I try again, twisting so hard my fingers ache, pushing through the pain. Suddenly the switch jumps to the three o’clock position, and my hand slips off, striking a wire.
Zap!
A sizzling current surges up my arm, striking like a great snake. The power of the sting takes my breath away. The flashlight falls to the floor, killing the light.
I scramble backward, body buzzing, holding my aching hand up to my chest. A wave of nausea washes over me. Grey fuzzy stars dance before my eyes. I hear the distant sound of waves washing against the side of the boat, followed by, sometime later, the rustling sound of James’ foul weather jacket as he rushes inside the boat.
"Good news, I got the autopilot working," he’s saying. I can hear his distant voice, but he’s far away, in a brutal reality that I don’t want to go back to. "And the wind is dying down . . ."
I fall into a dark widening aperture, where the ocean is gentle and soothing, where everything feels warm and cozy, and languish there until my senses begin to return, until reality presses down on me like an anvil. I groan and roll onto my side.
"Gia? You okay?" James asks, grabbing my arm.
A shiver races over my skin. My vision shifts. The inside of the boat fades from view as if covered by a thin veneer.
It’s happening. It’s happening again. My long dormant psychic ability is overwhelming me and pushing through. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to deny it, but it comes nonetheless.
Distantly, I hear voices. Congratulations, Daddy. I see hugs. I feel a rush of elation, making my throat feel tight with emotion. A sense of amazement and relief and happiness washes over me. James and his wife had been trying for some time to have a baby. The stork hadn’t forgotten about them, after all.
Charlotte, it is. Charlotte Marie Taggart.
"Charlotte?" I wonder, trying to parse out some meaning from my swirling thoughts.
James lets go of my arm. "What did you say?"
And then I hear sobbing, a terrible rending sound that tears at my heart. I hear the rapid pulse of a fetal heartbeat, and then I hear the resounding silence of a little life lost forever.
My baby!
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Born still," I whisper.
The vision fades, leaving behind a dull impression of sorrow, pain, and terrible, grinding loss. The boat bucks and sways in the churning seas.
But the weather outside seems trivial compared to the storm raging inside James’ heart. He’s not a commitment phobe. He’s not a Peter Pan Man. He is a man running though, running from terrible, crushing grief.
I look into his unblinking, glassy eyes. "I’m so sorry," I whisper.
He works his mouth, as if to say something. Then stops. The boat continues to buck and sway. A ceiling light flickers on and off, shifting the shadows that entomb us. Lightning flashes, holding his pained face in bright contrast, then dumps us back into darkness.
"It happened on week thirty," he says, at last. "They couldn’t explain the sudden death."
I look away, tears filling my eyes.
"They said these things—that it happens. They said that because Jen was older—thirty-four—that maternal age could have had something to do with it." He puts air quotes around ‘maternal age,’ his voice thick with anger and condescension. "We ended up burying my baby girl in the tiniest coffin you’d ever seen. It was like burying a doll . . . a tiny lifeless doll."
He looks down at his open palms, laying face up on his lap. "Jen was beside herself. I said we could try again, but Jen, she—she couldn’t think of trying again. The grief just consumed her . . ." He meets my gaze. "And in the end, it consumed us both."
9
GIA
We finally limp into the marina at one in the morning. I go down below and collect my bag, careful not to wake Nikki, who fell asleep in the back cabin. As James walks me out to my car, I think about giving him some words of encouragement or sympathy, I’m not sure which, but he’s probably had his fill of trite words.
"That was interesting," I say instead.
"Sorry about all that," he says, though it feels like I should be the one apologizing.
"It’s okay. Thanks for getting us home safe. You sure know what you’re doing out there."
"I try." His mouth lifts into a smile, but it doesn’t carry up to his eyes. In them, I can see that he’s haunted by what I saw. Well, me too.
"Tell Nikki bye for me. Tell her to call me when she wakes up."
James reaches up and scratches his brow. "Okay I will. I’ll tell her when she wakes up."
"Okay, I’ll talk to you soon, James. Thanks again."
I drive home in a daze, cruising through a yellow light, and arrive at my apartment. I park, turn off the engine, and somehow end up on the couch in my living room, cuddling my little rescue dog Jack, staring at the carpet.
It’s back. The terrible and the wonderful. It’s all come roaring back. I didn’t want my psychic ability to come back. Not after I couldn’t prevent the death of my best friend, Melissa, back when we were eighteen. But here I am, back behind the crystal ball, seeing people’s pasts and the secrets that hide in their hearts.
I feel a little excited, but unsure about having my ability back, after what had happened so long ago. Maybe this is the past coming to find me, trying to make amends, the one that I had tried to escape from. I need to talk to the only person who will understand. I need to talk to Mom.
"Hallo?" comes her groggy voice over the phone.
"Mom? Hey, sorry to bother you."
"What time is it?" She has the phone pressed against her face, muffling her voice.
"Um. It’s two thirty."
"Ugh."
"Sorry. Do you want me to call you later?"
"No. No, I’m up . . ." She drops the phone. I can hear it clonk on the carpeted floor. Then she curses and fumbles around her bed, looking for it.
"Mom, I’m down here. On the floor."
Scrape. Scrape. "Hello?"
"Hi, yeah, I’m here."
She lets out a big sigh, and then falls silent. I think she’s fallen asleep, but then she pulls in a deep breath. "Is everything okay? How did your sailing trip go?"
It’s my turn to sigh. "Interesting."
"Interesting? Like fun interesting?"
"Not that interesting."
"Oh. But something happened. Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me at one in the morning. Remember what Nonna always said. ‘Observe, observe and—’"
"‘Take-ah the monney.’" I finish the sentence for her. We chuckle. It’s a long-standing joke by now. Nonna, my Italian grandmother, was a tarot card reader and psychic. She worked tirelessly against quacks that brought her field into disrepute. She toured around the country giving parlor readings and talks about thought-transference and telepathy. And she wasn’t shy about demanding her fees.
"She did have her pearls of wisdom, didn’t she?" Mom’s voice goes soft with nostalgia.
"Mom, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . "
"Hm?"
"It’s back. The superpower."