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8/9/2019 The Thirteenth Sign Chapter One
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ONE
I am cursed!
Plagued, doomed, possibly damned for all time—or at the very
least, for the rest of my natural life. It has taken me twenty-seven
years to come to such a conclusion, but I have yet to find another
rational explanation for my current state. Go on and gossip if you
wish of on the possibilities of my state of mind, but what I am speaking
about is a true condition, a reoccurring phenomenon that I can’t avoid
anymore than breathing. Oh, sure, I have tried to escape the clutches
of whatever has entangled me since the beginning, but I’ve never been
able to find relief, even in the slightest way. Repeatedly, I tried to
change my surroundings—physical and mental—in order to remove
myself from the blasphemy that has hovered over my existence since
birth but it was all to no avail. Now, before you begin thinking to
yourself, this girl has gone off the deep end , please rest assured that
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this is merely an acknowledgement, not surrender. There should be no
fear that I will take any rash or hasty actions at this point, but since
we’re on the subject, you may want to know what is it I am raving…
no, discussing in length about. What reported anti-blessing has hung
around my neck like an albatross for the past twenty-seven years?
It is simply this: I am just too damned agreeable!
Shocking, isn’t it? Maybe such a quality would seem desirable for
the most part, but from where I stand, it is nothing short of weakness
of character. I can’t say ‘no’ to anyone! As far back as I can recall, it
has been this way with me. Whenever someone asks something of
me, I am all too accepting of their wish. It’s as if something inside me
—something I have no control over—has to say ‘yes’. Family, friends,
coworkers, you name it. I will be more than happy to do whatever you
ask of me. Just to cut through the red tape, I was thinking of getting
‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead.
What got me started on this verbal rampage was a call from my
grandmother, whom I lovingly refer to as Mamaw. She called me at
work just a few minutes before I was heading home and said in the
most polite but persuasive manner, “Sydney, on your way home today,
could you please stop by the house? I think I have something for you.”
I have lived with Mamaw for the majority of my life. I have gotten
very adept at picking out her code words and double meanings. For
instance, if she asks, “Are you cold?” what she really means is, ‘Close
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the door. I’m freezing!’ So when I heard, “I think I have something for
you,” I knew damned well that she not only had an errand for me, but
that she had already volunteered me for whatever it was without my
knowledge or consent. No matter what it was, it was already signed,
sealed, and delivered!
I couldn’t help wondering what type of errand it would turn out to
be. When Mamaw asks something of me, I am more than sure it has to
do with my not so ordinary talent.
Dreams. That is my unusual talent. Or, to be more specific, I have
what could be called ‘psychic dreams’. I can see glimpses of the future
in my dreams, as long as it has to do with some other person. What
this means is that I have to really know the person on a somewhat
intimate level. I can’t just pass you on the street, say ‘hi’ to you, and
have a premonition that night while I sleep. It don’t work that way. I
would have to know you better than that, or at least have talked to you
on a regular basis.
Also, I do not have dreams that surround specific events, unless, of
course, the event involves a particular person. I say that just in case
you are wondering why I don’t use my extraordinary talent to benefit
humanity by warning people of horrible injustices or disasters. I don’t
really need to be told that I should be helping my fellow man with such
God-given abilities. Thanks, but no thanks. Mamaw keeps me well
supplied with enough guilt and points out my shortcomings to me in
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detail (quite often, I might add). I rarely feel the need to go looking for
more reasons to feel inferior.
Most people after finding out of my psychic quirk ask me if I have
normal dreams as well. The truth is, I have to concentrate before
going to sleep if I am going to have one of these dreams that involves
future events. Actually, that is how I found out about the dreams as a
child. At about age six, my mother left my sister and me, and we have
been living with my grandmother since. What I remember about this
was not so much her leaving, because there were no goodbyes. One
morning she was gone, and as far as her being alive or dead, that is up
to speculation and is not something that is brought up on a regular
basis.
