The Aura (20 page)

I paused, clearing the lump that had caught in my throat. “When I saw her, she told me she is with Toby now and that he needs her.” A tear slid down my cheek. It tasted bitter in my mouth.

“And why do you think you are responsible for Toby’s death?”

I shifted uncomfortably on the grass. “Because it was my fault. He drowned when I was supposed to be watching him.”

“Did your parents blame you?”

“No, but they wouldn’t, would they? Not out loud at least.”

“And you were how old when it happened?”

“Ten.”

Sister Chiara closed her eyes. The only sound was of the cicadas.

“Unlike me, you can intervene, can you not?” she asked, opening her eyes.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “There was one where the aura went away, but it wasn’t my doing. He just changed his plans with no input from me. But my nephew has an aura and I don’t know if I can save him. It’s torture. I can’t exactly go round telling people they are going to die.”

I was about to say more when Sister Chiara put her hands down on the grass and pushed herself to her feet.

“Shall we start walking down? My Mother Superior will be wondering where I am.”

“But I was hoping you could help me!”

Sister Chiara didn’t reply. She smoothed out the creases in her robe with her hands, picked up the basket and turned towards the gravel road.

I jumped to my feet, feeling the blood prickle back into my feet and legs. Collecting the empty water bottle, I went after the nun, angry at the sudden lack of interest in my story. When were halfway down the hill, Sister Chiara stopped suddenly, her sensible shoes sliding on the gravel. Gesturing to me to follow her, we walked away from the road, in among the olive trees, passing around ancient specimens with twisted, scabrous trunks. The foliage was so dense that no birds nested here. It was eerily quiet and my breath sounded in my ears like the hiss of a steam engine. The nun came to a halt where the ground fell away in a steep stone-strewn drop to rolling fields beneath.

“Have you ever seen this?” she asked, pointing down the side of the hill to a house that stood alone at the end of a long driveway. The house itself was unremarkable, but to one side of it lay a large and complex maze, its winding grass alleyways bordered by manicured cypress trees. From our viewpoint, it was easy to see the intricate network of paths with multiple dead ends. I gasped in surprise. Who would build and maintain such an elaborate structure?

Reaching for Sister Chiara’s hand, I squeezed it, my chest filled with inexplicable emotion. I knew something of the history of mazes, from the legend of the Minoan labyrinth in Crete, to the proliferation of mazes and their images during the Renaissance. I had once walked the labyrinth on the floor of Chartres cathedral on a field trip from college. I surveyed the one below me. A multicursal maze of this kind, with its many choices of path and direction, represented a puzzle that must be solved in order for the maze walker to find a way out.

We gazed at the labyrinth for some time while I tried to work out in my mind which path would lead to the exit. Each time I came to a dead end.

“We should go,” said the Sister. She turned back towards the gravel road, swinging the basket, which sent out puffs of chamomile-scented air. I followed her reluctantly, wishing I had been able to look at the maze for longer. Sister Chiara walked quickly and with energy; I had to lengthen my stride to keep up. At the bottom of the hill, she turned right, away from the village. That was the way home for me too and we continued walking in silence. I had a hundred questions streaming through my head but didn’t know which one to ask. I suspected that Sister Chiara wouldn’t answer any of them.

We passed a group of women who were returning from the market carrying canvas shopping bags that overflowed with fennel, radicchio and peppers. The women looked curiously at us, and murmured respectful greetings. An aura shimmered over the gray hair of the oldest in the group. I flinched when I saw it, as much because it reminded me that my ‘gift’ was still working as out of concern for the elderly
nonna
. Sister Chiara glanced at me and gave a slight nod of her head in acknowledgement, but said nothing.

A hundred yards further along the road, Sister Chiara stopped at an arched green door set into a white stucco wall. Only a simple iron cross hanging at the top of the arch indicated that the convent lay on the other side. Beside the door hung a bell, its verdigris patina suggesting many years of service, but Chiara didn’t use it. She dug a key out of a pocket in her robe and unlocked the door, pushing it open. I glimpsed orderly paths running through trimmed lawns, which were flanked with pots of red and white flowers. Beyond the grass was a two-story stone building with a terracotta tile roof.

