ALICE
One reason infants can’t remember events when they are very small is that they don’t have the language to describe them. Their vocal cords simply aren’t equipped, until a certain age, which means instead they use their larynxes for emergency situations only. In fact, there is a direct projection that goes from the amygdala of an infant to his voice box, which can make that baby cry very quickly in a situation of extreme distress. It’s such a universal sound that studies have been done showing that just about every other human—even college-age boys who have no experience with babies—will try to provide assistance.
As the child grows, the larynx matures and is capable of speech. The sound of crying changes as babies turn two or three, and as it does, people not only become less likely to want to help them but actually respond to the sound with feelings of annoyance. For this reason, children learn to “use their words”—because that’s the only way they can get attention.
But what happens to that original projection, the nerve that runs from the amygdala to the larynx? Well … nothing. Even as vocal cords grow up around it like heliotrope, it stays where it was, and is very rarely used. Until, that is, someone leaps out from beneath your bed at right at sleepaway camp. Or you turn a corner in a dark alley and a raccoon jumps into your path. Or any other moment of complete and abject terror. When that happens, the “alarm” sounds. In fact, the noise you’ll make is one you probably could not replicate voluntarily if you tried.
SERENITY
Back when I was good at this kind of thing, if I wanted to contact someone in particular who had passed, I’d rely on Desmond and Lucinda, my spirit guides. I imagined them as telephone operators connecting to a direct office line, because it was so much more efficient than having an open house and sorting through the hordes to find the individual I was hoping to speak to.
That’s called open channeling: You put out your shingle, open for business, and brace yourself. It’s a little like a news conference, with everyone shouting out questions at once. It’s hell for the medium, incidentally. But I suppose it’s no worse than putting out feelers and having no one show up.
I ask Jenna to find me a place that she thinks was special to her mother, and so the three of us trek back to the elephant sanctuary grounds, hiking to a spot where a giant oak with arms like a titan presides over a patch of purple mushrooms. “I come here sometimes to hang out,” Jenna said. “My mom used to bring me.”
It’s almost ethereal, the way the mushrooms create a little magic carpet. “How come these don’t grow everywhere?” I ask.
Jenna shakes her head. “I don’t know. According to my mom’s journals, it’s where Maura’s calf was buried.”
“Maybe it’s nature’s way of remembering,” I guess.
“More like it’s the extra nitrates in the soil,” Virgil mutters.
I shoot him a sharp glance. “No negativity. Spirits can feel that.”
Virgil looks like he’s about to have a root canal. “Should I just go over there or something?” He points off into the distance.
“No, we need you. This is about energy,” I say. “That’s how spirits manifest.”
So we all sit down, Jenna nervous, Virgil reluctant, and me—well—desperate. I close my eyes and wing a little prayer to the powers that be: I will never ask for my Gift again, if you let me do this one thing for her.
Maybe Jenna is right; maybe her mother has been trying to communicate with her all along, but until now, she was unwilling to accept the fact that Alice was dead. Maybe she’s finally ready to listen.
“So,” Jenna whispers. “Should we hold hands?”
I used to have clients who would ask how they could tell their loved ones that they missed them. You just did, I would say. It really is that easy. So this is what I tell Jenna to do. “Tell her why you want to talk to her.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“To me, maybe not to her.”
“Well.” Jenna swallows. “I don’t know if you can miss someone you can barely remember, but that’s how I feel. I used to make up stories about why you hadn’t been able to come back to me. You were captured by pirates, and you had to sail around the Caribbean looking for gold, but every night you looked at the stars and thought, At least Jenna’s seeing them, too. Or you had amnesia, and you lived every day trying to find clues about your past, like all these tiny arrows that would point you back to me. Or you were on a secret mission for the country, and you couldn’t reveal who you were without blowing your cover, and when you finally came home and flags were waving and crowds were cheering I’d get to see you as a hero. My English teachers said I had the most amazing imagination, but they didn’t understand, it wasn’t make-believe to me. It was so real that sometimes it hurt, like a stitch in your side when you run too hard, or the ache in your legs when you have growing pains. But I guess it turns out that maybe you couldn’t come to me. So I’m trying to get to you.”
I look at her. “Anything?”
Jenna takes a deep breath. “No.”
What would make Alice Metcalf, wherever she is, stop and listen?
Sometimes the universe gives you a gift. You see a girl, terrified that her mother is gone forever, and you finally understand what needs to be done.
“Jenna.” I gasp. “Can you see her?”
She jerks her head around. “Where?”
I point. “Right there.”
“I don’t see anything,” she says, near tears.
“You have to focus …”
Even Virgil is leaning forward now, squinting.
“I can’t …”
“Then you’re not trying hard enough,” I snap. “She’s getting brighter, Jenna—that light, it’s swallowing her. She’s leaving this world. This is your last chance.”
What would make a mother pay attention?
Her child’s cry.
“Mom!” Jenna shrieks until her voice is hoarse, until she’s bent forward in the field of violet mushrooms. “She’s gone?” Jenna sobs, frantic. “She’s really gone?”
I crawl forward to put my arm around her, wondering how to explain that I never really saw Alice at all, that I lied to get Jenna to pour her heart into that one desperate word. Virgil gets to his feet, scowling. “It’s all crap, anyway,” he mutters.
“What’s this?” I ask.
I reach for the sharp object that has poked into my calf, making me wince. It’s buried under the heads of the mushrooms, invisible, until I dig through their roots and find a tooth.