Nic Tatano - The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

I didn’t want to push things. “I guess I can wait.”

“His powers started to grow, at a rate no one at The Summit had ever seen. They wanted to study him. He wanted to flex his muscle, use his powers. He became obsessed, out of control. And his powers were such that if used in the wrong way they could be dangerous.” She reaches across the table, grabs my soda, and steals a sip. “Tribute,” she says, taking a page from Roxanne’s Italian mother, using the term for the percentage Mafia members pay to their bosses.

“Sure. You can have the rest.”

“He changed, Jillian. He knew he was becoming more powerful than anyone, even those on The Council . Eventually they forbid him to use his new powers and tried to use some of their own to rein him in. But he was too strong and he escaped. He left right after your first birthday and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Has he ever been in contact with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. But I’ve been in contact with him.”

Now I’m confused. “I don’t understand.”

“He left an address. It’s a mail drop in Connecticut. He told me to use it in case of emergency. Anyway, every year I’ve sent one of your school photos and a letter telling him how you’re doing. I have no idea if he receives these—”

“But they don’t come back, right?”

“No. And I do put a return address on them. But who knows if he still has the same address? It could end up in someone else’s box, could be thrown away. And if you’re wondering if he’s still alive, he is, because they monitor his activities at The Summit. They just can’t pinpoint his whereabouts.”

She looks down at the two photos on the table and I can tell the waterworks are about to burst. I get up, move around to her side of the table, crouch down and wrap my arms around her shoulders. “I hate to ask a stupid question…but, if he just vanished…are you two still married?”

“No. I waited several years hoping he’d come back. Eventually I petitioned the court and they granted me a divorce since he was basically a missing person.”

“I’m so sorry, mom. I had no idea.”

“He’s your father, Jillian. But he’s not your dad.”

“I get that. Mom .”

Her hands begin to shake, she starts to bawl. I pull her close. Her head rests on my shoulder, mine on hers as her sobbing grows deeper. I look at the two photos on the kitchen table.

And I know I have to find him.

Despite the killer body and gorgeous face, Roxanne doesn’t go out on second dates a lot. In fact she’s never even had a steady boyfriend. She is to dating what one-hit-wonders are to the music industry. She’s a drive-by romantic, going through men like Kleenex. Some dates result in her going to confession, some not. We’ll leave it at that.

It’s not that she wouldn’t like to date a nice guy on a regular basis; but after one circuit around the dating pool at our school, she simply feels guys our age are too immature. (No argument here.) There there’s the deal with her father, the former linebacker of the New York Giants. Imagine a high school boy ringing the bell to pick up his date and having someone like that answer the door. Heaven help the poor soul who treats his daughter badly.

So it surprised me that the ‘favor’ she asked for on Sunday was such an unusual one.

She wants me to do a reading.

Over the years I’ve offered to do it for fun, but since romance is not on the front burner with her she’s always declined. I, of course, not being a playwright, author or composer, haven’t had the need for a muse. (Thought I might in the near future. More on that later.) So when it comes to our talents, we’ve kept them separate.

Her reason for wanting a reading, however, has nothing to do with romance.

She simply wants to make sure she’s not going to die in the next five years. I don’t blame her. I’d do one on myself if it were possible. She couldn’t care less about what I see as far as her romantic future is concerned, as she’s one of those people who wants to be surprised when Cupid’s arrow hits. She wants me to see if the images keep coming when they hit the five-year mark.

I’m already seated when Roxanne enters what she calls our ‘seer cave.’ It’s a ten by ten room, every inch of wall space covered with floor to ceiling deep burgundy curtains. A simple round antique oak table sits in the center along with two matching chairs. The soft lighting overhead is provided by a gorgeous old tiffany lamp my mother found at a garage sale years ago.

And, of course, my trusty crystal ball sits in the center of the table.

I have foregone my usual cape (burgundy, matching the curtains) and jewelry since Rox is the only person getting a reading on this Tuesday night.

“What, I don’t rate the outfit?” she says, giving my FDNY sweatshirt the once-over as she sits down opposite me. “No bling at all?”

“It has no effect on the reading, and it’s just us tonight.”

She looks at the crystal ball. She’s never watched me do a reading since seers can get confused when there’s another person in the room along with the subject. “So, how does this work? Is that thing gonna fog up and show me the future?”

“It does fog up, but only I’ll be able to see what lies ahead when it clears.”

She scoots her chair closer to the table. “Okay, let’s rock. See anything yet?”

“Doesn’t work that way. First, you have to ask me a question, and it has to pertain to romance. Then we both close our eyes for a minute and focus on the question. The ball will then reveal images to me and I will try to interpret them.”

“Interpret?”

“Well, there’s no audio so I have to go on what I see. For instance, if the image is of a couple holding hands and smiling as they walk, then stopping for a kiss, I would interpret that as being in love or a good relationship.”

“Well, you don’t have to interpret any images you see of me being groped in a car.”

“Only if the guy doing the groping is worth mentioning.”

“Nah, I like being surprised. But I like the surprise the guy gets even more.”

“Okay, if we’re done discussing possible images of you giving guys a shot in the family jewels, can we get started?”

“Sure. Why can’t I just ask if I’m gonna be dead in five years?”

“No. Has to be romance. Love, not death. And be specific. You ready?”

“Sure.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands.

And then it hits me. “Oh my God!”

“What? I’m dead already?”

“No. I just realized what happened the other night. The woman with the afterlife reading took my hands before we started. She was nervous.”

“Okay….”

“I usually have my hands on the crystal ball. I wonder—”

“Maybe her touch gave you a stronger reading?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you tell The Council about that?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me until you took my hands.”

“Did you hold her hands during the reading?”

“No, I told her to relax and then I grabbed the ball as usual.”

“Okay, so do exactly what you did the other night.”

It makes sense, so I let go of her hands and take the ball. “Go ahead, ask your question. Look right into my eyes when you do.”

“Will I ever have had a good boyfriend by the time I’m twenty-five?”

I nod. “You don’t need a seer for that, but it’ll take us past the five-year mark. Now close your eyes and focus. Make sure you focus on the specific question and not why you’re really here.”

“Got it.”

She closes her eyes and I do the same. I’m focusing as hard as possible on Roxanne and her question, more than I usually do for clients. I see her face, her smile. I recap memories of our childhood that are already burned into my brain. I’m smiling now, remembering our wonderful times together. I focus on her romantic future. I imagine her in a wedding dress, ready to head down the aisle. She’s stunning, that black hair contrasting with the white dress, framed against the colorful stained glass windows of the cathedral.