Chapter 10
Chapter 10
In the morning, I go to the lake to sit with my cup of coffee. The sun hasn’t quite come up yet, and the sky is awash in color. I wrap the wool blanket I brought from the house tightly around me, trying to keep warm and ward off all the weirdness of the previous night.
I’m not the kind of psychologist who studies dreams, but Freud would probably have a heyday with mine. There’s a noise coming from a nearby bush, and I sit perfectly still in hopes of seeing my friend the fox. But it’s one of the Muscovy ducks that roam, or rather waddle, along the shoreline. I don’t think they’re native here. One of my neighbors says they are from Mexico or South America. My guess is someone originally brought them to the lake as pets, where they reproduced and thrived. They’re funny-looking creatures, black and white with red faces, and half the time sound like they’re having an asthma attack. The same neighbor says the sound is normal, though the first time I heard one, I wanted to rush it to the nearest vet.
I watch as it grubs for insects, immune to the cold. I should go inside and make a fire, but I need the air and the open space for a few more minutes. And the lake is so tranquil this time of the morning, it would be a shame to miss it as it wakes up.
So I wait for the sunrise, pulling my blanket tighter as I lean back in one of Austin’s plastic Adirondack chairs, making a decision to buy real ones today. Perhaps I can persuade Knox to pick them up in his truck.
I’m down to the last of my coffee when I hear him drive up. It only takes him a minute or so to spot me in the chair. He waves, goes inside, only to join me a short time later.
“Kind of cold,” he says, and plops down in the chair next to me.
“Yeah. I had a rough night, needed some fresh air.”
He looks me over. “What happened?”
“Nothing really. I just had trouble sleeping. How ’bout you—get any writing done?”
“I was in the zone till about one in the morning. Then Katie called. Her car wouldn’t start, and she needed a ride. Same old crap, different day.”
“Her car breaks down a lot?”
He laughs. “I think the question is when does it run? I guess I’m going to lend her money for a new used one.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Nothing nice about it. It’s purely self-serving. I’m tired of chauffeuring her around.”
“It’s wonderful how close you two are. My sister and I used to be like that.”
“Why aren’t you still close? What happened?”
I stare out over the lake into the distance, deciding how to answer, because it’s complicated between Lolly and me. I suspect it would be complicated for any family with our background. “She thinks I deserted her.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t used to think so, but on further reflection, yeah, I probably did. We had some unpleasant stuff happen to us in our childhood, and I suppose the way I escaped it was to leave behind the people I loved most.” Unpleasant may be my best euphemism yet, but talking about my parents’ murder-suicide has never come easy. “First, I got caught up with school, then trying to build a practice, then a business that put me on the road most months out of the year. I thought I was doing good work, but maybe I was running away.”
“Or it could be you were doing both.”
He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and for a long time, we just sit there like that, staring out over the lake, reveling in the sounds of nature, his big, warm palm in mine. And just like in my dream, I feel safe. The real kind of safe. Protected for the first time in my life.
“But it’s better now, right?” Knox is the first to break the silence. “You and your sister have mended your broken parts.”
“I don’t know. My sister can be mercurial. But I think we’re on our way back to each other.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“Very good. What about you, Knox? Why did that woman leave you for your best friend?” I can’t wrap my head around it. People leave all the time. Look at Austin and me. Look at what my father had done. But Knox . . . there’s something so captivating about him, something that makes you want to stick, at least to me.
“She said I wasn’t fun.”
I laugh, even though I shouldn’t. It was a hurtful thing to say. “She was wrong.”
“Yeah?” He grins. “I can be a pretty fun guy when I’m in the mood.”
“Did she break your heart, Knox?”
“At the time, I thought so. Now . . .” He shrugs. “She and I wanted different things. Eventually, that would’ve become a sticking point. But you’re the expert.”
“I suppose it would’ve depended on how much the two of you were willing to compromise. Marriage is always a series of compromises.”
“You put that on a sticker somewhere?”
I laugh. “It’s on my inspirational calendar. But seriously, were you willing to compromise?”
“On some things, sure. But probably not on the things that mattered most to her.”
“Like what?”
“Like money. She wanted a lot of it. As long as I have a roof over my head and food on the table, I’m fine. It’s more important to me to have a good life.”
“And what does a good life look like to you?”
He turns in his chair to face me and holds my gaze. “Are you trying to shrink me, Chelsea Knight?”
“Shrink you?” I arch a brow. “Maybe. Just answer the question, Hart.”
