32. Who’s a Psychic Anyway?
32
WHO’S A PSYCHIC ANYWAY?
Murmurs passed along the valley, like a banshee’s lonesome croon
— ANONYMOUS FOLK SONGWRITER, “THE RISING OF THE MOON”
“ I understand why Penny chose the Pacific Northwest,” Jonathan said as he zipped his raincoat up to his chin with a dour expression. “It’s just like Ireland. Never stops bloody raining.”
I glanced toward the clouds, which were, in fact, delivering a light May drizzle, and put my hood over my head. “You never got used to it? I thought you spent your summers there.”
He just sniffed and pulled his coat tighter. “That part never took.”
We stepped away from the curb on Aurora Avenue, which split the northwestern neighborhoods of Seattle with a six-lane boulevard lined with big box stores, auto supply shops, and crumbling motels patrolled by local sex workers and the johns who chased them.
In between a futon resale shop and a dive bar called “The Junkyard” stood the squat little box I’d only Seen in Gran’s thoughts. The single-story concrete building was slapped with peeling beige paint and a neon blue sign blinking through a cracked window. The word Psychic was spelled in cursive, though with the last “i” and the “c” burning out, every other blink read “Psych.”
“In and out,” I reminded Jonathan for the sixth time since we had stowed our luggage at the private airfield.
“Understood. Shall we?” He gestured toward the shop door, an industrial glass barrier with a rusting metal frame, through which a cardboard “Open” sign hung.
“This is what she left us for,” I muttered. Then I took a deep breath and pulled.
One step inside, we were assaulted by a cloud of sage, followed by a few scents I recognized (patchouli and peppermint) and others I couldn’t quite place filtering by on lazy tendrils of smoke.
The waiting room we walked into fit a few folding chairs on top of layered Oriental and kilim-style rugs. Worn pseudo-ethnic tapestries hung from curtain rods around all four walls, breaking only for a door at the far side of the room and a gift I recognized mounted next to it. The kimono, brought back from one of my dad’s deployments overseas, had once hung in our house at Camp Pendleton.
“You didn’t tell me she was a fraud.”
Jonathan took a seat in one of the chairs as he looked around the room, his eyes shimmering through his glasses. He was inspecting a lot more than just the decorating scheme.
I sat next to him, shifting uncomfortably when the fears of the last person who had been here jolted through my legs. The woman was desperately hoping her dead husband would tell her exactly where he had hidden her jewelry before he died. She needed it to pay her rent.
As a distraction for both of us, I pulled off a glove and held out my hand. “Is she? I want to See too.”
I wasn’t sure if he would let me touch him again after his earlier disclosure, but surprisingly, he shrugged and took my hand in his. Immediately, the tapestries and chairs assumed the same kind of glittering iridescence I had witnessed during our hike a few months ago. This time, however, the objects in the room seemed far less brilliant compared to the brightly lit forest.
“It’s because it’s alive,” Jonathan explained to my unasked question.
Could he read my thoughts while we were doing this?
“Generally, yes,” he answered. “You really must learn to shield.”
I scowled and yanked my hand away. Shimmer or not, he didn’t need to See every embarrassing thought that was running through my head.
His grin turned his eyes back to their normal tranquil green. “I was looking for signs of magic. Seer magic usually has a sort of silver hue about it.”
“I thought I looked blue,” I said, thinking of Rachel Cardy’s comments.
“You do,” he confirmed. “But underneath, there’s a subtle tint of silver. You can See it if you know what to look for.”
“But it’s not here?”
“Oh, it’s here all right,” he said. “It’s very strong in you, but not in this place. I was expecting more, considering her history with divination. Whatever she’s doing in there, it’s nothing to do with the Sight.”
A scuffle of chairs sounded from the other side of the kimono-clad wall, and the door opened. A woman with graying hair and pockmarked skin exited. She had dark circles under both eyes and makeup was streaked over her cheeks and eyelids.
Bad news.
Jonathan glanced at me.
I shook my head. “Not her.”
“Cassandra?”
Jonathan and I both stood and faced my mother.
We both turned toward a tall woman with fair skin and bushy hair standing in the doorway. She looked different, I thought, and somehow the same. Her hair, the color of red bell peppers, was just as unruly as mine. Her long-fingered hands bore several rings of different sizes and metals, and a large, turquoise-studded belt around a denim shirt dress and orange palazzo pants. A thick purple scarf was wound over at least four long gold chains hanging from her neck, and an enormous pair of filigreed brass earrings the shape of spades dangled from her ears. She was everything one would expect from a fortuneteller: cartoonish, even, as if the costume made up for her lack of abilities.
There were a few more lines around her eyes and mouth, but she hardly looked much older than she had the last time I had seen her—almost sixteen years ago.
“Blackbird” echoed faintly in the back of my mind.
