Chapter 7
A long bath, followed by an even longer nap, did the trick. I took my meds right before my head hit the pillow, and woke up feeling like me again.
The last twenty-four hours have been a wakeup call, though, a reminder that it’s time I start taking better care of myself. And as I pop another cheese puff into my mouth, then reach for the open can of soda beside the bag, I can admit that this concept will take a bit of mental reprogramming.
I adjust my headset and brush a crumb off the crystal ball on my shirt as another episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show starts. I glance down at my bare legs, taking full advantage of working remotely by pairing my tee and fortune teller hat with nothing but underwear from the waist down.
A beep in my ear means my third call for the night is coming through, so I sit straighter. But it’s a different beep than usual. It’s one I’ve only heard a few times before, indicating that, for an additional fee, the caller requested that they be put through to my line specifically.
My interest is piqued, but maybe I’ve gotten so good at this that I’m starting to attract regulars. I wouldn’t be mad at that.
“Good evening, fellow seeker. I’m Madam Divina Dreamweaver, your guide through the spirit realm. How can I help?”
“Good evening. Thanks for taking my call.”
My head tilts at the sound coming through my headset. The voice is smooth, impossibly deep. I consider the caller’s tone for a moment, adding another attribute to the sound of it.
Pleasant.
“Of course,” I respond politely, but my eyes narrow with curiosity. “The system notifies me when a caller has requested me personally. Have we spoken before?”
His quiet laughter fills my senses and goosebumps prickle my limbs at the sound of it.
“We have not,” he answers.
“Then… how did you know to ask for me?”
It dawns on me that I’m coming across a little accusatory, but I’m too curious to care.
“You came highly recommended,” the stranger says back, but I don’t respond right away. Then, I close my eyes and take a breath, deciding that sounds likely enough to be true.
“Ok, awesome! How can I help you tonight?”
“I could use some sound advice, and from what I’m told, you’re the woman to see for that.”
I smile. “Well, I’m here for you. Talk to me.”
He sighs, and my head tilts, anticipating what sort of advice he’s seeking.
“I’d like for you to tell me my future.”
A laugh slips, but I reel it in quickly. “Can you be more specific?”
“I need to know if you envision me finding who I’m looking for.”
“Someone’s being vague tonight, Sir.”
He laughs again and the sound borders on wicked. Laughter isn’t usually synonymous with darkness, which is why I’m certain I’ve never heard anything quite like this. Still, sinister or not, hearing it leaves me feeling oddly breathless.
“Is something funny?” I ask.
“Not universally, no. But personally, yes, I do find something funny.”
I rock back in my seat, careful not to lose my balance. “Care to share the joke with the rest of the class?”
Despite the air his voice gives off, the conversation feels light.
“I suppose hearing you refer to me as Sir was just… unexpected,” he says.
“Well, if you’d like to give me your name, I’d happily call you that instead.”
He’s quiet for a moment, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone when he speaks again. “Actually, Sir is perfectly fine.”
His words are almost melodic, or even hypnotic. Hence the reason I squeeze my eyes tight the next second, refocusing.
“Okay, so back to your question. You mentioned needing help finding someone? Can you tell me more?”
“I’d like to meet a woman,” he says in this pointed way that I’m not quite expecting.
So, it’s a romantic connection he seeks. I can handle that.
“What sort of women do you like?”
“All kinds, but this time, I’m thinking she should be tall, since I’m a big guy.”
My brow arches. “How big?”
I realize too late that I probably shouldn’t have asked that, but when he breathes another of those quiet, sultry laughs, I can assume he isn’t offended.
“Six-foot-four.”
Despite it being kind of a moot point, I try to picture him. Try to picture what sort of physical features go well with that height and that voice.
Focus, dipshit.
“Okay, so you want her to be tall. That’s easy.” I pause, humming one long note into the mic while I “tap in”, being all psychic and shit. “Ah-ha! I’ve found this woman you seek. She’s a… librarian. Dark hair, blue eyes, full of life,” I add, pulling these details right out of my ass.
“Interesting,” he croons. “And this librarian, can you tell me anything else about her? Anything more… specific?”
I hum into the mic again, placing my index fingers to my temples. Smiling, I can’t believe how ridiculous I can be sometimes.
“Nope, sorry. It seems the spirit world has gone silent. Guess this means you’ll have to find your mystery woman with what I’ve already told you. Think you can manage?”
He laughs again, and I allow myself to enjoy it this time, guilt-free. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. Thank you, Madam…?”
“Madam Divina Dreamwalker,” I interject.
“Yes, that’s right. How could I forget?” he teases. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Happy to help! Good night.”
I end the call and log out of the system before setting my headset aside. I need a break and could use some more snacks, so I slip on a pair of sweats, then head to the main house. Surprisingly, the back door’s unlocked despite Dad warning me about being more careful, but when I spot him in the dining room, nursing a glass of wine, I can tell something’s not quite right.
He”s done this all my life, anytime he’s troubled. He’d sit alone in the darkness with a drink, gazing out the window at nothing in particular. Back in the day, Mom used to join him. When she was having one of her good days, she could be a great listener, but for quite some time now, it’s just been Dad and me, and I do the best I can when he gets like this.
“Knock-knock.” I tap my knuckles against the archway at the entrance of the dining room.
He peers up, seeming to just now realize he isn’t alone. A warm smile curves his mouth, and I smile back, lowering into the seat across from his.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
He reaches across the table and pats my hand before replacing it around his wine glass. “Just doing a bit of self-reflection, sweetheart. Nothing for you to worry about.” His gaze is drawn out the window again, and he falls silent.
My first thought is that this is about the book. Dredging up that particular area of his past is likely re-awakening old demons. Demons that used to keep him up at night, obsessing, listening to those recordings over and over and over again.
He doesn’t speak much about those days, or what they did to his mental state. Still, I often wonder if his obsession is fueled by a false sense of failure. Does he torture himself, thinking he could’ve done something different for his patient? And, in turn, does he think he could’ve done something different for Mom?
His lack of conversation means he’d rather be alone, but he’s too polite to say so out loud. I can take a hint, though. So, I stand, walk to his side of the table, and then kiss the top of his hair.
“If you need me, you know where to find me.”
He smiles up as my hand starts slipping off his shoulder, but he catches it, halting me. My brow arches when I turn and find him staring. Yes, with a smile, but there’s more behind it. More that I can’t quite read.
“Have you been feeling well?”
His question feels loaded, and my stance shifts. “I’ve been fine.”
He nods but doesn’t release my hand. “And the meds have been working?” When I stare instead of answering, his expression softens, and he goes about things differently. “You know, Layla, if anything ever doesn’t quite feel right, if anything feels… off… that’s nothing a quick readjustment wouldn’t fix.”
My thoughts race through the list of strange things I’ve experienced lately—dreaming about Mom, my imagined late-night visitor, thinking I was being watched this afternoon. But I keep these things to myself, for fear of what he might think if he knew I was having these episodes.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie, and when relief washes over him, I know that was the best answer to give.
I leave him with his thoughts, and as I lock the door to my apartment, I can’t help but to wonder what was with the questions. Has my father’s trained eye detected that something isn’t right with me? Has he seen something that would have him believe I’m not okay?
Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to take more calls. Instead, I double-check the lock on my door, strip back down to my t-shirt and underwear, and take my last pill for the night. With only a single candle for light, I stretch out across the foot of my bed, my head hanging off the edge as I think.
What did he see?
Why does he think I’m not okay?
And… why does his concern have me feeling unreasonably terrified?