A whispering crept into Libby's dream. The whispers grew louder until the crying out of her name scattered the dream and pulled her out of a deep sleep, startled her, woke her. An icy draft swept through, and the warmth of the summer night vanished in an instant, causing her to shudder.
She clutched the covers to her chin, fighting the urge to open her eyes, but the urge to look grew stronger. She peered at the corner of the room. There, in a glowing light, the remnants of a blue mist trailed away, leaving no discernible image, no clue to her unexpected waking.
She reached for the lamp's ceramic base and fumbled for the light switch. No breeze from the opened window rustled the curtains. No shadows quivered in the corner. The room was eerily still.
She grasped her clothbound journal. This was not the first time she'd had this mysterious flight from sleep. She paged forward and spotted two entries: June 21, July 10. On a blank page she penciled in the date and time, July 20, 4:00 a.m., made a notation, and set the book aside.
Sleeping now was impossible. The incident had unnerved her with an urgency she could not explain. She slipped her robe over her silk pajamas and padded toward the kitchen in search of something to settle her anxiety.
She switched on the stove light, opened a drawer nearby, and rummaged through the spare change, paper clips, and pencils until she found a stray cigarette. She positioned it between the fingers of her left hand, reached for a book of matches, then paused and recalled her doctor's words.
To ground herself, she breathed in the tobacco odor, as stale as it was, and massaged the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger all the way to the living room. Being surrounded by the familiar--the beige couch, the oak furniture, the cozy window seat with its oversized pillows--further steadied her in the present.
She sat in her rocking chair, prepared to wait for daybreak to fully illuminate her Pacific Northwest retreat. Already the veil of night was lifting, flushing the walls in a pale light.
Just as she began to relax, a creak and snap of the floorboards drew her attention to the hallway. Expecting nothing less than another otherworldly experience, she calmed at the sight of her friend, Ellen Davis, emerging from the shadows in her pink nightgown, fluffing her cropped hair.
"Did I wake you?"
Ellen stationed herself with fists on hips, eyes skewered on Libby. "You've had one of those visions again, haven't you?" She pulled the hassock close, her gaze settling on the cigarette. She snatched it out of Libby's hand and set it on the end table.
"I wasn't going to light it," Libby said. "But if these unrelenting visions keep waking me up, I'm not promising anything. I have a business to run and a good night's sleep is essential."
Ellen clucked her tongue while rubbing Libby's hands. "They're like ice. My goodness, it's the middle of summer. Do you want to talk about it?"
"Same as last time, only the feeling is getting stronger."
"I can tell that. You're so chilled."
Libby shuddered again, thinking about the totality of the incident. "There's something about it, Ellen. I can't describe it, except to say something or someone desperately wants to break through."
"Who do you think it is?"
"I'm not sure yet," Libby said. "I haven't had anything like this happen for years, not since I worked with the police. But during that time most of the information came to me in dreams. Now my dreams seem to be manifesting outwardly."
"What do you think it means?"
"It might have something to do with a client," Libby said. "I don't sense it has anything to do with me directly, but it's too soon to tell. I'll have to wait for the entity to manifest to know for sure."
"I don't know how you handle all this psychic stuff. It's a wonder you're still sane. Let me get you some tea, warm you up." Ellen extended her hand to Libby.
Libby gladly followed Ellen through the great room into the kitchen where Ellen snapped on the overhead light.
"In high school you were always there for me when anything like this happened, remember?"
"Someone had to take over for your mother," Ellen said, "but this entity stuff makes my skin crawl." She filled the teakettle with water and placed it on the stove to heat.
Libby retrieved the chamomile teabags from the pantry and placed them in the cups Ellen had taken out of the cupboard.
Ellen took hold of Libby's hands. "They're getting warmer."
"The energy has dissipated, and I'm fine now, thanks to you." Libby gave her a squeeze. "You know, Ellen, it's nice having you here, even if it is only for the reunion."
"You were in bed last night when I got back from decorating. I want to know what the doc said."
