the
mahogany highlights in her brown curls. She pursed her lips thoughtfully,
careful not to smear the scarlet lip gloss. She inhaled.
“Welcome back, friends, lovers and spirits. Before the
break, we heard from Yukio, whose grandmother briefly crossed over into our
world to finally reveal who her grandfather was. I’m immeasurably touched by
her story of a torrid affair with an American World War Two soldier. And to be
honest, I’m a little turned-on. Who knew sex from seventy years ago could be so
sizzling? Thank you, Yukio, for letting us share in your story.” Minerva
inclined her head toward the woman in respect, and on cue the audience
applauded. Rachel’s right—all this clapping is going to go to my head one of
these days. They don’t even make me work for it anymore.
She scanned the audience, looking for her next mark. She
specifically did not look the way of the guy who had given her the creeps. He
might give her good material, but if she was wigged out by him she wouldn’t be
fully on her game. The audience would tolerate a certain number of incorrect
“visions”, but she tried to keep them to a minimum.
Minerva spotted a young woman a few rows back from the book
club, clutching a friend’s hand. Married, or widowed—gold twinkled on her ring
finger. Minerva itched to rub her band. She still wore her ring after seven
years. A psychic with a tragic backstory made for more captivating TV.
The woman’s skin was white with pressure as she held her
friend’s hand tightly. Her clothes were simple, a black skirt and blouse
hugging soft curves, but her head was wrapped in a bright scarf of blues and
purples. Below the scarf, brown eyes sparked with tears beneath blonde brows.
She wore understated makeup and minimal jewelry, a small gold locket in
addition to her wedding ring. The headscarf wasn’t alternative dress, then, and
nor was it medical—or she’d be without the eyebrows, without the rosy
complexion and chubby cheeks of health.
Minerva’s gut told her that the scarf was a reminder. The
woman had shaved her head in solidarity and her hair hadn’t yet grown back. The
grief in her eyes, the way she grasped at the other woman’s hand, let Minerva
know the loss was recent. Cancer, most certainly. If her husband were still
alive, it would be his hand she’d be clutching. So—late husband, most likely.
Marital relations were rife with sexually charged material, so she could work
this into something interesting.
And the friend? Her bright-blue eyes were just as wet as the
scarf woman’s. A friend wouldn’t be that teary. Sister of the deceased? Minerva
focused on the blue eyes and decided to run with it. Her instincts were usually
right.
She noticed this in seconds, before the audience had
finished applauding. She touched a finger to her lips, silencing them and
signaling to her assistants to pay attention, remember what they could of what
they’d heard or seen from this woman earlier in the taping.
“There’s someone here. Someone close.” Minerva sucked in a
breath and widened her eyes, focusing deliberately on an empty space in front
of her. “He wants to say goodbye. It’s hard to see color through the veil of
the Other World, but his eyes are a most brilliant blue.” She took a chance on
that, betting on the sibling connection and hoping the eyes were hereditary.
If she got it wrong, there was likely someone else in the
audience missing a blue-eyed friend or family member.
“His head is fully bald but his face glows with happiness.
His aura shows me a kind soul.” Whatever the husband and brother’s personality
in life, death always softened it and those left behind preferred to remember
the best. “And yet he carries a dark secret.” Didn’t everyone? “He’s saying a
name but his voice is so soft. I cannot hear him through the veil. Is there
someone here who knows him? A loved one who can call him closer, where we might
listen?”
“Thomas?”
She had guessed
mahogany highlights in her brown curls. She pursed her lips thoughtfully,
careful not to smear the scarlet lip gloss. She inhaled.
“Welcome back, friends, lovers and spirits. Before the
break, we heard from Yukio, whose grandmother briefly crossed over into our
world to finally reveal who her grandfather was. I’m immeasurably touched by
her story of a torrid affair with an American World War Two soldier. And to be
honest, I’m a little turned-on. Who knew sex from seventy years ago could be so
sizzling? Thank you, Yukio, for letting us share in your story.” Minerva
inclined her head toward the woman in respect, and on cue the audience
applauded. Rachel’s right—all this clapping is going to go to my head one of
these days. They don’t even make me work for it anymore.
She scanned the audience, looking for her next mark. She
specifically did not look the way of the guy who had given her the creeps. He
might give her good material, but if she was wigged out by him she wouldn’t be
fully on her game. The audience would tolerate a certain number of incorrect
“visions”, but she tried to keep them to a minimum.
Minerva spotted a young woman a few rows back from the book
club, clutching a friend’s hand. Married, or widowed—gold twinkled on her ring
finger. Minerva itched to rub her band. She still wore her ring after seven
years. A psychic with a tragic backstory made for more captivating TV.
The woman’s skin was white with pressure as she held her
friend’s hand tightly. Her clothes were simple, a black skirt and blouse
hugging soft curves, but her head was wrapped in a bright scarf of blues and
purples. Below the scarf, brown eyes sparked with tears beneath blonde brows.
She wore understated makeup and minimal jewelry, a small gold locket in
addition to her wedding ring. The headscarf wasn’t alternative dress, then, and
nor was it medical—or she’d be without the eyebrows, without the rosy
complexion and chubby cheeks of health.
Minerva’s gut told her that the scarf was a reminder. The
woman had shaved her head in solidarity and her hair hadn’t yet grown back. The
grief in her eyes, the way she grasped at the other woman’s hand, let Minerva
know the loss was recent. Cancer, most certainly. If her husband were still
alive, it would be his hand she’d be clutching. So—late husband, most likely.
Marital relations were rife with sexually charged material, so she could work
this into something interesting.
And the friend? Her bright-blue eyes were just as wet as the
scarf woman’s. A friend wouldn’t be that teary. Sister of the deceased? Minerva
focused on the blue eyes and decided to run with it. Her instincts were usually
right.
She noticed this in seconds, before the audience had
finished applauding. She touched a finger to her lips, silencing them and
signaling to her assistants to pay attention, remember what they could of what
they’d heard or seen from this woman earlier in the taping.
“There’s someone here. Someone close.” Minerva sucked in a
breath and widened her eyes, focusing deliberately on an empty space in front
of her. “He wants to say goodbye. It’s hard to see color through the veil of
the Other World, but his eyes are a most brilliant blue.” She took a chance on
that, betting on the sibling connection and hoping the eyes were hereditary.
If she got it wrong, there was likely someone else in the
audience missing a blue-eyed friend or family member.
“His head is fully bald but his face glows with happiness.
His aura shows me a kind soul.” Whatever the husband and brother’s personality
in life, death always softened it and those left behind preferred to remember
the best. “And yet he carries a dark secret.” Didn’t everyone? “He’s saying a
name but his voice is so soft. I cannot hear him through the veil. Is there
someone here who knows him? A loved one who can call him closer, where we might
listen?”
“Thomas?”
She had guessed
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