Goodnight Blackbird (20 page)

P
ortland's rainy greyness hid a surprisingly snazzy little city. It was artsy and people-friendly; it had an aerial tram and shabby-chic seafood restaurants in converted warehouses. It also had the world's largest bookstore—Powell's, which took up an entire city block—about ten blocks away from Darren's room in the Embassy Suites on Southwest Pine Street. All of this was pointed out to him by his tour guide, a Magruder-Cartwright junior VP named Bethany Barkley, a loud but good-natured woman with the glam looks of a faded anchorwoman and the edgy energy of a coke addict. She drove her Mercedes as if she were in a chase scene in a Bond flick, pointing out the sights along the way as Darren gripped his leather seat for dear life.

"And now we're about to sit in traffic on the Pacific Highway for fifteen minutes," she said. She blared her horn at a Volvo with California plates in front of her. "Move your ass! Fucking Californians."

"You don't like Californians here?"

She grinned at him. "We eat Californians."

"I think," Darren told Khabir later that night on the phone, "I could be happy here." It had been a long but satisfying day, and he lay on his hotel bed watching CNN with the sound off.

"The interview went well?"

"I thought so. They even introduced me to some of the lower-level executives. They probably wouldn't have done that if I didn't have a shot." Darren had been impressed by the size and opulence of the headquarters building, and he thought he would enjoy working with Bethany. He wished he had had the presence of mind to check her hand for a wedding ring. Darren allowed himself a fleeting fantasy in which the two of them were involved—which would no doubt be a harrowing but not wholly unenjoyable experience. She seemed nice but not quite the sweet, nurturing kind. He imagined her jabbing a finger at a cowed beau and saying,
You, sit! I'm going to nurture you now! And you will like it!

"You sure you could live there?" Khabir said. "It rains fourteen months out of the year there."

The rain didn't bother Darren. Let it pour. It would be baptismal rain; he would be born again. Then something occurred to him. "I'm almost afraid to ask. How did it go?" Last night Khabir had had a date thanks to Darren. He had set Khabir up with the sister of Northeast Aerospace's Toledo plant manager. She sang in local jazz clubs in the Cleveland area and supposedly had a disposition that made Eeyore sound like a motivational speaker. In other words, perfect for Khabir.

Khabir took a deep, dramatic breath. "My friend, I... am... in love."

Darren smiled. "So it went well."

"We talked for three hours. She actually asked me questions. That never happens. She reads Camus and thinks mankind is a degenerate, doomed species. She's perfect. I owe you one, Darren."

"Yes, you do."

"You know, even if you get the job, you're still gonna have to pay the note on that house until you can sell it. You sure you can handle that?"

"One step ahead of you. Remember the Archangel Society? There was an ad on their site from a young couple in L.A. in the market for a legitimately haunted house, location unimportant. Apparently they collect them. Don't ask me why. The girl comes from money and the guy was a writer for some supernatural cable show that got cancelled."

"They're really gonna buy the place?"

"They said they'd have to look it over. They have some pretty high standards. 'Cold spots are a dime a dozen,' they said. 'We want the full Amityville.'"

"How do you think Rachel is going to feel about this?"

Darren stared at the ceiling. Light rain pattered against the window, a slow, lonely sound.

Khabir giggled—actually giggled. Darren didn't think he'd ever heard that before. "I am in love, my friend."

"Take it slow. It was one date. By the way, were you the one responsible for my new screen saver? I stopped in the office before I came to the airport."

"What was on it?"

"Two guys dressed as Satanists, licking the exposed nipples of a third gentleman, also dressed as a Satanist, who was giving the finger to the camera."

"Huh. Don't know anything about that. Must be a glitch in Windows XP."

"Goodnight, Khabir."

"Goodnight, John-Boy."

Darren spent a while standing at his hotel window, watching the lights of downtown Portland twinkle in the rain.
Whyd u try to send me away
, he thought.
Plse dont send me away youre my sweetie
.

He could be happy here. A new start, a new life. He would get an apartment in the city and spend his Saturdays at Powell's surrounded by a million books. In the summer he would drive to the coast and watch the sun set over the Pacific. He would forget about Jacqueline. They would of course still keep in touch for a while, but like most long-distance friends they'd end up just forwarding the occasional joke or funny YouTube clip every couple months or so. They would both establish new lives, new routines, and eventually she'd recede into the past. Maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. Sometimes it was better to start again.