“A life that’s good is me doing exactly what I’m doing. Living on my family’s farm, teaching classes at UC Davis, writing the occasional book, and fixing roofs, using my hands.” His was still in mine.
“What about yours?” he says.
“Same. Doing exactly what I’m doing. Changing lives and giving people tools to a successful marriage.”
Perhaps it’s my imagination, but he seems disappointed by my answer, like somehow I got it wrong, like somehow I like the sound of it more than the thing itself.
“Well, as much as I like sitting here with you, I should get to work. That roof isn’t going to fix itself.” He untwines his hand from mine, and the urge to pull it back is overwhelming.
We walk together to the house, where we go our separate ways, me inside and he up the ladder.
I shower, then check for my itinerary from Ronnie. Still nothing. I’ll call her later, after I come back from town. But right now, I’m on a mission.
Instead of the scenic route, I take the highway to Ghost, park, and climb the hill to the florist shop. Sadie is behind the counter, and a red-haired lady, who I presume is Ginger, is removing thorns from more than a dozen long-stem roses at a table in the corner.
Both women greet me like we’re the oldest of friends. I still haven’t gotten used to how warm and chatty everyone is.
Sadie and Ginger are deep in conversation about a local boy who rescued a dog from drowning in the river and nearly got swept under himself. At the last minute, he managed to hang onto a branch until help arrived. Apparently, it is headline news in the Ghost Advocate , in which the boy is being hailed as a hero.
“I’d whoop his ass if he were my kid,” Ginger says. “Risking his life like that for a damned dog. Boy ought to have his head examined.”
“That dog is probably his best friend. Wouldn’t you save your best friend?” Sadie looks over at me with a conspiratorial smile. “What’s a matter with you, Ginger? Grow a heart.”
Ginger gives a dismissive swat of her hand. “You people and your dogs. Give me a cat any day.”
Sadie shakes her head. “What brings you in today, Chelsea? Because if you’re looking for something to do, Ginger and I will put you to work.”
“Not today. I was actually hoping you could help me with something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m looking for someone. Her name is Misty, and she had a booth at the farmers’ market yesterday.”
“What was she selling?” Sadie asks. “The name isn’t familiar.”
“She does palm readings, fortune-telling, that kind of thing.”
“I know her,” Ginger says, and makes the crazy sign with her finger. “Used to work up at the hospital when I was taking Floyd in for treatments. Now she does the woo-woo thing. Nuts, if you ask me.”
Sadie shakes her head at Ginger “Don’t listen to her. Why are you looking for this woman?”
“Uh, we got to talking at the market, and she seemed interesting, that’s all.”
The door chimes, and a customer walks in, pulling Sadie away. The client wants a fall assortment to give as a hostess gift, and Sadie is rattling off a list of flower options.
“She has a place up on the ridge,” Ginger says. “An old bungalow that’s about ready to fall down, where she keeps office hours.” She shakes her head. “I use the term office lightly. I can give you directions if you want.”
“Yes, please.”
Ten minutes later, I’m taking a grade so steep above Ghost, I keep one hand on my emergency brake. Had I’d known Misty’s bungalow was this high up, I would’ve waited for the next farmers’ market. I’d turn around if there was a place to do it, but the road is so narrow and twisty, my only option is to go full-bore ahead.
Don’t look down .
If I do, I’ll make myself sick. I try to distract myself by searching address signs. Ginger thinks Misty’s is in the 900s. Two minutes ago, I passed 640. Not too much farther, I tell myself.
I bet it’s pretty up here; I bet if I were brave enough to look down, I’d see the whole valley stretched out before me. Lakes and rivers, even irrigation ponds that dot the landscape like freckles.
Keep your eyes on the addresses .
I only have a vague description of what I’m looking for. A decrepit bungalow, which may or may not have Misty’s shingle hung out front. Ginger wasn’t altogether sure. Most of the homes are perched above an ancient stone retaining wall covered in green moss. I’m sure the views are spectacular, but who the hell builds on the side of a mountain?
I follow the switchback and hold my breath as I ascend even higher. This has got to be the universe thumbing its nose at me. As the road starts to plateau, I see it on the right. Misty’s shingle, a wooden sign that says M ADAM M ISTY , U NIVERSAL D IVINER .
There’s a small, empty driveway and I pull into it, taking a moment to collect myself before cutting the engine. As soon as my pulse returns to normal, I grab my purse and head up the driveway. Ginger wasn’t kidding; the place is a dump. The front porch alone should be condemned.
