Читать книгу Claiming Her - Marilyn "Mattie" Brahen - Страница 4

CHAPTER 1

I developed, early on, psychic powers, becoming a spiritual medium in a world that seems afraid not of death, but of life after death.

I met many non-mortal people, seeing them in dreams, sensing them while awake, people whom I had to pretend weren’t there, weren’t real.

But when he came back to claim me in this lifetime, I was twenty-three, ignorant of my spiritual past, and psychically naive, for all that I thought I knew.

I had just given birth to my son seven weeks before, in the cold gloom of mid-January, 1971, and still felt extremely sore. Daniel, a strong but cranky baby, had finally quieted down enough that afternoon to take his nap. I took advantage of his sudden silence to also lie down and rest. Thoroughly exhausted, I drifted into twilight sleep, wafting in and out of consciousness, my body numb, as if I’d been drugged and anchored to the bed.

It was then that I felt a dark presence, a brooding mind seeking my acknowledgment, yet deliberately cloaking his identity from me. I knew the presence to be male; he projected a possessive sensuousness towards me which was distinctly and proudly masculine.

I couldn’t visualize him. He kept that well-hidden. I struggled to wake up, fighting the power he emanated. My mind came awake, but my flesh still failed me, woodenly immobile against the cool sheet.

I sank back into sleep for what seemed a scant few minutes then truly awakened.

Rising easily now, I found my body mysteriously healed, the soreness and aches conspicuously gone.

I checked on Daniel. He slept on, his small chest rising and falling evenly with each tiny breath, a cherub with dark brown hair and eyes, his skin smooth and golden-peach, having none of the blotchiness so common among infants.

The dream disturbed me. I knew the dark presence had been real, invading my awareness, briefly controlling my psyche, and then releasing me.

At first I wondered if it had been Terence, up to his old tricks. A mischievous British spirit with long blond hair and pale blue eyes, he had been in my life as guide and friend for three years now. Yet all my instincts told me it had not been Terence, but a personality distinct from any spiritual being I had known.

I made a cup of coffee and sat sipping it, while Daniel still napped.

I had married his father one year ago. Terence had been wary of the match, but I, needing mortal warmth and love as much as the next woman, thought Richard Warren would be the emotional and intellectual companion my love colored him into. How strange that I, who could see so accurately as a clairvoyant, had fallen so far beneath the mark in my mortal judgment.

Richard and I had dated for two years. I found his sandy red hair—much lighter than my own and richly waved, his startling blue eyes and his slim muscular body extremely attractive. He had been open-minded toward my psychic beliefs and shared my other interests. Terence grumbled throughout this time, but couldn’t pinpoint the reasons for his distrust and reservations toward Richard, and so I discounted his advice. Looking back, I often wondered why the Creator sent me spirit guides, since I so rarely took their advice. I’ve since learned that this response by young Earthly charges is quite common and a constant complaint among guides.

Richard’s past was glamorous to my unexperienced mind. Although he read and enjoyed learning, he found college boring. He dropped out in his second year and joined the Merchant Marine. He loved being a sailor, becoming rugged and seasoned after three years at sea.

Although we were both originally from Philadelphia, we met in New York City. Richard had returned there to regain his land legs and further his education, working days as the manager of a sporting goods store and attending NYU at night, working once again towards a degree in engineering. I was five years younger than him, living in the Big Apple for the sheer adventure of it, employed as a typist at a CPA firm and living at the Simmons House, a women’s hotel.

We were married in a civil ceremony, which only my parents attended, my mother disappointed that we hadn’t let her plan a larger wedding, my father more than happy that we hadn’t and trying to be cordial to Richard, whom he didn’t quite trust to do right by me. Richard’s parents were also not pleased with his marrying me, a non-Catholic; they sent their regrets and excuses and a small cash wedding gift.

Richard and I, both bravely and foolishly, ignored these early warning signals. We had just moved in to our furnished apartment in Queens, New York when I became pregnant four days past our wedding night. My pregnancy strained the marriage. Richard reacted sullenly, angrily, as if I had deliberately and prematurely foisted parental responsibility upon him. He didn’t register for the next semester of evening courses, insisting that they cost too much with our baby on the way.

