Getting Sassy Page 5

  I looked at her, trying to decide whether to ask her how ghosts ate. She must have picked up on the question, because she said, “Scents are highly evocative.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Patricia is asking her late husband for permission to remarry.”

  “And she’s going to do what he says?” I found myself whispering.

  “That will be her decision.” Erika reached in front of me to open the door to the room on the right then gestured with a nod for me to enter. “I only form the conduit.”

  As I stepped in, the rich, grilled smell nearly knocked me over. If this guy died with his sense of smell intact, he’d show up, and if I were him I’d be madder than hell that I no longer required food.

  Three women were seated at a round table, and as I walked in, one stood. I wasn’t sure what I expected of the person who was paying a psychic so she could talk to her late husband. Certainly not this small, scrubbed woman with shiny chestnut hair who seemed more inclined to light a candle in church for her dead husband than to pound on his door.

  “You’re the reporter?” Patricia said, making it sound like an accusation.

  “Yes.” I introduced myself.

  “Erika told you I don’t want my name being used. Our names.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I told her.

  I glanced at the other two women. One, I’d have bet, was Patricia’s sister—she was heavier but had the same close-set eyes and thin lips. In contrast to these two women, the other appeared somewhat disheveled, with her straight blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. I wasn’t expecting Patricia to bother with introductions, but she nodded at the one who looked like her and said, “This is Cynthia,” then at the other, “and that’s Laura.” Both women said “hi” but only Laura offered a smile.

  Then Patricia addressed me again. “I’d like to make one other thing clear. This is my séance,” she said. “If Daryl doesn’t show up it may be because of you.” Then she turned to Erika. “I don’t think I should have to pay if that happens.”

  “As I said before, Patricia, I will refund your money if your husband does not join us.” Erika pulled out one of the chairs and indicated for Patricia to plant her butt in it. “You will sit here.” She continued, placing us around the table so that I sat between Cynthia and an empty seat that I assumed was Erika’s. Laura was to Cynthia’s right.

  “Patricia,” I said, scooting my chair up to the table, “may I ask you a couple of questions?” I pulled a reporter’s notebook from my purse along with a pen.

  Patricia glanced toward Erika, who was closing the door. Then she said, “No,” and added, “I’d rather you didn’t. Maybe when we’re through.”

  Smiling, I nodded my understanding and shoved my notebook and pen back into my bag. Then I cleared my throat in order to mask the sound of me pressing the “record” button of the digital recorder I carried with me everywhere. I know I should have asked permission to do this, but I was certain Patricia would have said no to that as well. But recording an encounter I’m going to write about is something I usually do so I can make sure I’ve got the quotes straight, and I also like to listen for the things I didn’t pick up the first time. I set my purse on the floor and pushed it beneath my chair.

  The room was small—the table just about filled it. A gauzy, lilac curtain hung over a shade covering the room’s single window. Beneath the window was a small, half-moon table on which a short candle burned atop a wrought iron pedestal. I thought I detected a whiff of cinnamon, but it was mostly masked by the burger’s smell.

  Five more candles—three white and two purple—were strewn about the table, and as Erika lit each one, she explained that spirits seek light and warmth. I studied the group with whom I would be reaching into the hereafter. Patricia and Cynthia had their gazes fixed on the table’s surface—not like they were praying, more like they were avoiding the rest of us. Laura caught my eye, but I couldn’t read anything in her expression.

  Erika crouched in one corner of the room, and with one red-shellacked nail, punched a button on a small CD player. The room filled with the sound of wind in trees and a gentle rain, and I hoped the ambient noise didn’t interfere with my recorder. With a click, Erika flicked off the light switch, and the room was illuminated only by candles. Then she took her place between Patricia and me.

  “As I explained earlier to Patricia, I cannot know how a spirit will contact us. I may see him and be able to speak with him—although that is not common.”

  “If you see him—” I interrupted “—will we be able to see him?”

