Skeptic Shock

Beside her, Hayden stared out his window with intensity that she would’ve found sufficient even if he expected their missing son to dart up amid the emerald blur of passing trees. He’d folded his arms over his chest, jaw set, a vein bulging in his neck. His demeanor didn’t surprise her; he’d made sure that she knew he didn’t agree with this. There were no such things as “oracles,” he’d said. Soliciting Charissa would lead only to wasted time, effort, and money (the last, she knew, mattered most to him, though she hadn’t thought it wise to feed the argument by saying so). Yes, he’d grown desperate. Yes, he’d do anything within his power to find out what had happened to Jeremiah. But such “fantasies” didn’t deserve a moment’s consideration, let alone fifty bucks and a thirty-minute drive. He’d come only because the disappointment of finding Charissa “useless” would “tear her apart,” and she’d need someone there to pick up the pieces.

She tightened her grip on the wheel, sweat tickling her temples. A leaning sign announced Elaine St., and she turned. She slowed to a crawl, watching the numbers on the bi-levels decrease until at 1400. She’d expected something extraordinary, or at least something set apart from the rest of the homes on its block, something that announced, “Miracles happen here.” Instead, she’d stopped in front of just another house on just another street, not so much as a bright color on its shutters or siding to announce its presence. Her stomach sank.

Still silent, they piled out of the car and headed up the driveway and the path cutting through freshly-mowed grass, to the porch, where she pushed the bell. Footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened, revealing the woman whose photo she’d seen on her website. They made introductions, and Charissa ushered them inside, down half a flight of stairs and to a room offering eggplant-purple walls adorned with paintings of Greek ruins and a mirror the size of a flat-screen TV in a white plaster frame. Against two of these walls, bookshelves framed texts bound in leather of different hues—purple, burgundy, jungle-green—and titled in spindly gold script. In the center of the Persian rug accenting the ebony floors sat a glass-topped table holding a Grecian vase containing a single white rose. A Queen Anne wingback chair upholstered in cream-colored silk stood at attention on one side of the table; two duplicates, the other. At Charissa’s invitation, they all took seats, and, leaning forward with hands folded on the table, Charissa said, “Tell me.”

“So you don’t already know?” Hayden quipped, lips twitching in a humorless half-scowl.

Angelica elbowed him, and he glared at her as if she had behaved rudely.

“It’s our son,” she explained. “Went missing two weeks ago. We were hoping you could help.”

Charissa leaned back, the ebony border of her chair capping her head like a crown. “Well, as I always tell my clients, I’m at the universe’s will just like anybody else—it’s just that, for whatever reason, it likes to share some of its secrets with me. I’ll try to get something about your son, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Angelica said, and Hayden glared at her as if to tell her that they could, and should, ask for more.

 “All I need from you’s a description of your son,” Charissa said, “just so I know who I’m looking for.”

Angelica provided the details. Charissa listened and then tilted her head toward the door. “I’m gonna have you wait in the den so I can concentrate. I’d be happy to get you some coffee, or cookies, or—“

“No, thanks,” Hayden interrupted.

 “All right, then. Help yourself to the TV. I’ll call you in when I’m finished.”

She and Hayden rose and did as told, passing into a room sporting tired corduroy couches, an oak coffee table, and, as promised, a flat-screen TV on one of the cardstock-white walls. Hayden turned it on, bringing up a rerun of Maury, but didn’t sit to watch, instead pacing, scowl carving deep furrows beside his lips. She, however, took a seat.

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” he grumbled.

“I told you, Debbi said she was really helpful with—“

“You know your sister’s got a few screws loose, Angie.”

She knew no such thing. Yes, Debbi tended to overdramatize, and yes, she believed in things the human race had yet to explain. But that didn’t make her a whack-job.

Still, she didn’t feel like arguing. She had more than enough to deal with already. On one hand, she had the questions: Would Charissa find him? Would they get him back if she did? What had happened to him? Had he gotten lost? Taken? Tortured? Worse? Though she’d pondered them every waking minute since his disappearance, these thoughts stabbed her gut just as pointedly as when they’d first come to her.

