Born of Illusion (5 page)

Cole’s presence isn’t helping; it’s making me even jumpier than usual. I catch him staring every time I turn around, but he pretends he’s looking at something over my shoulder.

As my mother talks quietly to the older woman in one corner of the room, Jacques, Cole, and the society couple, Jack and Cynthia Gaylord, are discussing spiritualism in the other.

“I just find it fascinating that people can actually talk to the dead. Think of all the things we could learn!” Mrs. Gaylord says earnestly. She looks up to her husband for confirmation, but he’s staring, disinterested, at his drink.

“Like what?” Cole asks.

My lips twitch at the amusement in his voice.

For a moment Mrs. Gaylord looks blank. “Well, all sorts of things. There are some very important studies going on right now. One organization in London is doing some groundbreaking scientific work in the field of psychic phenomena. There are even rumors that they have a secret laboratory where they test real psychics and mentalists. It’s all very hush-hush.” She turns to me. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s called the Society for Psychical Research.”

Next to me, Cole starts, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass and onto the floor. “I’m so sorry. Clumsy of me, that.”

Surprised, I hurry into the kitchen to get a rag, and when I return, the others have joined my mother at the table. Cole’s still standing there looking tense and miserable.

“I really am sorry,” he says. “I’m a bit of a bungler, actually.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I say without thinking. “You move like an athlete.” My cheeks redden.
Now he knows I’ve been watching him.

“Oh. Er, yes. Indeed,” he replies pointlessly.

Wonderful. Now I’ve embarrassed both of us.

I stand and smile brightly. “We should join the others.”

He nods and moves away, and, after tossing the rag on a nearby table, I follow.

“I just want to know if you can really talk to my dear son, Walter,” the woman with the glasses sniffs. “He died in the war, you know.”

My mother stops shuffling and lays her slim hand over the woman’s fat one. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Mrs. Carmichael. How old was Walter when he passed?”

Cole snorts. “Why don’t you ask Walter?”

This seems so out of character that a surprised giggle escapes my lips. I turn it into a cough and watch as he fights the smile curling the corners of his mouth.

My mother stiffens and then relaxes her shoulders. “The young are always more difficult to reach. I need to know this before we begin.”

Cole lapses back into silence. Not many men can resist my mother’s smile.

“He was eighteen,” Mrs. Carmichael says softly.

My chest hollows. Not much older than I am.

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes.” The lines of the older woman’s face crinkle in sorrow and my breath catches at her anguish. “He died of dysentery soon after he landed in Europe.”

“I will do my best,” my mother promises. She turns to the Gaylords. Mr. Gaylord takes a case out of the pocket of his vest and lights a cigarette. His young wife hunches forward, eager, excited.

“And what do you wish to gain from tonight’s séance?” Mother asks.

“Oh, I don’t know!” The blonde twitches her fashionably bony shoulders. “I’ve just always been interested . . . I got tired of my old medium, and when I told old Jack here about you, well, here we are!” She giggles, and I feel my mother’s contempt. Cynthia Gaylord is a dabbler, a dilettante. She’s probably as bored with her marriage as her husband is with life and is on the constant lookout for something to fill the emptiness.

But the Cynthia Gaylords of the world are my mother’s best clients.

“Yes, well, here you are,” my mother says. I’m the only one who detects the underlying scorn.

Cole’s eyes dart about, keeping a close watch on everyone. I frown, my spine tightening. Why is he here?

I clear my throat to catch my mother’s eye and then scratch my nose, glancing at our neighbor. The signal that we might have a skeptic, come to catch us out. My mother ignores it. She’s already chosen the grief-stricken mother as her target and nothing can stop her now. Mrs. Carmichael has both money and sorrow, two things that make her the perfect mark. The other three clients are superfluous. The society couple may bring their friends back for a lark, but the old woman will be returning, her pocketbook wide open—my mother will see to it.

I finish lighting the candles and await her instructions.

“Bring me the Ouija board, darling.”

