Lately, it doesn’t seem like that’s enough.
I watch as a jet breaks through the clouds above, making its final descent into LAX, and depositing dozens of people at the doorsteps of their dreams. Dreams that hardly ever come true.
What am I even doing here? Americans don’t want my books. They’ll never do well enough in this market to save the estate. I shouldn’t have even gotten my hopes up about the film option.
“So you’re definitely doing the television show?” my agent asks. She uses a letter opener to pop the tab of a flavored soda water can, lest she damage her nails.
“That’s the plan,” I gesture with my palms up. “It’s my next stop.”
“Good,” she sighs. She opens her mouth, and I get the sense she wants to say something, but she thinks better of it. She sticks the end of the letter opener in it instead, biting down on it as if she’s fighting a battle between prying her mouth open and keeping it shut.
That’s fine. I already know what she wants to say. What she is thinking.
“Boo hoo, Isla Fairfax didn’t sell the movie rights to her little ghost romance series. The one who really deserves the tissues is me. I’m the one who won’t be getting the commission. How am I going to pay for a facelift now? Who is going to want to work with me when I’m an old hag? Who is going to love me? I need a drink. Just one shot. As soon as Isla leaves.”
Her thoughts are coming in loud and clear. Almost as loud and clear as Jackson Porter’s naughty Veruca Salt fantasy at the Diner yesterday. At least that had been vaguely amusing. Oddly arousing, too. It’s a rare gift when the knowing of things you’re not supposed to know doesn’t totally creep you out or piss you off.
My abilities can make it hard to stay friends with people. I’ve learned techniques to block it out, but it requires a lot of energy when the people around me are feeling things intensely. Energy I don’t have to spare today.
But then another voice intrudes. A disembodied one. My skin prickles with electricity, and I can feel the fuzzy hairs on the back of my neck standing up straight.
“Don’t listen to her, Honey.”
It’s been a while since I’ve sensed a ghost. Her voice sounds kind. She has a funny accent. Brooklyn?
“Syl’s just bitter because she thinks nobody loves her. She doesn’t even realize that the lawyer who works one floor down has been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for the last year. He waits outside every day so he can take the elevator with her.”
The second voice seems to be emanating from a silver picture frame facing away from me on the desk. The air above the frame looks wavy and unfocused. Like heat waves or a mirage. I take a deep breath.
“Sylvia,” I ask. “Do you believe in the sort of stuff that I write? That ghosts are real, and there’s more to this world than meets the eye?”
I feel a feverish shiver pass through me and recognize that the spirit is already fleeing. She’s said all she wants to say.
“I don’t know,” Sylvia sighs. “I guess deep down we all want to believe. But who knows? Who really knows?”
“Well,” I say as I gather my bag and belongings. “I’ve got to prepare for my meeting at Goodfellow Productions, but do me a favor. Skip the vodka shot. And you know the nice lawyer who takes the elevator with you every day? Ask him out to lunch. Somewhere nice. And charge it to me.”
Her mouth drops open. “How did you know?”
I walk to the desk and pick up the silver picture frame. When I flip it around I see that the photo is of a much younger Sylvia standing with an older woman. The two are unmistakably related.
Sylvia raises one brow at me and glances at the picture frame in my hand then back at me again. Once again, I know what she’s thinking.
“Did you get that from my ma? Did she give you a message for me? Is she here right now? Can you help me speak to her?”
If only I could. My visions don’t work the way visions work for psychics in the movies and on TV shows. I have no control. It’s not like I hold someone’s hands and achieve a mind meld. I cannot dial up the spirit world on my landline. I’ve tried using Ouija boards. They only seem to attract pervs and weirdo ghosts like a bad subreddit sinkhole full of blockable trolls. Never again. My gift can be quite maddening. It only gives little snatches of static-y songs as if they are wafting out the windows of a car that’s speeding by.
“I just had a feeling,” I say. “A hunch. I rode up here with the lawyer, and he asked if I was meeting with you.” I shrug. “Also, I see the bottle of vodka over there. You glanced at it twice while we were chatting. We’ve all had those days. I’m sorry to be the stressful client.”
It’s all true. Every last word. I had ridden up to Sylvia’s office with the lawyer from downstairs. He had asked about her. His whole face had softened when he said her name. There’s a bottle of Tito’s on the console by the window, and it’s only half full.
Now that the moment has passed, I doubt myself. Perhaps I’ve convinced myself Sylvia’s mom was speaking to me.
I want there to be a point to all of this.
It’s wishful thinking. Like the endless planeloads of people landing at LAX with stars in their eyes. If I make a match today, it won’t get me a movie deal, and it won’t somehow help pay down the Fairfax curse. Will it?
No. Butit couldn’t hurt.