“You know who I am,” I said.
Her gaze softened, and I saw that we shared the exact same oceanic eyes. “Of course I do. I’d recognize you anywhere.” She turned her attention to the customer still dabbing her eyes with a stained shirtsleeve. “Marion, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Shall we investigate more next week? I’m sure Harold will show up then. I’ll even give you a deal. Two hundred for five sessions.”
Marion nodded and shrugged into a wrinkled raincoat. She sniffed back a few errant tears, and after Sybil accepted a few bills, she left the shop.
Jonathan and I stood alone with my mother. And like a knife just honed, as soon as the door latched, she sharpened right up.
“Who’s this one?” she asked. “Boyfriend? I know you, don’t I?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, unable to keep the sharp edge off the last word.
“Jonathan Lynch.” Jonathan offered a hand to shake. “Your mother’s attorney, Mrs. Whelan. We met in February, if you recall.”
Just like that, I was thirteen again, rolling my eyes at her latest excuse for incompetence. She honestly couldn’t remember the executor of her mother’s estate? They must have spent hours together.
“Oh, right. Yes, I remember.” My mother’s eyes narrowed, but didn’t take his hand. “Is there something new with the estate? Why are you here?”
“I would have called, but…” I waved a hand around the dilapidated room as if that would indicate something about why she refused any modern forms of communication. “It was a last-minute trip.”
“Cassandra is on her way to her new position,” Jonathan supplied, though he said nothing about Ireland. “When I told her I needed to speak with you again, she wanted to join me.”
“What? Why?” Sybil blinked between us, looking like a rather cross goldfish.
I’d had enough.
“Did you See Gran’s death?” I asked bluntly. “If so, we need to know what you Saw. It’s important. Or were you just wasting your time swindling more poor plain folk?”
That blue gaze turned as hot as any fire. “Did you show up after fifteen years just to belittle me for how I make my living, Cassandra?”
“Did I show up?” She might as well have slapped me across the face. “ I’m not the one who left in the first place. I’m not the one who abandoned her kid six months after her dad died. I’m not the one who couldn’t be bothered to drive a few hours to take care of her own mother's affairs after her death!” I turned to Jonathan. “This was a mistake. She doesn’t know anything. And even if she did, it wouldn’t matter because she doesn’t have a conscience. She never did.”
“A conscience?” Sybil tipped her head back and cackled to the ceiling. “Goddess, you are just like her, aren’t you? ‘Seers are the world’s conscience.’” Her imitation of Gran’s accent was excellent. “Do you waste your life alone, like she did, Cassandra?” She stared pointedly at my gloves. “Afraid of all the big bad thoughts in the world, all the things people do and think that they shouldn’t? Well, I’ll tell you the truth I know, little blackbird. There is no such thing as right and wrong. Just life and death. That’s it.”
“My goddess,” I said. “What happened to you?”
“Life.” Another plume of incense wafted around her. “And death. In ways you’ll never understand.” Her gaze flickered to Jonathan. “Then again, I could be wrong. Maybe you’ll learn it the hard way, just like I did when your father died.”
I knew without touching she was Seeing Jonathan’s death. Both Jonathan and I took uneasy steps backward.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Mrs. Whelan, if you don’t mind. Cassandra’s question about your mother’s death. There is an investigation. If you did happen to?—”
“See the shadowed man who strangled her?” my mother cut in. Her lip curled in a pained sneer. “Yes, I Saw it. Every day since I can remember, I’ve seen it.”
“Since you can remember ?” I practically choked.
Her eyes flew back to mine. “Oh, yes. It was quite the bedtime story. What little power I had manifested so early, you see, so when Mother used to rock me to sleep, I’d cry and cry. It was the same every night. Penny and her shadowed man. A raven in the dark.”
And you did nothing to warn her? I wanted to scream, but I could barely think, let alone talk.
I was twelve again and confronted with apathy so strong, so entrenched that it made the whole world seem gray.
A hand found mine. Jonathan’s, strong and stable. Even through my glove, his concern flickered, along with his strength. It will be over soon, I promise .
Sybil’s gaze snapped to our connection. “You’d better be careful with that one.”
“Would you mind telling us about it?” Jonathan cut in. “Or perhaps showing it to Cassandra? It wouldn’t take long, and then we’ll leave you be if that’s what you need. But we need those details. Please.”
I thought for sure she would say no if only to spite him. Sybil, once a mercurial beauty, was now shriveled by her bitterness.
But to my surprise, she turned and plucked a set of keys from a rack on the other side of the door. “My house is just around the corner. Come if you must.”
We followed Sybil to a quiet street lined with craftsman houses. She walked ahead, seemingly oblivious to the drizzle falling from the now-black sky. Jonathan stayed beside me, tugging his raincoat close again. Drops of dew accumulated in his hair and shone brightly under the glare of the streetlamps above us.