I relax slightly. Good. Maybe she won’t use the spirit cabinet tonight. It’s our most impressive act, but also the most dangerous, as those who know how the cabinet works can easily expose it by uncovering the hidden compartments. The Ouija board, on the other hand, is simple. My mother is so skilled that no one ever figures out that she’s the one manipulating the planchette.

Jack Gaylord is finally roused out of his indifference. “Is this what we paid good money for? Parlor games? What kind of tricks are you up to, Madame Van Housen?”

My mother draws herself up and glares at him. “If you would like to run the séance, Mr. Gaylord, please, be my guest. I often start with the board in order to lure out the spirits, who are shy, especially among skeptics.” Gone is her mournful voice, replaced with a commandeering tone worthy of a queen. Mother is the master of a thousand voices, and she uses each one with the skill of a butcher wielding a knife.

There’s a moment’s silence before Mrs. Gaylord stirs fretfully by his side. “Oh, Jack, really. Just let her get on with it. You’re ruining all my fun.”

His upper lip curls as he waves a hand, and, with a hidden roll of my eyes, I continue setting up the board my mother had imported from London. The teak wood gleams in the candlelight, and the bone pointer feels hard and smooth. It buzzes lightly in my fingers, as it never does for my mother. I know because I asked her once as a child what made it vibrate. Her confusion made my stomach hurt, and I remember laughing it off. I never mentioned it again.

I place the planchette on the board with a slight grimace. Though my mother has often asked me to participate in the game, I’ve always refused.

I walk over to the hall and switch off the last lamp, marveling once again that we now live in a home with electricity, even if it is courtesy of my mother’s smarmy manager.

“First, we join hands.”

“Isn’t your daughter going to join us?” Cole asks, his eyes on me.

“No. Her job is to keep me safe as I open myself up to the spirits.”

The corner of his lips twitch, and I shiver at the perceptive glance he sends me. Why do I get the feeling that he knows more about me than I want him to?

“But my dear madam, I insist. It will help calm my mind that there is no deception involved.” Though he only looks a bit older than me, his manner of speaking is so old-world that it makes me wonder where he’s from.

Mother looks as if she’s going to explode, but then she catches the eye of Mrs. Carmichael, who’s staring with open curiosity. I can almost see the gears switching as my mother tries another tactic. She tilts her head, causing her jet earrings to dangle flirtatiously. “My dear Mr. Archer, if you’re such a nonbeliever, what are you doing here?”

“Please, call me Cole. And I never said I was a non-believer. I’m open to all sorts of mystical experiences, but I was quite impressed with your daughter’s magic tonight. She’s very talented. I think I’d prefer to have her where I can see her.”

Cole pats the empty chair next to him and my heart rises up in my throat. I’ve always avoided the Ouija board like the plague. Stupid to be frightened of a mere game, but then again, I’ve never had mah-jongg tiles or checkers buzz in my hands.

Please don’t make me join,
I entreat my mother silently.

But as my mother glances again at her mark, I know I’m doomed.

“Sit, Anna.”

“But, Mother . . .”

“Sit.”

Cole’s stiff formality slips and he flashes me a knowing look, sure he’s called my mother’s bluff.

I plop down into the chair and wipe my palms off on my dress before joining hands with the others. Cole’s fingers curl slowly around mine. To my relief there is no accompanying spark like there was last time, though the feel of his hand in mine still sends heat rushing to my face. I glance over at him and am surprised to find that he looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I wonder if he came here on his own or if one of the other mediums, jealous of my mother’s growing reputation, sent him. I also wonder what his connection to Jacques is. Jacques, on my other side, also takes my hand, but his emotions are always muddled. Some people are like that—a jumble of undecipherable impressions. Jacques is one of those unreadables, part of the reason why I don’t trust him. Cole, on the other hand, isn’t even a jumble—just nothing. Strange.

My mother, voice dark and mysterious, begins her chant.

