Keep Me In Sight Read online

  "Good news, I got the autopilot working," he’s saying. I can hear his distant voice, but he’s far away, in a brutal reality that I don’t want to go back to. "And the wind is dying down . . ."

  I fall into a dark widening aperture, where the ocean is gentle and soothing, where everything feels warm and cozy, and languish there until my senses begin to return, until reality presses down on me like an anvil. I groan and roll onto my side.

  "Gia? You okay?" James asks, grabbing my arm.

  A shiver races over my skin. My vision shifts. The inside of the boat fades from view as if covered by a thin veneer.

  It’s happening. It’s happening again. My long dormant psychic ability is overwhelming me and pushing through. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to deny it, but it comes nonetheless.

  Distantly, I hear voices. Congratulations, Daddy. I see hugs. I feel a rush of elation, making my throat feel tight with emotion. A sense of amazement and relief and happiness washes over me. James and his wife had been trying for some time to have a baby. The stork hadn’t forgotten about them, after all.

  Charlotte, it is. Charlotte Marie Taggart.

  "Charlotte?" I wonder, trying to parse out some meaning from my swirling thoughts.

  James lets go of my arm. "What did you say?"

  And then I hear sobbing, a terrible rending sound that tears at my heart. I hear the rapid pulse of a fetal heartbeat, and then I hear the resounding silence of a little life lost forever.

  My baby!

  I squeeze my eyes shut. "Born still," I whisper.

  The vision fades, leaving behind a dull impression of sorrow, pain, and terrible, grinding loss. The boat bucks and sways in the churning seas.

  But the weather outside seems trivial compared to the storm raging inside James’ heart. He’s not a commitment phobe. He’s not a Peter Pan Man. He is a man running though, running from terrible, crushing grief.

  I look into his unblinking, glassy eyes. "I’m so sorry," I whisper.

  He works his mouth, as if to say something. Then stops. The boat continues to buck and sway. A ceiling light flickers on and off, shifting the shadows that entomb us. Lightning flashes, holding his pained face in bright contrast, then dumps us back into darkness.

  "It happened on week thirty," he says, at last. "They couldn’t explain the sudden death."

  I look away, tears filling my eyes.

  "They said these things—that it happens. They said that because Jen was older—thirty-four—that maternal age could have had something to do with it." He puts air quotes around ‘maternal age,’ his voice thick with anger and condescension. "We ended up burying my baby girl in the tiniest coffin you’d ever seen. It was like burying a doll . . . a tiny lifeless doll."

  He looks down at his open palms, laying face up on his lap. "Jen was beside herself. I said we could try again, but Jen, she—she couldn’t think of trying again. The grief just consumed her . . ." He meets my gaze. "And in the end, it consumed us both."

  9

  GIA

  We finally limp into the marina at one in the morning. I go down below and collect my bag, careful not to wake Nikki, who fell asleep in the back cabin. As James walks me out to my car, I think about giving him some words of encouragement or sympathy, I’m not sure which, but he’s probably had his fill of trite words.

  "That was interesting," I say instead.

  "Sorry about all that," he says, though it feels like I should be the one apologizing.

  "It’s okay. Thanks for getting us home safe. You sure know what you’re doing out there."

  "I try." His mouth lifts into a smile, but it doesn’t carry up to his eyes. In them, I can see that he’s haunted by what I saw. Well, me too.

  "Tell Nikki bye for me. Tell her to call me when she wakes up."

  James reaches up and scratches his brow. "Okay I will. I’ll tell her when she wakes up."

  "Okay, I’ll talk to you soon, James. Thanks again."

  I drive home in a daze, cruising through a yellow light, and arrive at my apartment. I park, turn off the engine, and somehow end up on the couch in my living room, cuddling my little rescue dog Jack, staring at the carpet.

  It’s back. The terrible and the wonderful. It’s all come roaring back. I didn’t want my psychic ability to come back. Not after I couldn’t prevent the death of my best friend, Melissa, back when we were eighteen. But here I am, back behind the crystal ball, seeing people’s pasts and the secrets that hide in their hearts.

