In my great-grandfather’s manuals, “A Student” had described how often messages were inaccurate, and how this made charging fees and offering yourself as a medium unethical. To confuse the fitful and unstable sights and sounds of the lower astral plane, which seem so wonderful to the novice, with the steady, pure radiance of the Divine Spiritual Light is profanation! The messages coming from the lower astral plane, “A Student” claimed, were always confused and misleading. I wanted to approach Reverend Earline with this bit of advice. I wasn’t sure what reception I’d receive, but I was looking for acceptance at the time and was intent on corralling her.
As she finished up the circle, she called out one last message. “I have a message from an older gentleman. He is trying to speak to his daughter. Has anyone recently lost a father, or a father figure?”
Earline’s voice, grating, high-pitched, rang out into the room. I heard a few mumbles, some shuffling feet. No one claimed the old gentleman, but I thought of my grandfather, and even though his message wasn’t for me, I wanted to call out, to hear what his message might be. Del pinched my arm, cautioning me. I closed my eyes and smelled the fresh oil paint on the clapboards. “He is enamored of our organ, and once looked forward to hearing its notes in the evenings,” Earline said.
The circle proceeded like an auction, the souls of the dead and their lost messages divvied up among this group of strangers. How sad, I thought. I waited for Earline to say more, but she did not. I planned to confront her once the circle was finished. Soon the folding chairs clattered along the wood floor. The attendees’ voices swelled, and the doors fell open, and everyone came out. Clusters of people emerged, their feet moving past us. Del and I remained behind the viburnum, the large leaves keeping us hidden, until a pair of Bernardo sandals joined the group, and I peered out to note the woman’s wicker purse—our mother’s purse. She wore large sunglasses, the skirt and blouse she had on that morning when she left the house.
Del nudged me, having seen her, too. Our mother moved among the Spiritualists until we lost sight of her on the lane leading down between the cottages. We crept from our hiding place, but by the time we entered the temple, Reverend Earline had gone.
“She’s disappeared into the ether,” Del said, her eyes wide.
“Our mother, too,” I said.
“Why didn’t she answer when the old gentleman wanted to speak to her?” Del said.
We walked down to the little beach to sit in the sand and eat our sandwiches. I didn’t want to believe then that it may not have been her “old gentleman.”
“She must not want to hear his message,” I said.
“Then why come?” Del said. She broke off bite-size pieces of her sandwich and put them in her mouth.
The Spiritualists’ children were gone—all called in to lunch. I buried my feet in the warm sand. “There may be someone else she wants to hear from.”
We couldn’t conceive who our mother might wish to contact, who she’d known who had died. We knew very little about our mother’s life. Sometimes, our grandmother would talk about old boyfriends our mother had spurned, boys who drove from college in their sports cars to the house.
“Drove five hours from Penn and she wouldn’t even come downstairs to say hello,” my grandmother had said.
“Maybe one of the old boyfriends,” I said. This idea was tantalizing, and it overshadowed, somewhat, my regret at not hearing my grandfather’s message.
We both knew that we couldn’t let our mother know we were there, but it would be our mother, and the chance of eavesdropping on her, that brought us back down the wooded gravel road again and again that summer, hoping for a glimpse of her in the medium’s cottage, eager to hear her claim a message in the spirit circle. If she ever returned, we never saw her, and once we were caught playing clairvoyants Del lost interest. Eventually, my attraction to the Spiritualists ended as well. I’d grow to dislike the way their mediums drew people in with false hope and provided paltry messages that might not have come from anyone they knew. Those of the lower astral plane were tricky, tiring, and deceitful. You could trust the messages just about as much as you trusted the things you saw in your sleep.
7
Del’s visit extended to over two weeks. On the days I had classes I didn’t know what she did or where she went, and when I asked she was always vague. “Here and there,” she’d say. “Out and about.” It was my responsibility to shop for food, to buy shampoo and soap. Del would add things to the list—razor blades, rat poison, clothesline rope.
“What is this?” I said, shaking the list at her.
Del stood at the mirror trying on winter hats from a pile she’d thrown on the bed. I had no idea where she’d gotten them. “I was kidding,” she said. “You don’t joke anymore. You’ve gotten old.”
“I don’t think this is funny,” I said.
Del turned to me wearing a faux fur Russian hat. “Because you’re worried I’m crazy.” She pulled the hat’s flaps over her ears.
“You look it wearing that,” I said.
I crossed out her ridiculous additions to the list, folded it over, and tucked it into my purse.
I came home from Wegmans, lugging the bags up the stairs, and discovered her setting up an old television, fiddling with its connections.
“Does that even work?” I said. “Where did you get it?”