right—it was the woman in the headscarf, her
voice quiet and raspy with emotion. Minerva let her mouth form into a genuine
smile. “Yes! He’s nodding. His name is Thomas. He’s someone close to you. A
husband?”
The headscarf woman was nodding.
“Yes.” Minerva imagined the dead man in front of her, skin
as soft and bare as a newborn’s, nodding and gesturing at his wife. “What is
your name, my dear?”
“Pirette. Thomas was my husband. He died of—”
“Cancer. I know. I’m so very sorry.”
“Yes.” Pirette’s blue eyes shone with tears. The sister
whispered in her ear, comforting her. The audience murmured amongst themselves
at the revelation of cancer, as if it weren’t perfectly obvious from Pirette’s
choice of clothing.
“He has a message for you,” Minerva said. “And he wants to
beg forgiveness. Before he can move forward to his eternal resting place, he
needs to know you forgive him.”
Minerva knew the drill—though there were some who came to
her show in anger, wanting their former loved ones to answer for a slight, her
bread and butter came from those who deep down wanted to know their loved ones
still cared for them and were in a better place. And so she gave them that comfort.
She could empathize better than anyone.
She held a finger to her mouth, asking the audience for
silence and pretending to listen closely. “He wants to say how sorry he is—”
Static hissed in her ear. Her staff had come through. Greg’s
thin voice followed the static. “Husband had an affair. The women were talking
about it in the washroom. Sister found the text messages. Wife wants to know if
he ever even loved her. Maybe you could approach it from—”
Minerva nodded her understanding, tapping her lips again to
cut him off. Greg was new, a bright and eager young man, and hadn’t learned the
value of brevity. Still, with his pale skin and bright shock of red hair, he
made her smile.
She finished her sentence. “For the affair.”
Pirette gasped. “It’s really him?” Her friend whispered in
her ear. Was she a skeptic? Minerva had to keep talking, get Pirette hooked.
“It is. He can only imagine the pain you’ve been through.
Finding those texts from another woman. You felt so betrayed. First, to think
you had a marriage that would last until death, not knowing that death would
come so soon.” Minerva let her eyes moisten with the barest hint of tears,
knowing the camera would catch them. She found these clients to be the easiest,
and the hardest—betrayed lovers. The sense of loss combined with outrage was so
easy to empathize with. But also hard to put herself through again.
“And then, after supporting him through his illness, after
shaving your own head to show him how much you valued your partnership—to find
that he may not have valued it at all. He was getting sex from someone else.
You wondered what she did for him that you wouldn’t do.” Minerva shaped her
lips into a small smile of sympathy. “It must have felt as if he died twice.
First, his body. Second, the memory of the loving husband you knew.”
Pirette nodded. Tears were streaming down her face. Even her
dark-haired skeptic friend was literally sitting on the edge of her seat.
Minerva knew she had them. Now it was time to bring it home—deliver the
combination of sex and healing that made her the queen of late-night
television.
“He wants you to know that it wasn’t like that. He loved you
so much, Pirette. He desired you so much. Tell me, Tom. What do you want
to say to your wife?”
Minerva tapped a finger to her lips. Static hissed in her
ear again and Greg responded. “Uh, there was talk of, um…she was worried she
wasn’t good enough in bed.”
Minerva mentally rolled her eyes. Every woman who had
a spouse who cheated was worried she wasn’t good enough in bed. She needed
details! She tapped her lips again, impatiently. She squinted at the air as if
she were listening hard to the ghost in front of
voice quiet and raspy with emotion. Minerva let her mouth form into a genuine
smile. “Yes! He’s nodding. His name is Thomas. He’s someone close to you. A
husband?”
The headscarf woman was nodding.
“Yes.” Minerva imagined the dead man in front of her, skin
as soft and bare as a newborn’s, nodding and gesturing at his wife. “What is
your name, my dear?”
“Pirette. Thomas was my husband. He died of—”
“Cancer. I know. I’m so very sorry.”
“Yes.” Pirette’s blue eyes shone with tears. The sister
whispered in her ear, comforting her. The audience murmured amongst themselves
at the revelation of cancer, as if it weren’t perfectly obvious from Pirette’s
choice of clothing.
“He has a message for you,” Minerva said. “And he wants to
beg forgiveness. Before he can move forward to his eternal resting place, he
needs to know you forgive him.”
Minerva knew the drill—though there were some who came to
her show in anger, wanting their former loved ones to answer for a slight, her
bread and butter came from those who deep down wanted to know their loved ones
still cared for them and were in a better place. And so she gave them that comfort.
She could empathize better than anyone.
She held a finger to her mouth, asking the audience for
silence and pretending to listen closely. “He wants to say how sorry he is—”
Static hissed in her ear. Her staff had come through. Greg’s
thin voice followed the static. “Husband had an affair. The women were talking
about it in the washroom. Sister found the text messages. Wife wants to know if
he ever even loved her. Maybe you could approach it from—”
Minerva nodded her understanding, tapping her lips again to
cut him off. Greg was new, a bright and eager young man, and hadn’t learned the
value of brevity. Still, with his pale skin and bright shock of red hair, he
made her smile.
She finished her sentence. “For the affair.”
Pirette gasped. “It’s really him?” Her friend whispered in
her ear. Was she a skeptic? Minerva had to keep talking, get Pirette hooked.
“It is. He can only imagine the pain you’ve been through.
Finding those texts from another woman. You felt so betrayed. First, to think
you had a marriage that would last until death, not knowing that death would
come so soon.” Minerva let her eyes moisten with the barest hint of tears,
knowing the camera would catch them. She found these clients to be the easiest,
and the hardest—betrayed lovers. The sense of loss combined with outrage was so
easy to empathize with. But also hard to put herself through again.
“And then, after supporting him through his illness, after
shaving your own head to show him how much you valued your partnership—to find
that he may not have valued it at all. He was getting sex from someone else.
You wondered what she did for him that you wouldn’t do.” Minerva shaped her
lips into a small smile of sympathy. “It must have felt as if he died twice.
First, his body. Second, the memory of the loving husband you knew.”
Pirette nodded. Tears were streaming down her face. Even her
dark-haired skeptic friend was literally sitting on the edge of her seat.
Minerva knew she had them. Now it was time to bring it home—deliver the
combination of sex and healing that made her the queen of late-night
television.
“He wants you to know that it wasn’t like that. He loved you
so much, Pirette. He desired you so much. Tell me, Tom. What do you want
to say to your wife?”
Minerva tapped a finger to her lips. Static hissed in her
ear again and Greg responded. “Uh, there was talk of, um…she was worried she
wasn’t good enough in bed.”
Minerva mentally rolled her eyes. Every woman who had
a spouse who cheated was worried she wasn’t good enough in bed. She needed
details! She tapped her lips again, impatiently. She squinted at the air as if
she were listening hard to the ghost in front of
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