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2
WASHINGTON, D.C.
HOME OF ZOLTAN
WEDNESDAY EVENING
OCTOBER 28
The last place Rebekah ever expected to find herself was in the home of a medium. Zoltan the Medium was how the woman had introduced herself when she’d called Rebekah. But how do you say no when a medium tells you your grandfather who died only a month ago wants to speak to you? Wants you to forget he’s dead and calling from the afterlife? Rebekah almost hung up, almost said, if he’s in his afterlife, doesn’t that mean his life here on earth is over? As in he’s dead? But Zoltan had said her grandfather wanted to speak to his Pumpkin, maybe to warn her about something. Zoltan wasn’t sure. Rebekah hadn’t wanted to believe any of it, but Pumpkin had been his favorite nickname for her, and how could this self-proclaimed medium possibly know that? She’d felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She’d had no choice, not really. She knew she had to find out what this was all about, and so here she was, walking behind Zoltan, a woman not that much older than her own twenty-eight years, into her living room. Rebekah had expected to see a table with a long red tablecloth covering it, primed to levitate on command, but there was no table everyone would sit around, only a small coffee table. She saw a long, narrow, high-ceilinged room lit only by one standing lamp in the far corner and draperies rippling in the breeze given off by a low-humming portable fan beside the large front window. Curiously, not far from the fan, a fire burned in the fireplace, low and sullen. However strange the mix, the room was pleasantly warm.
Zoltan wasn’t wearing a flowing caftan and matching turban or big shiny hoop earrings in her ears. She was wearing a dark blue silk blouse, black pants, and low-heeled black shoes. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a sleek chignon. Her eyes were so dark a blue they appeared nearly black. She’d looked and seemed perfectly normal when she’d greeted Rebekah. She asked her to be seated on the sofa and offered her a cup of tea.
The tea was excellent: hot, plain, no sugar, the way she liked it. Zoltan smiled at her, sipped her own tea. “I know you don’t believe one can speak to the Departed, Mrs. Manvers. Actually, I far prefer a skeptic to blind acceptance. I’m pleased you decided to come. I will tell you what happened. As I said when I called you, your maternal grandfather came to me very unexpectedly while I was trying to contact another Departed for his son. Your grandfather was anxious to speak to you. He called you Pumpkin, which you recognized. Do you wish to proceed?”
Rebekah nodded, drank more tea, and kept any snarky comments to herself.
Zoltan nodded. “Good. Let us begin. I want you to relax, Mrs. Manvers—may I call you Rebekah?”
Rebekah nodded.
“And you may call me Zoltan. I know this is difficult for you, but I need you to try to keep an open mind and suspend judgment. Empty your mind, simply let everything go. Begin by relaxing your neck, your shoulders, that’s right. Breathe slowly and deeply. Good.”
They sat in silence for a minute or so before Zoltan spoke again, her voice low and soothing. “Rebekah, when your grandfather crashed my party, so to speak, all he told me was he had to speak to you. I don’t know why he was so anxious, he didn’t say. On his third visit, three nights ago, he finally identified himself and you by your married name so I could contact you. He always came when other clients were here. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was easier for him to reach me with the pathway already open. His message was always, ‘Rebekah, I want Rebekah, I want my Pumpkin. I must tell her—’ A warning? That’s what I thought, but I really don’t know. I asked you to bring something personal of his with you.”
Rebekah opened her handbag and pulled out a letter and a photograph of her and her grandfather standing on the steps of the Capitol building, people flowing around them. He was smiling, eager to get on with his life, and beside him Rebekah, just turned eleven, was clutching his hand and looking as happy as he was. He had no way of knowing what would happen to him, but of course, no one did. The photograph had been taken a year before the series of strokes happened and effectively ended his life, leaving him in a coma for sixteen years. He’d finally died last month and been buried in Arlington National Cemetery with all due pomp, with Rebekah’s husband standing next to her, his arm around her. Rebekah felt tears swim in her eyes as she handed Zoltan the photograph and the letter.
Zoltan took the letter, didn’t read it, but seemed to weigh it in her hand. She took the photograph, glanced at it, then placed it faceup over the letter, in front of Rebekah.
