Eight Minutes by Lori Reisenbichler

pushed him too much for details.”
    He unfolds his legs and changes position, so I can’t see the smirk on his face as he says, “Ya think?”
    I glare at him. “So now I don’t want you to do the same thing. My findings, as you call them, are unclear. At first because of me. But now because of you. You’re contaminating the data pool. When you initiate that game with him, when you pretend to remember when you were a fighter pilot, he imitates it and adds to the game all the things he knows from when he was a fighter pilot . . . Do you see what I mean? I can’t tell if he is remembering something, or if he sees something, or if he’s playing along with you.”
    “So, which way are you leaning?” He leans back, hands behind his head. “Reincarnation or ghost?”
    “Ghost.”
    “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. It’s a ghost.” He takes my hands in his. “What difference does it really make?”
    “The tantrums. I think John Robberson is pressuring Toby to meet Kay face to face. And we have no idea what would happen—jeez. I don’t even want to think about that. It scares me to death.”
    He starts laughing. He reaches over and motions to Thud, who rolls on his back so Eric will scratch his belly. Eric obliges the dog, and when he’s done, Thud thinks he’s going to get to go outside. He’s at Eric’s feet with his front paws set apart, his hindquarters in the air, his tail wagging from side to side.
    “Okay, buddy,” Eric says to the dog. As he stands up, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Chill out. It’s just a game.”
    I sigh and lean back against the sofa. “No, it’s not.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
----
    YOUR MOMMA WAS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
    T oday, Lakshmi and I try out a new yoga class, held in the space behind the Oasis Verde coffee shop. They have child care, which means Toby and Sanjay can play near the urban farm’s community garden. After class, we linger over green tea.
    “Something has to give,” I say. “I need a direct line to John Robberson.”
    “Well,” Lakshmi says, “I don’t know what else you could do.”
    I take a sip of my tea and look around the coffee shop. It’s comfortably rustic and familiar . . . except for the guy at the counter. He’s in his mid-thirties and wearing a suit, which isn’t that unusual. It’s his hair. It’s unusually thick and slicked back, about a half inch from qualifying as a pompadour. I’m having a déjà-vu moment. Then it clicks.
    Eyes still on that hair, I say to Lakshmi, “Have you ever heard of Vaughn Redford?”
    “Who?”
    “The man who talks to people on the other side. The medium.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    In the midst of a sleepless night several months ago, I was flipping channels and came across an old television show where this thirty-something guy from the Bronx—looking like someone you wouldn’t notice on a subway, except he’s got the same near-pompadour hairdo as the man at the counter—comes into the audience and brings messages from people who have died back to their loved ones. The show is a live taping of the process. I watched the entire episode, fascinated. Back then, I would’ve put him in the same category as a street magician. But now . . .
    I tell Lakshmi about a woman in the audience whose son had died in a car accident. When he “came through,” he told his mother that the wreck was his fault and that she should stop blaming the kid in the car who hit his.
    She sees the value in it as a benevolent service to the grieving mother, allowing her to forgive the survivor of the accident and accept her son’s death.
    I pull out my phone and do a quick search for Vaughn Redford. Not only is he still doing performances, I find his schedule and gasp.
    “You’re not going to believe this. He’s coming to Phoenix. Right before Memorial Day. This could be the ticket.” I squeeze Lakshmi’s hand. “Will you come with me?”
    “Absolutely.”
    That déjà-vu moment does me more good than