I’d known that there was a convent attached to the village but had never thought about it before. It was strange to think that there was a whole community tucked away behind the walls just a few hundred yards from my father’s house. Most people only see what they expect to see, blissfully unaware of the hidden secrets that lie under the exposed surface of daily life. I craned my neck to see more of the building, but Sister Chiara stepped through the gate, blocking the view. For a moment, it appeared that she would walk away without speaking, but she turned to look at me, held out her hand and patted my arm.

“Sister Chiara, what should I do?” I asked, sensing that I was about to be dismissed. “Can’t you give me some advice?”

“You don’t need my help, my dear. The solution lies within you.”

I stared at her. Her words sounded more New Age than Catholic. As if guessing what I was thinking, she laughed.

“Oh, I could tell you that this is God’s way of testing you or that this is your cross to bear, but you don’t want to hear that and it wouldn’t help. The solution is in your own hands, or more accurately, your heart. I hope you will tell me when you find it.”

“How will I reach you?” I asked, suddenly panicked at the thought of not seeing her again.

“Just come and ring the bell. I will be here.” She leaned forward and kissed me on one cheek and then the other. “
Alla prossima
,” she said. “I will be thinking of you until we meet again.”

“I was getting worried about you.” My father had to shout over the roar of the coffee grinder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, taking espresso cups down from the cupboard. “I’m sorry I took so long. I think we missed the market.”

“I don’t mind about the market. How did you do? Did you go up to the top of the hill?”

He turned off the grinder and looked at me with concern. “Paolo’s here. He wanted to see you. I hope you don’t mind?”

I got a third cup down and gave it to my father. “Of course not. I love Paolo.”

“Did anything happen?” Dad asked. “You look a little pale. I shouldn’t have let you go up there by yourself.”

I watched the espresso flow like molten bronze into the tiny cups. Dad put the cups on a tray and handed it to me, then brandished a white paper bag.

“Pistachio biscotti, your favorite,” he said, following me outside.

Entering the garden was like stepping into an Impressionist painting; the white and yellow flowers, the muted blues and greys of the table and chairs, and Paolo in his blue striped shirt and the white hat whenever the sun shone. I saw it all at a distance, like a visitor in a gallery. My thoughts were still full of Sister Chiara and of the maze.

“
Ciao, Katerina
,” Paolo said, standing up from his seat at the patio table. “
Com’e stai
?” He waited until I had set the tray down, and gave me a kiss on each cheek.

“How are your knees?” he asked. “I hope they healed quickly and there are no scars?”

I lifted one knee for his inspection. “Good as new.”

When we had sat down, I tilted my face up to the sun, hoping to empty my mind of the frenzied thoughts that filled it.

“Why is the sun in London either weak and pale or glaring and uncomfortable, yet here it feels nurturing and benign?” I asked of no one in particular.

“It’s the Tuscan air,” said Paolo proudly. He had been born in Florence and had come back after years away studying medicine in Milan and London, swearing that he would never leave again.

While he sipped his espresso, I caught him exchanging looks with my father.

“Katerina, your father is worried about you,” he said, “and I want to offer my help. If you will permit me?”

“This is an ambush, then?” I said. “Two against one?”

“Kate…” my father began.

“It’s all right, I was joking. I’m sorry because I don’t mean to worry you, Dad, not with everything you’re already going through. I wish I could tell you that I’m doing fine, but I’m not. Not really.”

“That’s what Leo said. He said you’d been up to Oxford last weekend and had been behaving a little erratically, I think was the word. He wanted me to talk to you.”

“Did he tell you about Aidan?”

My father put his cup down on the saucer.

“What about Aidan?” he asked.

Paolo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table’s blue tile surface. It appeared that Leo hadn’t shared the details about the aura with Dad. And I wasn’t ready to tell him yet either.

“Aidan witnessed a really bad traffic accident,” I said.

Dad’s face relaxed, and Paolo sat back in his chair.