Our financial stresses increased. The sporting goods chain Richard worked for closed down his store, laying him off. The unemployment checks only lasted six months. Our son Daniel arrived in an emergency ward, the hospital writing me up as a Department of Public Welfare patient, but treating me well.

Now our rent was overdue, our food was low, and money nearly non-existent. Richard’s attempts to find work failed. Sales jobs, it seemed, had become competitive and scarce.

Depression had vied with my aches and soreness before the dark spirit interrupted my rest. Now, feeling immeasurably better, I decided to confront Richard and rectify our difficulties, a plan of escape coming to mind.

Richard came home that evening, flung off his winter coat, and grunted a perfunctory greeting at me.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“At the billiards parlor. I stopped in to play a couple of games and lost track of the time.” He bragged happily about some greenhorn he had bested there. I half-listened, as usual, to his pool hall exploits.

He took a second breath between his boasting. I jumped in. “Richard, can we drive out to Philadelphia this weekend? I’m really homesick. I want to visit my parents.”

He rummaged in the refrigerator. “Did you make anything for dinner?”

“There’s some tuna salad. I never know when you’re coming home, so I didn’t cook anything. Not that there’s much in the freezer. Just a roasting chicken. Can we go home this weekend?”

He pulled out his wallet to check its contents. “Hmmn. There’s still enough left of our emergency assistance check. It shouldn’t take too much gas, and the car’s running okay. Yeah, we can go.”

“Good. I’ll call my parents to tell them. We’ll stay overnight to Sunday.”

Richard heaped tuna salad onto a slice of bread and cut up a tomato. “Fine. I’m going to go down to the welfare office on Friday. See if they can’t sign us up for food stamps, maybe a monthly check until I get work. How’s the kid been?”

“Sleeping now. He was cranky most of the day, but I managed to get him down for a nap, and napped myself during it.”

“Mmn.” Richard wolfed his sandwich down and began fixing a second one. “Do we have anything to drink?”

“Iced tea.” I poured him a glass. “I’m going to take a shower now. I’m pretty worn down.”

“Mmn.” He reached for a book he’d left on the table earlier, reading as he ate.

The shower warmed me, almost felt like a caress against my naked flesh. I washed my hair, rinsing off the shampoo and soap, then toweled dry and blow-dried my hair, taking pleasure in its soft auburn sheen as it fell on my shoulders.

I watched myself in the mirror, taking a strangely clear, critical notice of my features—bright brown eyes, small rounded nose, heart-shaped face accentuating both cheekbones and a chin which dimpled—and found it pretty. This appraisal—so rarely did I judge myself narcissistically—caused a small smile to play at the corner of my lips, as I studied my mirrored self. For just an instant, it seemed someone else cracked that wry smile. I turned away abruptly, troubled, from my reflection, and busied myself, pulling my dry hair back in a band, wrapping the ponytail in a fat roller to curl it.

In the bedroom, I put on a soft flannel nightgown, then tiptoed into Daniel’s room. He still slept peacefully. He would probably wake for late night feeding, but I, for now, could get some sleep, too. I left the door slightly ajar to hear him if he awakened.

The covers of my bed hugged me, as if a strong arm had been laid protectively across me. I welcomed the nurturing sensation, feeling as cradled as Daniel in his crib. I wondered if Terence was perhaps sending some optimism to me psychically. But he, whose presence I can normally sense, as a bright flash commands attention, had been conspicuously absent all day.

I was nearly nodding off when Richard climbed onto the bed, his shifting of the mattress jarring me. As I leaned into the pillow, slipping back to sleep, the touch of his hand on my back intruded again. His fingers traveled downwards to my buttocks.

“You awake?” he whispered.

I pretended sleep.

His hand continued kneading the cheeks of my rear. “Leigh Ann? Are you that sleepy?” His tone presumed my response.

I turned wearily. “You want to make love.” It was a statement.

“Do you?”

“Mmn.” Perhaps it would make things better. Anything was better than making him angry. My refusal would do that. It would be a sullen anger, as usual, accompanied by further late night returns and his flimsy excuses.

He bent down to kiss me, and I returned his kiss. I still had feelings for him; they just weren’t always very good ones. Talking hadn’t helped. Perhaps sex would. Sex as the healer.