A
nd then, all of a sudden, it was six a.m., October 14, and Darren was pulling into her driveway. Jacqueline was already standing outside the front door with her overnight case before Darren even got out of the car.

She was breathing hard, but she told herself it was because the morning was so cold.

"You okay?" Darren asked.

She nodded.

"We can stop for a quick breakfast somewhere," he offered.

"I can't eat anything." She went to get in the car but Darren stopped her and pointed at the front door, which she'd left unlocked. She went and locked it.

Once they were in the air, she relaxed a little. Just a little. Her
Time
magazine lay unopened on her lap as she stared out at the cloud deck. Golden sunlight poured into the plane, making her feel a strange stirring of giddiness, as if she and Darren were sneaking off to Barbados for some sun and fun. Then the real nature of their trip would occur to her and her insides would do their impression of a clenched fist. She went to the bathroom three times during the course of the two-and-a-half-hour flight.

After her third trip to the lavatory, her hands were shaking so much that Darren had to help her fasten her seatbelt.

"Thanks for coming," she whispered, her voice little more than a croak.

She had read Michael Percival's two books and had watched the DVD Darren had sent her, so she knew what to expect from today. Michael Percival was a heavyset, bearded man with a high, almost effeminate voice. The DVD—
Michael Percival: On Ghosts, Angels and the Other Side
—showed clips of him doing a reading for a couple who had lost a son to cystic fibrosis. Unlike the cringingly theatrical mediums of bad horror movies, Michael Percival sat in an armchair and doodled on a legal pad while he relayed information in a kind but matter-of-fact voice. It seemed like he was sketching something on the pad but actually he was just making random scribbles, "anything to keep my hand busy and kind of dissipate all this energy that comes into me when contact is made," he said. "Some people pace or tap their feet when they have excess energy—I doodle."

Jacqueline had watched his face and his eyes during the video, hoping to see some evidence that he was somehow in contact with some otherworldly force, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. He would sometimes stare at his pad but most of the time he would look at his guests or stare into the middle distance, his head cocked as if he were trying to remember the lyrics of some half-forgotten pop song.

"What it's like for me," he explained, "is that very clear, very powerful thoughts and images will pop into my head, thoughts that are totally unconnected to me or my life. I'll be sitting with a woman and all of a sudden the image of an old lady will appear in my mind and the old lady will be saying, 'Tell her I'm her grandma,' and that's what I'll do. I'm their courier, their little errand boy. The images and thoughts will sometimes get jumbled if lots of spirits are trying to make contact, so sometimes that makes it hard to sort it all out. And unfortunately the images and thoughts come in little bursts, like a radio station that comes in real clear for a few seconds then just turns to static for a while. The spirits seem to know that my 'radio' isn't as finely tuned as I would like, so they often repeat things, and they try to keep their messages as clear and concise as they can. To throw in another analogy, it's like I'm taking a long-distance call and the signal is good but nowhere near perfect."

Although she instinctively trusted him and felt he was on the level—call her naïve, but he seemed too self-deprecating to be a con man—she felt stirrings of skepticism and cynicism as the pilot came on the intercom and said they were beginning their descent into the Tampa-St. Pete area.

The doubts grew more strident as they headed out into the rental car lot at the airport. It was a muggy eighty-two degrees and the sun seemed like a magnified version of the puny, anemic sun they had in Cleveland. She had forgotten how different Florida was—the land was cookie-sheet flat, and the enormous sky was right on top of you like a loud, brash woman at a party who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'personal space.'

Darren put their bags in the trunk of their Taurus. "Ever been to Florida before?"

"Kevin and I took Michelle to Disney World when she was four. I thought she was too young. But she really wanted it." Jacqueline swallowed. "It wouldn't be that difficult for him to get information about me and just tell me what I wanted to hear."

"Actually, it would be. The check just had my name on it. And supposedly the money is handled by his management company, not him. Even if this was a scam, all he'd have to go on would be my name and address, not yours. All he knows about you is that the reading is for a woman named Jacqueline. That's the way he wants it."

The skepticism ebbed a little. Just a little.

