Rayne shrugs. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But the minute I thought of you, I knew it was the right thing to do.” She turns to me. “Whitney’s a psychic. My mom’s been coming here for years. I thought she could help you out.”
I shake my head. I should have known this would be Rayne’s idea of a solution. “A psychic? Seriously?”
“You stand there in the middle of the sidewalk telling me you’re remembering things from past lives and you’re asking me if I’m serious?”
I suppose she has a point. I think I’m a little higher up on the unbelievability scale at the moment.
Whitney’s impeccable eyebrows shoot up, and she gives me a slightly more engaging smile. Apparently I’ve sparked a little bit of interest somewhere. “Hmm. Past lives? Intriguing. But you have to let down your barriers in order for me to assist you. That is, if you want to stay at all.”
I glance around the room, which looks a lot more like a spa than a psychic’s lair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she offers bikini waxes along with crystal ball readings. Either one sounds excruciating. “Aren’t you supposed to have scary animal heads all over the walls and heavy velvet curtains?”
“And maybe a big turban and a sputtering neon sign in the window?” Whitney adds. She waves her hand. “Strictly tourist trade.”
“Don’t judge,” Rayne says. “The least you can do is give it a try.” She nods to Whitney. “Put it on Mom’s bill. She won’t mind.”
“So, what are we going to do?” I ask. “Auras? Tarot cards? Tea leaves?”
Whitney’s expression doesn’t change. “May I see your hand?”
“Palm reading!” I say. “Perfect.” I hold my hand out to her just as Rayne punches me in the arm. The two of them are so serious it makes me want to laugh.
Whitney places her hand under mine, but immediately I can feel her stiffen. I watch as her eyes fly open wide and she gasps, pulling her hand away. “Rayne,” she says, “do you mind if I do Cole’s reading in private?”
Rayne looks at the two of us, but shrugs it off. “No, that’s cool.”
“There’s some tea in the kitchen. Why don’t you start a pot for all of us?”
“Fine. Put me to work and don’t share,” she says, but she’s smiling as she closes the door behind her.
Whitney turns the full intensity of her blue eyes on me. “How long have you known?”
I decide to let her take the lead. “Known what?”
She places her folded hands on the table. “If you’re going to mess with me, you might as well go. I can sense that you’re aware of what you are, although you seem undeveloped. You’re someone who can remember who they’ve been through the millennia. Someone who has the potential to transcend ordinary human limitations. You’re young, but still undeniably Akhet.”
I flinch when she says the word out loud. It seems to hang in the air like an accusation.
“What did you just say? What did you just call me?”
“Akhet,” she says, her gaze direct.
It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “So it’s true? Griffon wasn’t lying?”
“Who?”
“I met a guy, and he’s been … helping me.” At least, he was. “But I didn’t believe him. I mean, it sounds crazy—past lives, reincarnation, secret societies.”
Whitney searches my eyes intently. “So this boy is Sekhem?” She seems to calm some, and her face grows concerned.
I nod.
“Are you … Akhet too?” I didn’t sense the same vibrations when she touched me, but she could just be really good at hiding it.
“No,” she says. “But I’ve met several Akhet in my lifetime. Befriended a few. It’s a very special calling, and an important responsibility.”
There’s that word again. Responsibility. I feel a pang of apprehension. “I didn’t ask for this. I’m not sure that I even want it.”
“It would be nice if you could just hand it all back and say ‘no thanks.’ But it doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to choose. You just need to accept what is and try to fulfill your destiny.”
Destiny. Responsibility. First I’m destined to be a cellist, now I’m destined to be Akhet. “And how do I do that? How do I even know what it is?”
She smiles. “You have time to find your place in the world. You’re still young in this life.” Whitney pauses and takes my hand back in hers. She’s silent, but her body isn’t quiet—it feels like some unseen movement is racing through her still form. “I can sense some of what you’re going through. When I touch you, I feel the confusion of many lives churning together.”
“Can you tell anything about the lives? Who I was? What I was doing?” The memory of the Pacific Coast Club is still fresh, and I wonder how it all ties into Veronique. If it ties into Veronique.
“No. Nothing specific. That’s something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself as time goes on.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I also feel abilities growing. Great abilities. I can’t tell exactly what, but I feel an empathic spirit.”
For a few minutes, neither of us says a word. For all I know, Whitney’s thinking about what she’s going to have for dinner, but my mind is racing. Images from the Pacific Coast Club rush through my brain, and I think back to what Griffon said in the park. If I had believed him sooner, would it have made a difference? Would it have stopped him from disappearing on me?
“Is there something special about the Akhet you came here to find?” Whitney asks softly.
It’s so strange to hear these words coming from someone else, someone who has no connection to Griffon or Janine, who has no way of knowing that she’s confirming their story. It makes it seem possible. Real, even.
I raise my eyes to hers, feeling fear and relief flood through my body in equal measure. “No. I think I’ve already found it.”
Thirteen
The crowd at the game is noisy, but I sit a little apart on the bleachers and zip my jacket up tighter. The baseball field faces the Bay, and the wind whips across the water like it’s the middle of winter. Griffon’s up to bat again, and despite the fact that I’m still mad at him for his disappearing act, I can’t help but feel a charge of excitement as I watch him take a few practice swings. I’m not huge into sports, but I could easily learn to be a fan of the tight gray pants they’re all wearing. Griffon looks at home in his uniform, and holds the bat like it’s an extension of his arm. There’s an ease to the way he plays, like he’s born to it, and I wonder if this is the first lifetime he’s ever played baseball. I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be.
Despite the cold wind, the sun is shining, and as I wait for Griffon to take his place at the plate, I’m increasingly glad I decided to come after all. When he finally called me last night and asked me to come to his game, I tried to say no, I really did. He can’t just kiss me and then disappear for a week and expect things to be okay. I want to be the strong person who doesn’t cave the second she hears his voice. I want to be the person who doesn’t come running whenever he whistles. Those are all the people I want to be, but I’m failing miserably. Who I am is the person who came all the way out here to sit at a freezing, windblown ballfield because of one phone call.
“Come on, Hall!” “Kill it!” People all around me are shouting his name, and I feel almost proudly possessive watching him play. I look at the other girls scattered on the bleachers and wonder if he knows any of them. If he’s ever asked any of them to come to one of his games.
Griffon taps the bat on home plate and then holds it over his shoulder, his eyes riveted on the pitcher. The first pitch goes by him and he doesn’t even flinch, just waves the bat in the air waiting for the next one. The ball barely leaves the pitcher’s hand before I hear the crack of the bat and the screams of the crowd. Griffon speeds down the baseline as the ball soars through the air, and I can hear excited shouts of “it’s going!” all around me. One guy in the outfield races back toward the little fence, and just as it looks like the ball has dropped into home run territory, he knocks it down with his glove.