And, all the while, she had the remnants. The image of his eyes, crystalline orbs that sparkled as only those of an innocent could; his smile, gilded by teeth she could only hope would get the chance to loosen and make way for newcomers; his cheeks, painted with a hint of pinkness. The echoes of the giggles with which he’d trembled as they had a tickle fight on his Spiderman comforter. Remembrance of the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his fingers caressing hers, the warmth of his breath clinging to her neck. Things of the past, but not of the present, and, save for a miracle, not of the future, either.

At the moment, she had only herself to blame for that. She should’ve kept the house quiet while he napped, in which case she might have heard the intruder entering or her son wandering off; should’ve checked on him more frequently; should’ve kept the doors and windows, especially his room’s window, locked at all times; should’ve invested in a security system when teenagers had smashed their neighbor’s mailbox. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

She hugged herself, not wanting to cry here, in the home of a stranger, in the presence of a husband who seemed in no mood to deal with her tears. She stifled them and looked at him. 

Her heart twisted at the veins that had hidden beneath his arms’ flesh just weeks ago but now bulged, and the bags dragging down his eyes. He didn’t have to curse, or scream, or cry, for her to see their nightmare eating him away, set to continue until only bones remained.

She glanced at her phone, expecting to find that hours had passed but seeing that their wait had spanned only minutes. She glanced at the TV, where a DNA test had proven that a woman’s husband was the father. She glanced out the window, into a day too bright and peaceful, as if mocking them. She looked at her phone, again, and saw that a single minute, stretched like taffy, had gone by.

The woman on the TV had started weeping, describing the “torture” her husband put her through because he hadn’t believed her when she’d told him she hadn’t betrayed him. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to the carpet.

After what seemed forever, three knocks made her jump. She turned to see Charissa in the doorway. She’d finished; they could return to the parlor. They followed her there and, again, took seats. Angelica’s stomach churned, heaving bile into her throat. Sweat plastered her blouse to her back, itching like a thousand hives. Though she’d longed for answers, now that they’d come, she didn’t want them; she wanted to wallow in “maybe,” because at least then she wouldn’t have to face “no.” She gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles blanched, knowing that she should but not having the courage to prompt the oracle.

“So what’s the deal?” Hayden demanded. No tension gripped his voice; no sweat twinkled on his forehead, denoting a skepticism whose absoluteness she found almost as amazing as frustrating.

Charissa took an amount of breath Angelica didn’t like, looking from her to Hayden and back to her. Finally, she said, “I think I know where your son is. I…I never know how to say these things, so I’ll just tell you the truth…”

Her heart plunged. Her mouth went dry. She managed one word—“No,” —before bursting into tears.

“Don’t listen to this, Angie. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Yes, she does,” Angelica insisted, struggling to regain control. Telling herself that this still left room for good news, that she hadn’t lost it all, not yet. At last, looking back at Charissa, she asked, “What’d you see?”

“Woods,” she said. “Upstate, near Corwin…I’m feeling drawn to the bushes by a stream.”

“Corwin,” Angelica repeated. “That’s right near Debbi.” She swallowed what felt like a baseball-sized lump. “Is he…Is he okay?”

Charissa shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

Fresh sobs hit, harder, even, than the last. She hugged herself, lightning shooting through her bones. Hayden held her stiffly, telling her again that Charissa didn’t know what she was talking about, that she’d worked herself up over nothing.

When the sobs abated, she glared at him. “We’ll see, then, won’t we?”

She wouldn’t have dreamed of asking Debbi to go looking for her nephew’s corpse. But Debbi had a friend nearby. Of course, no one would consider this task easy, but she assumed that Valencia, a police officer, was better equipped to handle it than just about anyone else. 

She slipped her phone from her pocket and placed the call. As expected, Debbi needed time to recover from the shock and horror Angelica had inflicted, but, once she’d done so, she agreed to have Valencia check it out and to let her know what she found, if anything.

