After the door closed behind Frank, Mare went back to bed, but she couldn’t fall asleep again. She was too uneasy. The rising sun cast a shadow of windowpanes across the coverlet. Frank’s apartment had the creaking floors and peeling paint of a veteran in the rental market, but Mare loved the elaborate plaster work on the ceiling. If you had the imagination, you could pretend you were in a Paris hotel.
She stared at it now, pondering. The magic penny would change Frank’s life. Mare foresaw this, which was why she had slipped it into his pocket unawares. It would reveal things that would shake him to the core. She knew this too, because knowing came easily to Mare, all her life. As a girl she had laughed out loud one evening when a movie title came on television: I Know What You Did Last Summer.
I Know What You Did Next Summer, she thought. That’s a much better title.
She opened the drawer of the bedside table, where she’d placed her penny. She couldn’t help averting her eyes. She was afraid of its magic, because it spelled the end of her secret. Mare had skillfully kept her secret hidden even as so many others were coming to light. She’d only slipped up once, when she was at the bus stop, seeing the light in every passenger who got on the bus. “I’ve found my calling,” she said before Meg shushed her.
The time for secrets was over, but what about Frank? That was more complicated. It had been easy to keep things from the two or three serious boyfriends who came into her life and left again. Like them, Frank had felt like an intruder at first, but Mare had grown to love him. He was confused and hurt whenever she kept her distance.
“We spend the night, and then you don’t call for days,” he complained. “Why?”
Because I have to, she thought.
If she married him, her gift would become a threat, and not just to Frank. She had no control over her far-seeing. What if she saw that he would cheat on her? It would make for strange vows at the altar: “I do thee wed, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until you step out with Debbie from the gym.”
Mare pushed the thought out of her mind. She took the magic penny from the drawer and folded her palm over it. She might as well face whatever it wanted to show or say. There was a message, but it wasn’t magical: Throw me away. With a sigh of relief she got out of bed and tossed the coin into the wastebasket. It was like a last-minute reprieve.
But almost immediately a voice in her head said, This is your test. What did that mean? Mare anxiously waited for more, but nothing came. She suddenly knew that she had to act. Her test would mean something crucial for the whole group.
Quickly throwing on some clothes, she walked outside into the bright, brisk winter morning. She paused, peering up and down the street. Where was she supposed to go? It was entirely her choice, but the test consisted of making the right choice. She closed her eyes. Nothing appeared. She couldn’t wander at random.
How do you find the route to an unknown destination?
Mare waited for an answer. Nothing.
All right, a clue, then?
Again nothing, no puff of wind, no glint of sunlight off a car windshield, no chance remark from a passing stranger. These were signs she had followed all her life. The world spoke to her, and it was time for Mare to realize that it didn’t speak to everyone. To a normal person, looking for signs was like believing in omens—not something you did if you wanted to appear sane.
She would have to create her own clues. Mare looked inward, this time expecting nothing. And a faint image came through. She saw a gleaming silver thread lying across her palm. She took a step to the right, and the gleam grew dull. She took a step to the left, and it became brighter. So left it was. She’d stop at every corner to check which way to go next. It was a start.
When she was four, riding in the front seat of the car, her mother came to a lurching stop when another driver cut her off. Instinctively she reached out with her right arm to hold Mare back in her seat, forgetting that she was wearing a seatbelt. A few days later, when the car came to another sudden stop, Mare reached over from the passenger side to hold her mother back.
“What are you doing, honey?” her mother asked.
“Keeping Mommy safe.”
Her mother laughed, but was strangely touched. Protecting Mommy became a little game between them. Her mother didn’t notice that Mare was reaching out before the brakes were hit. She anticipated what was about to happen. The only one who saw this was Aunt Meg when her car wouldn’t start one morning and she needed a ride to work, but she said nothing.
Lost in memory, Mare was forgetting to consult the silver thread. She looked down at her palm, and the thread had turned a dull gray. She had to retrace her steps a couple of blocks until it began to brighten again. It pointed down a broad thoroughfare leading to one of the swanky parts of town. Feeling tense, she quickened her pace. But for some reason memory wouldn’t release her. It kept pulling her back to the past.
At some point when she was a child, Mare’s gift started to betray her. She couldn’t remember what finally caused her to bury it. Maybe she said something wildly inappropriate, like telling one of her mother’s friends that she would never have children. Stuck in her recollection, though, were sharp looks directed her way. She felt different, but not special, the girl who burst out laughing before a joke reached the punch line.