I take the steps gingerly and ring the bell, which doesn’t work, so I try the knocker, a bronze mermaid. The fact that there is no car in front (I did not see a garage) tells me there’s no one home. But I stand there waiting anyway, not ready to get back in the car. I’m never making this drive again.
I’m just about to give up when the door flies open, and it’s her. Misty. She’s wearing a pair of leggings and a poet’s blouse, her hair pulled back in a messy bun held together with a giant clip.
“Sorry to just drop in like this.” I stand there awkwardly, wishing I’d rehearsed something better to say.
“Come in,” she says, and ushers me across the threshold into the front room, which is surprisingly charming.
“I couldn’t find your number on Google, but a friend knew where you live.”
“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Tea, juice, coffee?”
“I’m fine, but thank you.” I try to decide between a wing chair upholstered in tapestry covered in cat hair or the . . . I guess you would call it a divan. It’s bright turquoise velvet, and I kind of love it, though it has seen better days. It’s more shabby than chic.
I settle on the divan, taking time to look around. The inside of the house is in much better shape than the outside. The floors are oak, and the ceiling is the same turquoise as the divan with a big fan. In the corner is an upright piano, the top of it covered in a Victorian fringed scarf and a Tiffany lamp. There are a series of framed photographs above the mantlepiece of the fireplace, which appears to still have its original Batchelder tile surround.
Next to the living room is a small dining room with a round oak table and four mismatched chairs. It’s worn but cozy.
“What brings you by?” Misty takes the rocker across from me.
For the life of me, I don’t have a good answer. But from the minute I woke up this morning, I knew I had to see her again. Perhaps it was the dream. All I know is that for some unfathomable reason, I’m drawn to this woman.
I decide to be honest. “I don’t know.”
“You must know something, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
I nod. “Can I be perfectly candid with you?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be anything less.”
“I don’t believe you can see into my future or my past. I don’t believe any of this.” I lift my arms in the air.
“Okay. The question still stands: What are you doing here, then?”
“I think I want to believe, so you can give me resolution. Absolve me of my guilt, like you did yesterday when you said my mother wasn’t angry. It would be so easy if I could just believe.”
“Then believe.”
“But I can’t. I’m a trained psychologist. We rely on data. Research. There’s nothing metaphysical about it. It’s sound science.”
“Then use that science to absolve yourself.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think,” she says, and gets to her feet. “I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like one?”
There’s the drive down the mountain. The drive up nearly killed me, but it’s only one glass, and it might even steady my nerves. “Just a splash.”
She heads to the dining room and disappears in what I presume is the kitchen. I get up to check out the pictures over the fireplace. A graduation photo of what I assume is Misty’s nursing class. Various antique portraits of people, perhaps ancestors or pictures she found in a secondhand store. But the centerpiece is a smiling Misty with a group of women gathered in a circle in the middle of a golden field. All that’s missing is a bubbling cauldron. Okay, that’s uncalled for, but it’s clear to me that these are her soothsayer friends or whatever you want to call them.
Misty returns with two glasses of wine and puts them down on the coffee table, a creation made of gnarled burlwood that is at odds with the antique pieces scattered throughout the room. I plop back down in the divan and take a generous sip. I’m not a day drinker, but between my strange dreams and the drive, the wine is good for taking the edge off.
“Why did you leave nursing?” I ask, because it seems like a good icebreaker.
“I was tired.”
I peg her to be in her sixties, and nursing is indeed strenuous work.
“Tell me about the dreams,” she says.
I strain to remember whether I mentioned my dreams when I came in, concluding that I must have. “I saw my deceased parents, and when I tried to follow them, I couldn’t. It was as if I was weighted down with rocks.”
“Why did you want to follow them?”
“I don’t know. It was a nonsensical dream. Aren’t you supposed to tell me why?”
Her lips curve up, and I’m struck by how striking she is, much more beautiful than she is in the graduation photo. “Dreams aren’t my specialty. But any well-trained psychologist could interpret why you wanted to follow them.”
“They’re my parents. I miss them.”
“Hmm,” she hums.
“What? You think I wanted to die, you think I wanted to follow them into the afterlife?”
“I don’t know, did you?”
“No, of course not!” I’m angry because it’s a ridiculous question, and I know what she’s doing, because I do it every day. If I needed a therapist, I would’ve gone to one. “I wanted to know why?”
“Why what? Why your father killed your mother? Why he killed himself?”
My mouth falls open, because I know damned well I didn’t tell her anything about my family’s history. That’s not to say that with a little research on the World Wide Web, she couldn’t have read all about it. But why would she? She didn’t even know I was coming here today.
