So frustrating! Her boyfriend had been the pernicious one. Eroding her self-esteem. Overpowering her and claiming her sexually. Enjoying a sadistic streak that manifested itself in a myriad of ways that Gemma, too young and inexperienced, had chosen to either ignore or absolve.
But she’d always had an incredibly accurate ability to predict the future. Something her mother had seen early and grasped onto and found a way to make a buck from. Of course, Jean’s clientele believed her to be the psychic, but it was Gemma who could suddenly pop up with some future scenario or path the seeker should take. Gemma the under-appreciated, and unseen.
The boyfriend…was…dead…She couldn’t recall how, but she was pretty sure he was gone. Maybe as a result of the war in Iraq? Somehow that didn’t feel right but she felt she was on the right track.
After his death, and a period of bumming around, working at diners and restaurants, Gemma had returned home, and that’s when Jean’s Psychic Readings had really taken off. Jean had opened shop in this very house, using the first floor bedroom as a kind of office.
Now, Gemma walked to that office and realized someone—herself, she suspected—had completely redone the space. There was no couch, no beaded shades, no knickknacks of moons, stars and other astral images. Instead there was a simple, hand-hewn fir desk—courtesy of Peter LaPorte—and two rather modern club chairs. Beside the desk stood a file cabinet, a lamp with a caramel-colored glass shade, and bookshelves filled with hardbacks. Gemma went directly to the file cabinet, which was locked. Her attention was momentarily drawn to the lamp, which was plugged into a floor socket embedded in the fir planks. Spying the cord, she tugged on it gently, thinking there was a reason it seemed out of place. Maybe she should move the lamp to the other side of the desk.
Before that, though, she wanted to see what was inside the file cabinet, and spent a fruitless twenty minutes searching every drawer and cubbyhole in the office looking for a key. Foiled, Gemma sank into the wooden, swivel desk chair. She was certain the file cabinet held the information she sought: bills, identification papers, bank accounts, all the accoutrements needed to prove one’s existence in this day and age.
If she sat still and let her mind go blank, perhaps more memories would come. She’d made it this far.
With that thought, she then considered her medication. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried as fast as she could up the stairs to the second floor and the bedroom at the far end of the hall. Her bedroom. She’d not moved into her parents’ room after their deaths, though it was closest to the only upstairs bathroom. She couldn’t make herself.
Entering her bedroom she stopped short. The walls were a soft, rose red with white paneled wainscoting. The bed was white. All white. The books stacked neatly in a pile on the white nightstand had to do with tapping into unused parts of the brain. Gemma picked one up carefully and leafed through it. Passages were underlined and she suddenly, sharply remembered placing the pen to the page and making those marks.
There was another book on psychological abnormalities. She picked it up and scanned the bold headings inside: Borderline personalities. Multiple personalities. Sociopaths. Pedophiles…
The book slipped from her fingers and fell with a clunk on the fir planks. She picked it up immediately and leafed through it some more. In this one she’d made no notes, apparently, but this is what she’d been reading about. This and accessing inaccessible parts of the brain.
She was becoming more and more convinced that she’d been chasing Edward Letton. Her pulse started a slow, hard, deliberate pounding. She’d run him down, known he was going to hurt someone. A young girl.
And then she heard her own voice inside her head:
Red’s your color. It helps you learn things, know things. The medication keeps
But she’d always had an incredibly accurate ability to predict the future. Something her mother had seen early and grasped onto and found a way to make a buck from. Of course, Jean’s clientele believed her to be the psychic, but it was Gemma who could suddenly pop up with some future scenario or path the seeker should take. Gemma the under-appreciated, and unseen.
The boyfriend…was…dead…She couldn’t recall how, but she was pretty sure he was gone. Maybe as a result of the war in Iraq? Somehow that didn’t feel right but she felt she was on the right track.
After his death, and a period of bumming around, working at diners and restaurants, Gemma had returned home, and that’s when Jean’s Psychic Readings had really taken off. Jean had opened shop in this very house, using the first floor bedroom as a kind of office.
Now, Gemma walked to that office and realized someone—herself, she suspected—had completely redone the space. There was no couch, no beaded shades, no knickknacks of moons, stars and other astral images. Instead there was a simple, hand-hewn fir desk—courtesy of Peter LaPorte—and two rather modern club chairs. Beside the desk stood a file cabinet, a lamp with a caramel-colored glass shade, and bookshelves filled with hardbacks. Gemma went directly to the file cabinet, which was locked. Her attention was momentarily drawn to the lamp, which was plugged into a floor socket embedded in the fir planks. Spying the cord, she tugged on it gently, thinking there was a reason it seemed out of place. Maybe she should move the lamp to the other side of the desk.
Before that, though, she wanted to see what was inside the file cabinet, and spent a fruitless twenty minutes searching every drawer and cubbyhole in the office looking for a key. Foiled, Gemma sank into the wooden, swivel desk chair. She was certain the file cabinet held the information she sought: bills, identification papers, bank accounts, all the accoutrements needed to prove one’s existence in this day and age.
If she sat still and let her mind go blank, perhaps more memories would come. She’d made it this far.
With that thought, she then considered her medication. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried as fast as she could up the stairs to the second floor and the bedroom at the far end of the hall. Her bedroom. She’d not moved into her parents’ room after their deaths, though it was closest to the only upstairs bathroom. She couldn’t make herself.
Entering her bedroom she stopped short. The walls were a soft, rose red with white paneled wainscoting. The bed was white. All white. The books stacked neatly in a pile on the white nightstand had to do with tapping into unused parts of the brain. Gemma picked one up carefully and leafed through it. Passages were underlined and she suddenly, sharply remembered placing the pen to the page and making those marks.
There was another book on psychological abnormalities. She picked it up and scanned the bold headings inside: Borderline personalities. Multiple personalities. Sociopaths. Pedophiles…
The book slipped from her fingers and fell with a clunk on the fir planks. She picked it up immediately and leafed through it some more. In this one she’d made no notes, apparently, but this is what she’d been reading about. This and accessing inaccessible parts of the brain.
She was becoming more and more convinced that she’d been chasing Edward Letton. Her pulse started a slow, hard, deliberate pounding. She’d run him down, known he was going to hurt someone. A young girl.
And then she heard her own voice inside her head:
Red’s your color. It helps you learn things, know things. The medication keeps
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