She was secretly relieved when she grew up to be pretty. It was the best of disguises. She could go on a date with the high-school quarterback and cheer for him even when she knew the game would be lost. Behind a shy façade, Mare learned about human nature in all its unpredictability, which for her was entirely predictable.
She heard the word “psychic” for the first time in a psychology class in college, where the professor said the paranormal didn’t exist. It was a fiction to mask neurosis. “Given the choice between feeling magical and feeling crazy,” he said, “most people choose magical.” By that time Mare had let her gift wither, so she didn’t care if it was unreal. The important thing was that it was gone—until the day she went to the convent in search of her dead aunt.
Mare returned to her test. An hour dragged by as she followed the silver thread. Mare didn’t know this part of town very well; most of its houses were built by old money. Where the money stuck around, the three-story brownstones were expensively kept up. Where the money flew away, old people lingered in tattered gentility and stashed bottles of gin. Deep into this mossy territory, which felt vaguely like a damp forest, Mare felt something new. The silver thread burned, and its glow turned almost incandescent.
It wanted her to stop. She looked around, but nothing unusual stood out. The neighborhood was empty, quietly moldering. Then a teenage boy in a hoodie and cargo shorts pedaled up the street on a bicycle with a bag of groceries in the front basket. He stopped at the corner opposite Mare, not glancing her way, and rang the bell beside a wrought-iron gate with brick pillars as big as phone booths. After a few seconds someone buzzed the gate, and the delivery boy pushed it open.
Go. Now!
The voice in her head was urgent. Mare took off. Five seconds, and she’d be too late. She caught the gate just as it was about to click shut. The delivery boy turned around, startled.
“Those are for me,” Mare said, reaching to take the brown paper bag from him. Stalks of celery and a baguette of French bread stuck out the top.
“You live here?” The delivery boy sounded more confused than suspicious.
“Yes. I didn’t want to search for my keys. It’s okay.”
He wouldn’t let go of the groceries. “I always give them to her, the older lady.”
“My aunt,” said Mare, hurriedly reaching in her purse. She needed to get rid of him before Meg answered the door.
“Here.” She produced a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet. The delivery boy gave her the grocery bag just as Mare saw, over his shoulder, the heavy oak front door begin to open.
“Neatly executed,” said Meg. She stood in the doorway dressed in a suit, as if she were going to her job at the bank. She didn’t look the least bit surprised to see Mare. “This was the only time today I would have answered the doorbell.” She gave a thin smile. “A person has to eat.”
She turned back into the dimly lit house, leaving Mare to shut the door behind her and follow. The drawing room was immense and forlorn, the furniture shrouded in dusty sheets. The dining room table was uncovered, set for one. A massive silver candelabra sat in the middle. Mare gawked.
“You get used to it,” said Meg.
The kitchen was laid out with a scullery, a butler’s pantry, and zinc sinks big enough to bathe a sheepdog in. Meg put the groceries down on a massive butcher-block table. “Do you want lunch? You’ve been walking for hours.”
Mare shook her head. “I’m too nervous.”
“Don’t I know it? When I was new at the convent, meals were the worst. A sister would say, ‘Pass the ketchup,’ and I’d hear, ‘We all know you’re a fraud.’ I was lucky to keep anything down.”
She caught the look on Mare’s face. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I was a kind of spiritual con artist, pretending to be a good Catholic.”
“Did you ever fit in?”
“No. A nun may be many things. Disobedient isn’t one of them. I did all the right things. My disobedience was of the heart.”
Meg started unpacking the groceries, speaking as casually as if the whole situation wasn’t extraordinary. “I really didn’t know what to expect, but I had to be there, you see.”
Mare fell into the rhythm of putting vegetables in the refrigerator and canned goods in the pantry. It seemed pointless to ask how her aunt acquired the huge mansion. “Why did you have to be there?”
Meg looked bemused. “For the longest time I had no idea. But now I see. It all led to this moment. You understand? No, how could you?”
Suddenly Mare felt a wave of resentment. “We’re family. Why have you been hiding from us? My mother is worried sick. I can’t tell her you’re not dead without producing you.”
“She’s not all that worried. She just doesn’t like surprises.”
Meg took a seat at the butcher-block table and waited for Mare to sit down. “I kept myself hidden, so that you could pass this test. If you already knew where I lived, there would be no test.” She paused. “Are you sure you won’t eat something? Here.” Meg pushed a bowl of apples across the table.
“In a minute,” Mare replied. She wasn’t satisfied with the answers she was hearing. “You don’t have a right to do all these things to us—not just me, the whole group. We’re like rats in a maze.” She caught herself. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”
Meg gave a curt laugh. “Guilty? That’s all I could feel when this began. I saw ordinary people thrown on a magical mystery tour, with no idea where they were going. It was outrageous.”
