Through Indigo's Eyes (16 page)

“That's so sad,” I said.

“It's life. You make do with what you got.”

“Would you like to see him one day?”

“Not really. He was such an asshole. I remember little things, like him screaming at my mother and pushing her into their bedroom. They fought a lot.” He paused momentarily, long enough for a bird to fly overhead and land on a branch.

Then he continued, “But sometimes I think of finding him and telling him what a lousy dad and husband he was. He really hurt my mom. Killed her spirit.” He looked up and stared at the bird on the branch. “It angers me to think of him being abusive to her.”

Oh yes, he hit her
. His voice sounded in my head and before I could shake my head and get rid of it I heard more.
He was physically and sexually abusive to her
.

I wrapped my arms around my body. I didn't want to hear any more. “She must be strong to raise you on her own,” I said.

“He drank a lot, I guess. That's when he was mean.” He stopped talking for a second before he said, “I don't know how my mom will survive without me next year. She's had it rough. Sometimes she doesn't cope real well. But … I want to go. I want to get away from here. I want to go to London, England.”

“You have to live your own life,” I said. A vision of me living with John in some bohemian apartment in London skirted through my mind. I gave my head a little shake. What was wrong with me? I hardly knew the guy. Just days ago, I had chastised Lacey for thinking about being with Burke next year, and here I was doing the same thing.

Falling.

Was I falling into a big hole with no way out?

The scary truth was … I wanted to fall.

“Sometimes I think of trying to find someone, like Cayce,” said John, “who can see things so I can just ask the person if they can see my dad and where he is now.”

I lowered my head and stared at the ground as I walked.

John continued. “Maybe if I found out he was not such a bastard and had turned his life around, I'd try to find him. And maybe the person could look ahead and see my mom next year and tell me she was going to be okay if I went away somewhere.”

I knew he wanted answers but why did he think he needed to get them this way? Surely, there was a relative he could talk to, someone in his father's family. I inhaled, and when I exhaled, I said, “I read once where some of those people who do that kind of stuff are called charlatans.”

“Fakes?”

I shrugged. “My aunt went once and said it was expensive and not worth it.”

John stopped walking and turned to look at me, his s knitted together. “You know something about this?”

“Not really.” I stumbled over my words. “My aunt just talked about it briefly. Said she wasted her money.”

My answer must have placated him because he nodded. “Maybe I just have to find the right person.”

Cold air swept through my hair and circled my body. It was getting dark, and that meant the warmth of the autumn sun would be gone for the night. Thoughts filled my brain. His mom had huge stuff to deal with. What, I wasn't sure. But I was feeling something cold and damp.

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. A pain hit me hard in my chest, making me realize that the darkness I saw behind his eyes was a massive burden he carried regarding his mother.

“I'd like to meet her one day,” I said.

“Who?”

“Your mom.”

He scratched the back of his neck before he uttered, “Maybe.” He paused for a moment, then stood a little straighter and turned to look at me. “Enough of me,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “Let's talk about your normal family.”

Normal? Yeah, right. Little does he know.
At least he didn't seem to suspect anything about me.

After we both had sparked our cigarettes, we started to move again. By now the sun had fallen below the horizon and the colors had all but disappeared, leaving a prewinter sky that was turning blacker by the minute. The new moon in the sky looked as if at any moment it could plummet to the earth because it wasn't strung up properly.

The moon reminded me of my relationship with John; it hung by a thread. I gave my head a tiny shake.

Do not think like that, Indie.

Even fewer people were out now, and the joggers seemed to have called it a night. We walked aimlessly with no real destination in mind. A lady with a golden retriever passed us, and we stopped to pet the dog, but that was it. I liked the tranquility, the lack of people, and with John beside me, I liked the darkness. Once our cigarettes were out, John took my hand again as night descended upon us.

“You ever think about nature versus nurture?” he asked solemnly. “We're talking about it in psychology. It's an interesting topic. Are we destined to be who we are the product of? Or are we the product of how we are brought up, of our environment?”

I hesitated before speaking, trying to think of the right answer. “I don't know what I believe,” I replied. I thought of my own life. I wasn't like my parents. But I had been told by my mother that my great-grandmother, my mother's grandmother, used to see things, too. Had I inherited a genetic trait the way Sarah had inherited her mother's flaming red hair? “I think there are arguments for both,” I said, “but I would argue for nature. We're born the way we are.”

“I don't want to be the product of either,” said John. “The product of my old man or how my mom raised me.”

Again, the cold enveloped me, and I knew that something about his mom was off—like, really off. “If you're neither, then what do you want to be?”

He kicked a stone with his foot. “Independent. My own person. Just me.”

We walked for a few more minutes, silence trailing our footsteps. Then he glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. “You wear that cross all the time. Do you believe in God?”

I reached up to touch my gold cross. Was there a God?

I shrugged.

“I believe religion is manmade,” said John. “You must believe in God to wear a cross all the time.”

Say something, Indie, say something.

“I guess it's for luck,” I said.

“That's an odd reason to wear a cross. Are you Catholic?”

“I was confirmed Anglican, but I don't go to church.”

“Me either. My mother's parents are Catholic. Most people in Newfoundland are. They disowned her when she married my dad. He wouldn't convert. Now only her brother talks to her.”

“Every religion has its place,” I said, spewing words like I knew what I was talking about. “At least that's what I think.” Did I really think that?

