“Sounds like you’re doing great work,” Fonsi said. “And so you essentially have two businesses, which is smart. I do the same, have my up-front business with the botanica, but then for those who’re in the know, who’ve had some sort of encounter with spirits, we meet in the store’s back room or wherever’s appropriate. I charge on a sliding scale.”
Linda shook her head. “No, for my special clients, no money’s exchanged. No charge. I do fine with my main business. Like I said, with my Broken Hearts, it’s my way of giving back. I… I actually want to give back. There was this woman I was just in ritual with, works in advertising. She was on the verge of falling apart when she visited the agency. There’s something special about her, a really sensitive but powerful soul.” She paused. Why was she revealing so much? “But I wasn’t sure if entering into ritual with her was the right thing to do considering what had just gone down with Pastor Samuelson. I need to check in on her, see if she’s okay, but… I gotta figure out this case.”
“Wow, then you’re living up to what it means to be a Guardián for real,” Fonsi said. “That’s the expectation, what some members of the order have proclaimed for generations now, that the orishas gifted us with our powers for the common good, to help humanity out as much as we can. My mom… she had a hard time with that. Always felt she should’ve had a better life and made big bucks somehow, considering what she could do.” A shadow crossed Fonsi’s face, a sadness that took over his demeanor as soon as he mentioned his mother. Linda knew the story, how Ignacia Harewood was one of the most powerful Guardianes in history, only to increasingly lose control of her gift because of bitterness. Or so Estelle believed.
“Listen, I may be helping out the authorities with the Afflicted, but I’ve never fully felt comfortable being labeled a Guardián,” Linda said. “I don’t speak much to other Guardianes, outside of Estelle… occasionally… and now you. The first time ritual happened, my first Broken Heart, it was pure accident, someone stumbling into the agency, saying he felt summoned to visit. And then the whole ordeal with his soul self… just happened. I help folks when I can, and then I keep it moving.”
“You call the people you help… Broken Hearts?”
Linda gave a slight smirk. “The stories I’ve encountered… After a while, it stuck.”
“Well, I don’t mean to pry… but I just wonder: The whole soul-self approach that you’ve described—is that the only way to use your power? From my studies of El Gran Libro, you being a daughter of Elegua… maybe you can do more?” Fonsi looked at her pointedly. “Have you tried exploring your abilities more fully? I imagine Estelle would’ve had advice on how to—”
“The way I use my gift is enough,” Linda said. The places he wanted to go, not going to happen. They were done. She took out her laptop. “Thanks, but I have work to do.”
Fonsi bid Linda farewell as he got off at Penn Station. Her destination took her one more stop north into Westchester. She was thankful that he hadn’t asked where she was headed or what business she needed to attend to, not that she needed to worry about that. By the time they went their separate ways, Fonsi seemed pretty spooked by her. A good thing, she supposed, which also made her sad. Not the mood she wanted to be in when visiting Imani.
She got into a waiting taxi outside of the station and, on her way to the hospital, scanned through the pictures she’d taken on her phone ofSamuelson’s place. She stopped when she got to an intricately designed crystal bowl on his nightstand. It contained a small bottle of lotion, a Swiss Army Knife, and some sort of amulet. Linda had glimpsed the items in the bowl but had to admit that she’d been so taken with the art in Samuelson’s room that she hadn’t given them closer scrutiny. And she thought Fonsi was an amateur?
She zoomed in on her screen and looked at the figure. The ornament seemed to be made of bronze, or maybe copper. A round, beatific face surrounded by a sun. Folks had become superstitious, walking around with a variety of protective trinkets and amulets, many of which Linda had never heard of. But why would Samuelson, a man of God, choose a ward that didn’t seem to have any connection to Christianity, at least from what she could tell? Would anyone from his church have seen the object and found it strange, too paganistic? Perhaps chastise him? Is that why he kept the trinket in his bedroom, along with the sexy art?
Maybe I’m overreacting, Linda thought. What if it was just a piece of art, something connected to the work he displayed in his living room? A memento of a trip to a museum or travel abroad? But then why was it the only trinket hanging out by itself? Why wasn’t it with the other tchotchkes she’d spotted in Samuelson’s living room?
She texted Fonsi the picture. Things were a bit tense between them when they’d parted. Maybe he wouldn’t be as open to taking requests from her, but she had a job to do.Can you take a look at this? she wrote. Tell me what you think, if it seems out of the ordinary? Thanks.
At 9:16 a.m. she arrived at her destination. Nine minutes early. New Rochelle’s Long-Term Acute Care Facility, a place that serviced people recovering from severe burn wounds, loss of limbs, or other major bodily traumas. A place that also took care of those who would probably never recover from their ailments.