Libby splayed the fingers of her right hand. "Five years now. I've reached a milestone. It looks good as far as he's concerned."
"That's so great." Ellen returned Libby's hug. "You're free now. So what are you going to do, bed every eligible man in town?"
"Ellen."
"You know what I mean."
"I feel great physically. I've expanded my consulting business, and I'll probably take on more clients, do more readings."
"How boring," Ellen said. "What about men? You've been so, you know--"
"Celibate?"
"Well, yes, and alone, to yourself."
Libby replaced the tea box in the cupboard.
"All men are not like Dan," Ellen said.
"I know, but I'm not interested in starting up anything new." Libby smoothed the wrinkles of her robe on the left side.
Ellen eyed Libby. "It's your breast, isn't it? You're afraid they won't be able to love you the way your breasts look now."
"That's something I have to consider, Ellen."
"It's not that bad."
"How can you say that, with all the scars and they don't even match in size anymore."
"Whose do? But I wish you had taken better care of yourself, especially when you were married to Dan."
"I should've never married him, and I should've been more proactive about getting regular breast exams."
"You could always have reconstructive surgery. You know there are options out there. Why don't you talk to your doctor again?"
"Ellen, let's just drop it. I've got my business. That's all I need."
"But Libby..."
Libby pressed a finger to Ellen's lips. "What about you? Have you decided to leave Mel?"
The kettle's shrill whistle interrupted them. Ellen poured the water into each cup and returned the kettle without answering her.
"Well?"
"I'm still thinking about it," Ellen said. "The kids are in college. They don't need family like they used to. But I'm not sure. It's such a big step."
"I don't know how you can forgive him for all he's put you through."
"Do you mean the women or the gambling?" Ellen lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. "Sometimes you have to make sacrifices because of the kids. I guess that's what I've been doing."
"Oh, Ellen. I'd love to have you back in town. In fact, you can stay here as long as you want to."
"You're a doll, you know that? We'll see, after the reunion."
"How are the preparations going, by the way?"
"It's hectic," Ellen said, "but things are getting done. Still, I'm wondering if I should have volunteered. It's so much work, especially with my living an hour north of here. I'm so glad I could stay in Harbordale with you these last few days."
"You were always into everything in high school, all the clubs, cheerleader. I envied you back then."
"Cheerleader, hah! Look at me now." Ellen aimed her index fingers at her body. "Size 14. You, on the other hand."
"Oh, right. I've got a figure like my mother. Narrow shoulders, skinny legs, hips that could bear a litter."
"You have a poor image of yourself, Libby. You do take after your mother, but she had a fabulous figure."
"At least she had children."
Before Libby could turn away, Ellen cupped Libby's face. "You can still have kids, honey. Don't give up that dream."
"At forty-three? I still have to be vigilant about the cancer. Besides, look at the legacy. Mom died of breast cancer. So did Aunt Lolly."
"But you didn't."
"I know, Ellen, but it's too late for children, and men."
"It's never too late." Ellen took a cautious sip of her tea. "Have you decided to go to the reunion?"
"I suppose, but I'm not looking forward to it. The past is better left alone."
"Oh, don't worry about the past. It's been twenty-five years. People grow up, lose their memories as they get older. They won't be thinking about you and your psychic gift. They'll be worrying about how they look."
"I know, but--"
"I'd hate to see you miss out on new opportunities. Mister Right could show up. Who knows?"
"So who's the psychic now?"
"You always told me you can't read your own future. Maybe I need to step in, give you a nudge."
"I'm not looking, and that's that."
"Maybe I'll look for you." Ellen jutted her chin.
Libby responded to Ellen's playful look of defiance with a good-natured shove. Ellen picked up her teacup and strolled out of the kitchen.
Libby loved Ellen for looking out for her, but even with the best of Ellen's intentions, and after all Libby had gone through--the scarring cancer, the abusive marriage--there was no way she would be nudged into any situation she wasn't ready for.
* * *