Anybody Out There? Page 22

  I carried on down the corridor, passing rooms on both sides. In one, several elderly women were singing “If I Were a Rich Man”; in another, four people were clustered around what looked like a script; and in yet another, a man with a rich baritone was singing about the Windy City being mighty purty while someone accompanied him on a clapped-out-sounding piano.

  The whole place reeked of amateur dramatics.

  I had to be at the wrong address. How could there be a church here? But I consulted my piece of paper again. It said room 514—and there was a room 514. Right at the end of the hallway; it looked nothing like a church; just a bare room with a circle of ten or eleven hard chairs on a dusty, splintery floor.

  Uncertainly, I wondered if I should leave. I mean, how mad was this?

  But hope intervened. Hope and desperation. In fairness, I was early. Extremely early. And I’d come all this way, I might as well see if anyone else showed up.

  I sat on a bench in the corridor and passed the time by watching the proceedings in the room across the way.

  Eight buff young men—two rows of four—were stamping and clattering across the bare boards, singing that they were going to wash some man right out of their hair, while a sinewy, older man yelled dance cues. “And TURN and SHIMMY and THRUST and TURN, smile, guys, SMILE, for fuck’s sake, and TURN and SHIMMY and…okay, stop the music, STOP, STOP!” The piano tinkling petered out.

  “Brandon,” the older man said peevishly. “Sweetheart? What is going on with your shimmy? I’m looking for…” He leaned forward and gave a beautiful fluid shoulder shake. “And not…” Clumsily he shuddered his upper body like he was trying to shoulder his way through a crowd.

  “I’m sorry, Claude.” One of the boys—clearly poor Brandon, the bad shimmier—said.

  “This is what I’m looking for,” Claude said imperiously, and launched into a demo: balancing up on his toes, spinning around on the ball of his foot, doing the splits in midair, all the while doing this scary, fake smile. He finished, bowing in pretend humility right down to the floor, his arms in airplane wings up behind him…

  “Excuse me,” a voice said. “Are you here for the spiritualism?”

  I whipped my head around. A young guy, probably early twenties, was looking eagerly at me. I saw him clock my scar but he didn’t display any obvious revulsion.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “Great! It’s always great to see a new face. I’m Nicholas.”

  “Anna.”

  He extended a hand, and in light of his youth and his pierced eyebrow, I wasn’t sure if he was proposing a normal handshake or a funny complicated young person’s one, but it turned out to just be a straightforward clasp.

  “The other guys should be here soon.”

  This Nicholas was lean and wiry—his jeans were hanging off him—with dark sticky-up hair, red high-tops, and a T-shirt saying BE UNAFRAID. BE VERY UNAFRAID. Several woven bracelets were twined around his wrist, and he wore at least three chunky silver rings and had a tattoo on his forearm, one I recognized because it was the current hot tattoo: a Sanskrit symbol that meant something like “The word is love” or “Love is the answer.”

  He looked perfectly normal but that was the thing about New York: lunacy appeared in all shapes and sizes. It specialized in Stealth Nutters. In other places they make it easier—shouting in the street at invisible enemies or going to the chemist to buy Bonjela dressed in your Napoléon costume is usually a dead giveaway.

  Nicholas nodded at the South Pacific lads being put through their paces. “Fame costs,” he said. “And right here’s where you start paying.”

  He looked normal. He sounded normal. And all of a sudden I asked myself why shouldn’t he be normal? I was here and I wasn’t abnormal, simply bereaved and desperate.

  And now that someone had finally turned up, I was avid for answers.

  “Nicholas, you’ve been to…this…before?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the person who does the channeling—”

  “Leisl.”

  “—Leisl. Does she really communicate with”—I didn’t want to say “the dead”—“the spirit world?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded surprised. “She really does.”

  “She gives us messages from people…on the other side?”

  “Yes, she really has a gift. My dad died two years ago and, via Leisl, I’ve spoken to him more in the last two years than I did my entire life. We get on a whole lot better now that he’s dead.”