  I feel a little excited, but unsure about having my ability back, after what had happened so long ago. Maybe this is the past coming to find me, trying to make amends, the one that I had tried to escape from. I need to talk to the only person who will understand. I need to talk to Mom.

  "Hallo?" comes her groggy voice over the phone.

  "Mom? Hey, sorry to bother you."

  "What time is it?" She has the phone pressed against her face, muffling her voice.

  "Um. It’s two thirty."

  "Ugh."

  "Sorry. Do you want me to call you later?"

  "No. No, I’m up . . ." She drops the phone. I can hear it clonk on the carpeted floor. Then she curses and fumbles around her bed, looking for it.

  "Mom, I’m down here. On the floor."

  Scrape. Scrape. "Hello?"

  "Hi, yeah, I’m here."

  She lets out a big sigh, and then falls silent. I think she’s fallen asleep, but then she pulls in a deep breath. "Is everything okay? How did your sailing trip go?"

  It’s my turn to sigh. "Interesting."

  "Interesting? Like fun interesting?"

  "Not that interesting."

  "Oh. But something happened. Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me at one in the morning. Remember what Nonna always said. ‘Observe, observe and—’"

  "‘Take-ah the monney.’" I finish the sentence for her. We chuckle. It’s a long-standing joke by now. Nonna, my Italian grandmother, was a tarot card reader and psychic. She worked tirelessly against quacks that brought her field into disrepute. She toured around the country giving parlor readings and talks about thought-transference and telepathy. And she wasn’t shy about demanding her fees.

  "She did have her pearls of wisdom, didn’t she?" Mom’s voice goes soft with nostalgia.

  "Mom, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . "

  "Hm?"

  "It’s back. The superpower."

  Silence.

  "It’s . . . back? How is that even possible?"

  "I don’t know how it’s possible. All I know is that I went out sailing with James and Nikki and this terrible squall blew in and lightning hit the boat, so James sent me down below to reset the circuit breaker. So I did, but then I got electrocuted and—and I saw that he lost a baby girl . . ."

  "That’s horrible," she says with feeling after a long pause. "Maybe you had an inkling? You knew he was recently divorced, and so something had to have happened and—and electrocuted? Are you sure you’re okay?"

  "I think so."

  "How do you feel?" she ventures. "I mean, after everything that happened with . . ."

  We don’t even talk about it. The terrible tragedy. The aftermath of which gave me a nervous breakdown and a three-week stint at a mental health facility. After that, I turned away from my ability, refused to listen, denying it entirely, until finally, my ability fell silent.

  But I’m better now. Stronger. Older. And I’ve healed. My psychic ability burned too hot for me back then. I was a cocky teenager, smarter than everyone else, and way too full of myself. I knew had clarity that evaded most adults. I knew had the gift. Except, I didn’t know how to trust it. I didn’t know how to use it properly. I didn’t know how to save Melissa.

  Like a lost love, I always carried a torch for my psychic ability, hoping someday we could reunite, when the time is right. Maybe the time is now.

  "I feel a little buzzed and nervous, but I’m good. I feel good."

  "Do me a favor then—will you go see a doc
tor at least? Just have him check you out. See if there’s any lasting damage?"

  "Like psychic abilities?" I ask.

  She laughs. "Something like that." Then she sits up; I hear the bed squeak. "You know, maybe it’s come back for a reason. Maybe it’s finally time for you to heal."

  "That’s funny. I was just thinking the very same thing."

  "I’m happy for you, honey. I think this is a good thing. It’s time for you to embrace that part of yourself. To stop running . . ."

  "I know," I say softly.

  "Hey, I have an idea. Let’s put on the training wheels on and start off easy. You can start with looking into me."

  "But I know everything about you!"

  "Maybe you don’t." There are shadows in her voice that intrigue me. She actually had a life before I was born, a concept all kids find unfathomable. Maybe there was crazy boyfriend from high school, or a dead pet or something. I feel a twinge of apprehension. Would I see something else? Some dark hidden secret?

  "Okay," I say, excited but apprehensive. I’m not sure how to get the ball rolling anymore. Back then it just came to me. Easy.

