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Chapter One

Portland, Oregon

1920

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It’s a good thing I’ll be dead by tomorrow.

      “Primrose!” Mother pokes her wooden fan into my low back. “Sit up, you dreadful girl.”

      Her insults grow nastier as I fade into fatigue. The days are long when you carry the weight of the future. “I don’t want to sit up. I do not wish to be here at all.”

      “You’ve only done two readings today, and you’re turning off customers with your sour attitude.”

      “Maybe it's this gaudy costume you have me in.” A thrown-together spiritualist act, my flowing black robe barely covers the slip Mother thinks passes for a dress. Mismatched buttons clatter on my sleeve as I wave my arm. “This getup grows more ridiculous by the day.”

      Lined up on the waterfront with the other swindlers and beggars, Mother competes for coins like the director of a penny arcade at an amusement park. “Step right up! Hear your future… if you dare.” She hisses and claws at the air as people ignore her and stroll past. It’s mortifying.

      “Must you act like a feral cat?” I ask.

      “People want a show. We give it to them.” She pulls my bracelets higher on my arm where they press into my skin. Mother thinks the bangles give me an exotic allure, but she’s just fashioned them from cracked beads and fishing wire.

      “Why don’t you parade around in undergarments and read futures, then? I’m tired of all this.” I try not to stare at her trembling arthritic fingers as I say this.

      “You're ungrateful. You’ve inherited the perfect act and all you do is complain.”

      I never wanted the perfect act. I would have settled for normal parents and a friend or two, but that would be too much to ask for. When you possess psychic powers, that's all anyone can see.

      Thick, pewter clouds hang over the Portland sky like smoke trails caught in a net that clings to the city. A September storm will shut down our setup soon enough, but until then, there are secrets to expose.

      “My complaints are warranted. Standing on a windy street corner to manipulate grieving widows? It’s torture.” 

      I pull the bangles down to my wrist where they don’t pinch my skin. Mother slides them back up. “Well, your torture is in high demand right now. Best grab those coins while desperate women toss them right into your palms.”

      It’s bad enough that Mother exploits the brokenhearted. Forcing me to fabricate messages from the afterlife is unforgivable. After so many people died during The Great War and Spanish flu, you couldn’t take two steps without stumbling over a crying widow, and my unscrupulous mother pounced.

      I can see their past and future from only a touch, and still, our act is lies, lies, lies. All I see is their soul, their past and future selves. I have no idea what their loved ones think from the great beyond.

      Each reading leaves me lethargic and teary, like a newborn assaulted by the terrifying world. A simple handshake often leads to the ugliest places. The only way I’ve been able to tolerate this life is knowing I’ll die at midnight on my twenty-second birthday. Tonight.

      Mother won’t listen. She says these repeated dreams of death are nonsense. Nothing more than a fight against my destiny. I can’t make her listen any more than I could turn her skin green, so here I sit on this rickety stool—hands propped on the paper-mâché folding tray table once used to hold discount perfumes at our neighborhood pharmacy—and count down the hours until my death.

      “Oh, here comes a prospect.” Mother’s eyes light up. “Her fur stole oozes money.” She pinches the fine hairs at the back of my neck, which aggravates me to no end, as I’m already paying attention.

      The ones with the greatest need speak with me the moment our eyes meet. A whisper between souls. I sense them by the grip on my chest and the urgency in their eyes. How their emotions seep into me like groundwater. It’s hell, knowing I’ll see her greatest pain, yet be powerless to stop it.

      The woman fiddles with her brooch, emerald and sapphire stones in a platinum circle. I saw one like it in the window of Waterman’s Jewelry. It cost as much as a year’s rent at our townhouse on Gale St. The woman pretends to watch people meander along the riverfront, but sneaks a glance my way. Wealthy folks frown on black magic, until they burn for answers the non-magic world refuses to give.

      “What do we have here?” the woman asks. “Are you the daughter of that green-haired fellow?”

      Father’s getup was hair dye, while my locks are a genuine metaphysical phenomenon. No one seems to care about truth, so long as I give them a future that helps them sleep at night.