Anyway, the week before, I remember there being a lot of fighting
and arguing between Mamaw and my mother: Doors slamming, curses
being shouted, and so forth. I was troubled by all this drama and could
not sleep. It is funny, but even at a young age, I knew my mother was
a troubled soul, but when it comes to what was troubling her, that’s
something I’ve never figured out. I had insomnia issues because of the
ruckus in the house, and on one particular night, I kept a childlike vigil
beneath the covers in my bed, praying repeatedly for the fighting to
stop and for my mother to find peace. Whether it was answered
prayers or just the course of nature, I did finally fall asleep and had my
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first psychic dream that night. I knew my mother would be gone in the
morning when I woke up… and that is how it started.
The dream was a simple one. I saw my mother standing on a street
corner in a mid-sized town, seemingly waiting for someone or
something to arrive. There were shops and stores lined up along either
side of the street, but as dreams often go, not a soul but my mother
was present, and she waited patiently grasping old, beaten up looking
suitcase. She swayed from side to side, staring off into the distance,
as if killing time in the hot noonday sun. Something did arrive after
some time—a person, a bus, maybe a taxi… I don’t recall exactly.
Then she was gone. All that remained were the vacant façades of the
stores that now had a washed-out look to them, baking in the hot
streaming rays of a dusty afternoon.
What was different about this dream was that all my senses were
engaged as in no other dream I’d ever. As it rose from the street, dry
and hot, the dust smelled ancient, as if no rain had ever or would ever
taint this ground. A warm breeze wafted across my skin and between
the strands of my hair, carrying the sound of wind chimes far off in the
distance, singing a mournful, random tune as they clanged together.
The color was more vivid that any sleep-filled memory in my past;
there were the faded storefronts in muted whites, blues, and red rather
than the murky grays of a normal dream. There were random sounds
of automobiles and children playing far in the background, and even
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now, if I close my eyes, I can pull those sounds up from the depths of
my memory.
As I remember my mother in this memory, I recall the hint of her
perfume, strong and close to touch. As the scene blended into
wakefulness, I still recall the feel of her hands on my face. It was
sometime later that I understood she had passed away and was buried
out of state. My mother was more of a phantom that anything else and
my lack of questions kept it that way for years.
My Mamaw tells me of the first time a color TV was brought into the
house, sometime in the early seventies, and how the bold hues jumped
out at her at first, almost in a visual assault that she had to get used to
over time. This is how my psychic dreams differ from the normal, run-
of-the-mill dreams.
To answer the question I brought up before, yes, I do have what
many people consider ‘normal’ dreams. As with anyone else’s, they run
the gamut of nonsensical, nightmarish, disjointed, peaceful, and
realistic. They come displayed in full blazing color at times and present
themselves in many ways: from the beautiful to the profane. It is when
I have a connection with someone that the dreams convulse into the
psychic realm.
Enough of that. I was speaking about my curse, and the current
focus is that Mamaw, who so selflessly volunteered me for some high
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postcard-like fantasy world and appear to defend these grand homes
from intruders. These estates never seem to lose my interest, even in
the oppressive heat.
Along one of these side streets that branch out from Saint Charles
Avenue is where I live. The houses set off their own unique beauty at
this time of the day, the auburn glow of the late sun striking above the
slate roofs. The leaves of the palm trees that line the sidewalk reflect
this glow, along with other tropical plants that thrive in the late
afternoon heat. A few non-native trees, hemlocks and spruces, planted
most likely by professionals to balance out the landscaping, grow
unfazed in this climate.
The irony in Mamaw asking me to stop by on the way home from
work is that I live in the same house as she does. To be fair, I am not in
the same living space as Mamaw, not directly under her nose for her
personal supervision (thank God), but I live in a separate room that
runs along the east side of the same house. It is its own room but not
an addition. It was included in the original design of the house to act
as servants’ quarters for live-in employees of the manor during a time
in which such an arrangement was a convenience and a requirement
due to lack of transportation. The house itself is a late eighteenth-
century Italianate design. Looking at the outside of the house, one
would not assume the modest entrance on the east side of the
dwelling led to a single second-story loft, but I happen to like it that
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there had been no rain to speak of since the heat wave began. His
background was in the culinary arts, and he had taken up gardening as
a hobby now that he was semi-retired. Tomatoes, peppers, and leeks
flourished alongside basil, parsley, and cilantro. Almost all the herbs
were going to seed now, bushing out over the stone walkway.