“All right?” he asked in a low voice.
“Fine,” I muttered. Following my outburst, the apathy toward my mother I’d honed as a teenager was sliding into place.
Jonathan held out a hand. When I didn’t take it, he surprised me by tucking my arm through the crook of his elbow as we walked. The mild current of attraction was still there—he didn’t bother to hide it anymore—but his thoughts were dominated by concern.
We can be friends, I hope , he thought. I am here for you, you know.
Because he was still grieving too. Penny’s death was a major loss for him, more than I had previously realized. On top of that, he was still struggling with shame at the actions of his father and the fact that he still had yet to locate him.
No , I thought, suddenly paralyzed at the idea of Jonathan fighting that shadowed monster. I didn’t want him or anyone else I knew anywhere near him again.
Don’t worry , he chided gently. But I’m touched that you care.
I squeezed his arm back. That’s what friends do, right?
For once, I wasn’t in a hurry to let go. Whether it was on purpose or not, his touch felt more solid than most. Instead of the cacophony that was typically so disorienting, his touch made me feel grounded. Stable.
Sybil stopped at a Cape Cod that might have been quaint had it not been painted a particularly hideous shade of purple with bright orange trim.
“Like it?” Sybil turned, and her big blue eyes seemed to look right through me. It was like looking into a very aggressive mirror.
Now you know what I see every time you look at me , Jonathan thought.
I pushed him playfully in the shoulder and pulled my arm out of reach. He didn’t need to know every little thing I was thinking.
“It’s very, er, colorful,” I offered and tried to ignore Jonathan’s stifled cough behind me.
Sybil led us up to a porch lined with dead plants. “Potted those roses last month, but they didn’t make it. You’d think they’d be okay with all this water.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Jonathan said. “They need a lot of light, don’t they?”
“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips as if the flowers’ position under her roof hadn’t even occurred to her. “You’re right, I suppose. Although things die when they die.”
Inside, the house was warm, heated by a cranking furnace inside a hall closet. The walls were painted a lighter version of the orange, giving me the distinct feeling that I had entered a nursery rhyme.
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater
Had a Wife but couldn’t keep her
Put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.
Sybil abandoned her shoes at the front door, then strode through the railroaded rooms toward the back of the house. Jonathan and I followed through a living room decorated similarly to the shop, then through a dining room that had been converted into a yoga studio, with a shrine to Shiva built into one corner and an actual koi pond at the other.
“People think they live forever.” Sybil pointed as we passed the fish. “But they don’t. That one will be gone under a harvest moon. I thought last year, but it wasn’t the right one.”
I was too distracted by the tchotchkes littering shelves and tables around the house, some of which were familiar things my father brought home from deployments: Middle Eastern figurines displayed across the fireplace mantle and walls crowded with Cuban masks and Asian prints. Sweaters and unfolded blankets were strewn over the furniture, and more than one teacup sat on the coffee table.
I shrunk into myself as we followed, unsure of where to look or even where to place my feet. The house throbbed with memories, but I was afraid of what the briefest touch might show.
My father, perhaps, or others who had been here too. I had no idea what the last fifteen years had held for her.
“I’m going to make us some tea,” Sybil announced, then tossed her jacket over onto a chair next to the koi pond and headed into the kitchen without another word.
Jonathan turned to me. “Are you all right?” he asked again. “She doesn’t sain.”
“She has one skill. She doesn’t need to.” I took a deep breath, willing the energy I felt beckoning from all surfaces to ebb.
Miraculously, it did. I wondered if Jonathan’s presence had anything to do with it.
“I’m fine, but how about you?” I nodded at a pile of dishes and the other clutter about the house. My mother was far from neat.
“I’ll survive. Is this you?”
He crossed the room and picked up a framed picture from the mantle of a fireplace where the shrine had been set up. I joined him to look. In the picture, a small girl with sleek black hair, bright blue eyes, and missing front teeth sat atop the shoulders of a handsome man in cammies, both of them laughing.
I smiled. “I didn’t realize any of these were still around. Yes, that’s me and my dad. I’m probably five or six. Right before he left for Okinawa, I think. He was only there for three months.”
Jonathan set the picture back down. Looking around the room, I noticed several other photos of my father, to the point where the house was a bit of a shrine. I was in a few of them. There were none of Gran at all.
It was so different from the house in Manzanita. Gran never had any photographs in the house and refused to have her picture taken. Sybil, it seemed, had no such compunction for secrecy.
Nor should she , I reminded myself. She knew nothing of Gran’s real identity. Penny kept her in the dark as much as me.
“Tea’s ready,” Sybil announced sharply.
I followed Jonathan into the kitchen, where we sat at a battered pedestal table and accepted mismatched cups of oolong.