I do my best to recover. Like I said, it’s not something I talk about, especially with strangers. “I know why he killed her, and I know why he killed himself,” I say, as calmly as I can.
“Okay. Then what did you want to know from them?”
“This is going to sound stupid, but I guess I want to know if she’s forgiven him. If they’re together . . . you know . . . in death or wherever.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what? She’s forgiven him? They’re together?”
“Yes, to all of it,” Misty says. “This is the problem, though. No matter what I tell you, you’re preconditioned to disbelieve me. So this whole endeavor is fruitless.”
I sigh because she’s right, though I desperately want to believe her. She’s told me exactly what I want to hear, what will finally give me comfort. The conundrum is that not only don’t I believe in fortune tellers, I don’t believe dead people talk. Or have feelings. Or kiss and make up with their killers.
“So my mother is not angry that Lolly and I had them buried together?” I ask anyway.
“I already told you that.” Misty takes a sip of her wine.
I stare at the lipstick stain she’s left on her glass. “Why do you think my father was wearing his police uniform in my dream? What do you think that means?”
“I already told you my work doesn’t involve dreams. You’re much better equipped to interpret them than I am. My best guess, though, is that’s how you want to remember him. As a hero.”
I nod, because that makes sense.
“But you didn’t need me to tell you that,” Misty says.
“What’s going to happen with Lolly and me? Will we find our way back to each other, to being real sisters again? It seems like we’ve made a dent since the accident, but it also feels tenuous, fleeting. Almost as if it’s not real.”
Misty takes another sip of wine, then reaches for my hands. Clutching them, she closes her eyes and reenacts the same routine as the one she did at the farmers’ market.
I smirk. It’s showtime, folks .
But if I’m going to make fun of it, of Misty, why the hell did I come here in the first place? I tell myself that I’m bored and it’s something to do, but deep down inside I know it’s not true. Since the accident, I’ve been on a mission to search for answers. Who knows? maybe I’ve been on that mission my entire adult life and just didn’t realize it.
“She misses you.” Misty is in a trancelike state. “She’s stubborn, though. Holds a grudge. She’s hurt. Scared. Lonely. I see a desert. It’s flat and isolated.”
“It’s probably Palm Springs.” I snort. “She stays at the Ritz-Carlton at Rancho Mirage every chance she gets.”
“No, it’s not Palm Springs,” Misty says. “It’s fear. Separation anxiety. Desertion. That’s it, desertion. Your sister has fears of abandonment.”
Thanks, Captain Obvious .
“I know that.”
“She blames you for something in her past.” Misty squeezes my hands. She’s focused, frustrated. “I can’t see it. It’s not coming to me.”
“For leaving her when I went away to boarding school?”
“Yes. But it’s something else, something more significant,” Misty says.
“For her marriage? For the record, I thought her marrying Brent was a terrible idea. A disaster waiting to happen.”
“Maybe her marriage . . . or her divorce. It’s there . . . right in front of me . . . I just can’t see it. Give me a second.”
“Does it have something to do with Uncle Sylvester?”
“Shush.”
My palms are sweaty from Misty holding them so tightly, but I don’t dare pull them away. I can feel each second tick away in the pit of my stomach.
“Ugh, I still don’t see it.” Misty loosens her grip.
“Well, don’t give up.”
Misty opens her eyes. “You put up a lot of blocks. It’s like concrete inside of you. It’s hard to get through.” She lets go of my hands. “I need a break.”
She stands up and paces the living room. “I think we’re done for today.”
“But we were so close.”
She pins me with a look and shakes her head. “I’ll give you some exercises to do, stuff that will help you let down your guard. Because until you get rid of the concrete, I can’t get through. And it’s exhausting.”
“Sorry.” I don’t fully understand what I’m apologizing for, but it seems like the right thing to say.
She goes off through a hallway, leaving me alone, only to return a few minutes later with a packet of papers that she hands to me. “Follow these instructions every night before you go to sleep and come back in a week.”
“I don’t have a week. I’m leaving on Friday to go back to San Francisco. Then I have a speaking engagement in New Mexico.”
“Can’t you postpone it?”
“It’s sold out. I can’t just not show up. It would be the height of irresponsibility.”
“Okay. Come on Friday before you leave. But there’s no guarantees. You’re a tough nut to crack.”
I reach for my purse and rifle around inside the front compartment for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
She waves her hand at me. “I’ll bill you at the end.”
I drive down the mountain, going fifteen miles an hour with my heart in my mouth.