Maybe she’s the real thing. I didn’t believe it, but as long as there was the slightest possibility that Kathy could communicate with my mother—even a speck-sized possibility—it was going to be impossible for me to put the thought out of my head. I got out of bed and rummaged through the laundry hamper until I found the dirty jeans I’d worn on the weekend. There it was, in the back pocket: Kathy’s business card. It was white and fairly plain, with simple black lettering. Katherine Morrison, Medium and Clairvoyant Empath. Her phone number. A small, finely drawn figure of a young girl in the top corner. I tore it in half, dropped the pieces in the garbage and got back into bed. It didn’t help. My thoughts ran in endless, pointless, restless circles. What if, what if, what if… I guess I eventually fell asleep, because when I woke up the next morning, my pillow was wet with tears and I’d had a horrible dream. I’d gone to the marina and Eliza J had been gone. Sold. I’d lain on the splintery wooden dock and cried and cried.