“So,” Sybil said, looking at Jonathan. “You’re English.”
I frowned. What did that matter?
Jonathan nodded. “On my father’s side, yes."
“And your mother?”
“Mom,” I put in. “What’s with the third degree?”
She ignored me. “Does your family come from anywhere else?”
Jonathan coughed. “My, er, mother was from Italy. The north, near the Austrian border.”
Sybil drummed her fingers on the table and looked him up and down blatantly. “Can’t say I blame you, Cassie. Italians have good skin, and that accent must drive you nuts in the bedroom.”
“Mom!” I snapped, but not before Jonathan and I had both turned the color of ripe strawberries.
She just smirked, the look of someone satisfied with her work. “You’re just like your father. Took nothing to turn him beet red, just like you.”
“Sybil,” I tried again through gritted teeth. “This is inappropriate. Jonathan is just a family friend helping us through a hard time.”
“And what exactly are we helping by rehashing a death no one here ever wants to See again? You already burned the house down. The property has been sold. We’re rich, though I’d personally like to know where that money was when you or I, for that matter, were growing up. Not that it does any damn good, considering I still can’t access a penny of it.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose. “Sybil, you still don’t have a bank account?”
“I don’t even have a phone , Cassie. These big companies get their fingers on all of our information and private lives. Mom agreed with me. Only thing we ever agreed on.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “My goddess. She had bank accounts, though. She had a telephone, for crying out loud. She wasn’t an idiot.”
“That’s right, I forgot. Silly, unmanifested, stunted little seer that I am, can’t take care of herself. Why do I need a bank account when I’ve got you and this one to manage it all for me from afar? What’s the point?”
Her voice was a snarl, and I rubbed my forehead viciously with two fingers. Under the table, Jonathan’s hand lay on top of my knee, willing sympathy and patience.
I let it stay there and took a deep breath. “Mom. If you need more money, we’ll get you more money.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jonathan added. “Cash. It won’t be a problem, Mrs. Whelan.”
Sybil blinked at both of us, waiting, it seemed, for something. “Well? Is that it?”
“Aren’t you the slightest bit upset about what’s going on?” I demanded. “Maybe just a little bit sad that we are currently going over your mother’s death?”
“It happened months ago,” my mother snapped. “What would you like me to do about it?”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Considering how many tears you shed over Daddy, I should have expected you to throw a party for Gran.”
“Don’t talk to me about my tears!” Her voice whipped across the room. “You were just a child. You have no idea how I mourned your father. How I loved him or how I loved any of you!”
I folded my arms, feeling more than ever like a petulant teenager. “Don’t I?”
“How dare you.”
“But you always knew,” I rattled on. “You always knew how she was going to die, just like you did Daddy. Me too, I wonder? Have you Seen all our deaths?”
“Of course, I Saw her death! I Saw it every day, every time we touched since I was a child. You have no idea, Cassie, no idea what it’s like to grow up knowing your own mother is going to die a terrible, painful death and to have to live that trauma over and over again.”
“And yet you did nothing !” I stood so quickly that my stool toppled to the floor while I pointed at her, my entire body shaking. “Just like Daddy. You See these things, and you do absolutely nothing to stop them! Why? Did you hate them so much? Do you hate all of us so much you couldn’t even try ?”
Sibyl’s mouth pressed into a thin, white line. I turned to the windows, seeing little but my reflection, bleary and bright against the darkness and the raindrops on the panes. Tears streaked my face. Fifteen years of pent-up rage poured down my cheeks.
Jonathan’s hand found my shoulder. I’m sorry . It will be over soon. But remember why we’re here. Please, Cass.
Calm and grounding filtered through my body. I fought the urge to turn into his arms and bury myself there. Surprise—and maybe a little bit of warmth—filtered through Jonathan’s touch at the idea.
I stepped out of it and turned back to my mother.
“All right,” I said. “Like you said. It’s done. But, Sybil, we need to know what you Saw. You owe me at least that much.”
Her blue eyes pierced. “You might call me Mama. You did when you were little.”
“That was before you abandoned me at a fucking airport,” I spat. “Just, let’s have it out, and then I’ll leave you alone again. What did you See?”
She bit her lip. At first, I thought she wasn’t going to answer, and I strode over to the table, whipped off my glove, and reached out. A threat to take the truth if I had to.
She flinched. “Fine. Sit down and take off your other glove.” She swallowed heavily. “I’m only going to do this once, and then I’m never reliving it again. Do you understand? Forty-five years I’ve been living with this monster. I deserve some peace.”
I slid back onto my stool, and Jonathan sat beside me. I took off my other glove, extended one hand across the table, and then gave the other to Jonathan to hold. Sybil eyed our contact again but said nothing.
“All right,” she said. “Brace yourselves. It’s not pretty.”