“Oh spirits, hear our plea. Join us. Speak to us. Teach us. Oh spirits, I implore you. We respectfully ask that you join us, speak to us, teach us.”

She instructs us to repeat the words after her. We follow her lead and wait again.

The blonde giggles nervously, but the older woman, leaning forward in hopeful anticipation, hushes her. Tension, as thick and smoky as burning incense, fills the air as the clients breathlessly wait for something to happen. Even Jacques, who knows better, seems strained and quiet.

“Mrs. Carmichael, please place your hand on the planchette first, as I am going to try to contact Walter. The rest of us will follow suit,” my mother instructs.

As soon as our hands unclasp, I wipe them again on my dress.

I force my breath to an even, measured rate. In and out, calm and slow.
Don’t be silly,
I tell myself.
You know more than anyone just what a farce this all is.

Hesitating, Mrs. Carmichael lays her fingers on the pointer. Everyone else follows suit except me. I bite my lip.

“Anna?” My mother’s voice holds a faint note of warning, undetectable to the others.

Trembling, I reach out my fingers but can’t make them connect. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and gingerly place my fingertips on the piece. It’s no longer cool but warm to the touch, and the slight buzzing has increased. I cast a quick glance around the table, but no one else seems to be aware of it. Lucky me.

Touching Mrs. Carmichael’s fingers opens me up to her feelings. I try to close myself off as her hope, shining and tremulous, reveals itself to me. The truth is, it isn’t the grief of my mother’s clients that rips me apart; it’s the hope.

My mother’s beautiful face is composed, her bow-shaped mouth relaxed. Her large, normally expressive eyes are flat, unreadable. 

“What’s supposed to happen?” Mrs. Gaylord whispers.

“Hell if I know,” her husband answers.

My mother ignores them, waiting. “Spirits! Use me as your mouthpiece. I am open, yours!” she bursts out. Mrs. Gaylord gives another nervous titter, but everyone else is silent. “Walter, your mother is here and would very much like to converse with you,” my mother continues in a softer tone.

Mrs. Carmichael sniffles, and my heart twists painfully.

Feeling the emotions of others is both a godsend and a curse. If I knew how to turn it off completely, I would, but I don’t know how, and God knows there isn’t anyone to ask.

“Do you have a question for your son?” Mother’s voice is quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really cared about Mrs. Carmichael’s grief. Maybe she does. It’s hard to tell with my mother.

“Ask him if he’s all right, if he’s happy,” Mrs. Carmichael’s voice thickens. Her anguish is relentless and I suck in a tight breath as the heavy mass of her grief crushes me.

Suddenly the temperature drops and I stare, shocked as an icy tendril of air snakes its way across the room. As if it has a purpose it heads right for me. Then it’s inside and I feel it moving, shifting, taking over. Terror overcomes me and I want to scream, but I’m frozen in place. A painful current shoots through my fingertips and the planchette quivers. My mother and the Gaylords jerk their fingers from the piece. Cole’s eyes widen as the planchette begins to move.
MOTHER
, it spells out under my numb fingertips,
GOD IS GOOD
.

Five

“
T
hat’s my Walter!” Mrs. Carmichael cries out. “He was such a good boy; he was going to go to divinity school.”

But the planchette isn’t done and neither, presumably, is Walter.

A piercing squeal rings inside my ears and my skin is both painfully hot and glacially cold. Walter’s spirit crams itself more fully inside my body and I’m suddenly stuffed, as if I’ve eaten too much Thanksgiving dinner. I clamp my teeth together, holding back a panicked cry as the pointer slowly, inexorably moves from letter to letter.

BE AT PEACE.

Mrs. Carmichael is sobbing openly now, and I gasp as Cole snatches up my free hand and squeezes it. A spark flares between us, just as it did the first time we touched, and I shudder as Walter vacates my body as suddenly as he arrived. Released, I yank my fingers back from the planchette, breathing hard. My mother’s eyes narrow, but I evade them.