      “Yes!” Mother guides the woman closer. “Come, meet Silver Lily, the best fortune-teller in the Pacific Northwest.” She looks to the sky and spreads her palm wide. “A psychic extravaganza.”

      I’ve always despised that opening. Hair like chrome and a fear of bodily contact, while being exploited by my own mother. Can’t imagine why I welcome death.

      Mother smiles widely, pulling out the folding chair she’s painted gold, covering the chipped areas with her hand.

      “Well, I suppose I could give it a try.”

      The woman lowers slowly, fanning her skirts. She hesitantly hands me a quarter, which Mother swipes and tucks into her brassiere. Tiny moisture droplets sit on the woman’s raven hair from the almost rain. She smiles at my silver locks the way you stare at an ugly baby—with horror and pity.

      I may not speak to the dead, but people show me the darkest, ugliest corners of their mind… the thing their soul is thirsty to tell. And I’m the sorry sap who listens. All my attempts to ignore their whispers have been futile. I need them as much as they need me. Without visions, I suffer the most intense physical ailments and an indescribable loneliness.

      I let the woman’s inner mind beckon me. Mother kicks my shin under the table, and I try not to roll my eyes. To make her happy, I wave my hands stupidly over the crystal ball as I pretend to massage the air to summon my visions. As if I need such theatrics.

      All I need is contact. I reach for her hand as the vision begins as it always does—a crawling ache like spiders under the skin of my forehead. With one bit of touch, the whisper will grab hold, and I’ll enter her soul for the briefest of moments, satiating my aching hunger for the spirit realm. 

      An itch only a vision can reach.

      My heart rate quickens, and my stomach tightens as I split in two. While my physical body sits frozen in a trance, my psychic body plummets through the familiar dark wind toward an invisible barrier. I break through with a snap and await the reward at the end—the blissful quiet of the other world.

      The place where truth doesn’t hide.

      A gilded sky directs me along a path of golden honeycomb lined with vibrant emerald grass. Tall poppies sway in the breeze, their papery, tomato-red petals tickling my ankles as I pass. My honeycomb path ends, and in a dive, I throw my arms out to fall into the stars. The twinkling lights cradle my body and tingle my skin. The woman’s story unfolds in front of me, clear as words in a book.

      While every soul appears different, the comfort of the stars remains constant. A welcome universe of truth far away from life as a lonely silver girl in a very human world. I hope death takes me to an infinite poppy field surrounded by love.

      How I wish I could stay here, swimming through the cloudless sky where my body floats weightless. But alas, I’ve seen all there is, and my body beckons my return. I tumble into the blackness and back into my physical body, where an agonizing headache greets my return. The blissful quiet of my stars is the squishy middle, bookended by the harsh, painful ride to and from her soul.

      Just as in life, there is no good without suffering.

      “Well, what do you see?” The woman pets the fox tail draped over her shoulder as her eyes flick repeatedly up to my hair, squinting with every glance.

      “Oh, your loved one must have much to say,” Mother says. “Silver Lily, what have you seen?”

      “Please, tell me,” the woman asks. “We’ve had so much loss.”

      The desperation in her voice breaks me. I saw her future from the stars. A new husband and twin babies who will die at eight months from typhoid. Their plump cheeks will turn blue as their last breaths escape their little mouths. I saw her first husband’s death, but there are no words. No messages of peace and love.

      And since I live in the knowledge of what pain awaits people on this hellish earth, I do the only thing I can.

      “Your husband sends word that he loves you,” I choke out. “He is happy and not in pain.”

      “Oh.” Her strained smile seems to bleed with terrible memories. “That’s wonderful news.”

      Her dead husband’s story played out in the stars. An artillery shell blasted his neck while in a Montfaucon trench. No one ever speaks to me from the beyond, but that’s all anyone wants to know about.

      “Charlie,” I say. “He had bushy eyebrows and snorted when he laughed.”

      She smiles and seems to hate herself for it. “Yes, that’s him.”

      “There’s more, if you’d like to hear.”