"You're never going to be able to erase all your doubts," Darren said. "But for what it's worth I think he's on the level."

In the car, Jacqueline stared at her sweaty palms. I am afraid, she wanted to say, I am afraid he's a fraud, and I'm afraid that he isn't.

Darren navigated down Dale Mabry Boulevard, looking for the Radisson where they were booked. It was the same hotel where the reading would take place; Michael Percival had a long-standing arrangement that let him use a first-floor conference room for his sessions.

She and Darren had adjoining rooms. She sat on the edge of her bed, listening to the muted whisper of the shower in Darren's room as he got cleaned up before lunch. There was a Mexican restaurant next door that he had suggested, but she doubted she would be able to keep anything down.

The clock on the nightstand said 2:27. The session was at six.

That's not my name
, Michelle—or whoever—had said.

She couldn't shake the image of a fifties-era construction worker standing in a freshly dug foundation, holding up a piece of a skull. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him.

That's not my name.

"Who are you," she murmured. If the entity wasn't Michelle, why was it using the chlorine, why was it making Jacqueline think it was Michelle? And why go to the trouble of putting on this act if the entity was just going to say a few months later sorry, I'm not who you think I am?

Something occurred to her. When Michelle had turned four, she had gone through an obsession with princess-themed stuff, from Disney movies to toys and pajamas. For several weeks she even wanted Jacqueline and Kevin to call her Princess Sophie instead of Michelle. She would throw a tantrum if this protocol was not followed. Jacqueline recalled a time when Kevin came into the kitchen to drolly inform her that "Princess Sophie requests that her hot dog have ketchup on it instead of mustard."

So was that what was behind the pool party dream/visitation/whatever it was? Was Michelle subtly reminding Jacqueline of her Princess Sophie period, perhaps as a clever way of telling her that it really
was
Michelle? A little emotional watermark, perhaps?

At the Mexican place, Jacqueline ate little more than the free chips and salsa. She probably ate too much of those—she rushed to the bathroom and vomited, loudly and painfully. She wept for a moment then forced herself to get under control.

A fleeting but powerful impulse seized her: She would sneak out the back door and get a cab back to the airport. Most likely she wouldn't be able to get a flight back to Cleveland until the evening but she could easily hide in the airport for a few hours until the time for her session had passed. Darren would be furious but she knew he'd understand. He would have to see that this whole thing was making her feel like a defendant heading to court for the reading of the verdict, with Michelle serving as both judge and jury.

She looked at her worn, pale face in the mirror. The impulse passed.

Back at the table, Darren put a hand on hers. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded. She ordered a margarita. It was 5:09.

At three minutes to six, Darren and Jacqueline were sitting in the overstuffed armchairs in the Radisson's lobby, watching the entrance. Her insides clenched and her heart began racing when she saw an overweight man in a short-sleeved linen shirt enter the hotel. He carried a canvas tote bag. He had a neatly trimmed beard and the desk clerk smiled at him. They chatted for a few moments. They seemed to know each other. The clerk pointed at Darren and Jacqueline and the bearded man walked over.

"Excuse me. Jacqueline and Darren?"

Darren stood. "Yes."

"Michael Percival. Good to meet you both."

Jacqueline shook his hand but could only mutter something that was in the neighborhood of "hi." It felt as if her heart had lodged itself in her throat like a throbbing, anxious frog. Michael Percival's expensive and generously applied cologne created a bracing, fragrant cloud around him that shook her out of herself and dragged her into the realization that it was happening, really happening, and there was no turning back.

Percival led the way to the conference room next to the hotel's coffee shop. "I hope you two get a chance to get a bite there," he said. "Best Denver omelettes I've ever had, and as you can tell I've had a few. Any trouble finding the hotel?"

"Straight shot from the airport," Darren said. "Couldn't be easier."

"Super. That's one of the reasons I like having sessions here. Also, it's just a block from the grief counseling center I help run." He held up the canvas tote bag for them to see. It bore the words The Healing Light Center.

The small, bland conference room was dominated by a circular table draped with a white tablecloth. There were stacks of folding chairs in one corner, and in another corner by a window were a leather couch and a matching armchair. Percival took the armchair, Darren and Jacqueline the couch. Jacqueline sat stiffly, her hands gripping her knees. Darren gave her arm a quick squeeze.

