“I see mine three times a week,” Leon stopped crying long enough to tell me. “He says I’m doing good.”
Then he sobbed for the rest of the meal, pausing only to order bitter-chocolate pie with vanilla ice cream instead of the advertised caramel. “Too many flavors going on,” he told Diego with a watery smile.
36
…she channeled my mom, who told me where she’d hidden her wedding ring…
…I got to say a proper good-bye to my brother and finally got closure…
…I was so happy to talk to my husband again, I missed him so bad…
There were pages and pages of these sorts of testimonials on the Internet.
But, I asked Aidan, how can I trust any of them? The mediums might have written them themselves. They might all be as bad as swizzy Morna. Can’t you give me some sort of sign? Can’t you get a butterfly to land on the right one, or something?
Frustratingly, no butterfly appeared to help me out. What I needed was a personal recommendation. But who could I ask? I mean, I didn’t want people to think I was bonkers. And they would. Rachel would. She’d be like Dana and go on about therapy. And Jacqui would say I simply needed to get out more and I’d be grand in a little while. Ornesto, on the other hand, was always seeing psychics, but they kept telling him the man of his dreams was just around the corner. They never mentioned that the man of his dreams was already married or had a penchant for hitting him or stealing his good saucepans.
Maybe someone at work might know…? But Teenie wouldn’t—instinctively I knew she’d subscribe to the “bullshit” school. And Brooke would be horrified—her WASPy lot don’t believe in anything. Anything other than themselves.
The only work people I could think of were the girls at EarthSource—Koo or Aroon or whatever their names were—but I couldn’t risk getting too pally with them in case I ended up being swept along to Alcoholics Anonymous on a wave of misplaced support.
Dispirited, I checked my e-mails. Only one, from Helen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
Anna, I’ve got a job! Proper job. In crime. Ding-dong! All kicked off yesterday.
In office, nothing to do, feet up on desk, thinking if looked like real PI, something might happen, instead of “case of mystery dog poo.” Next thing—as if by magic, like I willed it to happen, maybe have special powers—car pulled up outside, parked on double yellows. Traffic wardens around here ferocious, so looking forward to good fight. Then noticed it looked like crime car, don’t know how I knew, but knew. Instinct.
No tinted windows, but backseats had pink ruched curtains, like Austrian blinds but smaller. War crime. I’m thinking Christ when two bozos got out. Ding-dong!
Big, burly, leather jackets, bulges in chest pockets, meant to say guns! but bet were just cheese baguettes. All same, makes difference from upset women arriving in yummy mummy people carriers, saying husbands won’t ride them anymore.
In the pair of bozos comes and one says: Are you Helen Walsh?
Me: Too right I am!
Admit I should have said: Who wants to know?
But wasn’t going to miss this for anything.
Haven’t time at moment to tell you everything—but it’s all going on. Criminals, guns, extortion, “muscle,” tons of money—and they want ME on board! Am going to write down everything that happened and send it to you. Miles better than poxy screenplay, much more exciting. Stand by for long, thrilling e-mail.
It all sounded more than just a little far-fetched; I went back to Googling random stuff like Talking to the dead and Nonswizzy mediums, which was when I finally hit gold.
The Church of Spiritualist Communication
I clicked on the site—it seemed to be an actual, legitimate church, which believed you could channel the dead!
I couldn’t believe it!
They had a few branches in the New York area. Most were upstate or in the outer boroughs but there was one in Manhattan, on Tenth and Forty-fifth. According to the Web site, there was a service on Sunday at two o’clock.
I looked at my watch: quarter to three; I’d just missed this week’s. No, no, no! I would have howled with frustration except that that would have alerted Ornesto that I was in and he’d be down to badger me. Anyway, I told myself, breathing deeply and talking myself down, I’d go there next week.
At the thought of actually speaking to Aidan, I felt giddy with hope. So much so that I thought I could face the world. For the first time since he had died, I actually wanted to see people.
Rachel was away at some Feathery Strokery retreat, so I rang Jacqui. I tried her cell phone because she was always out and about, but it went to voice mail. On the off chance, I tried her apartment and she answered.
“I can’t believe you’re at home,” I said.
“I’m in bed.” Her voice sounded choked.
“Are you sick?”
“No. I’m crying.”
“Why?”
“I ran into Buzz last night in Bungalow 8. He was with some girl who looked like a model. He tried to introduce me to her but he couldn’t remember my name.”
“Of course he could,” I said. “That’s typical Buzz game playing. He was just trying to undermine you.”
“Was he?”
“Yes! By pretending that even though he’d been your boyfriend for a year, you’re so insignificant he can’t even remember your name.”
“Whatever. Anyway, it made me feel like shit, so I’m having a duvet day, with my blinds down.”
“But it’s a beautiful sunny afternoon. You shouldn’t be hiding at home.”
She laughed. “That’s my line.”
“Come on, let’s go to the park,” I said.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Okay.”
“God, you’re fabulous. You’re so…resilient.”
“I’m not really. I’ve just smoked my last cig and I needed to go out anyway. See you in half an hour.”
I picked up my keys, and the phone rang. I stood by the door to see who it was.
“Hi, sweetie,” a woman’s voice said. “It’s Dianne.”
It was Mrs. Maddox, Aidan’s mother. Immediately I felt guilty: I hadn’t called her since the funeral. She hadn’t called me either. Probably for the same reason: neither of us could face it. While I’d been in Ireland, Mum had rung her a couple of times to keep her up-to-date on my medical progress, but without being told, I gathered the calls were a little rough.