her fashionably bony shoulders. “I’ve just always been interested . . . I got tired of my old medium, and when I told old Jack here about you, well, here we are!” She giggles, and I feel my mother’s contempt. Cynthia Gaylord is a dabbler, a dilettante. She’s probably as bored with her marriage as her husband is with life and is on the constant lookout for something to fill the emptiness.
But the Cynthia Gaylords of the world are my mother’s best clients.
“Yes, well, here you are,” my mother says. I’m the only one who detects the underlying scorn.
Cole’s eyes dart about, keeping a close watch on everyone. I frown, my spine tightening. Why is he here?
I clear my throat to catch my mother’s eye and then scratch my nose, glancing at our neighbor. The signal that we might have a skeptic, come to catch us out. My mother ignores it. She’s already chosen the grief-stricken mother as her target and nothing can stop her now. Mrs. Carmichael has both money and sorrow, two things that make her the perfect mark. The other three clients are superfluous. The society couple may bring their friends back for a lark, but the old woman will be returning, her pocketbook wide open—my mother will see to it.
I finish lighting the candles and await her instructions.
“Bring me the Ouija board, darling.”
I relax slightly. Good. Maybe she won’t use the spirit cabinet tonight. It’s our most impressive act, but also the most dangerous, as those who know how the cabinet works can easily expose it by uncovering the hidden compartments. The Ouija board, on the other hand, is simple. My mother is so skilled that no one ever figures out that she’s the one manipulating the planchette.
Jack Gaylord is finally roused out of his indifference. “Is this what we paid good money for? Parlor games? What kind of tricks are you up to, Madame Van Housen?”
My mother draws herself up and glares at him. “If you would like to run the séance, Mr. Gaylord, please, be my guest. I often start with the board in order to lure out the spirits, who are shy, especially among skeptics.” Gone is her mournful voice, replaced with a commandeering tone worthy of a queen. Mother is the master of a thousand voices, and she uses each one with the skill of a butcher wielding a knife.
There’s a moment’s silence before Mrs. Gaylord stirs fretfully by his side. “Oh, Jack, really. Just let her get on with it. You’re ruining all my fun.”
His upper lip curls as he waves a hand, and, with a hidden roll of my eyes, I continue setting up the board my mother had imported from London. The teak wood gleams in the candlelight, and the bone pointer feels hard and smooth. It buzzes lightly in my fingers, as it never does for my mother. I know because I asked her once as a child what made it vibrate. Her confusion made my stomach hurt, and I remember laughing it off. I never mentioned it again.
I place the planchette on the board with a slight grimace. Though my mother has often asked me to participate in the game, I’ve always refused.
I walk over to the hall and switch off the last lamp, marveling once again that we now live in a home with electricity, even if it is courtesy of my mother’s smarmy manager.
“First, we join hands.”
“Isn’t your daughter going to join us?” Cole asks, his eyes on me.
“No. Her job is to keep me safe as I open myself up to the spirits.”
The corner of his lips twitch, and I shiver at the perceptive glance he sends me. Why do I get the feeling that he knows more about me than I want him to?
“But my dear madam, I insist. It will help calm my mind that there is no deception involved.” Though he only looks a bit older than me, his manner of speaking is so old-world that it makes me wonder where he’s from.
Mother looks as if she’s going to explode, but then she catches the eye of Mrs. Carmichael, who’s staring with open curiosity. I can almost see the gears switching as my mother tries another tactic. She tilts her head, causing her jet earrings to dangle flirtatiously. “My dear Mr. Archer, if you’re such a nonbeliever, what are you doing here?”
“Please, call me Cole. And I never said I was a non-believer. I’m open to all sorts of mystical experiences, but I was quite impressed with your daughter’s magic tonight. She’s very talented. I think I’d prefer to have her where I can see her.”
Cole pats the empty chair next to him and my heart rises up in my throat. I’ve always avoided the Ouija board like the plague. Stupid to be frightened of a mere game, but then again, I’ve never had mah-jongg tiles or checkers buzz in my hands.