Percival removed the contents from his bag—a legal pad, a mechanical pencil and a bottle of water. He took a swig of the water and handed the pad to Darren. "Feel free to look through this so you can be assured I don't have any crib notes about the two of you. In fact, I encourage it. I want you to be assured there's no hanky-panky going on."

Darren flicked through the empty pad but was not examining it closely. Jacqueline barely looked at it at all. She was looking at Percival.

"I also want to urge you two to just answer yes or no to my questions. I don't want to be influenced by extra information you give me. More importantly, I don't want you to think that I've been influenced by the things you tell me." Percival smiled. "Now, you brought something to record the session?"

Darren clicked on his handheld digital recorder and put it on the sun-splashed coffee table in front of them.

"Okay," Percival said, "we'll begin." He was looking at his pad and tapping the pencil on it as if he were a student thinking about how to answer a tricky essay question. He looked up. "There's a Barbara here. Do either of you take the name Barbara?"

Jacqueline was about to say no but she glanced at Darren, who was staring intently at Percival. "Yes," Darren said.

"I'm getting a motherly vibe—no, a grandmotherly vibe," Percival said. His brow furrowed. "Definitely a grandmother. 'Mother of his mother,' she's saying. She says she passed when you were only a boy. She's telling me why she passed. Pneumonia. Any of this on the mark?"

"Yes," Darren said. "All of it."

"She says she loves you and thinks you turned out to be a fine man. She's giving me the image of a bouquet of white roses. That's my symbol for congratulations. She's congratulating you. Something about a promotion or a job or something like that. Something work-related."

Darren said nothing.

Percival glanced at him. "She also says that you're in a difficult emotional relationship. It's something you didn't encourage, it just sort of happened. Now this person is attached to you and can't seem to let you go. You're afraid of breaking her heart. Barbara says she doesn't know what to tell you. She says she's sorry but it's just going to be painful and there's nothing you can do, no easy way out."

Darren was leaning forward, his face hard to read. Jacqueline touched his knee.

Percival was doodling on the pad. He chewed at his bottom lip, lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked up at Jacqueline. "Young girl in your life has passed on."

She nodded.

"I'm getting a suffocating feeling, like I'm gasping for breath. Like my lungs are filling with water. She drowned. That's what she's saying. 'I drowned.'"

Jacqueline felt Darren's hand slide onto hers. She struggled to control her breathing. "Yes," she said, her voice little more than a gasp.

Percival nodded, doodling, his head cocked. "Do you take the name Shelly? No, not Shelly. Michelle."

"Yes," Jacqueline said.

"Michelle says she tried to swim but couldn't, and it was just an accident. You just didn't reach her in time. 'My fault, not yours,' she's telling me. She's really anxious for you to hear that because she knows you've been beating yourself up about it."

Jacqueline's throat felt hot, full of cotton.

"'I'm all right now, I'm all right,' she keeps saying. She says she's very happy on the other side. She's a real bundle of energy. She's dancing around you now. You can't see her, of course, but I can. 'I'm a little princess,' she says."

Tears welled up in Jacqueline's eyes. "Yes, she is."

"She calls out to Daddy. She wishes that Daddy had come but knows that he's just not open to this right now. She's shrugging and sighing, like she's saying, 'What are you gonna do?'"

Jacqueline smiled. She was not just holding Darren's hand, she was clutching it the way a stroke victim clutches her walker.

"She's sorry that you and Daddy are not together anymore," Percival said. "It makes her sad that you two have gone your separate ways. I'm getting the picture of a heart torn in two. But she says she understands. 'It wasn't right for you,' she says. I'm not sure what she means by that, not sure if she means the marriage, but she keeps saying it. 'It wasn't right for you.'" Percival looked up at Jacqueline. "Michelle says she's really worried about you. You're making bad choices. She says—and this is kind of mind-blowing, because I get the impression she's very, very young, and so it's weird for her to be using these adult words—she says you're compromising yourself. That's the word—compromising. You're doing it for money, but you don't need to be doing it. She says it's pointless. You're doing it to hold onto something, but you don't need that something anymore. I'm mentally asking her what she's talking about because she's being kind of vague."