I took in a deep breath. “I’m here because I—”
“Hush.” He leaned toward me, his arms outstretched on his desk, his hands motioning for me to put mine in them.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I set the book on my lap and leaned forward to rest my hands in his warm, dry palms. He closed his fingers lightly around mine and shut his eyes.
“Dear Lord,” he said, “with your protection and if it’s your will, help us open the door between two worlds today. Bring us only peace, and lift our hearts and souls.” Then he let go of my hands and sat back in his chair.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-three.”
“Ah,” he said with a slow nod, as if my answer revealed far more than my age.
“I don’t want to know the future,” I said quickly. I hadn’t thought of that. That he might tell me something I didn’t want to hear. What if he said my future would be even worse than my present? Not that I believed anyone truly had the ability to predict the future. Still, I didn’t want to know.
He chuckled again. “That’s very fortunate,” he said, “because I don’t know how to see into the future, although spirit will sometimes give me a glimpse into what’s coming. But I personally have one gift and one gift only: I can connect with the spirit world. As far as gifts go, that seems like more than enough for one man to be able to manage, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” I said, “though I’m not sure I believe that you—or anyone—can do even that.”
“And yet, you came here.” He hadn’t lost his smile. “You’re hopeful.”
“I guess I am,” I said. “Although…”
“Although?”
“The person I want to … to talk to was angry with me when—”
“Hush,” he said gently, and he closed his eyes again. “Let’s just see who will come. It’s better that way.”
He mumbled another short prayer, then raised his head, eyes still closed. “Ah, yes.” He spoke very calmly to the air. “I hear you. I hear you.”
I thought he was putting on quite a performance and felt foolish once again for being there. I was glad I wasn’t expected to pay for this.
He opened his eyes to half-mast. “I’m not sure yet who’s coming through,” he said. “Do you pray?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Beseeching prayers?”
“I … yes.” Every night I prayed for my baby’s health and safety. I prayed for Mimi and Pop and Vincent and Gina. I didn’t pray for Henry. Odd. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so.
“Prayers of gratitude as well?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, though I realized I hadn’t offered prayers of gratitude in a while. I was not feeling very thankful these days.
He suddenly shut his eyes and sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. “What?” he said into the air. “Yes, I hear you.” Eyes still closed he leaned a few inches toward me. “Someone is here,” he said. “I see spirit … I see … Maria?”
My heart gave a thud. I sat forward, holding my breath. “Who?” I whispered, wondering if I’d misheard.
“Maria,” he said again, then added, “Spirit is beautiful. Very peaceful.”
Tears stung my eyes and my body began to tremble. This couldn’t be real. Yet I felt myself getting roped into his game in spite of myself. I wanted to be roped in.
“Maria was my mother,” I said.
He didn’t answer. He seemed far away from me. Could he truly be connecting to my mother? If so, I needed to talk to her. “Please tell her I love her,” I said. I heard the intensity in my voice. “Please tell her I’m sorry I disappointed her.”
“Maria,” he said, “your daughter loves you very—” He stopped, tilting his head as if listening. Then he nodded, his eyes still closed. “Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me again, his closed eyelids fluttering slightly. “She says she loves you. And she asks you to finish the book for her.”
“Finish the…?”
“Do you know what she means?” he asked me. “Was she a writer?”
“No, she … Oh!” I looked down at the book in my lap. “Tell her I will.” I laughed, pressing my hand to my mouth. I felt a ridiculous surge of joy. “Tell her I’ll let her know how it ends.”
Reverend Sam opened his eyes then. “She’s gone, dear,” he said. He looked a bit drained. “What was that about the book?”
I lifted A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from my lap. “I just got this from the library,” I said, speaking quickly in my excitement. “When she died, I found the same book on her night table. She hadn’t finished it yet. I can’t believe this just happened. How did you … how is this even possible? It’s not possible,” I said, suddenly deflated. Surely this was some sort of trick. “Did Hattie tell you about me? About my mother?” Though Hattie didn’t know my mother’s name, did she? And she certainly didn’t know I’d picked up A Tree Grows in Brooklyn at the library.
“No, child,” he said patiently. “I haven’t spoken to Hattie in a couple of months.”
“Were you really talking to my mother?”
“To the best of my knowledge, I was. She knew you very well. And loves you deeply.”
“How do you do it?” I asked. “And who are you? Are you really a reverend? A minister?”
He smiled at my rush of questions. “I grew up in the next town over,” he said calmly, and I had the feeling he was accustomed to responding to doubters. “Newton. My mother was born a slave in a family that lived not far from there. They gave her a paid job after emancipation, most likely because she was a favorite of the man of the house, if you understand my meaning.” He gave me a questioning look, and I nodded. “He was almost certainly my father,” he continued, “and he sent me to a Negro boarding school and then Bennett College in Greensboro. My degree’s in philosophy, and no, I’m not a minister, but the folks around here have called me ‘reverend’ for as long as I can remember.”
“But how do you…” My voice drifted off as he nodded, knowing what I was about to ask.
“I’m not sure, is the truthful answer. When I was a little boy, I had an older sister. I was very close to her. She died of scarlet fever when I was seven or eight. One night, I was lying in bed thinking very deeply about her and I suddenly felt her spirit with me. She told me she’d been trying to contact me to let me know she was fine. I told my mother, who gave me a whippin’ for talking nonsense.” He chuckled. “So I kept my visits with my sister to myself, but I knew I’d found a way to reach her. I learned that I had to concentrate hard on her, and most of all, I had to believe she was there for me to reach out to.”
“Do you still talk to her?”
“Oh, all the time,” he said. “She’s still only nine years old, but she’s very wise.”
I nodded, disbelieving. Yet hadn’t he just talked with my mother? I couldn’t explain it.
“How did you end up here? In Hickory?”
“My father left me money and I bought this house. Mama lived here with me until she died. I married a lovely girl and we have three sons, all of whom think I’m off my rocker.” He winked at me, and I smiled. “I have five grandchildren. Two of them are fighting in the Pacific right now.”