      “Yes,” she says as she leans toward the front of the chair.

      “You will remarry. His name is Edward, and you will have twin babies.” I leave out the dreadful truth of those little girls or how Edward will leave her.

      She dabs a handkerchief to the corners of her glassy eyes. “Two girls?”

      “Yes, ma’am. Two beautiful, healthy babies. You’ll be carrying by next year.” Mother clears her throat, narrowing her eyes with a warning. “Charlie is sending you a new family, so you can live happily ever after.”

      He is doing nothing of the sort, but this is a tried-and-true lie, proven to sooth every weary soul.

      This is why I welcome death. The only physical touch I know is a brief brush of skin that leads to misery. I lie, withholding the terrible parts of my visions. I keep them in my heart where they churn and bleed. Lies may soothe momentarily, but the whole truth waits in the dark to ruin everything.

      “Well, that is a wonderful vision, indeed,” Mother says. “For an added quarter, Silver Lily will read your fate in tarot cards.” She shoves the crystal ball aside and splays out a deck of cards.

      “Oh, that would be lovely,” the woman says.

      “No, I—” Before I can protest any further, mother pinches the back of my arm. She’s done this so often that thumb-sized bruises live on my skin. My vision narrows. “I can’t.”

      “She must have powerful visions of your future.” Mother fiddles with the peacock feathers on my head, repositioning them as a stray silver lock falls in my face.

      “Your hair,” the woman finally says. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It shines like my silver tea set.”

      I much prefer rude comments to gawking, as their pitiful stares make me want to scream.

      Briefly as a child, I was a lovely plain brunette, until one day silver bled out of my scalp like poured mercury. Then, instead of school and friends, my parents capitalized on my peculiar coloring and troublesome visions. Psychic powers have leached life from me ever since.

      Mother fastens the errant lock with a pearl pin. “It proves she’s special. Just look at her eyes. Magic lives inside our Silver Lily.”

      Almost as if she loves me. At the same time my hair turned, my cobalt blue irises disappeared, leaving clear orbs lined with a ring of sapphire like an agate. I wipe the corners of my eyes as they ache and water in daylight. Yet another thing that makes life unbearable.

      “What else do you see, Silver Lily?” The woman leans forward, holding her breath. When I don’t speak, she grabs my sleeve, which makes me want to cry.

      “No, I can’t do this.” I stand, knocking the folding stool to the ground.

      “Silver Lily, this woman has paid us,” Mother says through gritted teeth.

      A familiar ball presses into my chest so tightly, I dig my knuckles into my sternum until it stings. I’ve always assumed this was all the lies that live deep inside me. Any attempts to interfere with visions only stir the worst possible scenario, turning me into the cause of someone’s hurt. If only I could have known someone like me to help navigate this mess of a life. Instead, I am an anomaly. A true outcast.

      “I’m sorry.”

      Pale, colorless light filters through the heavy clouds. I’m having trouble standing. Trouble breathing. Mother’s voice cracks as loud as shattered glass. “Silver Lily, get back here!”

      I run straight for the water. Faux black pearls bounce against my chest as coin-sized metal embellishments sewn into my robe jangle in the wind. My feet halt at the shimmering edge of the Willamette River as I clutch the pain in my chest. I think of all the horrible images I’ve swallowed over the years that burn through me. They’re part of me now. Like wallpaper.

      I never had a chance with silver-hair and crystalline eyes, riding on the coattails of my infamous medium father, who died too young as the world begged for more. My death on the eve of my twenty-second birthday has seeped into my dreams most every night for as long as I can remember. Maybe earlier. I’ve spent the years wondering why the spirit world chose me while not offering one bit of guidance. I suppose none of that matters anymore, as death hovers near enough to taste.

      Mother’s voice yanks me back to the present. “Stop this nonsense right now, Primrose.” She hobbles toward me on her creaking joints, cheeks burning red. “That woman offered a dollar for her fortune and you’re going to give it to her.”

      “I don’t want to tell her about her babies.” I stumble up and wipe the dirt off my hands.

