“Really? Why?” I could hardly imagine Hugh, with his stiff collars and slightly too-wide ties, as a boy, let alone as a boy who visited mediums. He was a member of the theater group, but rarely appeared onstage, preferring to do lighting and staging. Though he’d lived in the U.S. since he was a teenager, his gentle Scots accent was still pronounced.
“Hugh seems very intuitive,” J.C. had said when she suggested that he be invited. “I’m sure it comes from his Celtic roots.”
“My mother was very jealous. My father died in the arms of another woman when I was just a boy. She was keeping tabs on him.”
Rachel burst with laughter, but when I saw how serious his face was, I was immediately embarrassed for Rachel and him both.
“That must have been terrible for you.”
Then he smiled. “Ah, the medium—Mrs. Strum—she cared nothing for my mother. Only her weekly money. To hear her tell it, my father was dallying with a new dead woman every month or so. I wish I could say it was harmless fun, but she was constantly distraught about it. Rachel is right to laugh. It was a strange deceit, but also cruel.”
“So you’re not a believer, then.”
Hugh shrugged. “J.C. doesn’t seem to be looking for any money. It can’t hurt.” He looked steadily into my eyes, making me feel self-conscious. “Are you expecting to talk to your little girl, then?”
“Is everything ready, Terrance?”
I confess I was relieved at J.C.’s interruption. She was looking in my direction; I turned to see Terrance standing just outside the dining room, in the hall.
He nodded.
We sat around the library’s circular games table, which Press and Terrance had placed directly beneath the chandelier in the hall. J.C. had arranged half a dozen lighted candles near the walls, livening the faces in the surrounding portraits; a single candle flickered in the center of the table, washing the six of us in muted gold.
Rachel giggled and squeezed my hand. “We should be able to have wine while we’re doing this.”
“I think you’ve had enough wine.” Jack said it quietly, but the openness of the hall magnified his voice. “That baby’s going to be born with a cocktail glass in his hand.”
Rachel started to argue, but J.C. shushed us, saying we needed to close our eyes and listen to her instructions. Press breathed a heavy sigh, and I wondered what he really thought of what we were doing. He had to be thinking of Eva. Would she speak to him? Would he ask her forgiveness?
It all felt so strange, as though we’d left Bliss House for some other place. Though the hall was immense, our world didn’t extend beyond the weak light of the candle in front of me.
Then Press’s lips were at my ear. He whispered, “It’s going to be fine, Charlotte. I’m right here.” When he kissed me on the cheek, it chilled me. It was as though he were in a play, acting a part.
How could I continue with him so close? I was no more sure of him than I was of the possibility that our dead daughter would return to us. There was Michael to worry about—I had almost lost him as well. And my father.
For the longest time, we sat, silent. J.C. told us to let our minds drift, to acknowledge any worries or sad thoughts and let them pass through us. At first it was uncomfortable to sit there holding Rachel’s small, cool hand in one of mine, and to have Press’s larger hand gripping my other. I could hear the sighs and swallows of everyone around the table. How intimate we were, and how awkward it felt. But soon, indeed, I forgot everyone else and no longer even felt my hands, but was lost in thoughts of my father. Was he happy? Nonie would be with him at the hospital, making sure he was comfortable and that he had everything he needed. I thought of my old room in our house, with its white curtains and matching bedspread and how I would run my fingers over the spread, counting, counting the rows of tiny knots on its surface with my fingertips, and I was full of wanting for just a few minutes back in that room. How much did I want to run there and be surrounded by the morning smells of bacon and coffee that had reassured me that Nonie was there in the kitchen, waiting for me to come downstairs?
Breathing deeply, I could smell Rachel’s My Sin, and I remembered the day we’d ridden the bus downtown to buy it for the first time, and how the saleswoman had sprayed it on both of our wrists, but Rachel was the one who wanted it, telling me that a woman had to have a signature scent, so I had to find my own perfume. The saleswoman had told me that I was a girl for White Shoulders if ever she’d seen one.
“Subtly innocent,” she’d said. “In the very best way.”
Rachel had smirked.