The Long Way Home (8 page)

They were still in Iowa and it wasn’t even dark yet, so Jazzy was surprised when Rita said, “What do you say, ladies? Should we stop here for the night or no?”

Laverne, who had been dozing, lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. “Where are we?”

“Coming up on Des Moines.”

“We’re stopping in Des Moines?” Marnie said. Jazzy could tell she was disappointed and wanted to keep going, but Rita was the driver, so she couldn’t really object. Rita said she was tired, and that they’d gone a respectable distance for a first day. “Tomorrow we’ll be almost entirely on the interstate and we can really put some miles behind us,” she said. “There seem to be plenty of hotels. Let’s find a place for dinner first.”

Rita veered off the expressway, and Jazzy fiddled with the Garmin to find restaurants close by. “There’s a steak house a few blocks down,” she said, scrolling through their choices. “And a Chinese restaurant and a pizza place.”

“Anything but pizza,” Laverne said. “It tastes good, but it sits like a brick in my stomach afterward.”

“I’ve heard good things about the steak house,” Jazzy said. “I really think we should go there.”

Rita turned to Jazzy. “Where did you hear good things about the steak house?”

“Oh, just around,” Jazzy said evasively. “I have some relatives who go to Des Moines fairly often.” She could tell Rita wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t want to elaborate. Because they’d talked about it, Rita knew about the voices from beyond the grave, but Jazzy hated giving details. She could elaborate if she wanted to—say things like sometime spirits gave her tips: when she should avoid a certain road or which restaurant to go to. It wasn’t like getting a personal recommendation from a friend. More like an inkling. Not too different from what other people experienced when they had a hunch. Jazzy’s hunches were more reliable. But she didn’t want to get into it. She knew from experience that people were initially fascinated but very soon would start to treat her differently. They wanted things from her, things she couldn’t always give. It was a cursed blessing, or blessed curse, depending on your point of view.

They were in the city now. The steak house was a box of a building, set on the corner. Rita was able to get a parking spot half a block away. An easy walk on a summer evening. Outside the restaurant, standing on the sidewalk, a group of three men, paunchy guys in their sixties, smoked cigars. The men said, “Good evening, ladies,” as they approached, and Laverne gave a wave like she was brushing away a fly. Inside, the place was dark wood with brass accents. Potted ferns hung in the corners. The guys at the bar watched CNN and drank from tall mugs of beer.

A young man with spiked hair and a nose ring greeted them as they walked in, then grabbed some menus and escorted them to a booth in the bar area, the last available table in the place. “Maybe we should have gone somewhere else,” Marnie said, frowning over the menu. Jazzy had noticed that Marnie had a tendency to second-guess decisions. For someone her age she didn’t seem very sure of herself.

“Nope,” Jazzy said firmly, “we picked just the right place.”

“It smells good in here,” Rita said.

They were eating their dinners when they first noticed three people at a table on the other side of the room staring at them. A woman and two men. The guys were young—in their early twenties. The woman, pudgy but attractive with red shoulder-length hair and an abundance of sparkly jewelry, looked old enough to be the mother of the group, but she wasn’t. None of them were related, Jazzy knew. The woman wasn’t even pretending not to look at Jazzy—she stared until Jazzy became uncomfortable and looked away. Marnie was the first to say something about it. She leaned in to the table and subtly pointed. “We’re being watched by three people across the way,” she said. “They’ve been—”

Laverne’s head whipped around way too conspicuously.

“Don’t look,” Marnie said sharply, but it was too late. The woman noticed and raised a hand in acknowledgement, then picked up a fork and started eating as if nothing had happened. Marnie continued. “Those three in the corner have been staring at us for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Distracted by our beauty, would be my guess,” said Rita, which made Laverne laugh.

Laverne said, “I can’t remember the last time anyone looked my way. You get past fifty and you’re darn near invisible, especially to men.”

“I noticed that too,” Rita said. “Every now and then an elderly man will hold the door for me and I’ll think to myself,
Well, I guess I still have it.
How sad is that? It makes my day when an old guy does me a small courtesy.”