“Rebekah, please place your left hand over the letter and the photograph and give me your right hand.”
Rebekah did as she was asked. She no longer felt like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. She was beginning to feel calmer, more settled, perhaps even receptive. She let her hand relax in Zoltan’s. “Why my right hand? Why not my left?”
Zoltan said, “I’ve learned the right hand carries more latent energy than the left. Odd but true, at least in my experience. Good. I want you to think about what your grandfather said to you that day the photograph was taken, think about what you were feeling in that moment. Now picture the man in the photograph. Tell me about him.”
“Before the strokes and the coma, he was in Congress, always on the go, always busy with his political maneuvering against the incumbent majority. I remember that day he was happy. A bill I think he’d authored had passed.” She paused a moment. “As for the letter, it’s the last one he wrote me. It was chatty, nothing serious. Grandfather rarely emailed me; he preferred to write his letters to me in longhand.”
“Now, lightly touch the fingers of your left hand to the photograph. Let them rest on your grandfather’s face. Excellent. Close your eyes, picture his face in your mind, and simply speak to him as if he were sitting beside you on the sofa. It’s all right if you think this is nothing more than a silly exercise, but indulge me, please.”
Rebekah didn’t resist. She was feeling too relaxed. Zoltan poured her another cup of tea from the carafe on the coffee table. Rebekah drank, savored the rich, smooth taste, and did as Zoltan said. Oddly, she saw her grandmother’s face, cold and aloof, not her grandfather’s. Gemma had been a séance junkie all her life, something that made Rebekah’s mom roll her eyes. Grandmother was talking to dead people? No, her mother had said, talking to the dead was crazy, meant for the gullible. Rebekah wondered if her grandmother had tried to contact her husband since his death. Why would she? To gloat that he was dead and she wasn’t?
Zoltan said again, “Rebekah? Please speak to your grandfather. Picture him here with you. Speak what’s in your heart. Be welcoming.”
Rebekah said, her voice clear, “Grandfather, I remember you when you were well and happy before you fell into a coma. I loved you so much and I knew you loved me. Everyone called me your little confidante, and it was true. You trusted me with all the stories you called your secret adventures, even when I was a kid. Do you know I kept my promise to you never to tell anyone the stories, not even my mother, certainly not my grandmother? They were always only between us. You made me feel very special.” Her voice caught. “I miss you, Grandfather. I think of you every day and pray you’re at peace.” She knew, objectively, when he’d fallen into the coma, his life was over, though his body held on. She knew she should have been relieved when his body finally let go, but the reality of his actual death still broke her. She swiped away a tear, swallowed. “Zoltan said you want to speak to me. If you can hear me, I hope you can come—through.” Her voice fell off. She felt a bit silly, but oddly, it didn’t overly concern her.
The draperies continued to flutter in the breeze, the fire stayed sullen. The lamplight, however, seemed to dim, then brighten, and dim again. Zoltan’s face was now in shadow. She said in the same gentle voice, each word slow and smooth, “Keep talking to him, Rebekah. I can feel a presence hovering close, and it’s familiar.”
Rebekah didn’t feel anything different. Well, except for the dimmed lamplight. Zoltan’s right hand held Rebekah’s, and her left hand lay palm up on her lap. Rebekah knew she should feel like an idiot, but she didn’t. She felt relaxed, curious to see what would happen. “Perhaps it isn’t really Grandfather you’re feeling, Zoltan—”
Zoltan suddenly raised her left hand, and Rebekah stopped talking. “Is that you, Congressman Clarkson? Are you here?”
The draperies grew still, though the fan continued to churn the air. The fire suddenly sparked, shooting up an orange flame, then the burning wood crumbled, making a soft thudding sound. The lamplight grew brighter, then flickered and went completely dark.
Only the dying fire lit the room.
All tricks, she’s pressing some magic buttons with her foot—
She felt Zoltan’s hand tighten ever so slightly around hers. “Someone is here, Rebekah,” Zoltan said calmly in her soft, even voice. “I can’t be certain until the Departed talks to me, but the feeling of his presence is, as I said, familiar. Do you know of a nickname your grandfather was called? Or did you yourself have a special name for him as he did for you?”