      “I don’t care about your wants,” Mother says. “This dollar could buy a tincture for my pain. Would you deny me that?”

       Her knobby knees and fingers always look so painful, and every time I want to throw something at her, I remember her arthritis, and it fills me with guilt. I hang my head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

      “Oh, the things I could do with your talent. You waste all your potential on self-pity instead of grabbing life by the throat.”

      I get nothing from these visions other than a countdown to the afterlife. “As you have done, mother to the talent? How does the view look from behind me?”

      She slaps me swiftly across the cheek. Arthritis has twisted her hand like a claw, but her palm still manages to find contact with my cheekbone. “Don’t blame me. You inherited this legacy from your good-for-nothing father,” she snaps.

      My father. A charlatan I barely knew, whose drug-fueled antics linger like a nightmare. “You shoved me into this hell.”

      Again, she rolls her eyes. “You think life comes with sunshine and rainbows? Nobody cares about truth or lies. You either take the opportunities or fall apart. Just like Vanessa,” she spits.

      Her sister Vanessa, the real psychic who could have guided me. Mother kept her far away, claiming she’d confuse me with obligations to truth and all that other nonsense. “You took the opportunity, all right. Put me to work as the youngest psychic in the country before I knew how to tie my shoes.”

      She growls before glancing back at the eager woman waving a dollar at us. “That’s the price one pays for having a gift,” she says.

      “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

      Mother threatens me with another slap. She would give her right hand for my life, but no, the visions had to skip her and land on me like a bomb. “My weak bones won’t let me work.” She rubs her elbow and grimaces. She can always guilt me in her own form of magic. “Now stop complaining and give that woman a description of her perfect future.”

      And just like that, my sympathy for her evaporates. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

      “You’re especially insolent today.”

      “Well, I’ll be dead in a matter of hours and that sort of thing leaves a girl grumpy.”

      “Not this again. You’re always so dramatic.” She puts on her best whiney voice. “I don’t have any friends. I can’t have a boyfriend. I’m going to die soon. Blah blah.”

      “I’m so glad my life is a mockery to you.” Smokey clouds hover over us as drizzle floats from the dark sky. “Her babies will die,” I say. “I can’t tell her that, don’t you understand?”

      Her eyes widen, her lips stiffen. “Then lie.”

      Maybe she wouldn’t have a hobbling walk or swollen knees if she laid off the gin. Even so, I follow her, just as I always do. For years, I was too scared and too busy keeping my parents alive to consider another life. Why change now? Just a few more hours.

      When we return, the woman pleads for a fortune. “Are you well, darling? I’d so like to hear more. I’ll be a mother someday?” Her voice catches on a bubble in her throat.

      It’s all I can do not to throw my arms around her and cry for her unborn babies, but that will only lead to more miserable visions. If I had any power, I would prevent all the pain. I’d be a changemaker, altering the future to prevent every tragedy. But no, all I can do is lie and hide anything ugly from lost people searching for hope.

      I stare at the woman’s eyes, not at these ridiculous tarot cards Mother shuffles in front of me. “I see an easy birth. Two healthy, pink girls in white dresses. Baptized at St. James.”

      “Oh my, that’s our church,” she says.

      I shuffle past the visions of blue, lifeless faces. Her weeping over their tiny bodies that will die one hour apart. How this woman will attend her twins’ funeral at the same church where they were baptized, and how she will kill herself exactly one year later.

      “Ruby and Anna,” I say.

      “My two favorite aunts.” She shakes her head, tears in her eyes.

      Mother reaches for the woman’s hand. “Silver Lily sees all.”

      She hands Mother two dollars and smiles. “What joy you’ve given me.”

      “You’ll be a wonderful mother,” I say, willing myself not to snarl at my own sorry excuse for a parent.

      The sky opens up, dropping fat raindrops over our table, as Silver Lily, psychic extravaganza, closes shop for the last time. Mother smiles at the money in her brassiere, unwilling to believe my death is imminent. I imagine the life I could have had. The good I could have done with a little guidance or even one friend like me. Then, in an instant, that watery image slides into my heart, where it burns like acid.

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