He spent scant time in foreplay; I was young, requiring little to ready me. Entering me, he worked his body above me, bent to his own satisfaction. Waiting patiently for him to climax, I gained some pleasure from the act itself. But he seemed to be having some difficulty; perhaps it was the six weeks of abstinence following Daniel’s birth. I became bored beneath him, wishing he would finish and let me return to sleep. And then a small wail filtered in, picking up volume, and becoming frantic cries.

“The baby,” I said, my body stiffening beneath Richard.

“The baby can wait,” he said between thrusts, panting. “He has to learn to sleep through the night anyway.”

I touched his arm, then pushed gently. “He’s an infant. He might be hungry or wet. I have to get up.”

Disgruntled, sighing, Richard withdrew himself and rolled over.

I got up and went into Daniel’s room. He lay on his back, squalling heartily, his small face reddened from his exertion. “There now, it’s okay. Mama’s here.” I picked him up, and held him as I checked his diaper: not the problem. Cooing and stroking his back, I went to the kitchen to heat his formula. His caterwauling had lessened; occasional bursts of baby indignation would issue from his lips, punctuated by silence. I tested the milk on my wrist, heated it a minute more, and retested it for warmth. Sitting on the chair, I offered Daniel the bottle. He took it eagerly, but drank only about one-third before pushing it away. “All done? That’s Mama’s angel.” I took the dish towel off the table and laid it across my shoulder, lifting Daniel against it to burp him. He let out an enormous gas bubble. I continued rubbing his shoulder lightly; he fell asleep against me.

I sat there, savoring the silence, and was only half-aware of a figure, seen peripherally, entering the kitchen archway.

I looked toward the entrance, expecting Richard.

No one was there.

—Terence?— I thought, but couldn’t sense his bright aura.

—No,— said a voice not physical, sounding like a whisper in my inner ear.

I responded with my own inner voice: —No?— And more cautiously: —Who is this?—

At first, just silence, outer and inner. Then, —One who’s waited. For you. Waited far too long, but willingly.—

I attempted to probe the spirit, to pick up his appearance. He blocked me, but not before I visualized coal-black, opaque, almond-shaped eyes. They seemed to have neither pupils nor whites. Only a wall of black, and I knew instinctively I could not see through them to the core of his soul. That, too, he had blocked.

I shivered, the kitchen suddenly cold, sitting there in my nightgown with Daniel asleep against me.

This spirit frightened me. I had neither courage nor curiosity to probe him further. My mother, who also had the psychic gift, had warned me of its dangers shortly after my first clairvoyant experience.

I had just turned eleven. My father, mother, sister, baby brother, and I were picnicking in the Pennsylvania countryside and decided to tour a nearby eighteenth century manor. I had spied a small girl, silent and alone in an upstairs alcove, dressed in period garb. She gazed directly at me, but no one else in the tour group, descending a staircase, seemed to notice her.

The tour ended in a drawing room below, and there on the wall above a fireplace was a portrait of the girl. When I questioned having just seen this child, Mother hushed me, making light of my comment.

Even during the drive home, she refused to discuss it, my father silencing me further with his admonition to “learn the difference between imagination and reality.” It was only later that night, when Mother entered my room and sat down on my bed to talk, that I learned the psychic facts of life.

Rule 1 was never assume other people will believe the supernatural, let alone in your psychic ability. Rule 2 was to keep a sharp yardstick of judgment and control during any seemingly psychic incident, to rule out physical and psychological causes and stay in charge of the experience. And Rule 3 was to keep a Godly light—an aura of protection against evil—around oneself whenever dealing with the spirit world.

Mother admitted to her own psychic talent and warned me that my father had not a shred of belief in any of it. And so we became our own secretive, helpmate society, Mother and I. My sister, at six years old, was still too young for us to tell if she’d inherited the trait. As it turned out, she hadn’t, and since then Ginnie and I have had long sisterly talks concerning the paranormal, agreeing to disagree, but twelve years ago, Mother deemed it wise to keep Ginnie well out of it. And now, as that brooding male spirit flitted purposely about me in the kitchen late that night, I fervently wished my mother were with me. Even Gin’s blunt skepticism would have been welcomed if it served to drive him away.

I clutched Daniel to me and began to mentally build a halo of protective light around both of our bodies. Auric colors, invisible to the mortal eye, surrounded us, blue, gold, and white. The spirit made no move to interfere with my psychic defense. I sealed the auras and felt immensely calmer. I stood up to take Daniel back to his crib.

