I really wanted to do with my life at this point in time. It was funny when I really thought about it. Because, it turned out what I wanted to do, was the very thing I'd been running from my entire life.
I wanted to give people closure and ensure that the spirits of their loved ones were granted safe passage to whatever comes next. So, I dug around the internet until I found the contact information for Tracey's manager. A few phone calls later, I had found myself at a coffee shop on Long Island, plotting my debut with the woman I'd run from months ago.
“So, you're gonna go out for twenty minutes. That should give you the chance to read a couple people. And I think you'll find that, the more you work your ability, the quieter it'll be when you're not using it. Think of yourself as a bucket—”
I interrupted with a laugh. “I'm sorry, that's just ridiculous.”
Tracey rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Hear me out! You're a bucket, Spirit is the tap, and your ability is the water. The tap is always running, always spilling water into the bucket, and if you don't drink, it'll overflow. The more you use your ability, the more satisfied Spirit is, and the easier it is to stay in control.”
It made sense, that in order to relieve the pressure inside of me, I had to let some out every now and then.
Now, I took a deep breath, as I waited for my turn on stage. I found I was terrified and riddled with nerves. What if, for the first time since I was a child, the spirits decided not to communicate? What if they had stage fright? But there wasn't time to tuck my tail between my legs and back out. Tracey's manager called to me that it was time, and I walked on unsteady feet to the stage.
The theater was small with a capacity of only seven hundred, but standing on the stage beneath the bright spotlight, it might as well have been a stadium full of thousands. I couldn't see beyond the first few rows of faces, but the static volume was deafening. I came to stand before the microphone and the figures of the dead came into focus. They pleaded with their eyes, staring intently at me from the audience. They were too loud, too distracting, and I couldn't find a slice of free attention to introduce myself. Grabbing the mic in a firm grip, I pulled it from its stand, and walked to the edge of the stage, to face a woman and the ghost of her sister.
“It wasn't your fault you weren't there,” I said, crouching at the edge of the stage. “She's relieved you didn't see her at the end. She was so sick; she didn't want you to remember her that way.”
The woman opened her mouth and lifted a trembling hand to her lips. “O-Oh, God ... Is she, is she h-here?”
I nodded. “She's beside you, in the aisle. She wanted to tell you your parents are fine. She's with them all the time. And the baby, the one named after her ... she's honored.”
“Oh, thank God. I thought she'd think it's weird.”
“She loves it. She watches her often. When you hear that song, the Elton John one that makes you always think of her, she wants you to know that that's her, saying hi.”
The woman's eyes spilled over as she nodded. “I-I thought so, but I wasn't sure.”
I could've read her for hours, but there wasn't time. The tug of a young boy, dragging me toward his father, was too great. I cut myself from the woman and her grateful sister and let the static lure me instead of shutting it out. Smiling as I knelt before the withered man, I faced the little boy, who was no more than five years old. He was too young, too sweet, and he reminded me of Jamie.
“He was so glad to finally let go,” I said gently. “He always knew he wouldn't be in this world for long and he was just so enthralled with the time he had. But he needs you to live. Give your wife another baby.”
The man laid a hand over his shadowed eyes and released a quiet sob. “I can't replace him,” he whispered, and the man beside him laid a hand over his shoulder.
“He knows that, but he doesn't see it that way,” I replied gently, feeling the delicate fragility