Please don’t make me join, I entreat my mother silently.
But as my mother glances again at her mark, I know I’m doomed.
“Sit, Anna.”
“But, Mother . . .”
“Sit.”
Cole’s stiff formality slips and he flashes me a knowing look, sure he’s called my mother’s bluff.
I plop down into the chair and wipe my palms off on my dress before joining hands with the others. Cole’s fingers curl slowly around mine. To my relief there is no accompanying spark like there was last time, though the feel of his hand in mine still sends heat rushing to my face. I glance over at him and am surprised to find that he looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I wonder if he came here on his own or if one of the other mediums, jealous of my mother’s growing reputation, sent him. I also wonder what his connection to Jacques is. Jacques, on my other side, also takes my hand, but his emotions are always muddled. Some people are like that—a jumble of undecipherable impressions. Jacques is one of those unreadables, part of the reason why I don’t trust him. Cole, on the other hand, isn’t even a jumble—just nothing. Strange.
My mother, voice dark and mysterious, begins her chant.
“Oh spirits, hear our plea. Join us. Speak to us. Teach us. Oh spirits, I implore you. We respectfully ask that you join us, speak to us, teach us.”
She instructs us to repeat the words after her. We follow her lead and wait again.
The blonde giggles nervously, but the older woman, leaning forward in hopeful anticipation, hushes her. Tension, as thick and smoky as burning incense, fills the air as the clients breathlessly wait for something to happen. Even Jacques, who knows better, seems strained and quiet.
“Mrs. Carmichael, please place your hand on the planchette first, as I am going to try to contact Walter. The rest of us will follow suit,” my mother instructs.
As soon as our hands unclasp, I wipe them again on my dress.
I force my breath to an even, measured rate. In and out, calm and slow. Don’t be silly, I tell myself. You know more than anyone just what a farce this all is.
Hesitating, Mrs. Carmichael lays her fingers on the pointer. Everyone else follows suit except me. I bite my lip.
“Anna?” My mother’s voice holds a faint note of warning, undetectable to the others.
Trembling, I reach out my fingers but can’t make them connect. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and gingerly place my fingertips on the piece. It’s no longer cool but warm to the touch, and the slight buzzing has increased. I cast a quick glance around the table, but no one else seems to be aware of it. Lucky me.
Touching Mrs. Carmichael’s fingers opens me up to her feelings. I try to close myself off as her hope, shining and tremulous, reveals itself to me. The truth is, it isn’t the grief of my mother’s clients that rips me apart; it’s the hope.
My mother’s beautiful face is composed, her bow-shaped mouth relaxed. Her large, normally expressive eyes are flat, unreadable.
“What’s supposed to happen?�
�� Mrs. Gaylord whispers.
“Hell if I know,” her husband answers.
My mother ignores them, waiting. “Spirits! Use me as your mouthpiece. I am open, yours!” she bursts out. Mrs. Gaylord gives another nervous titter, but everyone else is silent. “Walter, your mother is here and would very much like to converse with you,” my mother continues in a softer tone.
Mrs. Carmichael sniffles, and my heart twists painfully.
Feeling the emotions of others is both a godsend and a curse. If I knew how to turn it off completely, I would, but I don’t know how, and God knows there isn’t anyone to ask.
“Do you have a question for your son?” Mother’s voice is quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really cared about Mrs. Carmichael’s grief. Maybe she does. It’s hard to tell with my mother.
“Ask him if he’s all right, if he’s happy,” Mrs. Carmichael’s voice thickens. Her anguish is relentless and I suck in a tight breath as the heavy mass of her grief crushes me.
Suddenly the temperature drops and I stare, shocked as an icy tendril of air snakes its way across the room. As if it has a purpose it heads right for me. Then it’s inside and I feel it moving, shifting, taking over. Terror overcomes me and I want to scream, but I’m frozen in place. A painful current shoots through my fingertips and the planchette quivers. My mother and the Gaylords jerk their fingers from the piece. Cole’s eyes widen as the planchette begins to move. MOTHER, it spells out under my numb fingertips, GOD IS GOOD.