As I stepped onto the porch, I noticed the most recent addition to
his home: a decorative cement ashtray. It was very Greek looking and
filled with sand for those unwanted cigarette butts that I had a habit of
leaving anywhere I felt would not be noticed. Hint, hint! A few wicker
pieces of furniture were gathered around a coffee table to the side
near the back door. I can’t count how many evenings Dave and I had
sat there in the darkened surroundings of our yards, talking endlessly
of matters important and trivial while locusts sang their mechanical
songs from the trees off in the distance.
I haven’t needed to knock on the door for many years, so I
proceeded past the screen door and through the hallway. As with all
houses of this shotgun style, I could see the kitchen from the back of
the house. There was a living room/dining room combo near the front
entry. Breathing in the air, I could smell Dave’s cooking: definitely
Southern with a note of Creole, and the red sauce seemed just about
ready.
“Anyone home today?” I asked, giving fair warning of my approach.
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torn underwear, at which point his warped wit was unleashed on me
without fair warning. I was mortified; I think I cried.
Let me say that I am no wallflower, but I defy anyone—any female
of that age especially—to not be as surprised as I was and keep from
crawling in a hole out of humiliation. Let’s just say over the years, I’ve
gotten used to Dave and his, shall we say, disposition, such as it is.
“How’s the world treating ya, kid?”
“Fair, I suppose,” I answered.
I placed myself at the wooden table in the kitchen and watched him
dote over his creation. “What are you making today?” I asked.
“Jambalaya and rice. Had to throw the sauce away two times
already”
“Such a perfectionist.”
“Well,” he began, “if you want shit on a shingle, you can buy it in a
box at the grocery store. They may even have double coupons!”
“I happen to like macaroni and cheese, Dave. It has everything a
body needs.”
“Yeah,” he said in a most non-committal way, “no sense no feeling.
I’ve seen how you and your sister eat. You’ll be in a nursing home by
the age of fifty if you keep it up. You two can have matching colostomy
bags.” Suddenly, he broke his own train of thought. “Oh… thanks for
using my new ashtray.”
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“Yes, I noticed it. Very nice touch, Dave. I imagine you wept
through the entire purchase.” This was my jab at him for being such a
tightwad when it came to money. Although stingy, he does have an
eye for ‘antiques’, as I like to use the term. Ever since high school, he
has never owned a car manufactured in the same decade that he lived
in.
“Just a few tears. Thanks for caring.”
“You’re welcome.” I was smiling to myself, and he shot a look at me,
grinning and peering over his black-rimmed eyeglasses, then returned
to fussing over dinner.
There were a few moments of silence while he removed the skillet
from the front burner and placed it on the back of the stove. “So, what
brings you ‘round here so late in the afternoon?”
“Took the long way home, then smelled your cooking and decided
to drop by.”
Dave was spooning some of the sauce in a desert bowl. He walked
over to me and set it on the table with a tea spoon. “There you are,”
he said and turned back to the stove. “So, you took the long way home
and…?”
At that remark, I let out a defeated sigh. Another one of my curses
is I can’t lie to anyone’s face, and Dave knew this all too well. “Got a
call from Mamaw at the end of my shift today. She has some so-called
project for me, so I’m here killing time, I suppose.”
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“’Playing hooky’ is what we used to call it,” he said. “More hocus
pocus with you and your grandmother?”
I looked at him sternly. He had now seated himself opposite the
table and was enjoying a bowl of his own masterpiece. I gave a half-
defeated look while playing with my hair. “I’m sure that’s where the
smart money is.”
