Deadly Little Lessons (6 page)

A
FTER MY SESSION WITH DR. TYLYN
, I head to Knead in lieu of going home. Spencer seems happy to see me—or at least, happy for the diversion. Now that he’s finished sculpting his life-size ballerina—which is currently displayed in the front store window instead of in the Met in New York; I mean, the thing is a museumworthy masterpiece—he’s decided to switch gears (and media) to sculpt a bust.

Of himself.

“I’m not trying to be narcissistic or anything,” he says of the mirror propped up against the wall, “but I need a demo for the class I’ll be teaching this summer.”

“So it has nothing to do with the fact that you enjoy looking at yourself in the mirror?”

“That’s just an added perk.” He pushes back his Fabio-like hair. “So, what brings you here on this bright, sunny morning?”

“Same as you. I’m here to work.” I lift the tarp off my work-in-progress: a vaselike bowl. I started it around the time that Ben and I broke up, and I’ve been toiling away at it ever since.

When I first began the bowl, I imagined entwined limbs; sides that curved inward like the small of a woman’s back; and a curvy base. I even took a figure-drawing class, in view of all the “body” in my bowl—to try to get the piece where it needed to be. But now that Ben’s gone—or perhaps
because
he is—it seems I’ve lost my inspiration.

“Still stuck?” Spencer asks.

“It’s so weird,” I tell him. “I mean, I started this project to get over Ben, but now that he’s gone, it’s like I need him back to finish.”

“Basically, a clear-cut case of out of sight, out of mind.”

“
Basically
, or literally?”

“But, then again, Ben hasn’t exactly
left
your mind, has he?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I have eyes,” he says, adding a bit of squint to the eyes of his sculpture. “And I’m also an artist. We artists can smell love loss from a mile away.”

“Are you sure you aren’t merely smelling your own body odor?” I joke, peeking at the sweat stains under the arms of his T-shirt. “Besides, I have Adam, remember? Or are you starting to forget things in your old age?”

“Feisty today, aren’t we?”

“I guess you have that effect on me.” I run my fingers over the sides of my bowl, at a complete loss.

“You know what you need?”

“A dose of inspiration and for people to simply be straight with me?”

“Trouble in platonic paradise? Am I to assume that you and Adam are having issues?”

“Who says I was talking about Adam?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” He looks up from shaping a pair of clay nostrils. “Is there some other screwed-up drama going on in your life that I’m currently unaware of?”

“What makes you think that my relationship with Adam is platonic?” I ask.

Spencer lets out a laugh, as if the answer were completely obvious. “Can you honestly tell me that things between you and Adam are ache-until-your-loins-sweat hot?”

“Okay, totally inappropriate conversation…Plus, FYI, love isn’t supposed to ache.”

“Are you kidding? There’s
only
heartache with love. Everything else is just hokey-pokey.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I say. “But for the record, things between Adam and me
aren’t
exactly platonic.”

Spencer waves my words away, as if they had zero meaning. “What you need is some time away.” He nods toward my pathetic sculpture and then reminds me that his recent trip to Nice was just what the doctor ordered in terms of getting his mojo back. “How do you think I was finally able to finish Monica?” he asks, referring to his ballerina sculpture.

“And where do you suppose I go?”

“Well, for starters, what’s your plan this summer?”

“Work here, be depressed, eat obscene amounts of ice cream to ward off said depression.” Unfortunately, I’m only half joking.

“You know what you should do?”

“Get a gallon of fudge ripple and an extra-large spoon?”

“Check out some of the summer intensives being offered at various colleges—something in sculpture theory or an abstract design course that will help inform your work. It could give you a real advantage when applying to schools next year.”

“I suppose,” I say, thinking about Kimmie’s internship at Bonnie Jensen. Despite all the family drama involving her parents’ separation, she’s still pursuing what she wants.

“I don’t need to tell you that both Savannah and RISD have top-notch programs. And, since I’m an alum of both programs”—he pauses to pat himself on the back—“I may be inclined to provide a bit of pull. For a reasonable fee, anyway.” He winks.

We spend the next several minutes discussing the idea more, including the pros and cons of various programs, as well as their geographical benefits (i.e., powdery beach sand versus being close enough that Adam can visit).

“Do you think your parents will be supportive?” Spencer asks.

“Honestly, they have no right not to be.” For all I know, they may actually welcome the idea of my being away. It might actually benefit us all.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Spencer asks. “No more bouts of temporary insanity, I hope.”

