The Winters in Bloom (17 page)

Me: “Was eating me on the table? Pun intended.” (I’ve always loved stupid puns. I hope that’s not on some mental illness checklist.) “I mean, you’re not a cannibal, are you, Mother?”

You: “All right, Miss Smarty-pants. I didn’t have an abortion, then.”

Me: “Thank you for calling me
Miss
Smarty-pants. Let’s keep it formal, since we don’t actually know each other.”

You: “Seriously, young lady. Everyone told me to have an abortion. I was so young, but I didn’t do it. That should mean something to you.”

Me: “Yeah, it should. I wish I was more grateful about that.”

Which I honestly do. I have no idea if you considered abortion, Mother, but you did give birth to me and that really
is
something. I wish I was glad about it, but I’m not really glad about anything anymore. I’ve let my friends go. I’ve dropped out of everything. I basically never leave the house now that I’ve finished all the credits I need to graduate.

Worst of all, I have no story that explains me to myself. It’s a bigger problem than it sounds like.

The doc thinks I might have agoraphobia. He’s wrong. I don’t have a fear of places, I have a fear of people. I can go pretty much anywhere as long as I’m alone. I know every inch of this town: from the creek behind the strip mall to the hill at the edge of my neighborhood that I used to think was a mountain when I was a kid. As cheesy as this sounds, I called it “God’s Mountain,” because I thought I could talk to God there. I didn’t like church because it was too warm and I have low blood pressure (inherited from you?) and so I was always close to fainting by the time the service was over. And at God’s Mountain, I was alone. I thought God could hear me better if He wasn’t being bombarded with the prayers of everybody in the building.

Hello, God, it’s me. Will you bring my real mommy home?

You: “I didn’t realize I was being invited to a pity party.”

Me: “So you’re still talking in my imagination, even though I’m no longer remembering our imaginary debate? That’s probably a bad sign, but OK. You’re right, I don’t want this to be a pity party, though I think that’s what my doc intends these letters for. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself though. I was thinking about my eight-year-old self and feeling sorry for her. She was so much cuter and sweeter. Even my stepmother thought I was such a sweet, well-behaved girl that she trusted me to be fine if she just left me alone most of the time.”

You: “Are you hinting that your stepmother didn’t take care of you? Don’t you think that’s a bit cliché?”

Me: “Cliché, Mother? Ouch. But OK, I’m not saying my stepmother is some kind of witch. She’s just nothing like me. And I think she sort of dislikes me because I’m related to you and you were Dad’s first love.”

You: “I was, that’s true.”

Me: “Were you really?” (Yeah, I know, I’m making this up. I’m not that crazy. It’s just that I like the direction my imagination is going.)

You: “Oh definitely. Your father thought I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He told me I was beautiful all the time.”

Me: “I knew you were really pretty. Believe it or not, I have zero pictures of you. Dad said all the ones he had were ruined in a basement flood when I was a kid. But I knew you were pretty because my stepmother mentioned it once.”

You: “Well, your stepmother is probably just jealous. Ignore her.”

Me: “Easy for you to say, since you don’t live here.”

You: “Look, I’m getting tired of talking about this. Blame me for your problems or don’t blame me. Whatever floats your boat.”

Me: “ ‘Floats your boat?’ Now
that’s
a cliché.”

You: “No need to be snotty. Would you prefer, ‘Whatever bakes your biscuit’? How about ‘Whatever melts your butter’?”

Me: “Well, they’re OK, but—”

You: “How about ‘Whatever blows up your skirt’?”

Me: “That one is just crazy, Mother. At least the butter/biscuit suggestions had a down-home, southern feel. The blown-up skirt sounds like something a pervert would say.”

You: “How would you know anything about perverts? Oh God, I hope this isn’t one of those letters girls write to confess that their fathers have abused them.”

Me: “Come on, you know Dad isn’t a pervert. He’s a totally normal person who works and mows the grass and fixes stuff around the house, all the normal things. It’s not his fault that he has no idea what to do with a messed-up daughter. My stepmother thinks I’m not grateful for all the stuff my dad does give me: a roof over my head, clothes to wear, appointments with the shrink, my own car. She’s wrong: I know how lucky I am to have all this. I just wish it could fix me.”

You: “I met your stepmother once. Did you know that?”

Me: “Um, yes. I just wrote that imaginary sentence where you said you did. My dad never talks about your visit, but I remember it. You gave me a stuffed turtle and a puzzle with thick pieces shaped like fruit.”

You: “Are you sure about this? I don’t remember a puzzle or a turtle.”

Me: “No, I’m not sure. I feel like it happened, but nobody else agrees. Both my dad and my stepmother say you’ve never come to see me. Not once. But I remember it so well. It’s like my first memory. You were wearing a purple shirt and black pants. You had a really cool watch with big hands and a green face that glowed in the dark.”

You: “That watch sounds—”

Me: Sorry to stop you in midsentence, but I’m being summoned for church. It’s Sunday morning, did I mention that? They drag me to church every week, and there’s nothing I can do to get out of it. It’s pretty much to be expected here in Summerland, Missouri, home to twenty-nine churches and exactly one tiny library. I may need a shrink, but I need God, too—that’s what I’m told, and they’re probably right. After all, when you really need a reason for your life, who better to give you one than God?

FIFTEEN

A
t the
beginning of April, when Courtney found herself still alive—if not well—she went to see a psychic. She used to think astrology and shamans and psychics were completely absurd. But this was back when she was so young that she found the idea that life had no meaning not only brilliant but also cool and even enjoyable.
Of course life lacks meaning. What kind of fool pretends that it doesn’t?