  Out of the blue, I was nearly sick with anticipation.

  “My husband died,” I splurged. “I really want to talk to him.”

  “Sure.” Nicholas nodded. “But, just so as you know, it’s not like Leisl’s a telephone operator. If the person doesn’t want to be channeled, she can’t go after them and hunt them down like a dog.”

  “I went to another woman.” I was talking very quickly. “Someone who said she was a psychic, but she was just a swizzer. She said there was a curse on me and she could take it away for a thousand dollars.”

  “Oh, man, you’ve got to be careful.” He shook his head ruefully. “There are a lot of hustlers out there who take advantage of vulnerable people. All Leisl asks for is enough money to cover the rent. And here’s the lady herself.”

  Leisl was a short, bowlegged woman, laden with shopping bags, through which I could see a chilled lasagne for one; it had made the inside of the bag wet with little drops of condensation. Her curly hair was lopsided: When Perms Go Bad.

  Nicholas introduced me. “This is Anna, her husband bought it.”

  Leisl immediately put down her bags and gathered me into a tight hug, pulling my face into her neck so that I was breathing into an impenetrable thicket of hair. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled through a mouthful of hair, close to tears from her kindness.

  She released me, and said, “And here’s Mackenzie.”

  I turned to see a girl walking down the corridor like she was walking down a catwalk. A Park Avenue Princess, with blown-out hair, a Dior purse, and wedge sandals so high most people would sprain (or strain, whichever is worse) their ankles in them.

  “She’s coming here?” I asked.

  “Comes every week.”

  By the looks of her, she shouldn’t even be in New York. She should be stationed in some colonial-style mansion out in the Hamptons until the start of September. My spirits rose. Mackenzie should be able to afford the best medium money could buy, but she chose to come here. It must be good.

  Behind Mackenzie lumbered a hulking, eight-foot-nine bloke, in an undertaker’s suit and with a green-white face. “That’s Undead Fred,” Nicholas whispered. “Come on, let’s help set up the room.”

  Leisl had put some spooky-sounding cello music on a tape deck and was lighting candles when people started “flooding” in.

  There was a round-faced frumpy girl, who was probably younger than me but looked like she had totally given up, an older gentleman, small and dapper with pomaded hair, and a selection of older women with nervous tics and elastic waistbands. Mind you, one of them had interesting sandals; they looked like they’d been made out of a car tire. The more I looked at them, the more I liked them. Not for me to wear, you understand, I got enough of that codology at work, but they were definitely interesting.

  When another man walked in, Nicholas grabbed me and said, “Here’s Mitch. His wife bought it. You guys must have loads in common. C’mon and meet him.”

  He shunted me across the room. “Mitch, this is Anna. Her husband died—when? Few months back? She got ripped off by some asshole psychic who told her she’d been cursed. Thought you could help her, tell her about Neris Hemming.”

  Mitch and I locked eyes and it was like I’d touched an electric fence, there was such a bzzzzz of connection. He understood; the only one who did. I saw right through his eyes and all the way down into his bleak abandoned soul and recognized what I saw.

  39
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  People were sitting down and holding hands with the people beside them; I managed to slip in between the car-tire-sandals woman and the pomady guy. I was glad I didn’t have to hold hands with Undead Fred.

  I counted only twelve of us, including Leisl, but with the candles flickering in the dark room and groany cello noises in the background, the mood felt right. Definitely a place where the dead might feel comfortable showing up.

  Leisl did a little intro, welcoming me, and saying stuff about deep breaths and centering ourselves and hoping that “Spirit” would deliver what everyone needed. Then we were allowed to stop holding hands.

  Silence fell. And continued. And continued. And continued. Frustration burgeoned in me. When would this fucking thing start? I opened one eye and snaked a look around the circle, their faces shadowed in the candlelight.

  Mitch was watching me; our looks met and collided in midair. Quickly I closed my eye again.

  When Leisl finally spoke, I jumped.

  “I have a tall man here.” My eyes snapped open and I wanted to put my hand up, like I was at school. It’s for me! It’s for me!