Sadly, Dave can read me like a book. He looked across the table at
me, giving a grunt that for a moment almost passed for a word, then
buried his head back into his bowl. Without saying a word, I knew what
he was implying from that non-verbal snort: ‘Honey, I think you’re a
real nice kid, but this boogieman stuff is a load of shit!’
I almost felt like agreeing with him. In reality, he is not closed
minded in the least. Dave himself is half American Indian on his
mother’s side. As he tells the story, his mother was a part-time
preacher when he was growing up, orating to the locals in Yuma,
Arizona, where he was born. As I had heard from him many times, she
had a way browbeating ‘good ole’ religion’ into the men the old-
fashioned way: fear!
Of course, women preachers were never a big item, even in the
desert Southwest. However, it was better to have one of their own
ramble on about the good word and Jesus than a white man any day of
the week. Seems like the whole idea of manifest destiny in the Anglo-
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Saxon world was still was cause for ill will, even as recent as the mid
1940s.
My exposure to such dogmatic ravings opened up many doors of
spirituality to the man. Ideas of God, the meaning of life and so forth,
have created one of the most spiritually sound individuals I have ever
met, but that is where we have always parted company, as do so many
others.
When he moved into the house behind ours, Dave knew us (my
mother and me, that is) for what we were: psychics. Not a huge
surprise considering he had lived in New Orleans for a good portion of
his life. Most everyone you meet down here either knows a psychic,
has one in the family, lives down the street from one, or secretly wants
to be one in the worst way. And why not? There are people to be had
and money to be made. It is the local industry in these parts. As such,
people treat it as they see it—a sideshow attraction minus the cotton
candy.
Dave and I have had hours of conversations on this subject, and it
normally goes something like this: “Why can people believe in God,
something they cannot see or touch yet believe so strongly in but yet
refuse to believe in any aspect of the supernatural—other things out
there that they can neither see nor touch? Are they not one in the
same? Is God not part of the supernatural?”
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Dave’s response in this argument is usually that man has an
inherent desire, built in, to follow a path designed by his creator. That,
he would tell you, goes back to pre-history, as soon as man had the
ability to think and reason. He would also tell you that things such as
psychic premonitions are devoid of any reason. Sensing something
that is not there but maybe was in the past or near future is simply not
logical.
Simply because Dave hates it so much, I would like to explain my
‘Burnt Toast Theory’. The theory is quite simple. It comes from the
sense of smell, which, in itself, is one of the oddest and least logical
sensory organs we have. Think of it: Eyesight is dependent on light,
reflecting images that are reported to the brain in a logical manner by
way of nerve endings. The end result? What you see is what you get. It
is the same with the sense of touch. Hearing is so logical we have
reproduced it throughout our history, beginning with the most
rudimentary percussion instrument to overpriced stereo equipment. All
are based off the same principal as the ear. Now, all of these have the
aspects of logic. Each identifies a physical quality that an object holds.
For example, I can tell how hard the stone is because I can feel it. Or, I
can guess how tall you are because I can see you and make an
estimate of what I know. My personal favorite? I can hear you because
you are loud and obnoxious!
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Now, along comes the nose. What does it do? It identifies what can
be considered as a not-so-physical aspect of an object. It does not
define the size or the shape of an object. It cannot verify the physical
consistency. We don’t usually think much about our sense of smell
because almost every human and non-human has it. It’s a given!
We also have the ability, when it comes to the nose, to detect odors
of things that are not even there. Say what? Yes, it is true! For
instance, say I invite you over for breakfast one morning. While I’m
cooking away, the phone rings, and I become involved in a lengthy
conversation (let’s say it’s my sister, who cant seem to grasp the
concept that we live in the same house and still feels the need to call
me from just twenty yards away for talks that feel endless). Since I like
blaming things on my little sister, the conversation gets away from me,
and I turn to see that breakfast has been ruined. Thanks, sis!
