“I’ve changed my mind. Take me up to the West Side.” Now she knew where to go and who might help her.
CHAPTER TEN
AT SEVENTY-NINTH AND Broadway Jennifer got out of the cab and called information for Dr. Fisher’s telephone number. Then, standing at the pay phone, with the wind from the river blowing across the avenue, she called her. As the wind sliced into her, cutting between muscle and bone, she stamped her feet on the packed snow, trying to keep them warm.
It was only six o’clock, and the sidewalks were crowded, but still, Jennifer felt vulnerable. When a police car halted at the traffic light, she turned her face into the booth, but she was convinced they had spotted her, that the composite photo was already out and the cops were searching for a blond white woman, five foot seven, wearing a full-length fur coat, wool jacket and skirt, and a wool turtleneck. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her face and listened to the phone ring.
“Please, dear God, please let her be home,” she said out loud. When a woman did say hello after a half-dozen rings, Jennifer spoke rapidly. She explained about reading the article, about having the strange reaction to the Ice Age display. She told her about seeing Kathy Dart, and about the thirteen-mile run out along the C & O Canal. She stopped herself before she mentioned her attack on the mugger near the museum, and the women at the foundation.
When she stopped talking, she was out of breath, and crying. She couldn’t stop her tears, couldn’t keep herself from sobbing into the phone.
“Come see me at once,” the woman said, giving Jennifer her address.
“Thank you,” Jennifer whispered, wiping the tears from her face. “I’m coming.” When she finally hung up the phone, the traffic light had changed, and the police car was gone. Jennifer ran out into the street, and turned north toward Eighty-second Street and the home of Phoebe Fisher.
“Welcome,” a small woman said, pushing open the iron gate that guarded the basement apartment. “You were very close to me when you telephoned. I could feel your presence. I am Dr. Fisher.” She stepped back, and Jennifer saw that Phoebe Fisher was lame, that she used a thin, silver cane to support herself.
“I ran,” Jennifer replied, still gasping for breath as she followed the woman into the warm apartment.
Phoebe Fisher was dressed like a teenager in a tight black leotard and a wrap-around black skirt, with a bright red scarf knotted around her long thin neck. She was very small and very beautiful, with coarse black hair already streaked with gray. Her pure, white skin was the color of bisque pottery. Jennifer felt large and ungainly beside her in the low-ceilinged apartment.
“You have a fireplace!” she exclaimed as she entered the living room. The blazing fire made her feel immensely better.
“Yes, and I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we’ll talk.” Phoebe Fisher smiled at Jennifer. Her sculpted lips were neatly sketched into her tiny face. And when she smiled, her mouth widened and made her seem even younger. Jennifer liked her at once. She felt safe here. Maybe Phoebe Fisher would be able to help her. The fear that had been building and spreading through her body all afternoon eased away, leaving her suddenly lightheaded and very tired.
“Here,” Phoebe directed, touching the deeply cushioned chair close to the fireplace, “come sit down and get comfortable. We can get to know each other a bit while I make us a fresh pot of tea. Would herbal be all right? I’m afraid I don’t have anything else.”
“Thank you. Anything. I’m just fine, thankful to be here.” Her declarations surprised her. She was never this open with strangers, but now she felt the need to share her emotions, to tell this woman everything.
“Now, Jennifer, how did you meet Kathy Dart?” Phoebe asked, standing behind the kitchen counter that divided the rooms as she made the pot of tea. “And what were your feelings about her?”
Jennifer told the whole story as Phoebe made tea, then came back to sit beside her in front of the fire. Jennifer told her about Eileen Gorman and their chance meeting, about her jog along the C & O Canal and what had happened to her in the museum. She explained that she had known, really known, when that hut in the Ukraine had been built.
“What is wrong with me?” Jennifer asked, crying.
“There is nothing wrong with you, Jennifer. Nothing. You are a very fortunate person. A gifted person. It’s your electromagnetic frequency, that’s all.” Phoebe was smiling. “We share it, my dear. We are both gifted that way.” She reached out and touched Jennifer’s knee.
“I don’t understand,” Jennifer whispered.
“Of course you don’t. I didn’t either when it first happened. None of us know, really, but we learn. You are experiencing the first flashes of mediumship. To put it in academic terms, you have already gone through what is termed the first stage, conceptualization, and now you are in stage two. Preparation.” Phoebe paused for a moment, staring thoughtfully up at Jennifer. “Welcome to the gang.” Her soft brown eyes widened and glowed.
“Well, what is this gang? I feel like my body has been taken over or something.”
“You’re right. It has,” Phoebe said, “but you’re joining people like Emperor Wu, from the Han dynasty in China, and the Greek Dionysian cults of the sixth century B.C., the Celtic bards in the British Isles, not to mention Jesus Christ and his disciples. You’re in good company, Jennifer.” When she saw the uncomprehending look on Jennifer’s face, she asked, “Would you like me to try and explain how it all comes about? Why this is suddenly happening to you now, here in New York City in 1987?”
Jennifer nodded emphatically.
“Most of what we call mediumship, or channeling, is the product of an arrangement that is made between two bodiless entities—the person who is going to be the channel and the entity or consciousness that is going to be channeled. After that, one entity is incarnated in a body and begins life without even remembering the agreement. Life continues normally until the person gets to a place where he or she does remember. It’s called an encounter, and it’s different for everyone.”
“But I didn’t go through any encounter,” Jennifer protested. “I was just going on with my life, and then, wham, this!”
“I don’t know yet what happened, Jennifer. I don’t know enough about you yet, but later perhaps, if you are comfortable, I might try to channel to see what we can learn. I’m sure you were experiencing, or suffering, something
And then your frequency connected somehow.”
“How did it happen to you? What was your encounter?” She slipped out of her chair and sat down beside Phoebe on the small rug. “This is a Dessie rug, isn’t it?” she heard herself saying.
“Yes, it is. But how did you know about them? They’re from Ethiopia and very rare.” Phoebe laughed. “But of course you know. That is the wonder of being a medium.”
“No, I don’t know.” Jennifer was shaking her head, afraid again. “I mean, I know this is a Dessie rug, but I don’t know why I know it.”
Phoebe shrugged. “That’s it. You’ve always known. You learned it in another life, and you have carried that bit of information tucked away in your subconsciousness, from one age to the next.”
“Oh God, I can’t believe this.” Jennifer dropped her head into her open palms, held herself for a moment, then threw back her head, rubbing away her tears with her hands. It was very warm near the fire, but she didn’t want to move. For some reason she didn’t want to be away from Phoebe Fisher, who was silently watching her, smiling sweetly as if she had all the time in the world.