Upon first glance, Linda had always liked the building’s aesthetics. It was massive, easily the size of a city block. A brick foundation surrounded its entranceway while the rest of the exterior consisted of glass, giving the hospital a certain type of suburban-corporate-office aesthetic. To the left, there was even an open-air atrium with a café and small sculpture garden. Nice, thoughtful touches.
She went to the large circular front desk and said to the receptionist, “I’m here to visit Imani Williams.” Linda and the receptionist recognized each other and made hushed small talk in the quiet space before the arrival of Dr. Singh, the physician who made it her business to greet Linda.
The two left the lobby and walked down a long adjoining hallway. “It’s good to see you again, Linda,” Dr. Singh said. “Been following the news. Dreadful to hear about what’s going on down in DC, though I’ve also heard you’re something of a hero.”
Linda waved off the compliment. “How’s Imani been?”
“The same,” Dr. Singh said. “We’re doing everything we can to move her around, gentle exercises to try and prevent muscle atrophy. But after all this time, there’s going to be wasting.” She paused. “Which I know you’re well aware of. I say the same thing every time you visit. But she continues to be comfortable, far as we can well.”
Linda surveyed the premises with darting eyes while the doctor spoke. Everything had to be perfect because she was paying for the best. Imani deserved the best. Still, she knew when she was being a hard-ass, when she was being unfair during previous visits. Judgment burst in her veins if she spotted the slightest smudge of dirt in a corner or a room that appeared to be in disarray. If she smelled the faintest whiff of urine. The people here were hard workers, even with inevitable mishaps. Linda had hired an independent investigator to scope out the place. She had to make sure that Imani was being cared for by the kind of staff who’d turn her over everytwo hours to prevent bedsores. Who would carefully monitor her vital signs in case there was any change.
They reached the end of the corridor and hooked a left. Dr. Singh stopped at room 1012. “I’ll leave you to it, then, Linda. A nurse was just with Imani, gave her a bath. If I don’t see you before you leave, please be well. Stay safe out there.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Linda slowly entered the room, sat down, and stared at Imani. She hadn’t seen her in some time, though she never let more than six weeks go by without visiting. The woman’s closely shorn hair was covered by a black skullcap. Linda swore she’d become thinner since her last visit but couldn’t be sure. Imani had certainly lost weight since she’d been admitted into the facility months after losing consciousness.
Edwarda O’Bara, a Miami resident, was only sixteen years old when she succumbed to a diabetic coma from which she never recovered. She died in 2012 after being unconscious for forty-two years, the longest coma in American history. Imani had been in a coma for twelve. Because of Linda.
She took Imani’s hand. Her skin was still soft, moisturized daily. Tears started to stream down Linda’s face, dripped onto fingers that held Imani’s. What always happened when they touched.
“How’ve you been, beautiful?” Linda began. “All’s good with me. There’s some crazy shit that’s going down in DC, but business is good. Best it’s ever been, in fact. I got you. We’ll be fine.”
And that was all Linda cared about, really—making sure Nueva Investigations soared so she could take care of her girl. Maxine was perfectly capable of handling the agency’s books, was trustworthy, had hinted countless times she wanted the additional responsibility. Linda would have none of it. Maxine might’ve already put two and two together if she paid close enough attention to their invoicing, might’ve already deducedthat Linda made an average net profit of more than $120,000 annually. Linda had paid off the mortgage to the agency property years ago so she could be debt-free, so she could have her small, spartan living space all paid up as well. Her agency’s revenue could thus be devoted to paying for Imani’s care, so that Imani’s parents would never have to take a cent out of their pockets for medical expenses once their daughter had aged out of their insurance coverage. Linda didn’t care if the New Rochelle facility doctors thought she was a supremely devoted close friend or had figured out that the two were lovers. Didn’t matter at all. She wasn’t going to let anything happen to her girl.
“Someone I hung out with yesterday, we’re starting to work together… this guy Fonsi, he’s kinda special, like me. Has a gift. A medium, talks to ghosts. Helps a lot of people over in the Bronx. He’s helping me with a case. He’s kinda scatterbrained and nosy as fuck. Couldn’t stop yammering, trying to get in my business. But he’s cool. Hard worker, runs his own biz, too.”
Linda paused. “Something about him, I don’t know, I like. You’d like him, too. Call him a sweetie pie in that voice of yours, be hugging up all on him. And he’s family, dating this Brazilian dude. He’s confused about it but doesn’t realize I know that.”
As Linda spoke, she touched the voices in her mind, her tortured Broken Hearts. Found the voice that belonged to Imani, the gossamer phantom who was never too far away.