           She thanked her, hung up, and tucked the phone back into her pocket. She knew that she should leave Charissa alone, but she couldn’t imagine driving right now. She asked Hayden if he wouldn’t mind.

           Hayden shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m not gonna drive somebody else’s car.”

           “But—“

           “We’ll just have to wait here ‘til you calm down.”

           “I don’t wanna put Charissa out.”

           “It’s no trouble,” Charissa said. “I wouldn’t want you to drive when you’re not up for it.”

           She wanted to ask her why she cared—she didn’t even know her—but didn’t. She didn’t have the energy for interrogation, either.

           Charissa suggested that they go to the other room again so that they could watch TV. There, they waited. More glances at her phone. The TV droning: same talk show, different talk show, evening news. Nothing that penetrated the sauna encasing her.

           They said little. She didn’t want to voice the storm churning inside her, or to add to Hayden’s burden. Charissa again offered food and drink, and, again, they declined. Time seemed to have stopped.

           Finally, a ring. She shot bolt-upright. Again, now that what she’d wanted had come, she no longer wanted it.

           She pulled her phone out of her pocket, pressed “talk,” and answered, “What’s going on, Deb?”

           A pause. “I’m sorry.”

She exploded. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor. Hayden picked it up; as if through water, she heard him talking to Debbi, asking her for the details, as if that mattered, as if he wanted them. She trembled and shivered and sobbed, a mess of tears that neither of her companions deserved.

           He came to her. Placed a hand on her back. It provided no comfort—no comfort existed for her now. Her little boy, all alone, discarded like trash in woods where, save for Charissa, no one would ever have found him.

           When, at last, she regained some semblance of composure, he told her what she already knew: They didn’t know cause of death. They didn’t know who’d done this, or when. Cops needed to process the scene. The ME needed to conduct an autopsy. Hopefully, that would give them more information. Probably, it wouldn’t. They could claim the body once the morgue had finished with it.   

And then his eyes turned. Hardened. He glared at Charissa. “What do you know?”

           Charissa’s brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking—“

           “Don’t give me that. I’m not an idiot. There’s no way you could’ve known if you weren’t—“

           “You think I had something to do with what happened to your son?” she asked, eyes wide. “Are you kidding? I didn’t even know him.”

           “And why should I believe that?”

           He’d left Angelica now, inching forward, face as red as a stop sign, veins throbbing in his temples. Angelica’s stomach clenched—she wanted to move, to grab him and pull him back, but had neither the strength nor the energy.

           “I swear, I wouldn’t know your son from Adam, other than the description you gave me,” Charissa said, trying but unable to keep her tone steady. “Like I said, I have a gift, and—“

           “Oh, yeah. And fairies and unicorns exist, right?” He stepped closer, so close that she could probably feel his breath sticking to her forehead.

           Finally, Angelica found voice: “Hayden, don’t—“

           “Stay out of this, Ange,” he said, spinning to lash her with a glare that could’ve cut steel and then turning back to Charissa. The oracle had retreated, pressing herself against the wall, but he followed, fists raised and clenched so tightly that his knuckles became white bands. “What’d you do to my son?”

           “I didn’t do any—“

           “Don’t give me that.” His fist swooped in, smashing her jaw with force that sent her staggering, clutching the area. Hayden pounded her again, this time in the gut; the wind left her with a sickening gasp. Fighting her paralysis, Angelica flung herself at him; he shrugged her off and landed another blow. Charissa groaned and crumpled, still struggling for breath.

           “I don’t know what you know,” Hayden said, “but you haven’t heard the last of it. The cops’re gonna hear all about this.” He spun and stalked out of the room.

           Angelica stood there, trembling, tears icing cheeks. She had so much to say to Charissa, and, yet, she couldn’t justify saying it, because none of it could atone for what she’d brought into her life. Thanking her for what she’d done would seem, at this point, akin to complimenting someone’s hair after proclaiming them the most hideous specimen ever to blight the human race.

           At last, she reached into her wallet, withdrew Charissa’s fee plus fifty percent, and tossed it onto the table. Charissa didn’t even look at it.