Page 37 - WTP Vol. XII #2

to Dezia when she warned them not to leave the house that day. Two thoughts occur to me–a) maybe people only want to believe the good things their psychics tell them or b) maybe Dezia is full of shit and never warned them at all. I have no idea, but I do know this: you can make pretty good money offer- ing those kinds of services. I should know. About a month ago, the kids at school heard that I predicted The Eureka Earthquake, which was true. I told Mrs. Boyre, (who’d always been kind to me and once used her own money to cover my field trip expenses) that she might not want to leave all those glass beakers on the narrow shelf in her classroom, on account of the earthquake that was coming. I honestly thought it was the sort of thing that showed up on a weather forecast—that it was common knowledge. I had no idea that I was the only one who knew it was coming. After that, kids started asking for psychic readings. These are some of the same kids, mind you, who just a few weeks before, were ragging on me about the clothes I wear. When they asked for the readings, who was I to say no? We meet out behind the junior high dumpsters after school. I charge fifty cents a pop. All of the money goes into an emergency fund for Carol and me, which is the way I rationalize it. I’ve only been at it for a month and I already have $127 saved, which as it turns out, is money that will prob- ably be needed sooner rather than later. No matter what I say, the kids believe it. Mark Berry will be- come a professional football player. Jennifer Strutton will go to Harvard. Occasionally, I throw in something mildly concerning, just to increase the believability factor. You’ll struggle with acne, but if you stay away from chocolate it should be fine. I make it all up. I have no idea what will happen to these people in the future. I’ve never been able to summon my psychic abilities on demand. What I can read very clearly however, is what these people are secretly dying to hear. Then I just give them what they want.
~
On Friday, I get invited to/hired for Kim Colgan’s boy- girl party. It’s going to be in her basement, and some- one’s bringing a ouija board. They want me to com- municate with John Lennon. I tell them OK, but it will cost them twenty dollars, and to my amazement, they agree. Mrs. S. is on board to watch Carol for me. Spin the dial and it’s Friday night. The lights are turned off and candles are lit. Twenty-some-odd teenagers hud- dle around me as I summon John. I glide the triangle around the board, spelling out messages that I claim are coming straight from the beyond. I give them the obvious stuff like give peace a chance and love one
another. Things are going great and everything I say is met with a chorus of oohs and ahhs, until I sense the weight of John’s hand resting on my shoulder. Then I freak out and stop everything.
~
A door has been opened that apparently cannot be shut. Ever since that night in Kim Colgan’s basement, John Lennon comes to visit me in my dreams. He low- ers his glasses, tilts his head, and considers me with kindness. It’s so real, like I mean, so real, that I know it’s a visitation. John had an absent father and mother with mental problems, so he understands what I’m going through. He never speaks directly to me, but
he sits on the edge of my bed, strums his guitar, and sings. I have to admit, I don’t hate it.
~
As nice as John’s visits are, they can’t stop life from happening. The following Monday, when my mother has been gone for exactly two full weeks, Mrs. San- tos falls and breaks her hip. The ambulance comes. Carol, David and I stand on the sidewalk hugging
our own elbows while we watch the old woman get wheeled out on a stretcher. She beckons Carol and me over, puts both hands on our cheeks and kisses our foreheads. I feel bad about the way I tense up and pull back, a reflex of mine, but am thankful that she doesn’t seem to notice. She tells us where her apartment key is, and instructs us to eat all of the food in her refrigerator before it goes bad and to take anything else we need. I think Mrs. S. knows that our box of WIC cheese is almost empty. Maybe I’m not the only psychic in the building.
It’s unnerving to realize that my sixth sense isn’t infallible when it comes to protecting the people I care about. “I should’ve known she was going to fall,” I lament, after the ambulance leaves. “I should’ve warned her.”
“Charlene. Stop.” David says. “You literally blame yourself for everything.”
~
The next night, at three o’clock in the morning, I sit bolt upright. I feel something, or more accurately,
I feel the absence of something. It’s as though I’ve been hearing a low-level hum all my life, and now it’s stopped. That’s when I know that my mother is gone.
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