lungs.”
“I’ve got asthma, Mother,” I told her for, perhaps, the thousandth time. “Smoke doesn’t help.”
“Well, I didn’t know you had asthma. How long have you had it?” she asked, and I didn’t think I imagined the dubious tone.
“I was diagnosed about seven years ago,” I said, daring her to challenge me. Daring her to give me a reason to thank her for her contribution to my asthma. But she backed down, and I was glad, because I would have been sorry. I always was when I did something like that. Although I doubted she’d remember for more than a minute or two. And the next time I mentioned it, she’d be asking me all over again when I learned I had asthma.
When I got home from dropping my mother off, I debated whether to run over to the Psychic Place again. Not only had I neglected to get a photo, but in light of my mother’s revelations, I had a few more questions for Erika. Even if the money hadn’t been significant, the spirit of Robert—or whoever had been behind him... or it—had been right. And then I remembered when my editor had assigned me the story, he’d told me that Erika had requested me. Seeing as I usually do the “Welcome to Fowler” pieces, it wasn’t an issue. At the time, I’d assumed that she liked my writing. Maybe I should have been more suspicious than flattered.
But when I called Erika, I got a recording and decided not to leave a message. I’d wait until Monday and just drop in on her. If she really was a psychic, there’d be no surprising her.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to track down Mary Waltner, convinced that my mother would never come clean about the woman’s visit. As open as my mother had seemed, I knew better than to be certain this was the final word on her past. I started with the assumption that Mary Waltner was a lawyer, which made sense. Lawyers were often involved in wills and other after-deathdetails. But my Google searches turned up little. If she was a lawyer, she was pretty low key. Then I did a white pages search of the entire United States and found there were quite a few—all over the country—from Alabama to California. After a bit more Googling, I determined there was nothing to do but pick up the phone. Damn.
I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling. When I found no divine inspiration up there, only a wisp of a cobweb, I decided I really did have to start punching numbers. Cold calling is something I detest—I’d make a terrible telemarketer, I fumble on the phone. But, I wrote out a script and got started. The first Mary Waltner, who lived in Ames, Iowa, assured me she hadn’t left town in five years. Sounded like me. The next two didn’t answer—I left messages, asking them to call me collect and briefly explained why I wanted to talk to them, mentioning my mother and her failing memory. The next woman answered, and she required something of an explanation, so I went with the truth—more or less. But most of them didn’t want to know about my mother and her memory problems, and all I had to do was apologize for bothering them. I had a brief but pleasant chat with a Mary Waltner from Freeman, South Dakota. She’d been on her way out the door to her book club when I called, and we exchanged a couple of titles before hanging up. But mostly it was a series of short calls and left messages. When I recited my message into the last Mary Waltner’s voice mail, in Thousand Oaks, California, I conceded that this was a pointless exercise—for all I knew the woman I was trying to reach had an unlisted number, or only used a cell phone. But I had to go through the motions.
When I disconnected from my last call, I looked at the number again. Where had I seen the 805 area code recently? I punched the button on my phone for missed calls and went back to last night when I’d gotten the call from my mother. There had been another caller who had left no message. A cellular call. With an 805 area
“I’ve got asthma, Mother,” I told her for, perhaps, the thousandth time. “Smoke doesn’t help.”
“Well, I didn’t know you had asthma. How long have you had it?” she asked, and I didn’t think I imagined the dubious tone.
“I was diagnosed about seven years ago,” I said, daring her to challenge me. Daring her to give me a reason to thank her for her contribution to my asthma. But she backed down, and I was glad, because I would have been sorry. I always was when I did something like that. Although I doubted she’d remember for more than a minute or two. And the next time I mentioned it, she’d be asking me all over again when I learned I had asthma.
When I got home from dropping my mother off, I debated whether to run over to the Psychic Place again. Not only had I neglected to get a photo, but in light of my mother’s revelations, I had a few more questions for Erika. Even if the money hadn’t been significant, the spirit of Robert—or whoever had been behind him... or it—had been right. And then I remembered when my editor had assigned me the story, he’d told me that Erika had requested me. Seeing as I usually do the “Welcome to Fowler” pieces, it wasn’t an issue. At the time, I’d assumed that she liked my writing. Maybe I should have been more suspicious than flattered.
But when I called Erika, I got a recording and decided not to leave a message. I’d wait until Monday and just drop in on her. If she really was a psychic, there’d be no surprising her.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to track down Mary Waltner, convinced that my mother would never come clean about the woman’s visit. As open as my mother had seemed, I knew better than to be certain this was the final word on her past. I started with the assumption that Mary Waltner was a lawyer, which made sense. Lawyers were often involved in wills and other after-deathdetails. But my Google searches turned up little. If she was a lawyer, she was pretty low key. Then I did a white pages search of the entire United States and found there were quite a few—all over the country—from Alabama to California. After a bit more Googling, I determined there was nothing to do but pick up the phone. Damn.
I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling. When I found no divine inspiration up there, only a wisp of a cobweb, I decided I really did have to start punching numbers. Cold calling is something I detest—I’d make a terrible telemarketer, I fumble on the phone. But, I wrote out a script and got started. The first Mary Waltner, who lived in Ames, Iowa, assured me she hadn’t left town in five years. Sounded like me. The next two didn’t answer—I left messages, asking them to call me collect and briefly explained why I wanted to talk to them, mentioning my mother and her failing memory. The next woman answered, and she required something of an explanation, so I went with the truth—more or less. But most of them didn’t want to know about my mother and her memory problems, and all I had to do was apologize for bothering them. I had a brief but pleasant chat with a Mary Waltner from Freeman, South Dakota. She’d been on her way out the door to her book club when I called, and we exchanged a couple of titles before hanging up. But mostly it was a series of short calls and left messages. When I recited my message into the last Mary Waltner’s voice mail, in Thousand Oaks, California, I conceded that this was a pointless exercise—for all I knew the woman I was trying to reach had an unlisted number, or only used a cell phone. But I had to go through the motions.
When I disconnected from my last call, I looked at the number again. Where had I seen the 805 area code recently? I punched the button on my phone for missed calls and went back to last night when I’d gotten the call from my mother. There had been another caller who had left no message. A cellular call. With an 805 area
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