The conversation was getting me down, and I didn't want to talk about heavy stuff anymore, so I let go of his hand. “Race you to that post.”

I took off running, and within two strides, John was ahead of me. Then he spun around to run backward in front of me.

“No fair,” I laughed, huffing. “You got way longer legs than me.”

John stopped, and I ran right into his arms. By now there was a chill in the night air, and the sky was raven black.

His lips grazed my ear, and he whispered, “You're so different than the other girls.”

If only he knew how different.

I didn't answer; his warm breath seemed to cover my mouth. I didn't want to tell him anything that he didn't need to know. I just wanted him to hold me and touch me.

He lifted my chin with his finger and then he lowered his lips to meet mine. At first I gasped at the heat that flowed through my body. I wanted this, and nothing was going to stop me from having it. I relaxed to enjoy every single feeling that coursed through my body, and for once, I allowed myself to be malleable and soft. I wanted to feel his hard muscles, his smooth skin. We separated for a moment but then he pulled me back into him even tighter. The small crescent moon drifted above us, and I couldn't help thinking about how the wish I'd made earlier in the evening had just come true. I wanted him even closer, so I pressed my body into his, and he responded by stroking my hair and resting his cheek on the top of my head.

I loved the feel of his arms around me, how he smelled like fresh soap, and how our bodies fit together so perfectly, like the colors of the sunset.

Part Two

 

Chapter Ten

October 1997

My shirt was almost off when I heard the front door slam. I pulled it down and jumped off the bed to look at myself in the mirror. My hair was a tangled mess, my face had a reddened, scratched look, and my lips were puffy and swollen. “My mom's home,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

John had also gotten up and was hurriedly tucking his shirt into his pants.

“Indie,” yelled my mother from the kitchen

“Yup. Just doing some homework,” I yelled back.

“Go and make nice,” I whispered to John, finishing the buttons on my shirt.

He tried to kiss me again, but I pushed him away. “Stop. My mother is going to know.”

As John went down the hall, I raced to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face, then put on some face cream and a little shiny face powder, which seemed to take away the redness. Next, I ran a brush through my hair, hoping these small measures would hide the evidence that John and I had not, in fact, been doing homework.

When I was satisfied that I looked okay, I made my way to the kitchen.

“John's been telling me about a project he's working on for his psychology class.” Mom stirred a big pot of sauce that was on the stove.

“Oh, yeah?” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “What's for dinner?”

“Spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread.” My mother looked at John over the rim of her reading glasses. Why she needed her glasses to stir spaghetti was beyond me. “You're staying for dinner, John?”

John shrugged. “Sure. I'd better phone my mom first.” John left the room to use the phone in the hallway, and I could hear him leaving a message on an answering machine.

“She's not there?” I asked when he came back.

“She's probably in the bathroom or something.” He spoke without looking at me, and from the way he tapped his fingers on the kitchen counter, I picked up his nervousness. In the month we'd been going out, I had yet to meet his mother or even see where he lived. He always came to my house, and every time I asked to meet her, he clammed up and offered some lame excuse.

“John and I were talking about his project on Edgar Cayce,” my mom piped in.

I was sipping a glass of water and nearly choked on it. Since we'd started dating, I'd always managed to steer the conversation away from Cayce. His paper on the guy wasn't due until well after Christmas.

I glanced at my mother.

Please don't blow it for me. Please don't tell John about my visions. He is my life right now. I need him. Want him. He is everything to me. And I mean everything.

“Do you believe in his work?” John asked my mom.

“Of course I do. I think he had special abilities and that he used them for the good of mankind.”

“Mom, do you need help with the salad?” I butted in.

“No, I'm fine, honey. I made it earlier.” She turned back to John, and I wanted to scream. “Some people just have that ability to tap into another dimension. They use their senses to do this.”

John sat forward on his chair, like an eager scholar. I clicked my fingernails on the counter.

“The guy was a visionary,” said John, “but I've also been reading about some other contemporary psychics who use smell, hearing, or even touch. Sylvia Browne and John Edward are two I've been trying to compare. At first I started the paper just looking at Cayce, but I've decided to put in some modern-day psychics just to show how things have changed and progressed.”

I sank in my seat and stared into space. Why did my mother have to get involved in this? And why couldn't John just do his paper and be done with it? Or pick a topic that had something to do with psychology and not psychics.

“You should see the project we're doing for film class,” I blurted out. “Sarah, Zoe, Carly, Monique, and I are going to perform a Spice Girls song, and Brent—you know, Brent from math class—he's going to film it. It's going to be hilarious.”

I jumped up and starting singing the Spice Girls song “Wannabe,” and I also did all the dance moves we had thought were so funny and so stupid when we practiced in class.

John gave me an incredulous look. “You hate the Spice Girls.”

I kept singing and dancing.
“If you want to be my boyfriend, you gotta be nice to my mom.”

My mother turned and rolled her eyes. “I doubt those are the words,” she said.

John laughed. “No, they're not the words. Not even close. Nor is that the tune. I hope you're not the singer in your band.”

I ignored John's snide comment and kept singing and making up words. Then I started laughing so hard I couldn't continue singing. When I could catch my breath, I said, “You should see my costume. I picked some of it up at Value Village the other day. I'll go put it on.” As I ran out of the room, I yelled over my shoulder, “And, yeah, I hate the Spice Girls.”