“Maybe it was a power trip for you.”
For the first time since Meg had reappeared, she was offended. “Watch yourself,” she said sharply. “And eat. You’re tired and cranky.”
Reluctantly Mare picked out an apple and bit into it, while Meg went into the pantry and returned with a bag of potato chips. She watched her niece pick at them without enthusiasm. At the far end of the table was a lead-crystal vase with white roses picked from the garden. Meg gave them a sidelong glance. She waited to see if Mare would follow the glance. She did.
The roses had begun to glow, just as the golden shrine did. A soft radiance surrounded them. Mare stared, her mouth forming a silent “Oh.”
“You can do that?”
“Who else? I’m not who you think I am.”
The glow subsided, and the roses went back to normal. Mare sat back, stunned. A surreal image came to her. She saw Aunt Meg radiating the same white light, then vanishing into nothingness.
“All along, I thought—”
“That a magical talisman had dropped out of the sky? I’ve told you before, all of you, the shrine is just a distraction.”
“But you didn’t tell us it was a distraction from you.”
Meg laughed. “The shrine isn’t really old, probably Victorian. Someone I dearly loved, an old priest, bought it at an antique store and had it plated gold. He probably ruined its value.”
While revealing this, Meg closely watched Mare’s expression. “You feel cheated, don’t you? You wanted miracles, and now you think I’m some sort of illusionist.”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“If it’s any help, I’ll tell you what an old priest told me. ‘Either nothing is a miracle or everything is.’ You understand?”
Mare shook her head.
Meg reached down the table and plucked a white rose from the vase. “This flower is made of light. If it weren’t, I couldn’t make it glow. A miracle exposes the light inside all things.”
She didn’t wait for Mare to reply. “I’m not telling you something you don’t already know. You’re a seer. Pushing it out of sight like dust under the carpet doesn’t change the fact.”
Mare felt a tremor of fear run through her. “I don’t want to be a seer.”
“Really, after all this? Frankly, I’m disappointed.”
Meg stood up, tossing the rose on the table. “At the next meeting, tell the others it’s over.”
“You don’t mean that!” Mare exclaimed.
Meg’s face looked stern. “What do you care? The magical mystery tour stops here. All passengers off the bus, please.”
Mare was bewildered. “Why?”
“Because there’s somewhere I have to be.”
Her aunt was about to pull a third vanishing act? Mare was about to get angry when Meg seemed to relent. “I’ll let you come with me. When you get back, you can decide about the group.”
Abruptly she left the kitchen, and when she returned, Meg had a sheaf of papers in her hand. “Sign these first. I’m giving you the house and the money that comes with it.” Meg held out a pen. “Where I’m going, I won’t need them.”
Mare felt a fresh wave of anxiety. “You’re making me dizzy.” She wanted to get up from the table, but her knees felt watery. “Let me come back tomorrow. Once I think this over—”
Meg didn’t let her finish. “There’s no need. You passed the test. If you could follow the invisible trail that led to here, you’re the rightful owner.”
She pointed to the first places where Mare needed to sign. Feeling helpless, Mare picked up the pen and scrawled her signature.
When the signing was done, Meg looked satisfied. “Now, then, shall we go?” She reached across the table and took Mare’s hands in hers. “You know how by now.”
Mare didn’t hesitate. If everything was about Meg, she had to be trusted.
“One thing will be different,” said Meg as their hands locked in a firm clasp. “This time we can talk to each other.”
The kitchen vanished and was replaced by a long-ago scene. They were on a bustling street in Jerusalem, and Meg had been right. Mare could see her standing there. But the passing crowd took no notice of either of them. They were invisible, as before.
“Notice something?” asked Meg. “Look in their eyes.”
Mare looked first at a fruit vendor ten feet away and his customer, hurriedly putting figs into a sack. She looked at a mother dragging her two small children into a side street, then at a bearded rabbi with a silver chain around his neck.
“They’re all afraid,” she said.
“All but one.”
Meg led the way, weaving in and out of the crowd. She walked briskly; it was all Mare could do to keep up.
“Why are they all so scared?”
“It’s like dogs getting frightened just before an earthquake. They can feel destruction coming.”
At the end of the street, where it opened on a small plaza with a stone well in the center, there were no women drawing water. Instead, a squad of Roman soldiers guarded the well, scowling at anyone who came near.
Meg nodded toward them without stopping. “There have been rumors about the Jews poisoning the city’s water supply.”
