thought. But what could possibly explain all the mysteries that had suddenly surfaced about his dad’s past?
Was it something that had happened to Manny? Maybe the event that explained his dad’s odd behavior was also the event that was causing Manny’s nightmares. Maybe he had long-buried memories that were finally reemerging in the form of dreams. If it was something his dad was trying to keep hidden, that would certainly explain his strange behavior in the kitchen and basement.
Manny caught something out of the corner of his eye—a handwritten sign in the front window of a small beige house.
Marilyn Swan , it read. Spiritual Reader.
Manny looked around. He had wandered into an older residential area—the kind with postage-stamp yards and streets that still had sidewalks and curbs.
He looked back at the house with the sign. It had window boxes and a stucco finish. There was a birdbath in the yard—made of real stone, something his dad would approve of, not Home Depot plastic. And the lawn was well edged, and cut as low as a putting green.
Manny was actually considering going to a psychic?A couple of weeks ago, if someone had told him to go to a psychic, he would have laughed. And yet here he was. He desperately needed answers, and there was no one else who was able to give them to him. He knew she was probably a fraud. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to, someone to help him sort out his thoughts. Either way, how could it possibly hurt?
He walked down a narrow concrete pathway that curved its way to the front door. Then he knocked.
A moment later, the door opened. Could this be Marilyn Swan? She was an older woman, primly but tastefully dressed, a well-heeled matron expecting the Ladies’ Auxiliary for tea. Her smile was honey and molasses, sprinkled with powered sugar.
“Uh, hi,” Manny said. “I have some questions, and I was wondering if you’d—”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, projecting sincerity like heat from a radiator. “Unfortunately, I’m with a client right now. But if you’d like to come back later…” She handed him a business card—in a tasteful font, no rainbows, no angels, nothing froufrou at all. “It really is best to make an appointment.”
And with that, she smiled again and closed the door in his face.
HARLAN
The woman turned away from the front door. “It appears I am suddenly very popular with high school students,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips.
A psychic, Harlan thought from his seat on the sofa in the woman’s living room. He’d actually come to get a “spiritual reading” from a psychic. What if the press found out? His mom would be livid. She’d specifically warned him to stay away from psychics; apparently Nancy Reagan had caught hell for consulting with psychics when she was First Lady.
On the other hand, if premonitions and Ouija boards told the truth, maybe psychics did too.
“Now, where were we?” said the woman—Marilyn Swan, according to the sign in her window. “Ah, yes. Do you take lemon in your tea?” She lowered herself into a seat in front of the tea set on the coffee table.
Harlan didn’t take anything in his tea, mostly because he didn’t take tea. But he said, “Yes, please.”
“So,” she said. “Tell me how I can help you.” She had poured two cups of tea before she’d answered that knock on the front door; now she squeezed lemon into them both.
“It’s kind of complicated,” Harlan said.
“It usually is. That’s why I believe it’s always best to start at the very beginning. Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” He watched her drop a cube of sugar into her own cup and stir. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe this is rude, but I can’t help asking. How did you become a spiritual reader?”
“I don’t seem like the typical psychic, is that it?”
“Not exactly.” Then, thinking that maybe he’d offended her, he added, “I’m not sure what I expected.”
She handed him his tea. “It started
Was it something that had happened to Manny? Maybe the event that explained his dad’s odd behavior was also the event that was causing Manny’s nightmares. Maybe he had long-buried memories that were finally reemerging in the form of dreams. If it was something his dad was trying to keep hidden, that would certainly explain his strange behavior in the kitchen and basement.
Manny caught something out of the corner of his eye—a handwritten sign in the front window of a small beige house.
Marilyn Swan , it read. Spiritual Reader.
Manny looked around. He had wandered into an older residential area—the kind with postage-stamp yards and streets that still had sidewalks and curbs.
He looked back at the house with the sign. It had window boxes and a stucco finish. There was a birdbath in the yard—made of real stone, something his dad would approve of, not Home Depot plastic. And the lawn was well edged, and cut as low as a putting green.
Manny was actually considering going to a psychic?A couple of weeks ago, if someone had told him to go to a psychic, he would have laughed. And yet here he was. He desperately needed answers, and there was no one else who was able to give them to him. He knew she was probably a fraud. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to, someone to help him sort out his thoughts. Either way, how could it possibly hurt?
He walked down a narrow concrete pathway that curved its way to the front door. Then he knocked.
A moment later, the door opened. Could this be Marilyn Swan? She was an older woman, primly but tastefully dressed, a well-heeled matron expecting the Ladies’ Auxiliary for tea. Her smile was honey and molasses, sprinkled with powered sugar.
“Uh, hi,” Manny said. “I have some questions, and I was wondering if you’d—”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, projecting sincerity like heat from a radiator. “Unfortunately, I’m with a client right now. But if you’d like to come back later…” She handed him a business card—in a tasteful font, no rainbows, no angels, nothing froufrou at all. “It really is best to make an appointment.”
And with that, she smiled again and closed the door in his face.
HARLAN
The woman turned away from the front door. “It appears I am suddenly very popular with high school students,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips.
A psychic, Harlan thought from his seat on the sofa in the woman’s living room. He’d actually come to get a “spiritual reading” from a psychic. What if the press found out? His mom would be livid. She’d specifically warned him to stay away from psychics; apparently Nancy Reagan had caught hell for consulting with psychics when she was First Lady.
On the other hand, if premonitions and Ouija boards told the truth, maybe psychics did too.
“Now, where were we?” said the woman—Marilyn Swan, according to the sign in her window. “Ah, yes. Do you take lemon in your tea?” She lowered herself into a seat in front of the tea set on the coffee table.
Harlan didn’t take anything in his tea, mostly because he didn’t take tea. But he said, “Yes, please.”
“So,” she said. “Tell me how I can help you.” She had poured two cups of tea before she’d answered that knock on the front door; now she squeezed lemon into them both.
“It’s kind of complicated,” Harlan said.
“It usually is. That’s why I believe it’s always best to start at the very beginning. Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” He watched her drop a cube of sugar into her own cup and stir. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe this is rude, but I can’t help asking. How did you become a spiritual reader?”
“I don’t seem like the typical psychic, is that it?”
“Not exactly.” Then, thinking that maybe he’d offended her, he added, “I’m not sure what I expected.”
She handed him his tea. “It started
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