The office of the psychic, or “intuitive” as the woman preferred to be called, was on top of a pizza parlor. As Courtney climbed the steps, she felt slightly nauseated by the strong smell of grease. The intuitive introduced herself as Evelyn Rose. She was a large woman in a shapeless olive dress that was fraying at the neckline. She’d come highly recommended—by anonymous people on the Internet. But even anonymous recs were more than most psychics had, though Courtney realized it was possible that Evelyn had posted them all herself.

The room was dark with the exception of the candles burning on the large mahogany buffet against the back wall and one dim floor lamp in the corner by a door. She took Courtney over to an area where two love seats faced each other. In the middle was a small round table with nothing on it. No crystal ball. No tarot cards. Not even the divination stones that Courtney associated with her mother’s annual trips to Santa Fe.

Her mother had been seeing psychics since Courtney was a little girl, but her mother had also had a psychiatrist who made house calls. Yet there was nothing wrong with her, or so she said. All of this was simply about “learning happiness.” Courtney herself had not gone near a psychiatrist since she’d been released from the hospital years ago. This trip to Evelyn Rose was the closest she’d come to letting anyone know about the problems she was having. She had no idea if this woman could help. If she couldn’t, Courtney would chalk it up as a wasted evening, but the evening would have been wasted anyway.

She sat down on one of the love seats and pulled down the back of her shirt over her jeans. Evelyn Rose sat down across from her and made small talk. But her eyes never left Courtney’s face.

“How does this work?” Courtney finally said. She still wasn’t sleeping, and she was much too tired to keep discussing the new farmers’ market and the weather.

“You want to know about the future,” the woman said. “But first, I need to ask a few questions about your past.”

Courtney sucked in her breath and bit her bottom lip. And waited.

Evelyn Rose leaned forward. “You have done something that you are not proud of, yes?”

“Yes.” Nearly everyone her age had done something in the past that they weren’t proud of, hadn’t they?

“You have lost someone very important to you.”

Courtney nodded. Again, at her age, who hasn’t?

“You blame yourself for this loss.”

She nodded again, but she crossed her arms to protect herself.

“And other people also blame you?”

She looked at the wall behind Evelyn and waited a moment. “I suppose.”

The woman took a deep breath. “Are they right?”

Courtney was blinking and biting her lip. “Don’t you already know?” she said, more than a little irritably.

Evelyn didn’t respond. After a moment, she stood up and smiled. “All right. Would you like a drink before we go on?”

A few minutes later, while Courtney was sipping weak raspberry tea, Evelyn waved her pale hand and said they could move on to the future now. “Fate is going to bring someone new into your life.” She paused. “Not romantically. It will not be a man.”

“I don’t want a man,” she said firmly, thinking about Stefan.

“Who does?” the woman said, and laughed a husky laugh.

Courtney smiled. Evelyn was impossible not to like. When she got home, she would add another web recommendation for the psychic, even if this session didn’t go anywhere.

“The person who is coming into your life,” Evelyn said slowly, dramatically, “will either be a woman or a child.”

Courtney forced a shrug. “I doubt it will be a child.”

Just last week, her doctor had finally said that something
was
wrong with her: she was suffering “premature ovarian failure.” She would never have guessed that her estrogen level had fallen so low it was equivalent to the level of an eighty-year-old woman. It seemed impossible because she still had her periods, though in truth they were more commas than periods, lasting only a day or two with no cramps and no real flow. The doctor had no explanation for why she’d ended up in menopause at thirty-eight years old. Though she’d never have risked having a child again, it still hurt to know that this phase of being a woman was already over. Over before she’d even understood it—like most things in her life.

She was wearing her brand new estrogen patch on her hip. She wasn’t sure if it was doing anything, though she realized it might be the reason she’d had the energy to come here tonight.

“It will not be your own child,” Evelyn said, and gave Courtney a long look. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Courtney said flatly. Could Evelyn know what had happened with Joshua? Her questions about the past had made it seem like she did. But wasn’t that the way these things worked? Psychics made statements that felt like insights, but were really so general that most people found a way to apply them to themselves. Still, she desperately wanted Evelyn Rose to be the real thing. She needed help.

The psychic talked for a while about the mystery person, even though Courtney was anxious to get to the real reason she was there. She didn’t care about the possibility of a child coming into her life since she knew it couldn’t be Michael. After that day in the co-op—and the twenty-four hours she’d spent weeping after she left—Courtney had promised herself that she would never try to see David’s child again. Now if only her dreams would cooperate. Nearly every night, she dreamed of that little boy, always smiling, running toward her like he’d known her all his life.

The psychic admitted the mystery person was more likely to be a woman. And this woman will come from “far away.” (Don’t they always?) The mystery woman will be important in Courtney’s life. (Ditto.) There will be trouble, something will happen that Courtney won’t expect. (If Courtney already expected everything that would happen, it wouldn’t be much of a mystery, would it?) And Courtney will be changed forever by knowing this mystery person. Her whole life will be different.

If only.

“I told you on the phone what I’m worried about,” Courtney finally said. “Do you have an answer for me? Can you tell?”

The psychic paused for so long Courtney wondered if she was daydreaming about her grocery list or what she planned to do tonight. Courtney watched the smoke from the candles as it rose in spirals before it disappeared.

Evelyn clasped her hands together and said, “It will all be over soon.”

Without blinking, Courtney said, “Because I’m going to die?”