The spirit’s psychic voice intruded again, soft now, soothing, but carrying a possessive, chauvinistic edge. —I would never harm you, nor your child. Nor would I allow any other to harm you.—

“Who are you?” I whispered.

The velvet tone of his answer almost stroked me. —One who loved you long ago and has returned.— I sensed a wistful smile, a small, upward turn of his lips.

I gave no answer, unwilling to involve myself until he gave more answers. I knew he was the same spirit who had earlier disrupted my rest, still slightly sinister in manner and aspect, and I put no trust in him at all.

I laid Daniel down in his crib, and returned to the bedroom.

My husband was asleep. I crawled into bed and curled up against his back. He didn’t stir.

I lay awake, wondering if the dark spirit had left, abandoning whatever purpose had brought him here, and then felt the slightest touch upon my head, as if soft fingers ran though my loosened hair.

I lay still, the touch gentle, that which a woman receives from a man who cherishes her.

I quieted my thoughts, waiting, drawn to this mysterious male presence who would not reveal himself.

But only silence greeted my curious vigil, all sensation ceased, and I nodded off, sleeping undisturbed till morning.

* * * *

The next day Richard went out to the Department of Public Welfare, and the dark spirit returned.

I could sense a bit more of his appearance, envisioning black hair, a long, angular face, and his tall and trim figure clothed in a black, tailored business suit. I distinctly felt that he was allowing me to see this, revealing himself a little at a time. I wondered if he chose this pacing because he was unsure of himself, afraid I would reject him, or simply due to his owning a recalcitrant nature.

I was in the kitchen, once more, when he reappeared. My hands were greasy from stuffing the roasting chicken. Daniel lay in his baby carrier, which I’d placed on the table beside me, watching me work and playing with plastic rattle-keys. The radio on top of the refrigerator broadcast pop tunes.

I reinforced the psychic auras around myself and the baby and tried to ignore the dark presence.

—Leigh Ann,— he murmured, seeming quite at home with my name.

I gave no response.

—Leigh Ann . . .— More insistently.

On rare occasions, when I was alone—Daniel too young to understand my words—I spoke aloud to spirits. Now I did so deliberately, to emphasize that this spirit had violated my mortal territory and had broken my standards of psychic courtesy, but in doing so had merely gained my anger and disdain, never my fear. “You know my name,” I said softly, “but you’re impolite. You haven’t told me who you are.” I waited a minute for this to sink in, then said, “Go away.”

He, too, paused. —I cannot.—

This ambiguous answer puzzled me. “Cannot go away, or cannot tell me who you are?”

—Cannot tell you who I am.—

“Then leave, please.”

I finished stuffing the bird, rinsed off and dried my hands, and began selecting my poultry seasonings, unscrewing their caps. Daniel watched me, lifting his pudgy little hand to make his keys rattle.

—I have something of importance to tell you.—

“Then tell me and leave.”

—You must not make love with your husband anymore.—

I said nothing.

—He will hurt you. He will bring you pain and illness. Do not let him lie with you!—

Jealousy edged his words. My face reddened, and my anger flared. “You’ve delivered your message! Now, leave!”

A tense, responding anger chilled me, prickling my skin.

—Remember,— he said curtly, and then the sensation of psychic cold dissipated, with his presence so strikingly removed, the kitchen seemed brighter by comparison.

When Richard came back early that evening, I presented him with a decent dinner—roasted chicken, stuffing and peas, the last of our vegetables. I had even baked cookies, and we munched them over coffee for dessert.

I considered telling him about the spirit, but decided it would only add more conflict to the marriage. Richard had been somewhat successful at the welfare office. We were to be issued food stamps next week. It didn’t relieve my long-term worries. I intended to launch my idea, my plan, that weekend. That, too, I kept from Richard.

Our evening passed pleasantly, without argument. Daniel nodded off to sleep at 9:00 PM, and when Richard later reached out to me, I didn’t turn away.

I let Richard make up that night for the previous night’s coitus interruptus. His renewed interest toward me gave me hope that our marriage might repair itself.

I would normally explore a spirit’s warning for potential substance and validity. But I gave no credence to the crass blathering of the dark presence. I ignored his warning.