  “A very tall, broad, dark-haired man.” My heart sank. Not for me.

  “Sounds like my mom,” Undead Fred said, in a slow, gargly voice.

  Leisl did a quick recalculation. “Fred, I’m sorry; yes, it is your mom.”

  “Built like a brick shithouse,” Fred gargled. “Coulda been a prizefighter.”

  “She’s telling me to ask you to be careful getting on the subway. She says that you don’t pay attention, that you could slip.”

  After a period of silence, Fred asked, “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I’ve got Nicholas’s dad now.” Leisl faced Nicholas. “He’s telling me—I’m sorry, these are his words, not mine—that he’s pissed with you.”

  “So what’s new?” Nicholas grinned.

  “There’s a situation at work that you have issues with?”

  Nicholas nodded.

  “Your dad says you’re blaming the other guy, but you’ve got to look at where you’re responsible for what’s happened.”

  Nicholas stretched out, extended his arms above his head, scratched his chest thoughtfully. “Maybe, yeah, he’s probably right. Bummer. Thanks, Dad.”

  More silence followed, then someone came through for the car-tire-sandals woman—whose name was Barb—and told her to include rapeseed oil in her diet.

  “I already do,” Barb said tetchily.

  “More rapeseed oil,” Leisl said quickly.

  “Okay.”

  Another older lady got told by her dead husband to “keep doing the next right thing”; the young frumpy girl’s mother told her that everything was going to work out for the best; Juan, the pomady guy, got told to live in the now; and Mitch’s wife said she was happy to see he’d been smiling a bit more this week.

  All meaningless, vaguely spiritual-sounding platitudes. Comforting stuff, but obviously not coming from “the other side.”

  It’s all bollocks, I thought bitterly, which was just when Leisl said, “Anna, I’m getting something for you.”

  Sensation burned through me; I nearly puked, fainted, ran around the room. Thank you, Aidan, thank you, thank you.

  “It’s a woman.” Shite. “An older woman, she’s talking very loudly at me.” Leisl looked a little distressed. “Shouting almost. And she’s banging a stick on the ground for attention.”

  Christ! It sounded like Granny Maguire! That was exactly what she used to do when she came to stay with us and needed to go to the bathroom—she’d bang on her bedroom floor with her stick for someone to come up and help her, while downstairs, we’d be drawing straws. I was terrified of her. We all were. Especially if she hadn’t done a number two for a while.

  Leisl said, “She says it’s about your dog.”

  It took a moment for me to stammer, “I don’t have a dog. I have a toy dog but not a real one.”

  “You’re thinking of getting one.”

  I am? “I’m not.”

  Mackenzie piped up, quite excited, “I have a dog. This must be for me.”

  “Okay.” Leisl turned to Mackenzie. “Spirit says he needs more exercise, he’s getting fat.”

  “But I walk him every day. Well, I don’t, but my walker walks him. I would never have a fat dog.”

  Leisl looked doubtful and cast a glance around the room. Anyone else with a fat dog?

  No takers.

  This is shit, I thought. This is so fucking shit.

  Suddenly the door flew open, the light went on, startling us, and four or five plumpish boys ran into the room, singing, “‘Oaakk-la-homa! Where the…!’ Whoops! I’m sorry.” Strangely, they all looked identical.

  The mood was shattered and I, for one, felt a little silly.

  “Time’s up,” Leisl said, then people were putting crumpled dollar bills into a bowl, and getting to their feet and blowing out the candles.

  40

  In the corridor, I was devastated with disappointment and couldn’t hide it.

  “Well?” Nicholas asked.

  Rigidly, I moved my head from side to side. No.

  “No,” he admitted sadly, “I guess it didn’t really happen for you.”

  Leisl came racing out and grabbed me. “I’m so sorry, sweetie; I really wanted something good to come through for you, but I’ve no control over these things.”