“No,” I say, fully aware that he’s alluding to what happened at the studio a few months back. While working on a sculpture here, I had a major psychometric premonition that included both visions and voices. The result wasn’t pretty, and involved my being pinned to the floor by a group of EMTs and jabbed in the leg with a sedative.

Spencer saw the whole thing. But oddly enough, we haven’t really talked about it, so he thinks it was just a seizure.

“So here’s what I need you to do for me today,” Spencer begins.

“I kind of thought I was here to fix my project.”

“Yeah, right.” He laughs, looking down at my pathetic sculpture. “Give me a hand—literally.” He plops a wad of clay in front of me. “In addition to busts, I need various body parts for this class. Think you can mold me one?”

“No sweat,” I say, happy to abandon my work-in-progress—for now, anyway.

While Spencer goes into his office to make a phone call, I wedge out my clay, taking note of my knuckles and joints in preparation for my sculpture. And then I begin to form the shape, beginning with the wrist.

A couple of seconds later, I’m interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing in my bag. I’m tempted to pick it up, suspecting it may be Adam, but since my fingers are thoroughly saturated with clay, I decide to let it go to voice mail.

I close my eyes, trying my best to concentrate, even though part of me fears that I may have a psychometric episode (since I’m here at Knead rather than at home in the privacy of my own studio). I continue to work anyway, reassuring myself that my pottery has been premonition-free lately, and so have my dreams. The clay is silky-smooth against my waterlogged fingertips. I run my palms over the mound, thinking about Spencer’s suggestion that I get away.

But then I hear someone crying.

I look toward Spencer’s office, but the door is closed. Spencer’s in the kiln room. I can see him loading the kiln with pieces ready for firing. Still, the crying persists. (A female; I’m almost sure of it.) I close my eyes again and concentrate on my sculpture, assuming that the voice is in my head, and that this in fact is part of a premonition, but with each breath the crying gets softer and less urgent.

“How’s it coming?” Spencer asks, stepping out of the kiln room.

“Did you just hear something?” I ask.

“Something like me loading the kiln with a bunch of tacky garden trolls?”

“I guess,” I say, unwilling to get into it. Instead I look back down at my hand-in-progress, expecting to see a partially formed wrist.

But instead I see the shape of the letter
t
: two intersecting tubes of clay stare up at me, confusing me, shocking me, making my heart beat fast.

“Is everything okay?” Spencer asks. “No chance I’ll find you writhing around on the floor and moaning like a wounded cat?”

I shake my head and roll the
t
up into a ball before he has a chance to see it. “I’ll be fine.” I do my best to form fingers from the mound of clay, but I can’t think straight. Meanwhile, the faraway whimper continues to play in my mind.

L
ATER, AT HOME
, still shaken up about the voice I heard at the pottery studio, I log on to my computer and do a search for the word
psychometry
, remembering a blog I cyberstumbled upon a few months back called Psychometrically Suzy.

On her blog, Suzy talked about an incident in which she heard her father’s voice, long after he’d passed away, while touching an old hat that had belonged to him. There were a couple of similar entries—instances where she was able to touch an item and smell, see, or hear something from the past—but unfortunately, in none of the posts did she discuss how she coped or dealt with what was happening or how having a touch power affected her life and relationships.

And right now I kind of need that. I need someone I can talk to, or at least read about, who understands, firsthand, what I’m going through, especially since Ben isn’t here.

Not so surprisingly, there still isn’t too much else online about psychometry. I find a couple of sites dedicated to defining what it is, a site to help people develop their own touch powers, and another that says that those who possess extrasensory powers are doomed to the depths of hell. As if I needed hell on my plate in addition to everything else.

I click on a blog entitled Touched, written by someone named Neal Moche. Since there are no pictures, nor any details about the author, my first thought is that it’s going to be a dud, but even so, I identify with it right away.

There are pages and pages of entries. Some of them are locked, but a few are open, for anyone to read. And so I start with the one that was written yesterday.

From the Journal of Neal Moche


He’s here again, at the park. Three days in a row now. This is obviously his routine. He likes to come here on his coffee breaks, have a bite and get a smoke, and then go back to work two streets over.


It feels weird keeping tabs on someone I don’t even know, some guy I’ve never met before, but psychometry does that to you. It gets you up close and personal in other people’s business whether you want it to or not.


So far, I know what this guy drives (a Ford pickup with a dented fender); where he likes to hang out (here, Tidy’s Bar, and Village Billiards); and that he works in construction doing odd jobs.


