Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do (2 page)

2

A
UNT
A
BBIE SAYS
I
DON'T NEED
luck because I now have a visionary adviser. That's what she calls herself these days. A
visionary adviser.
She even had little blue cards printed up that say
Abbie Allen Browning, V. A.
Her long-range plan is to open her own salon where she can receive people and offer her visionary advice for a small fee.

When she first told me this, I laughed and asked her if she was going to use a crystal ball or tarot cards, and she said I sure did have a smart mouth for somebody who just got out of rehab, and she was right. It was, after all, one of Aunt Abbie's visions that brought her here at the exact moment when I needed her the most.

The day I got out of rehab, I caught a cab home, hoping I wouldn't find a padlock on the door and an overgrown yard with a for sale sign sticking up in the middle. Getting
myself
together had been my full-time job for the last few months. Now it was time to get my
business
straight, if I wasn't already too late. Figuring out how to get the house out of hock was the first item on the agenda.

When the cab pulled up in front of the house, I started to tell the guy he'd made a mistake. The grass was neatly trimmed and the house itself looked freshly painted and generally spiffed up. I paid the driver, got out with my suitcase, and just stood there for a minute. Before I could come up with a plausible reason for the unexpected changes, the front door opened and my aunt Abbie walked out to meet me. She's sixty ifshe's a day, but she moves with the physical confidence ofa woman half that age.

“Welcome home, dear,” she said, picking up my suitcase and giving me a quick hug. “Come inside before you catch your death.”

I followed, literally speechless with amazement. I hadn't told anybody I was going into rehab, much less when I was coming out. Aunt Abbie and I had hardly communicated at all since my parents' funeral almost two years ago, and we had never been especially close. I always liked her, but she hadn't ever been around much. The youngest of my father's three sisters, she was the baby of the family, but by far the most independent one. She traveled a lot, got married a lot, divorced a lot, and always carried the scent of patchouli in the multiethnic clothing she invariably wore.

She was fond of long skirts, silver bracelets, and those flat black Chinese shoes with flowers embroidered on the toes. She had never been an artist, but she had always looked like one. She liked the company of creative people and among her husbands had been a writer, a painter, and a cellist, who also played guitar. As far as I knew, at this point in her life she was traveling solo.

She held the door open for me, and I stepped inside my own house like I was visiting. The place had been transformed. When I checked myself into rehab, I know I left the house a wreck from my unmade bed to a sink full of dirty dishes. I felt a wash of shame at anybody finding the place in the state in which I'd abandoned it, but I was running for my life.
Neatening up
was the last thing on my mind.

But there was no hint of disorder here today. The place was spotless, smelling of furniture polish and patchouli. The rugs had been shampooed, the windows were sparkling, and the furniture had been brushed and plumped to within an inch of its life. There was a fire burning in the fireplace and fresh flowers in a huge vase in the center of the dining room table. The place looked better than it had in ages.

I looked at Aunt Abbie. “Did you do all this?”

She laughed. “Don't look so shocked. I had a couple of months and I did hire some guys to do the outside painting and the rugs, but otherwise, a little at a time was all it took. Nice, huh?”

“It's beautiful. How did you know I was getting out today?”

She shrugged and set my bag down at the foot of the stairs. “I just had a feeling.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since Christmas. I thought you might come home for the holidays.”

That was a month ago! “How'd you get in?”

She smiled. “Your mother gave me a key years ago. I had married a fool who was trying to be abusive and she was worried. She wanted me to have a place to go if I ever needed to leave in a hurry. Since they were on the road so much then, she just gave me my own key.”

My parents hadn't been actively on the road for thirty years before they passed.

“When was that?” I said, still trying to make sense of everything.

She thought about it for a minute then shrugged again. “1972? '73? Somewhere around in there.”

“Thirty years ago?”

She looked surprised at my surprise. “At least. I never married a fool after I turned thirty. That's what your twenties are for.”

My head was spinning, but I had to admit, it was a lovely homecoming, however she got here. It was good to come back to somebody who was glad to see me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Welcome home,” she said, and we hugged again.
Family.
“Now come on in here and let's have some lunch and catch up.”

That was six weeks ago, and when I look back, I can't imagine how I would have made it without her. She listened to the story of how I got to rehab with a look of concern, but no censure. I had the feeling that she had had her share of broken hearts and bad judgments and that there was very little that went on between consenting adults that would shock or surprise her.

She let me tell it all as we watched the fire die down to a pile of glowing orange coals. Then she looked at me and said calmly, “So what are we going to do now?”

The fact that she said
we
almost made me burst into tears.
We
meant I wasn't alone in the world. That somebody was around to help me figure out how to undo the messiness I'd made.
We
meant she had my back. How she got here was beside the point. All I really needed to say was
thank you
.

I understand that now. From encouraging me to go see the weasel and work something out, to convincing me I was strong enough to take the job Beth Davis was offering, to agreeing to house-sit while I was in Atlanta, Aunt Abbie had helped me play to my strengths by treating me like she was unaware of any weakness. If I was actually able to pull this off, go to Atlanta for a couple of months and make enough money to rescue the homestead, I had Aunt Abbie to thank for it.

So I decided to stop by Union Station on my way home from my successful negotiation with the weasel and buy her a big bunch of flowers. The vendors outside the main entrance always have such a wonderful variety of brightly colored bouquets from which to choose. This used to be one of my regular stops in the old days when I was still working downtown. Money is going to be a little tight until I get my finances settled, but as impulse purchases go, flowers are always worth more than whatever you pay for them.