  “What if we tried…” I asked. “I mean, would you be available for an individual reading?” Perhaps if there weren’t the dead relatives of all the other people, clamoring in Leisl’s ear about rapeseed oil and the like, there would be a chance for Aidan to get through.

  But sorrowfully, Leisl shook her head. “One-on-ones don’t work for me. I need the energy of the group.” For that alone, I respected her. Almost trusted her.

  “But sometimes I get messages at unexpected times, like if I’m at home watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. If anything comes through for you, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

  “Thank y—”

  I ran out of words because, without warning, her body went rigid and her eyes glazed over. “Oh, wow, I’m getting something for you now. How about that?”

  My knees turned to water.

  “I’m seeing a little blond boy,” she said. “Wearing a hat. He’s your son? No, not your son, your…nephew?”

  “My nephew, JJ. But he’s alive.”

  “I know, but he’s important to you.”

  Thanks for telling me something I already know.

  “He’ll become more important to you.”

  What did that mean? That Maggie was going to die and I was going to have to marry Garv and be a stepmother to JJ and Holly?

  “Sorry, sweetie, I don’t know what it means, I just pass on the message.” And off she went down the corridor, with her lasagne, so bowlegged she looked like she was doing a side-to-side Charlie Chaplin walk.

  “What was that?” Nicholas asked.

  “My nephew, she said.”

  “Not your dead husband?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, let’s get Mitch over here.” Mitch was deep in discussion with Barb, the car-tire-sandals woman—she was really cool considering she was probably well into her sixties; as well as the funky sandals, her tote bag looked like it had been crocheted out of cassette tapes.

  “Mitch’ll tell you about Neris Hemming,” Nicholas promised. “She’s often on TV shows and she even helped the cops find a murdered girl. She’s so good she spoke in Mitch’s wife’s voice. Mitch!” he called. “Mitch, c’mere, buddy.”

  “You go on and talk,” Barb said, in a gravelly voice. “I’m going outside for a cigarette. Who’da thought? I marched alongside Dr. King in the civil-rights movement. I fought the good fight in the women’s revolution. And look at me now; having to hide in a doorway like a dirtbag just to smoke a cigarette. Where did it all go so wrong?” She laughed a grouchy heh, heh, heh. “
See you next week, guys.”

  Mitch came over.

  “Okay,” Nicholas told me. “Tell him everything.”

  I swallowed. “My husband died and I came here today hoping to get in touch with him. I wanted to have a conversation with him. Find out where he is.” My throat thickened. “Check if he’s okay.”

  Mitch understood completely, I could see it.

  “I told her about you going to Neris Hemming,” Nicholas said. “She connected with your wife, she actually started speaking in her voice, didn’t she?”

  Mitch gave a little smile at Nicholas’s enthusiasm. “She didn’t speak in her voice, but, yeah, I was really talking to Trish. I’ve gone to lots of psychics and she’s the only one who did it for me.”

  My heart was beating fast and my mouth was dry. “Do you have a number for her?”

  “Sure.” He produced an organizer. “But she’s very busy. You’ll probably have to wait, like, a long time to see her.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “And it’ll cost you. This is going to hurt—two thousand dollars for thirty minutes.”

  I was shocked: two thousand dollars was an horrific amount. My finances were in a shambles. Aidan hadn’t had life insurance—well, neither had I—because neither of us had had any intention of dying and the rent on our apartment was so extortionate that paying Aidan’s share as well as my own was eating up nearly every cent of my salary. We’d been saving to buy a place of our own, but that money was tied up in some funny account for another year, so I’d been living on my credit cards and doing a good job of ignoring my mounting debts. However, I was more than happy to go further into debt for this Neris Hemming—I didn’t care what it cost.

  Mitch was staring at his organizer, looking confused. “It’s not here. I could have sworn it was. I keep doing that, like, I keep losing stuff…”

  So did I. So often I was certain I had things in my handbag, then discovered that I didn’t. I felt another jolt of connection with this Mitch.

  “I can get the number,” he said. “It’s got to be somewhere in my apartment. How about I give it to you next week?”