I almost wish that I didn’t know any of it, almost wish that I’d never made a pit stop here as I was passing through town, that I’d never accidentally brushed up against him in line that day and gotten that sudden shock. For the record, I haven’t sensed something that intense in months.


We’d been standing in line at the pretzel cart. He stumbled back as he fished in his pocket. In doing so, he bumped into me, which isn’t easy. I always keep a good distance from people; I like my personal space and then some. But he managed to collide with me anyway, stepping right on my feet.


That’s when I got dizzy. It’s also when I sensed his plans for later that day and found myself struggling to stay upright.


He was going to head home, drink some more, and then smack his girlfriend across the face. I could see his finger marks on her skin. The image was fleeting, but I was able to see that she had blond hair, brown eyes, and a tattoo of a cross on her neck. Quite a bit of detail, but still not nearly enough to know who she was, or where to find her.


A
fter the guy stumbled, he looked at me and slurred out a “Sorry,” but an apology was the last thing on my mind, because there was so much more going on than what I’d sensed about his girlfriend.


It’s hard to explain. I mean, I sense stuff all the time. As much as I try to avoid colliding with people, it happens. And every time I do, I see stuff that I’d rather not know about.


But this was different—like a bolt of lightning striking inside my head, nearly knocking me to the ground. My pulse started racing and I felt my face flash hot, and in that moment, as screwed-up as it may sound, I almost felt as if we were supposed to bump into each other, as if it might somehow impact my life.


“Don’t do it,” I told him, referring to his afternoon plans for his girlfriend. The response was more impulsive than smart.


“Huh?” he asked. A goofy grin crossed his face.


I didn’t know what to say, so I walked away, which got me a night full of restless sleep, unable to blot out those finger marks, and unable to stop myself from guessing the reason his touch had made me feel like that.


I sink back in my seat, feeling chills run over my skin. The author of this blog seems to know exactly how I feel—haunted, confused, alone, responsible. I search the page, curious about Neal’s contact info—if there might be a link to e-mail him or post a comment. But I don’t see either option.

“Hey, there,” Dad says, poking his head into my room. “Do you have a minute?”

I go offline just as he walks in.

“Kimmie phoned while you were out,” he says, without waiting for my response. “She said she’d tried to get you on your cell, but that you didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, right.” I nod, remembering the missed call at the studio. “I need to call her back.” As well as Adam and Wes. “Did she happen to also mention her internship in New York this summer?” I ask, wondering if I should broach the topic about going away.

Dad barely shakes his head before taking a seat on my bed. “How did your appointment with Dr. Tylyn go?” he asks.

“Fine. I mean, helpful. But, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the news.”

“A good therapist never shows surprise.”

“I guess,” I say, still suspecting there may be more to it than just a good poker face.

“So, your mom and I have been discussing everything, and—”

“Where is she?” I ask, cutting him off.

“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. She’s at the hospital, visiting with Aunt Alexia.”

“She isn’t going to tell her, is she?” I ask, trying to imagine what it might be like if Aunt Alexia knew that I knew the truth. How would it change things between us?

“No. And we’d prefer it if you didn’t say anything to her, either. Your mom thinks it’d be too hard for Alexia, especially if she
has
somehow blocked it out.”

“Too hard for
her
?” I ask, wondering how—or if—I even factor in to the equation.

“It’s hard for us, too,” he says, looking down into his hands, perhaps wishing, like me, that things could go back to the way they were. “Anyway, it’s good that Dr. Tylyn knows the truth now. She’ll know what to do—how to use the information to help us get through this.” He looks up from his hands and gives me a tiny smile, but there’s zero happiness behind it. His eyes look strained and tired.

I want to tell him that none of this even matters and that things will eventually return to normal. But I’m not sure if either of these things is true, which somehow feels worse than finding out about my birth.

After he leaves the room, I start searching for summer intensive pottery programs, grateful for the distraction. Several pop up right away. I’m just about to check out the one at Savannah College of Art, remembering that Spencer recommended it. But something else catches my eye: the words
Renowned Master Potter Chase DeLande to Lecture at
Sumner’s Summer Intensive
. I click on it and Sumner College’s pretty New England campus sprawls across the screen in full, sweeping color with the heading
SUMMER INTENSIVES FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS
. I open up another browser window to do a separate Google search on the town of Peachtree, Rhode Island, where the college is located.

A bunch of links pop up: news reports, cultural info, and event happenings. Both Peachtree and the program at Sumner appear to be rich in art and opportunity. But surprisingly, the link that catches my interest the most involves Sasha Beckerman, the girl who’s been missing.