“Some older men are very distinguished looking,” Marnie said.

Rita laughed. “I’m not talking distinguished-old. I’m talking geezer. One of them had his oxygen tank with him.”

They continued talking about men and the lack of admiring glances women got as they aged, and all the while Jazzy snuck glances at the men and the older lady. While she watched them, they watched her. She felt a jolt of fear rise up her spine as she sensed the reason they had picked her out of the crowd. They could tell she was different. They knew it in the same way a dog senses fear. She felt vulnerable. She picked up her fork and speared a mushroom, hoping she was wrong about being scrutinized. Except she was rarely wrong when it came to this kind of stuff.

By the time the waitress took their plates away, the other table had been looking in their direction for half an hour. Jazzy felt them honing in on her. The obvious solution—confront the group and ask if they had a staring problem—was not what she wanted to do. She wanted to sneak out, to get far away from there. As soon as possible. Of course, Laverne had to order dessert.

“Dessert is one of life’s greatest pleasures,” she said. Jazzy’s heart sank as Laverne discussed all her options in detail with the waitress. Cheesecake was too heavy, sherbet not a real dessert. Pie might be good, but was their key lime pie
real
key lime pie? Laverne knew the difference. If it wasn’t real key lime pie, it wasn’t worth bothering with.

Come on already,
Jazzy thought impatiently. To make matters worse, Laverne talked Rita into getting something too.

When the strawberry cheesecake arrived, Laverne and Rita exclaimed over it like two women who hadn’t had a decent meal in years. While Marnie debated aloud whether she should order dessert herself, Jazzy had a visceral reaction. She felt herself getting lightheaded and uncomfortable, like she was wrapped in something she couldn’t shake off. The booth became confining and the background noise assaulted her senses. She pulled some money out of her wallet, enough to cover her share and then some, and put it on the table. “I’ll wait for you guys outside,” she said, slinging her purse strap over her shoulder. “I need to get some air.”

Outside the restaurant, Jazzy filled her lungs with the warm evening air. The group of smoking men had gone, and she had the space to herself. With every passing minute her sense of panic dissipated along with the trapped feeling. The three people at the table weren’t going to follow her out. She was fine for now.

But now what? She could go for a walk—the other women had her cell phone number and could meet up with her when they were done. But she was in a strange city and it was getting dark. Maybe not the best idea.
Patience
, said a voice.
It will all work out.
She closed her eyes and aimed her face at her feet, shaking off her tension, relaxing in the moment.

The front door to the restaurant opened, and she heard a slice of conversation mixed with up-tempo music. “Jazzy?” She looked up to see Marnie, a worried look on her face. “Are you okay?”

Jazzy pushed her hair out of her face. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiled in what she hoped was a convincing way.

“You looked like you were going to be sick.” Marnie had such a caring look on her face Jazzy almost felt like hugging her. It occurred to Jazzy that she was in the company of women old enough to be her aunt, mother, and grandmother.

“No, I’m okay.”

“What is it, then?” Marnie was next to her now, her arm around her shoulder. “Tell me.”

Jazzy hadn’t planned on spilling the truth. She’d been ready to spin a tale of stomach issues or menstrual cramps. The words were there, willing and able, but different words came out instead. “I couldn’t deal with those three people staring. It was freaking me out. I had to get away.”

The traffic light at the closest intersection changed from red to green, and a black Mustang screeched away from the intersection, trailed by a line of cars. Marnie said, “Usually I find that people stare because they think you look like someone they know. In your case, though, I think it’s because you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not so pretty,” Jazzy said. “I look like most everyone else.”

“Youth has its own beauty,” Marnie said, sounding wistful. “You are completely perfect, every bit of you. Someday you’ll look back and realize that.”

Jazzy gave her a faint smile. “Your theory is really nice, and I appreciate you trying to make me feel better,” she said, slowly, “but I believe the reason they were staring is that they could sense something about me.”

“Which is what?”

