About two years after Sarah disappeared, there were no more bodies, no more calls. Mom was pretty desperate, phoning the detectives every week, asking for new information or leads. She was always met with the same reply: there was nothing. I knew she had reached a new level of desperation when I came home one day after tennis practice to find someone named Madame Azul sitting at our kitchen table—frizzy gray hair, several mismatched cheap necklaces of wooden beads strung around her wrinkled neck, a flowing purple printed polyester dress. I knew at first sight what she was—I had seen women like her at the carnival every summer: get your palm read, know your future, only five dollars. Women like this would usually be sitting at a folding table, swathed in polyester scarves, a cheap crystal ball propped in front of them.
Once, when we were younger, I remember Sarah having her palm read by a mystic at the summer fair. “See this line here,” the woman said, pointing to a crease in her palm. “You will have a long and happy life. This line says your husband will be handsome. Oh! I think you’re going to be blessed with twins—little girls!”
Sarah had grinned at Mom and Dad, and then it was my turn. But I clenched my fist tight and shook my head. I didn’t want to know what the lines on my hand had to tell me.
“Nico, this is Azul. She’s here to talk to us about Sarah.” Mom pulled out a chair, motioning for me to sit down.
I stood next to the table, my tennis bag still slung over one shoulder. “Azul?” I said like it was a question. I saw Mom’s face tighten.
“After I had my Reiki training, I adopted a new name for myself,” the old lady said. She turned to Mom and added quietly, “My given name was weighed down with past lives and karma that I needed to release. You understand.”
Mom nodded as if this made total sense. “Nico, please, join us. Azul had a dream about Sarah and she just wanted to come by and tell us about it.” I dropped my tennis bag on the floor and took a seat.
Azul went on to tell Mom that she had seen Sarah’s face on the news and on the posters around town years ago—of course, everyone had. But more recently, she had a dream—a vision, really—of my sister. I almost spoke up then—there had been a newspaper article a week ago revisiting the case. The headline had read: Where Is Sarah Morris? The reporter had spoken to my parents and interviewed both Max and Paula, Sarah’s boyfriend and best friend. The article was full of loose ends, leads to nowhere. And, to be honest, it made Paula and Max look somewhat awful, featuring a photo of them sitting together, a big smile on Paula’s face. I wondered if Azul’s “dream” might have been inspired not by divine intervention but by the Sunday paper.
“I see water.” Azul started to speak, with her eyes closed. “It’s a happy vision, peaceful.” She opened her eyes. “Did you ever go on a vacation to a lake or near a stream or river?”
Mom shook her head. “Not that I can think of. Could there be snow? The mountains?”
I knew Mom was thinking of Max’s family cabin. It was near a lake. “This is a wooded area, very peaceful. . . .” Azul closed her eyes again and reached for Mom’s hand. “That’s all I’m getting for now, but if I meditate on it, I know I’ll see more.”
Mom let out a sigh with a small smile—a body of water in a wooded area didn’t give us any new information. Everyone knew that Sarah had disappeared at MacArthur Park, where there were woods and a reservoir. Of course Azul would “see” that.
“So, how much does this cost—your meditation, your vision?” I asked bluntly.
Azul shook her head. “I just wanted to share it with you,” she said, standing. “If the information is helpful, then blessed be.” The metal bracelets on her wrists clanged together as she leaned in to embrace Mom. “Here’s my card if you ever want to talk.”
I knew that Mom would want to talk. And she did. Not long after Azul’s unscheduled visit, Mom made an actual appointment with her and made sure Dad was home too. I could tell he believed in Azul about as much as I did, but what could we do? The detectives had come up with nothing. In fact, they hadn’t even called in months. Even after the big article, there were no new leads, just renewed speculation about Paula and Max. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten about Sarah, except for us . . . and Azul.
She came by one evening after dinner, and Mom cleared the dining room table and dimmed the lights, laughing at herself. “I don’t really know how to host a séance!” she joked. I didn’t point out that a séance was used to contact the dead. Is that what we were doing?
Azul showed up smelling strongly of pine incense. As she moved through our house, touching various objects and photos, her purple caftan wafted behind her, leaving a scent of stale Christmas trees. Once we were all seated at the table, Azul asked that we hold hands. I reached awkwardly across the table to take Dad’s hand, embarrassed that my palms were sweating. I tried to remember the last time my hand had been in his—years ago, maybe crossing a street?