Page 44 of Nothing Less than Magic
Her lips curve up, and I’m struck by how striking she is, much more beautiful than she is in the graduation photo. “Dreams aren’t my specialty. But any well-trained psychologist could interpret why you wanted to follow them.”
“They’re my parents. I miss them.”
“Hmm,” she hums.
“What? You think I wanted to die, you think I wanted to follow them into the afterlife?”
“I don’t know, did you?”
“No, of course not!” I’m angry because it’s a ridiculous question, and I know what she’s doing, because I do it every day. If I needed a therapist, I would’ve gone to one. “I wanted to know why?”
“Why what? Why your father killed your mother? Why he killed himself?”
My mouth falls open, because I know damned well I didn’t tell her anything about my family’s history. That’s not to say that with a little research on the World Wide Web, she couldn’t have read all about it. But why would she? She didn’t even know I was coming here today.
I do my best to recover. Like I said, it’s not something I talk about, especially with strangers. “I know why he killed her, and I know why he killed himself,” I say, as calmly as I can.
“Okay. Then what did you want to know from them?”
“This is going to sound stupid, but I guess I want to know if she’s forgiven him. If they’re together . . . you know . . . in death or wherever.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what? She’s forgiven him? They’re together?”
“Yes, to all of it,” Misty says. “This is the problem, though. No matter what I tell you, you’re preconditioned to disbelieve me. So this whole endeavor is fruitless.”
I sigh because she’s right, though I desperately want to believe her. She’s told me exactly what I want to hear, what will finally give me comfort. The conundrum is that not only don’t I believe in fortune tellers, I don’t believe dead people talk. Or have feelings. Or kiss and make up with their killers.
“So my mother is not angry that Lolly and I had them buried together?” I ask anyway.
“I already told you that.” Misty takes a sip of her wine.
I stare at the lipstick stain she’s left on her glass. “Why do you think my father was wearing his police uniform in my dream? What do you think that means?”
“I already told you my work doesn’t involve dreams. You’re much better equipped to interpret them than I am. My best guess, though, is that’s how you want to remember him. As a hero.”
I nod, because that makes sense.
“But you didn’t need me to tell you that,” Misty says.
“What’s going to happen with Lolly and me? Will we find our way back to each other, to being real sisters again? It seems like we’ve made a dent since the accident, but it also feels tenuous, fleeting. Almost as if it’s not real.”
Misty takes another sip of wine, then reaches for my hands. Clutching them, she closes her eyes and reenacts the same routine as the one she did at the farmers’ market.
I smirk.It’s showtime, folks.
But if I’m going to make fun of it, of Misty, why the hell did I come here in the first place? I tell myself that I’m bored and it’s something to do, but deep down inside I know it’s not true. Since the accident, I’ve been on a mission to search for answers. Who knows? maybe I’ve been on that mission my entire adult life and just didn’t realize it.
“She misses you.” Misty is in a trancelike state. “She’s stubborn, though. Holds a grudge. She’s hurt. Scared. Lonely. I see a desert. It’s flat and isolated.”
“It’s probably Palm Springs.” I snort. “She stays at the Ritz-Carlton at Rancho Mirage every chance she gets.”
“No, it’s not Palm Springs,” Misty says. “It’s fear. Separation anxiety. Desertion. That’s it, desertion. Your sister has fears of abandonment.”
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
“I know that.”