Now Mare was beginning to see images in her mind’s eye. A Roman soldier committing a sacrilege on the grounds of the temple. Jews running riot, the city boiling over. A veil of blood covered these images.
“Are we here to stop it?” she asked.
“No, Jerusalem will fall.”
Meg stopped before an imposing two-story house on the corner, surrounded by a stone wall with well-tended olive trees beyond it. “I’m almost afraid to go in,” she murmured.
“Why? Who lives there?”
“Who do you think?”
The iron gate in front of the house was slightly ajar, which made no sense amid the restless fear in the streets. Meg slipped through it and waited for Mare before locking the gate behind them. The courtyard contained a lush garden with a fountain and flowers planted in neat square beds. A paradise garden, Mare thought, dredging up the name from some distant memory.
Meg didn’t give the garden a glance, but hurried to the front door. It too was slightly ajar. She and Mare entered and were met by a rush of cool perfumed air. A smaller inner courtyard faced them, bathed in sunlight, enclosed by a gallery of fretted marble.
“So beautiful,” Mare whispered.
“It’s her home.” Meg pointed to an alcove nearby where the disciple sat, contemplating. The girl they knew was almost unrecognizable. She looked older now, middle-aged; but it was her, and the way she raised her head made Mare believe she knew they were there.
If we talk to her, she’ll be able to hear us, Mare thought. Immediately a warning voice in her head said, Don’t.
Meg barely glanced at the disciple before turning away. She retreated to a dark corner at the far end of the gallery. After a moment the disciple sighed deeply, stood up, and left, her purple silk skirts rustling as she walked.
Once it was safe to talk, Mare said, “You were right. She doesn’t look afraid.”
“She can see ahead, past the danger.”
“So she’ll save herself in time?”
Meg shrugged. “She’s not worried about herself. She’s past all that.”
“I want to talk to her.” Impulsively, Mare started to follow the disciple’s footsteps into the depth of the house. Meg held her back.
“You’ve been talking to her the whole time,” she said.
“What?”
Meg held her hand up, asking for silence. Her voice was already far away, and as dim as the shadows were in the cool, sheltered gallery. Mare saw doubt in her face. Her aunt had come to a crossroads, and she couldn’t decide which way to go.
The silence didn’t last long. “We part here,” Meg said decisively. “You can embrace me. I believe that’s customary.”
The strangeness of these words made Mare go cold. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’m staying here. It’s not the same thing.”
The blood drained from Mare’s body. “You can’t!” she exclaimed. Weak as she felt, her voice was loud, ringing down the marble halls of the gallery.
“That’s right, shout some more,” Meg murmured. “Shout all you want.”
Mare might have, but she froze, hearing the approach of running feet. From around the corner came the disciple. Someone was following her—a servant?—but she waved him away. Now she could definitely see them, and the sight made her pause.
“It is done,” said Meg.
The disciple nodded and began to approach.
“You see,” Meg said, “I sent myself on a mission.” She waited for the disciple to come nearer. “It took ten years in the convent to realize that. You couldn’t expect me to believe it, not for a long time.”
“Please,” Mare pleaded, “just tell me what this is all about.” She was suddenly overcome by a sense of loss.
Meg pointed to the disciple. “I am her. Now do you understand?”
Then she stepped forward, quickly covering the short distance between her and the disciple, who stood motionless, expectant. Just before there would have been a collision, Meg’s body was transformed. It turned into pure light, like a movie image being replaced by the light of the projector. This took barely a second, and then there was only the disciple. She trembled slightly, making no sound.
“You,” Mare whispered.
The disciple hadn’t acknowledged that she was there, and even now she did no more than raise her hand. A farewell? A blessing? Mare couldn’t tell, her sight blurred with tears. Suddenly there were voices approaching. They sounded alarmed. The disciple spoke sharply in Hebrew (Mare supposed) and strode toward them. She disappeared into a clutch of servants coming from deep inside the house.
Now Mare’s tears flowed freely. Meg had been like a visitation, poised between two lifetimes. There was no way to explain how such a thing can occur. A breeze blew across Mare’s cheek from the inner courtyard. She blinked to clear her eyes. A neat rectangle of white roses stood close by, and they began to glow.
Before Mare could blink again, she was back in the kitchen at the butcher-block table. She looked down. A half-eaten apple was starting to turn brown beside a withered white rose. Time had passed, but how much? Hours? Days? She couldn’t tell. She could only tell that she’d come back a different person. Her secret gift, all the hiding, her dead aunt who wasn’t dead but a conveyor of wonders—none of it mattered anymore. Something did, though, the one truth Mare could live by without fear or doubt.
Either nothing is a miracle or everything is.