“Yes, that was awful. Poor kid,” Dad said. “Leo told me, but Aidan didn’t want to talk about it. He did tell me you bought him a cell phone after that incident, so he could stay in touch. That was nice of you.”

I felt myself blushing. “Yeah. Well, it would have been good if he’d been able to call Leo to let him know why he was so late getting home. Most teenagers have a phone nowadays.”

“So back to the erratic behavior,” said Dad. “What’s going on, Katie?”

“Do you know Sister Chiara from the convent?” I asked Paolo. He frowned and tugged on his chin, giving it some thought.

“Possibly,” he replied. “I’ve met the Mother Superior and a few of the Sisters because I’ve assisted with some medical emergencies there over the years. Should I know her?”

“Dad, you’ve met her at a couple of community events, I think. Anyway, I saw her at the top of the hill today,” I said. “We walked down together.”

I saw Dad and Paolo glance at each other. Paolo’s shoulders shifted upwards in a shrug.

“Bit of a non sequitur there,” Dad said.

“She can see things,” I ventured. “She can tell when someone is suffering from a burden, as she calls it, like sadness or guilt, or pain.”

I paused, gauging the reaction of the two men. Dad looked confused but Paolo nodded as though he understood.

“Go on,” he said encouragingly.

“Well, I can see things too.” I ignored my father’s startled expression and plunged on, telling them about the aura, starting with Francesca and Sophie and ending with Rebecca. I didn’t mention Aidan. When I stopped talking, both men were silent. Dad was drumming his fingertips on the tabletop, while Paolo sat with his eyes closed.

A butterfly with amethyst wings settled briefly on the table, exploring the surface with velvety black antennae before flying away and settling on a white dahlia at the edge of the patio.

Opening his eyes, Paolo took his hat off, running his fingers through his close-cropped grey hair. “I have heard of this before,” he said.

I felt relief flow through my chest like a stream of warm water. At least he didn’t think I was mad. Not so sure about Dad though. His brow was creased in a tight frown and the finger drumming had intensified. I let the silence stretch out, unsure of what to say next. It was Paolo who broke it.

“This is related in some way to what happened on the hill then.”

I nodded.

“The car accident?” asked Dad. “You mean the injuries caused some other… damage?”

I sighed.

Paolo shook his head emphatically. “No, the injuries were superficial. I refer to Katerina’s seeing her mother that day.”

He held his hand up as Dad began to protest.

“Katerina, you believe you saw your mother and she spoke to you, isn’t that right?”

I nodded, my eyes on my father, who leaned back in his chair as though distancing himself from the conversation.

“What did she tell you?” Paolo asked.

I told him what my mother had said about being with Toby. My father clenched his hands in his lap and I leaned over to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, Dad. This is hard, but I want to share it with you because then maybe it will go away. I really want it to go away.”

He took my hand in his and squeezed it hard. “What happened to Toby wasn’t your fault,” he said. “You always took the burden of it on yourself. It broke my heart twice over, to see the impact it had on you.”

His voice broke.

“The ability to see these auras is linked in some way to your emotions about Toby and your mother, I think,” said Paolo. “If what your father says is correct and you feel guilty about your brother’s death, that could be the key.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Neither do I, really. This is out of my field.” Paolo spread his hands, palms up.

“Are you sure it’s not physical?” asked Dad. “I hate to bring it up, but maybe something to do with the brain?”

He shuddered as he spoke.

“Don’t worry about that,” I told him, even more glad now that I’d seen the doctor. “I had a CT scan, which was totally normal. The doctor couldn’t find a single thing to explain this in medical terms.”

He looked relieved for a second, but then his face scrunched up again in worry. “So now what?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought that maybe coming back here would help me sort things out. I was hoping for some kind of epiphany up on the hill, I suppose, but nothing happened.”

“You met Sister Chiara,” Paolo said.

A large white cloud with bruised purple edges moved in front of the sun as I thought about my encounter with the nun. She’d seemed special. She’d known about my ability to see auras and she had a ‘gift’ of her own. I was sure I had been meant to meet her, yet our conversation had been inconclusive.