  Superpower 1.0 was the ability to pick up information about people’s pasts and their deeply held secrets. I could see into their hearts and minds. With my psychic laser goggles, I could see people’s hidden dimensions and their past traumas.

  Now that the era of Superpower 2.0 is upon me, I have no idea what to expect. Or how to get it working.

  "Let me try . . ." I close my eyes and focus my attention on Mom. I visualize her spacious two-bedroom apartment backed onto a small nature reserve. In her bedroom with that ghastly floral wallpaper, I imagine Midas, her white terrier-mutt, snoring down by her feet. The scene set in my mind, I focus hard, trying to tune out all the ambient sounds around me—the refrigerator running, a car driving past my window, and a dog barking distantly—but I hear them all even louder, despite my best efforts.

  Nothing. Am I supposed to rub my hands together and say a magic word? I didn’t have to do that with James. But that happened after the electrical jolt. I hope I don’t need a jump-start every time.

  I sigh. "I don’t understand. I saw what happened to James. And—"

  "Honey, I think you need some sleep, okay?" She yawns. "I need some sleep too. I have an early reading tomorrow morning."

  Disappointment mixed with relief washes over me. I’m not sure I’m ready to embrace my ability, but I don’t want it to go away either.

  But maybe Mom is right. Maybe I need to see a doctor.

  "Okay, Mumsie. Sorry I woke you up. Love you."

  "Love you too, honey. Call me when you book your appointment. Night night."

  10

  BRYNN

  I need some fresh air. Clear my mind. Get my bearings. So I slip on Bear’s harness and set out on a quick-paced jog down to the beach, eight blocks away. Bear’s a good running companion. His energy levels are seemingly endless, and when my pace lags, which it will today, I can always count on him to carry me along.

  If I can get my heart pumping, my blood moving, maybe I make some sense out of Erin’s accusation and figure out what to do or who to believe. Because after tossing around in bed all night long, my mind going over every detail again and again, while I listened to the rain patter against the windowpane, I finally decided to get up and get moving.

  It’s golden hour, the first tender rays of a new breaking day. As Bear runs exuberantly in front of me, barking and leaping at birds in flight, I glance around at the soft light of post dawn. I’m never up early enough to enjoy daybreak, and despite the frazzled edgy feeling of looming insomnia, I find myself awed by the lilting birdsong, pink high contrast post-storm clouds, and sharp invigorating air.

  After Erin had shown me the picture of her rearranged face, I drove away in a daze, absolutely blindsided, feeling scared and stunned, while conflicted thoughts ate me alive.

  Somehow I ended up in the back streets of Clairemont Mesa, a hillside suburban enclave of modest houses landscaped with parched grass and gravel, searching for a place to pull over and park so I could think and not worry about getting rear-ended.

  I stopped down at the end of a bleak cul-de-sac and turned off my car. The silence was deafening. And for the first time in my life, I was afraid to be with my own thoughts.

  Who did this to you?

  Dan.

  Did he? Did he really?

  I had sat in my car and cried until my heart twisted with pain and rage and fear. Then I had driven home, feeling numb and exhausted.

  As I pick up the pace, I think about the facts that are working in Erin’s favor. First and foremost, her evidence. Second, with a pit opening up in my stomach, I know that Dan had left with Erin the night of his party, and they had "talked." That’s called a fact.

  Sounds painful.

  Pretty much.

  Did he admit to beating her up?

  On the other hand, I cannot actually believe that the man I’m in love with would do something this monstrous. I would have seen the signs, at least one of them. Wouldn’t I? We’ve only been together for six months, but isn’t that enough time to see something detrimental in his personality?

  It’s one of those weird, twisty things. You can’t believe it, but you can’t not believe it. Dan is smart and talented, hard working, and—okay, he has a black box of a past.

  "Babe, I don’t want to look back," he’d told me one evening at the beach about a month after we’d met, laying on a blanket and gazing up at the stars. "I want to move forward . . . with you."

  I’d looked over at his handsome profile, okay, at his full lips, and when his captivating gaze met mine, I let the topic flit away. The past is the past. The future is for us. Does that make him guilty?