Five
“That’s my Walter!” Mrs. Carmichael cries out. “He was such a good boy; he was going to go to divinity school.”
But the planchette isn’t done and neither, presumably, is Walter.
A piercing squeal rings inside my ears and my skin is both painfully hot and glacially cold. Walter’s spirit crams itself more fully inside my body and I’m suddenly stuffed, as if I’ve eaten too much Thanksgiving dinner. I clamp my teeth together, holding back a panicked cry as the pointer slowly, inexorably moves from letter to letter.
BE AT PEACE.
Mrs. Carmichael is sobbing openly now, and I gasp as Cole snatches up my free hand and squeezes it. A spark flares between us, just as it did the first time we touched, and I shudder as Walter vacates my body as suddenly as he arrived. Released, I yank my fingers back from the planchette, breathing hard. My mother’s eyes narrow, but I evade them.
I’d been right to avoid the board.
Another icy breath blows out the candles and the door to the sitting room slams shut. The blonde screams.
“Bloody hell,” Cole mutters next to me, releasing my hand.
There’s a moment of silence as everyone holds their breath.
“Don’t be afraid; the spirits have gone.” My mother’s voice shakes slightly as she moves to flick on the electric lamp.
Mrs. Carmichael clutches her chest. “That was my Walter, telling me to search no more. He is at peace and wants me to be at peace as well.”
My mother throws me a venomous look. Jacques is looking from me to my mother, confused. Mrs. Gaylord clings to her not-so-bored husband, her frightened blue eyes trained on me. Cole scrutinizes my face, questions in his dark eyes. I stare back, my heart thudding in my chest. I feel a magnetic pull, compelled to look deeper into his eyes to see what lies beyond such silky darkness. I jerk back, alarmed.
“My dear Madame Van Housen,” he says, rising. “I would hazard a guess that you’re not the only medium in the family. Well done.”
The hair across my neck prickles. Have I just been tested again? Does Cole know something about my abilities? I’m torn. Part of me wants to confront him to find out what he knows and part of me wants to hide under my covers.
The Gaylords gather their things.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” my mother asks.
“Er, yes,” the husband murmurs, wrapping his wife’s fur around her shoulders. “We’re heading out to the Island to visit the Gardiners for a long weekend. Our car is waiting.”
Mrs. Gaylord turns to my mother. “My friends will be so excited to hear all about you and your daughter! I’ve never seen . . .” She shakes her head and turns to me. “You are the cat’s pajamas, sweetheart!” She shakes her head again and they leave the sitting room.
Cole inclines his head toward me and follows them out. Moments later the front door slams.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mother asks Mrs. Carmichael, her voice pleading.
The older woman shakes her head decisively. “I’m at peace. Walter told me to search no more and I’m going to respect his wishes.”
“Hold on, Mrs. Carmichael, and I will walk you to your car.” Jacques turns to Mother and kisses her hand. “I will see you soon. Oui?”
Mrs. Carmichael wipes a tear from her eye and clasps my frozen hand. “Thank you so much, dearie. You have helped me so much.”
I smile at her, forgetting for a moment that I will soon be facing a furious mother. As terrifying as the whole experience was, for the first time during a séance, I helped someone. Then I turn to face my mother and I swallow nervously. But who is going to help me?
Taking a deep breath, I avoid her eyes and begin to clear the dishes. My mother can put the stupid board away. I am never, ever touching it again.
She picks up her own glass and downs the gin in one gulp. “Just what the hell was that?”
I hesitate. I can’t tell her the truth—and if I tell her I did it on purpose, she’ll want to know why I’ve chased her clients away. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
“A séance,” I reply, avoiding her eyes. “I thought it went rather well.”
“You should have left it to me. Mrs. Carmichael would have been back.”
