Reverend Frew had also performed my grandmother’s service fifteen years earlier. I had hardly been to church in all that time, so the sound of his voice, the smell of the flowers, and the sounds of people sniffling brought back my grandmother’s funeral in vivid detail. My chest tightened, and I felt tears forming behind my eyes. I breathed slowly and focused on the ceiling, willing myself to gain control. Spiritualists believe that the dearly departed are merely moving to a different place. That the dead are still with us. But I knew I had never seen or spoken to my grandmother since her death.
The summer before she’d died of cancer, she’d promised to teach me how to filter the impressions that bombarded me throughout any given day. She said she could help me understand my dreams and that I probably was having “good news” dreams but was not aware of them, because they were much less intense than the “bad news” dreams. I had been thrilled with the idea of learning how to control the images and feelings that came to me uninvited.
Then she got sick and, before I knew it, before I had a chance to accept that she might not be in my life forever, she was gone. All she left was a small handwritten journal of her advice for me. I’d flipped through it briefly after her death, looking for quick answers, as only a fifteen-year-old can do. Frustrated by her advice to meditate and keep a record of my “precognitive experiences” to better hone my talent, I latched on to the one or two sentences that would free me the quickest: “Ignore your guides and they will eventually become quiet, waiting for you to seek them” and “Discounting feelings in favor of ‘facts’ will lead to unreliable and diluted information.”
I had done both. I ignored all input that wasn’t based on the normal five senses, and I never followed up on any “feelings.” Only a few messages came through after that. I dreamed of Diana’s parents dying and never told anyone, in a superstitious hope that by remaining silent I could stop it from happening. Dean Roberts had been the last straw. After Mac left for Saginaw, I told my mother I was done trying to develop any psychic ability, and our long feud began. This past May, I finally followed a hunch, and screwed up so badly that I ran home to Crystal Haven.
I must have spaced out during the eulogy, because my thoughts were interrupted by loud organ music. I didn’t recognize the song, but the organist was dragging out the notes to lend a dirge-like cadence to the piece. The coffin made its way down the aisle and out the front door, carried by Gary and several men I didn’t recognize. My mother had said some of Sara’s lawyer friends would be in attendance.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Diana. She clutched a damp tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
We slipped out along the side aisle, avoiding the reception line, where Sara’s daughters, Alison and Isabel, looked like they were holding each other up. I didn’t want to force them to make small talk with me and skipped the line. We stood blinking in the sunshine before the organist could begin his next song.
Alex beat us out of the church but got caught in conversation with Joe Stark. Joe’s hair was slicked back and touched the collar of his dark, immaculate suit. He watched Alex walk away and said something to Cecile, who looked in my direction and quickly glanced away.
“What was that about?” I asked Alex when he caught up to us.
“Stark wants me back at the restaurant ‘pronto,’” he said. “He thinks there will be a big crowd gathering after the funeral.”
“He doesn’t seem very happy today,” Diana said, shielding her eyes to better spot Stark among the crowd.
“He’s never happy,” Alex said. “He spends most of his time counting his sales receipts and grumbling about the bills.”
I was about to respond when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Mac leaning on his cane; he gave me a half smile.
“Hi.” He nodded to Diana and Alex. “Are you up to meeting with me to talk about Tish? I forgot when we made our plans yesterday that the funeral was today.”
“Yeah, I can meet with you.” I grabbed Diana’s arm as she tried to edge away. “In about an hour, Daily Grind?”
“Sure, good.” He hesitated with his hand up, and I thought he was going to hug me, but he let his arm drop and turned away.
“What’s up with him?” Diana said. “He was nice.”
I nodded as I watched him weave through the crowd.
*
I waited again at The Daily Grind. I sipped my coffee and glowered at the clear blue sky as I replayed last night’s dream. I should never have let Diana do those spells. I knew from experience that her spell work tended to bring on the dreams. I’d never told her, and certainly had never mentioned it to my mother, but something about Diana’s rituals got my dream-mind working.
For Mac’s own safety, I had to stay away from him. I’d have to pick a fight or come up with some excuse to keep my distance. It wouldn’t be any different than the past eight years, but it made me sad. I wished once again that I had been given no “gift” at all. I often wondered if my grandmother knew about her own impending death.
“Clyde . . . hello.” Mac waved his hand in front of my eyes, interrupting my thoughts.
“Hey, Mac. Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it.
“I waved to you from outside, said hello when I came in, got my coffee . . . you were off somewhere else.” He smiled and sat down.