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‘My mother.’
‘When did she pass?’
‘A while ago.’
Why should I help her?
Cindy closes her eyes and runs her hands over the tablecloth, as though drawing invisible symbols on the velvet. I hear a gurgling sound that could be her stomach rumbling, or something in her plumbing. She ignores the noise.
‘I always see a reading as a spark of knowledge,’ she says, ‘and proof that we are more than just our physical form. We exist before we are born and after we die.’
She opens one eye to see if I understand and then continues.
‘When I converse with a spirit, I sometimes download the wrong message, so if I start to ramble, or talk rubbish, you have to stop me.’
Already, I have a bad feeling about this. I can’t tell if Cindy is lying because she believes what she’s saying, but not completely.
‘Do you have a photograph of your mother?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Anything at all that belonged to her?’
‘I have a button that came from her coat, but I didn’t bring it with me.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
She frowns. ‘What was your mother’s name?’
‘Marcela.’
‘Does she ever visit you – in your dreams?’
‘She talks to me sometimes.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She tells me to keep going.’
‘Oh, that’s very good advice. Your mother is very wise. What exactly would you like to ask Marcela?’
‘I want to remember.’
‘Remember what?’
‘How she died.’
‘You don’t know?’
I shake my head.
Cindy reaches across the table and takes my hand. I want to pull it away because I don’t like being touched, but she holds my hand firmly and strokes her finger over my palm.
‘When you walked in here, you weren’t alone.’
‘Pardon?’