When you come over, I say we’ll go out for breakfast. I have
cleaned up the kitchen, wiped down the stove, and even taken the
remains of what I was going to serve out to the trash before you ever
arrive. Voila! Except for one thing: you notice the faint smell of burnt
toast. You don’t see it because I’ve gotten rid of it. There is no trace
to be seen on the countertops because they are spotless, yet the smell
remains, and you guess instinctively and correctly that I torched the
better part of our morning get-together.
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You don’t have to see or hear or feel what happened to the bread in
the toaster. There is simply an essence of what had happened there.
How do you know this? Because you have experienced it many times
before; you don’t need anyone to educate you on what burnt toast
smells like. You just know it when you perceive the odor.
The same can be said when it comes to psychic premonitions. You
just know it when you feel it. No other physical aspect of a person,
place, or thing need be present. If you have the ability, just like the
sense of smell, you can identify it.
I can hear the arguments now. ‘Sydney, the sense of smell is not
some abstract gift! When the nose distinguishes an odor, it is because
it detects particles in the air from an object, which are passed through
the sinus cavity. Things that have a smell such as smoke, perfume, or
even a rubber tire give off invisible, minute fragments of the original
object’.
This is true. As I recall from my eleventh grade science class,
besides being made up of 80 percent water, humans are made up of
energy also. Energy is a physical because it has mass. As with any
type of mass (a rubber tire, for instance), particles can break away
from it, leaving an essence of the original object. In the case of
people, their energy or the remains of their energy fragments can be
detected long after that person is gone. ‘Aura’ is the best word to
describe this leftover energy.
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Now, when it comes to future events—or even dreams, in my
situation—the theory becomes more abstract if not convoluted but the
concept itself is the same. So there you have The Burnt Toast Theory in
a nutshell.
I’m so brilliant! Well, okay, don’t go praising me just yet. I’m
confident that I lifted this theory from someone or somewhere else.
I’m just not sure from whom or when.
So at this point, I let Dave’s hocus pocus comment slide. Saving my
tongue for Mamaw seemed a better use of my energy. I noticed the
small digital clock perched above the stove. I was already twenty
minutes late, and I guessed Mamaw would be tapping her wristwatch
about now, pathetically overacting in an amazed fashion. The fact that
her darling grandchild was late when she had told her specifically she
wanted to be in conference with her after she came home from work
would seem no less than a mystery.
I said goodbye to Dave as I was cleaning up. I set my plate with
others resting in the sink, ready to be cleaned at some other more
pertinent time.
“You gonna face your grandma’s fire I take it?” he asked, smiling as
he walked me to the back of the house.
“What else can I do?”
“Run.”
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As a warm expression broadened on Dave’s face, I gave him a quick
hug and darted out the screen door.
The air had grown thick and sticky. The sun dropped below the tree
line and was shrouded by a thin layer of clouds. The effect gave off a
rusty glow, making the world all one color of darkening reds. The
green of the foliage was bleached to a crimson hue; the stagnant air
gave no breeze and was more irrepressible than ever with the murky
heat that clung to my clothes and hair. Wetness gathered on the brown
skin of my arms until it began to glisten.
I fished out another cigarette before going into the house. No doubt,
I would carry the smell of the ashes and smoke into Mamaw’s
presence, and she would scold me accordingly. I was mad at myself for
such a habit but never had the desire to quit. As I hacked out the first
puff of blue fumes into the crook of my arm, my stomach wrenching
with the awful taste from the filter, I made a halfhearted vow to do
away with smoking soon. It had been gnawing on my mind for some
time now that I should quit the habit. The reality was, I was more
afraid of living without the smokes, without the possibility of its
pleasure, than I was afraid of gagging my way through life with
clogged lungs and the idea of an oncoming stroke.
With the butt crushed safely under my left heel, I approached the
house. For a brief moment, I glimpsed the cool, dry air of the Midwest
where I had schooled not so long ago. This weather, this humidity I
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had gotten so used to or simply endured in this southern climate, was
something that was a rare occurrence in the Great Plains where I had
studied, leaving a restless memory that I longed for. Quite privately, I
had been scheming ways to make my way back north.