  “Probably not,” Erika said, and went on before I could ask why not. “It is possible that we will see something—faint lights or shadows. Do not be frightened by this. It means that the spirit has found us worthy. I may hear a voice in my head. All of you may experience thoughts that are not your own. I urge you all to keep your minds open. Listen to these thoughts. There may be rapping sounds. Perhaps not. All we may feel is a presence.” She turned to Patricia. “It may take some urging. Some spirits are eager to communicate; some are more reserved.” She paused. “If there is skepticism in any of you—if any of you doubt there is a spirit world—I ask you to leave now.”

  Erika wasn’t the only one looking in my direction. I just nodded.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let us hold hands. Join in a circle.” We did. Cynthia had a light, wet grip, while Erika had a firm, cool hold on me. Following Erika’s lead, we all placed our clasped hands near the edge of the table. “Now, let us close our eyes and embrace the silence.”

  It was a long silence, and I could hear the grilled chicken rioting in my stomach. I opened my eyes just long enough to see that the others were following orders.

  Finally, Erika took in a deep breath and said, “Our beloved Daryl Melcher, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, Daryl, and move among us.”

  As I said, I was dubious, but I was also a little nervous. Part of me did believe in this—or at least was afraid to deny it. And who knew what kind of guy this Daryl had been? Why did Patricia need to ask his permission before remarrying? I began to write the article in my head and realized I was having a hard time making it a fluff piece. Between the medium and her client, this had become a rather edgy experience. And I had my doubts that Daryl would redeem it.

  Mainly I was aware of Cynthia’s wet hand. The back of my neck prickled, and I could feel the warmth of the candle burning inches from my arm.

  It was a moment before I realized Erika was talking. “... slowly. Breathe in through your nose... and out through your mouth.” I tried keeping my mind blank or at least open, but all I could think of was that maybe I should have cut back on the garlic in that vinaigrette.

  After a few minutes of breathing, Erika spoke again. “Our beloved Daryl Melcher, we ask that you commune with us and move among us.” Seconds passed, and she repeated the words.

  Aside from a sharp stab of pain that hit me in the stomach, then quickly passed (the garlic again) I felt nothing. It had gotten a little cooler in the room, but maybe the window was open a crack. I peeked and saw the curtain lifting away from the wall. Erika gave my hand a sharp squeeze, and I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.

  “If you are with us Daryl, please make us aware.”

  Nothing. My Cynthia-side hand was drenched, and it was all I could do not to disengage myself and wipe my hand on my jeans. I tried—I honestly did—to pick up stray thoughts in the room. Thoughts that couldn’t have been mine. But all I could sense was the mix of burger, fries and melting wax. I heard a gentle, low rumble of thunder, and it was a moment before I realized the CD was giving us a spring rainstorm.

  Erika repeated her request. I peeked again and saw the curtain move away from the window, and this time I was able to see that the window was not open. I squeezed both hands and pressed my feet into the carpet. Probably a drafty window. My curtains did that all the time, and I never suspected a ghost.

&
nbsp; The third time Erika asked, there was a single knock. It sounded like it came from within one of the walls, and at the same time it reverberated throughout the room.

  I looked and saw Patricia’s eyes squeezed shut so tight her face was contorted. Careful what you wish for, Patricia.

  “We welcome you,” Erika said for most of us. “Are you Daryl Melcher?”

  Nothing.

  “Please respond with one rap for yes and two for no.” She paused. “Do you understand?”

  One rap.

  I checked to make sure all our hands were still on the table.

  “Are you Daryl Melcher?”

  Who else would it be? I couldn’t figure out which wall the knocking emanated from; it was sort of like “surround sound” on a high-end TV.

  One rap. And then another. Patricia’s eyes sprang open, and she turned toward Erika, who shushed us all.

  “Are you Daryl Melcher?” she asked again.

  No.