She sighed. It was official—Jazzy was tired of denying who she was. If people couldn’t accept her oddities, then the hell with them. It was better to know what they thought right from the start. She turned to meet Marnie’s gaze. “I don’t usually tell people this, but I’ve already told Rita, so the rest of you might as well know too. You might think I’m crazy or woo woo or whatever. I can’t help that. But the fact of the matter is that I’m psychic.”

Marnie raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Do you see dead people?”

“Something like that.”

“Wow.”

“Does that change what you think of me?” Jazzy asked.

Marnie shook her head.

“Really? You don’t think I’m crazy or lying?”

“No, I don’t think you’re crazy or lying. If you believe it, that’s good enough for me,” Marnie said. “It must be nice to know you have a special talent.”

They were both quiet for a minute or two. “You’re a really good cook,” Jazzy offered.

“Anyone can do that,” Marnie said glumly.

“I can’t. Believe me, not many people cook anymore.”

They stood there in companionable silence. The door to the restaurant opened and closed and a middle-aged couple came out laughing. The woman said, “Stop it. I already said you were right.” She playfully slapped his arm. “What more do you want?” Jazzy would have liked to hear the answer, but the couple had their backs to them now and they were heading toward their car; his response was muffled.

“So,” Marnie asked, slowly, “if I wanted to communicate with someone specific, someone dead I mean, could you like, call them up?”

Jazzy shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s more like I get messages out of the blue. It almost always happens when I’m not expecting it. I’ll get a thought in my head that’s not mine, or I get an impression of something.”

Marnie said, “So can you actually see the person, or is it like a hologram?”

Jazzy sighed. How to explain this? “You know how sometimes at the grocery store you’ll be holding a box of something, maybe checking the ingredients or reading the label?” When Marnie nodded she continued. “And out of the corner of your eye you see someone approach, maybe a woman pushing a cart? You might even move to make room for her to pass. If someone were to question you about the woman later, you could give a general description—female, age range, maybe an idea of her size, whether or not she was in a hurry, or whatever. But you couldn’t really say exactly what she looked like. It was more of an impression.”

“That’s what it’s like for you?” Marnie looked fascinated.

“Pretty much. And when I get messages it’s like the person whispered something as they went by. I usually only get like seventy percent of it, and most of the time I don’t even know what it means or what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“Wow.”

“And some of the dead people are
so
persistent. They get frustrated with me when I can’t figure it out, so they keep coming back, and back, and back.” She rolled her eyes at the thought. So many times she wished it would all go away. It would be so nice to curl up with a good book or take a nap without being interrupted. Having no control over her private time was frustrating. Closing doors didn’t keep them out. Nothing did.

“How often does this happen?”

Jazzy tilted her head and considered. “At least once a week. Sometimes every day.”

“Maybe it’s not such a cool thing after all,” Marnie said.

“It’s not always so bad,” Jazzy said. “Sometimes I help people. Once I saw a woman eating at the food court at the mall and I kept hearing, ‘Tell her to check the inside pocket. Tell her to check the inside pocket,’ and I knew it was connected to this quilted bag she had sitting on the table. I went up to her and said I liked her purse, where could I buy one, and she said I couldn’t buy it, her mother had made it. She said her mother was a quilter and very talented seamstress and it was the last thing she made before she passed away. I told her I wanted to make one like it, did it have an inside pocket, and she said yes, but she didn’t use it because it was in an inconvenient place.”

She had Marnie’s full attention now. “Then what happened?” Marnie said.

“I asked if I could see the pocket. She was starting to think I was loony, I think, but she opened the purse and showed me this zippered pocket way at the bottom of the bag. I said, oh that would be the perfect place to hide something valuable. When I said that, her expression changed but she didn’t say anything. I thanked her and went back to my table and pretended to eat my sweet potato fries, but I kept sneaking peeks in her direction.”

“And then she looked in the pocket,” Marnie said.

“Yep. And she pulled out a ring,” Jazzy said. “Her face lit up like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And you never told her how you knew?”

“Oh no,” Jazzy said, drawing back in horror. “I’ve had bad luck with that. If I had told her, she would have thought I was crazy or faking it or mean. Or else she would have pestered me to do it some more. Believe me, you learn pretty quick what people will accept.”