Buying flowers is not just a way to bring home beauty. It's an expression of confidence that better days are coming. It's a defiant finger in the face of those naysayers who would have you believe your fortunes will never improve. Well, this afternoon, I was flushed with enough confidence to justify not simply a mixed bouquet, but the tropical selection, heavy on purple, orange, and blossoming birds-of-paradise.

The smiling vendor wrapped the flowers in pink tissue paper and tied them with a curling strip of white ribbon while I watched the travelers rushing into the big front doors of the train station, heading to their own adventures, oblivious to their fellow adventurers striding along beside them with equal fervor.

I love trains. Overnight in a sleeper is, in fact, my favorite way to travel. Amtrak runs the Southern Crescent from D.C. to Atlanta seven nights a week, and I'd be booked on it for my trip if sleeper accommodations weren't so pricey. They're not as expensive as a first-class airline ticket, which is now about the cost of a year's tuition at a good junior college, but they're a lot more than I can afford right now.

Coach seats are, of course, a lot cheaper, but also a different experience entirely. Spending twenty-seven consecutive hours, including the nighttime hours, with a bunch of people you just met is only romantic in the movies. In real life, it's crying babies, communal bath- rooms, and strange-smelling food somebody brought from home and wants to share.

I hate to fly, especially these days when collective paranoia is booked on every flight along with the passengers, but ultimately, it gets down to a choice between two and a half hours of white knuckles or twenty-plus hours of hearing the snores of sleeping strangers. This time, flying won out, but I wasn't looking forward to it.

When I walked into the house, Aunt Abbie was in the kitchen already rinsing out a vase and filling it with water and just a pinch of sugar to keep the blooms fresh.

“I knew you could do it,” she said, taking the bouquet from me without even asking how it had gone with the weasel. “They're lovely! My favorites!”

I had to smile. “Weren't you even a little bit nervous that he might turn me down?”

She snorted at the absurdity of such an idea. “Not a chance. That little man is in no position to stand against the flow of things.”

“What things?” I asked, watching her deftly arrange the flowers in the vase and carry it to the dining room table. She placed it dead center and then smiled her approval.

“Just lovely. Did you get them at the train station?”

“Yes. The flow of what things?”

“I thought so,” she said. “I saw these birds-of-paradise earlier and I knew they would be the ones you'd pick!”

Having a conversation with Aunt Abbie was like learning how to swim. You could hang around on the edges of the pool if you wanted to, but sooner or later, you were going to have to take a deep breath and plunge on in.

“You were at the train station today?”

She nodded, making a minor adjustment to the largest of the blooms. “I had to pick up your ticket.”

“I'm flying, remember?”

“Not anymore,” she said, handing me an Amtrak ticket folder. “You're leaving tomorrow evening at seven-thirty.”

That was the southbound Crescent all right, but she had obviously forgotten my recent rantings about the problematic nature of coach-class train travel. “I'm flying Delta, day after tomorrow, at noon.”

“Look at the ticket,” she said.

I pulled it out. One way, deluxe bedroom accommodations, all the way to Atlanta.

“But, I can't afford this,” I said, wishing I could.

“My treat,” she said. “Happy Birthday.”

I looked at her. “My birthday is in August.”

She grinned at me. “Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, and welcome to the new millennium! You're missing the point, dear. It's a gift.”

I laughed. “Do you have a secret bank account you're not telling me about?”

“It's no secret,” she said. “It won't cover near what you need on the house, or I would have offered it up long before now, but a first-class train ticket to celebrate a job well done?” She shrugged gracefully, releasing a little whiff of patchouli from the folds of her Chinese kimono.
“Piece a cake!”

“You amaze me,” I said. “Thank you.”

“That's because I'm amazing,” she said. “And you're very welcome.”

I looked at the ticket again and noticed it was one way. I couldn't resist teasing her a little. “So how come you didn't make it round trip? Don't you want me back when it's over?”

“Of course,” she said, still smiling, taking my arm and leading me into the living room. We sat down on the couch, side by side. “But you won't be coming back by train.”

“Oh?” I said, amused by her certainty. “How will I be traveling?”

“By car,” she said, immediately. “Definitely by car.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “By then, I'll have enough money to buy my own first-class ticket.”

She was looking at me with a funny expression.

“What's wrong?”

She got up, stirred the fire into life, and turned back to me. I had a sickening feeling. She had that “I'm ready to tell you something serious as hell whether you're ready for it or not” look on her face.

The suspense was killing me.

“What?”

She came back to sit beside me. “You remember when I told you I had a vision about your needing some assistance and that's why I came here?”

I nodded.

“Well, there's more to it than that.”

“More to the vision?”

“More to
everything
. That's why I knew that little banker wasn't going to turn you down. It's much bigger than that.”

I was swimming around in the conversation as best I could, but I was barely keeping my head above water.

“Hold it!” I said. “Start at the beginning.”

She patted my hand gently. “That's just what I'm talking about. Where is the beginning? The
real
beginning?”

This was getting us no place fast. I decided to double back and try again. “Start with the visions.”

“All right,” she said, curling up and tucking her feet under her long skirt. “That's as good a place as any. Ever since I went through menopause, I've been having visions.”

“What kind of visions?”

“All kinds. Big things, little things. I can't determine any of that yet. Right now, all I can do is recognize them and write down what she says.”

“What
who
says?”

“Whoever is speaking to me through these visions. They're more auditory than visual, although sometimes I do see images, but they're usually fleeting.”

“And how long have you been hearing these voices?”

She heard the skepticism in my voice, and she did not appreciate it.

“I don't hear voices,” she sniffed. “I have
visions
. There's a difference, although you're still too full of estrogen to understand it.”

The way she said it, the hormone sounded like an active blocker of both intelligence and intuition. I wanted to tell her that at thirty-four, my estrogen was probably already on the wane, but I didn't want to piss her off even more.