  Interesting. Now Laura was watching Erika. The pressure in the room seemed to increase. I felt a little like I was rising rapidly in an elevator. One of my ears twitched. All the while Erika’s hands remained in plain sight.

  “Is someone at this table known to you?”

  Yes.

  “Is it Patricia?”

  No.

  “Well, I—” It was Patricia, probably about to ask for that refund, but Erika silenced her with a hiss and a pointed look. The candlelight cast Erika’s narrow features in shadow.

  “We have invited a guest; we will be polite.”

  Jaw locked, Patricia leaned back into her chair and heaved a disgusted sigh.

  Then Erika proceeded to go around the table, asking the spirit if it knew any of us. As she did, I watched Cynthia and Laura for signs of relief as the spirit passed them by. Laura nodded as she released her breath, and Cynthia eased her grip just a tad. I was the last person Erika asked about, and by then I was convinced this was a random spirit, bored with the hereafter and looking to frighten some middleaged women.

  “Are you here for Robyn Guthrie?”

  One rap.

  I waited for a second knock, but it didn’t come. Shit. What was this woman trying to pull?

  “Robyn,” Erika said, as though inquiring about a ringing doorbell, “who could this be?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are your parents alive?” Erika asked.

  “My mother is. My father isn’t.” If this was Wyman coming back to do some explaining, he’d better give it a second thought. Ghost or not, I was fully prepared to take a bite out of his sanctimonious, twotiming ass.

  “Why don’t you ask if it’s your father?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think I can.”

  Erika did a little throat clear and then said, “Are you Robyn’s father?”

  Yes.

  “Ouch,” Cynthia whispered. I loosened my hold on her.

  “What was your father’s name?” Erika asked.

  “Wyman,” I said.

  “Wyman, have you come to see Robyn?”

  Nothing.

  I was not going to make a fool of myself by talking to some guy Erika paid to lurk in the walls.

  “Something’s not right,” Erika said, her painted brows pulling together. “Is your name Wyman?”

  Two knocks and that prickly feeling began to work its way down my back.

  Erika was watching me.

  How could this woman have known about my biological father? Although, we did share the same last name.

  “Robert,” I managed to croak. Swallowing against the dryness in my throat, I added, “He died before I was born.” In a flash I remembered how my mother had mentioned his name just this afternoon.

  A slip, she’d said. Maybe it was. Maybe he’d been bugging her.

  “Are you Robert?” Erika asked and was answered by one knock.

  “Do you need to speak to Robyn?”

  Yes.

  Oh, Jeez. My breathing had gone shallow. I wanted to take a sledge hammer to the walls. Someone had to be in there.

  “This spirit is strong,” Erika said, closing her eyes. “He will not be denied.”

  I willed the heaviness in the air to go away, but the sensation only became more intense. And, instead of smelling a Whopper, I now smelled some cologne or aftershave. Or maybe it was a flower.

  “Robyn, why don’t you try talking to him?”

  My mouth was dry. For starters, I didn’t know what to call him. I had no memories of him, and I didn’t know what I would have called him. Wyman had insisted on “Father.”

  So I said, “Dad?”

  The responding knock came almost before I’d gotten the word out.

  “How are you doing?” What a stupid thing to ask a dead person. I tried again. “What do you want?”

  I counted my heart beat three times and was sure everyone else was keeping time by its thudding. If this was fake... if I was being played for a fool... Erika would be sorry she ever loosed a journalist on her seedy little endeavor.

  “Ask him if Daryl is there,” Patricia said in an urgent whisper, interrupting my internal rant. God, what a silly woman, I thought.

  “You will do no such thing.” Erika shot Patricia a look.

  Then she said to me, “Try to ask questions that can be answered with a yes or no,” she said, her tone implying that she shouldn’t have to tell me this.

  Of course. “Have you got something to tell me?” I asked.

  Yes.

