Leaving Time: A Novel Read online

  My mother and I resettled in Connecticut, where she got a job as a maid at a hotel and I dressed in black and dabbled in Wicca and survived high school. It was not until college that I started to really celebrate my Gift. I taught myself to read tarot and did readings for my sorority sisters. I subscribed to Fate magazine. Instead of my schoolbooks, I read about Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce. I wore Guatemalan scarves and gauzy skirts and burned incense in my dorm room. I met another student, Shanae, who was interested in the occult. Unlike me, she couldn’t communicate with those who had passed, but she was an empath and would get sympathy stomachaches every time her roommate had her period. Together, we attempted scrying. We would set candles in front of us, sit down before a mirror, and gaze into it long enough to see our past lives. Shanae came from a long line of psychics, and it was she who told me that I should ask my spirit guides to introduce themselves; that her aunties and her grandma, who were both mediums, had spirit guides on the other side. And so I formally met Lucinda, the elderly black woman who used to sing me to sleep; and Desmond, a sassy gay man. They were with me all the time, pets sleeping at my feet that would wake up, attentive, when I called their names. From then on, I spoke to my spirit guides constantly, relying on them to help me navigate the next world, either by leading me or by leading others to me.

  Desmond and Lucinda were the best of babysitters, letting me—a virtual toddler—explore the paranormal plane without getting hurt. They made sure I didn’t encounter demons—spirits that had never been human. They steered me away from asking questions with answers I was not yet meant to know. They taught me to control my Gift, instead of letting it control me, by setting boundaries. Imagine what it would be like if the telephone woke you up every five minutes, all night long. That’s what happens with spirits, if you don’t set up parameters. They also explained that it was one thing to want to share my predictions as they came, but another to read someone unbidden. I’ve had it done to me by other psychics, and let me tell you, it’s like having someone go through your underwear drawer when you’re not home, or being in an elevator, unable to get away when someone invades your personal space.

  I did readings for five dollars during the summer up at Old Orchard Beach in Maine. Then, after I graduated, I found clients through word of mouth, while supporting myself at various odd jobs. I was twenty-eight, working as a waitress at a local diner, when the Maine gubernatorial candidate came in for a photo op with his family. While the cameras were flashing on him and his wife with plates full of our signature blueberry pancakes, his little girl hopped up on one of the counter stools. “Boring, huh?” I said, and she nodded. She couldn’t have been more than seven. “How about some hot chocolate?” As her hand brushed mine to take the mug, I felt the strongest jolt of black I’d ever felt; that’s the only way I can describe it.

  Now, this little girl didn’t give permission to be read, and my spirit guides were broadcasting that loud and clear, telling me I had no right to intervene. But across the diner, her mother was smiling and waving for the cameras, and she didn’t know what I did. When the candidate’s wife ducked into the ladies’ room, I followed. She held out her hand to shake, thinking I was another voter to charm. “This is going to sound crazy,” I said, “but you need to get your daughter tested for leukemia.”

  The woman’s smile froze. “Did Annie tell you about her growing pains? I’m sorry she bothered you, and I appreciate your concern, but her pediatrician said it’s nothing to worry about.” Then she walked away.

  I told you so, Desmond sneered silently as, moments later, the candidate left with his entourage and his family. For a long moment, I stared down at the half-empty mug the little girl had left behind, before I dumped its contents into a bus tray. That’s the hard part, honey, Lucinda told me. Knowing what you know, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

  A week later, the candidate’s wife came back to the diner—alone, dressed in jeans instead of a pricey red wool suit. She made a beeline for me, where I was wiping down a table in a booth. “They found cancer,” she whispered. “It wasn’t even in Annie’s blood yet. I made them do a bone marrow test. But because it’s so early”—here she started to sob—“she has a good chance of surviving.” She grabbed my arm. “How did you know?”

  That might have been the end of it—a good psychic deed, a way for me to tell the ever-snarky Desmond I told you so—but the candidate’s wife happened to be the sister of the producer of the Cleo! show. America loved Cleo, a talk-show host who had grown up in the projects of Washington Heights and was now one of the most recognizable women on the planet. When Cleo read a book, so did every woman in America. When she said she was giving away fuzzy bamboo bathrobes for Christmas gifts, the company’s website crashed. When she asked a candidate for an interview, he won his election. And when she invited me onto the show to do a reading for her, my life changed overnight.

  I told Cleo things that any idiot could have guessed: that she would become more successful, that Forbes would list her as the richest woman in the world that year, that her new production company would launch an Oscar winner. But then something crept into my head, and because she had given me permission, I blurted it out—even though I should have thought twice. “Your daughter is looking for you.”

  Cleo’s best friend, who was part of the show that day, said, “Cleo doesn’t have a daughter.”

  This was true; she was a single woman who’d never been linked to anyone in Hollywood. But tears welled in Cleo’s eyes. “Actually, I do,” she confessed.

  It was one of the biggest news stories of the year: Cleo admitted to being date-raped as a sixteen-year-old, and sent to a convent in Puerto Rico, where the baby was born and put up for adoption. She launched a public search for the girl, who was now thirty-one, and they had a tearful television reunion. Cleo’s ratings skyrocketed; she won an Emmy. And as a reward, her production company transformed me from diner waitress to celebrity psychic, and gave me my own syndicated show.

  I had a special connection when it came to kids. Police departments invited me to go into the woods where the bodies of children had been found, to see if I could read anything about the murderer. I went into homes where children had been abducted, and tried to sense a trail for law enforcement to follow. I’d walk through crime scenes with blood spatter staining the protective booties I had to wear, and try to visualize what had happened. I’d ask Desmond and Lucinda if a missing child had crossed over yet. Unlike faux psychics who’d call in hotline tips as a way of garnering fame for themselves, I always waited for the cops to come to me. Sometimes the cases I pursued on my show were recent ones; sometimes they were cold. I had a remarkable accuracy rate, but then again, I could have told you when I was seven that I wasn’t faking. At the same time, I started sleeping with a .38 under my pillow, and I invested in a complicated alarm system for my house. I hired a bodyguard named Felix, who was a cross between a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a pit bull. Using my Gift to help those who had lost loved ones put a target on my back; perps who knew I could point a finger at them could find me easily.

  Mind you, I had my critics. The skeptics called me a fraud who bilked people out of money. Well, there are psychics who bilk people out of money. I call them the swamp witches, the faux psychics along the side of the road. Just like there are good lawyers and ambulance chasers, good doctors and quacks, there are good psychics and charlatans. The other, odder complaint came from those who berated me for taking a God-given talent and charging money for it. To them, I apologize for not wanting to break a couple of my favorite habits—namely, eating and living indoors. No one ever bitches to Serena Williams or Adele for capitalizing on their talent, do they? Mostly, I ignored what people said about me in the press. Engaging with haters is like rearranging pictures on the Titanic. What’s the point?

  So yes, I had detractors, but I also had fans. Thanks to them, I got to appreciate the finer things in life: Frette linens, a bungalow in Malibu, Moët & Chandon, Jennifer Anist