“But the Gaylords said they’d tell their friends. That’s good.” Desperately, I try to keep her focus on the clients. That way she won’t focus on me.
“Yes, but I would have preferred to string them along a bit. I don’t like you taking control of my performances.” She’s silent for a moment. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?” I ask, stalling.
“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I’m talking about,” she says, suddenly petulant. Without her audience, she has no reason to act, and all the charm is gone.
I keep my face carefully blank, in spite of my racing pulse. “I was tired. I wanted them all to go home.” That, at least, is the truth.
My mother frowns but says nothing. She has done the same thing, but I’ve never before rushed a séance along, and she doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
“But how did you do it?” Her voice is more puzzled than angry now, but it still holds a skeptical note that makes me uneasy. She must not, ever, know about my abilities. The same instinct that kept me silent about them as a child sends me scrambling for an explanation that will appease her.
“I opened the window before I sat down.”
She glances at the window.
“And closed it while the lights were still out,” I add quickly. “The wind blew out the candles.”
Even to my ears, it sounds like a flimsy explanation. On the other hand, what other explanation can there be? My mother doesn’t believe in spirits.
“And the planchette? How did you know what to say to Mrs. Carmichael?”
This is harder to explain away. I look her right in the eye, heart in my throat. “I’ve been watching you do it for years. Perhaps it’s rubbed off?”
She meets my gaze dead-on. Suspicion eddies between us for one agonizing moment before she backs down. “Well, please let me know next time you decide to take over one of my séances. It might have gone very badly. And we did lose a client.”
She’s still suspicious but is choosing to let it go—for now.
“But on the bright side, the Gaylords will definitely be back.”
“True,” she says. “And Jacques says Jack Gaylord’s family is almost as rich as the Vanderbilts. Where did he get his wife, though? Can you believe her?”
&
nbsp; I run the evening through my mind but can’t think that she’d done anything out of the ordinary. “What do you mean?”
“She can put on all the airs and graces she wants to, but she doesn’t fool me. That girl’s so rough around the edges, she could be a ripsaw. I bet she’s only one or two generations away from the boat.” My mother gives a delicate sniff as if she hadn’t come over on a boat herself. I say nothing.
Still shaking, I take the rest of the dishes and place them in the sink. I’ll wash them in the morning. I want to ask my mother if she knows that Cole lives with old Mr. Darby downstairs, but I hold my tongue. I don’t want to start another conversation. Right now, I just want to go to bed and wrap myself in blankets—anything to warm the bone-deep chill seeping into my whole being.
“Good night, Mother,” I call, and hurry down the hall.
My stomach churns as the events of the evening sink in. Evidently, my talents extend far beyond just sensing people’s feelings and having the occasional vision of the future. I shut my eyes and tremble as the truth settles more deeply into my soul. My body had been used by a boy who had died during the Great War. He’d used the Ouija board to send a message from beyond the grave.
I can do what so many say is impossible—I can communicate with the dead. My stomach rolls and I hurry to my room.
Once there, I shut the door and wedge a chair under the handle. With that done, I kneel and pull out several large hatboxes from under my bed. The first one contains a dozen or so handcuffs and a ring of keys and picklocks. I have several Giant Bean handcuffs from the 1880s that all open with the same key. Silly. Then a pair of Iver Johnson cuffs with their funny round keys, and a pair of Lovell cuffs. I can get out of all of them with the picklock, no matter how I’m cuffed. I also have a special pair for Mother that have been gaffed, so they’re easy for her to open. They’re used to fasten her to the chair in the spirit cabinet. She doesn’t know about the rest of them and I want to keep it that way. It would give her too much satisfaction to know that I share the same obsession as my father.
Of course, it’s lucky for her that I do. I was thirteen the first time I broke my mother out of jail. After that it got easier, though I have to admit, even I had trouble getting the door unlocked while hanging off the back of a paddy wagon. It’s not an experience I wish to repeat.