  I tried to convince myself this was not happening. This was not what it appeared to be. A guy was in the walls with some kind of amplifier, and I was the dupe because I was writing the article. Nothing like some free publicity. I could see the headline: Medium Channels Reporter’s Father. Erika and the knocker would be guffawing over this once I was out the door.

  But what if it was real? I couldn’t ignore him. I tried to think of a question only he and I would know how to answer. Something that Erika couldn’t have found through research. But that was hard, seeing as I’d never met him. Was there something he left me? My mother?

  “Okay, Dad, how do I know it’s you?” It wasn’t until I noticed Patricia drilling me with a glare that I realized I’d spoken aloud. Well, I couldn’t suck the words back. Nothing to do but press on.

  “I have a locket you gave my mother. Is it in the shape of a heart?”

  No.

  Maybe a lucky guess. If he was guessing, his luck would have to run out.

  “An oval?”

  No.

  “A teardrop?”

  No.

  Erika said, “There is no locket, is there, Robert?”

  No.

  Okay, he passed that one. Still might be luck. “Did we have a cat?”

  No.

  “A dog?”

  Yes.

  “Was her name—”

  Erika jerked my hand. “Don’t waste this, Robyn. He’s here for a reason. Is there some decision you’re trying to make? Some change in your life?”

  I thought for a second. What if he really was trying to tell me something? “Do you know where my mother is?”

  Yes.

  “Should I move her?”

  No.

  And then, because that was awfully easy for him to say, I asked, “Okay. Can you pay for it?”

  Erika jerked my hand again; at the same time Robert said: Yes. “

  How?”

  “Yes or no,” Erika reminded me, then added, “Quickly, his presence is fading.”

  I could feel the pressure in the room easing. “The money exists?”

  Yes.

  “Does my mother have it?”

  Nothing.

  I repeated the question and thought I heard a single knock, but it was a faraway sound and could have come from anywhere.

  “He has left us,” Erika said, although I knew it already. He was gone—if he’d ever been here at all. The room felt different—all I could smell was char-grilled burger—and the back
of my neck wasn’t tingling anymore.

  I tried to pull away, but Erika held onto me. “Thank you, Robert. Go in peace.”

  Whoever you are, I thought.

  Across the table, Patricia made a clucking sound and said, “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

  “I will happily return your money, Patricia,” Erika said, then added, “Or, we can arrange another session. At no charge, of course.”

  Patricia mumbled something that was drowned out by Erika instructing us to sit for a moment and remember our feelings, thoughts, visions. I desperately wanted to disconnect from everyone here. The only visions I had were of me fleeing the room and these strange people. I didn’t often think about my biological father. I’d never met him. I needed a photograph to see what he looked like. At times I thought I could see him in my mind, but when I focused on his face, he would morph into someone else. For a while there he’d looked like George Harrison.

  Screw the article. Let one of the other stringers do this. I glanced around the table and saw four women with their eyes closed, no doubt searching their minds for visions or thoughts left by some spirit. Not one of them looked ready to stand up and say this was a sack of shit, and let’s not let this food go to waste.

  Maybe they were all in on it. Maybe they were all pseudo psychics, and this was the kind of favor they did for each other. Maybe there was a way to find out.

  I ripped my hand from Erika’s grip and slid the other out of Cynthia’s, then stood and wiped my hand on the seat of my jeans.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I won’t need any quotes.”

  As I walked out of the room, I heard the squeak of a chair.

  I’d almost reached the street entrance before Erika stopped me. “Robyn. Please.”

  I turned and watched her cross the small room.

  “What?”

  “Your father tried to speak to you. And if you hadn’t been so intent on proving he was a fraud, you might have learned something.” She picked up her appointment book and flipped a couple of pages. “I will need a day or two to recover. But I can make room for you on Monday.”

  I’d seen her appointment book. It looked like my social calendar. “I don’t think so.”

  I put my hand on the doorknob, but she stopped me again with: “He will give you signs, Robyn. Watch for them. He is near. He has something to tell you, and his soul will not rest until he does.”