  This is quickly becoming a war of fact versus feeling. I know Dan. And even though I saw Erin’s swollen pulpy face in that picture, I know in my bones that Dan did not do that.

  Except, suspicion snuck into my heart. Doubt began whispering little naked truths in my ear. Remember the road rage incident? Remember how he punched that guy in the face?

  Oh right. That. I forgot about that. But that guy was a complete jerk. He deserved it.

  Believe the actions, not the words.

  And so, I find myself tallying up ‘the actions.’ The road rage incident. Dan’s refusal to talk about certain topics in his past, his black box I called it. The questions surrounding what happened between him and Erin that night. He said nothing happened. Did he lie to me? But I stopped that line of reasoning because it scared me.

  People don’t like hearing the truth when it disrupts their own version of reality. I’m no different. I don’t like thinking about Erin’s evidence and the fact that Dan and Erin met privately that night (thus opening up the possibility that something could have happened) because it disrupts my original defense: Dan did not beat up Erin.

  But if he can punch a guy in the face, he can punch a girl in the face too, right? Had I batted away the red flags because they were getting in the way of my Dan the Man daydream? The man that I had journeyed to find?

  When I had graduated from college, I packed up my car and drove west from Connecticut, feeling like Lewis or Clark, I wasn’t sure which, forging on to the Great Frontier.

  After a few months spent in Oregon and then Northern California, I’d headed south. I had some postcard images in mind after a brief stop in Monterrey. That place was both cold and expensive. The long stretches of Southern California beaches dappled with year-round sun beckoned to me.

  I’d imagined myself traipsing around the golden hills of Hollywood with freethinkers and misfits. Cool people. I’d wanted to hang out with people on the cutting edge of independence. I’d wanted to find a place to lay down my restless soul.

  Well, the freethinkers turned out to be celebrity-obsessed clones. "I know the pool man of the assistant to Steven Segal," one ‘freethinker’ advised me, clearly impressed with his Rolodex. They weren’t freethinkers at all.r />
  The misfits had turned out to be druggies. The golden hillsides turned out to be dry parched land, blighted with litter. And those open beaches drenched in sunshine? Cold.

  So I kept driving until I reached San Diego, not sure what I’d find. My cash levels were still healthy. If San Diego proved to be disappointing, I had Australia in mind, home to the best beaches in the world apparently. I’d already looked into the visa situation. A few months picking fruit at an outback farm would get me a two-year work visa. Seemed like a nice exchange.

  But I found something better than world-class beaches. I found Dan. Now, I’m losing him?

  I think back to the day I found myself chatting with the desperately handsome Dan and falling in love with him. We had met by chance at a Fourth of July party down at Mission Bay, across the street from the iconic Mission Beach roller coaster rumbling along its wooden tracks. He’s tall, a real plus for me because I’m five foot eight. His lopsided grin, dark wavy hair, and golden-blue eyes that glimmered in the warm evening light made me a little weak in the knees.

  As we talked, I had the distinct feeling that he didn’t hear a single thing I said, but somehow understood every word. After I had wedged my possessions in the trunk of my car and driven cross country, my journey seemed to purposeful, finally, because it seemed as though I found where I belonged.

  I’ll never forget how his gorgeous mouth curved into a wry smile as he asked for my phone number, while the fireworks boomed and crackled around us. I was nervous and giddy and wanted to make a sizzling impression. I felt like I’d landed a big sexy fish, but I figured he’d landed plenty of those himself.

  He’d called a few days later and asked me out on a date. A proper one. He’d taken me out to fish taco dinner, followed by a stroll on the beach down by the water. When the sun slipped past the horizon and chilly ocean breezes washed over us, I huddled close to him and melted when stopped and kissed me.

  During those tender days called ‘getting to know you,’ we’d fallen into bed pretty quickly. I remember lying in his arms, caressing his chest, laughing because we didn’t know each other very well, after all. We’d soared high above the dating drudgery called twenty-one questions because we thought we were meant to be. All those other people, dutifully checking questions off their list? Desperate mugs. Ours was a real soul connection.