My client arrived on a windswept Wednesday night, too many clouds in the cold night sky shading the moon from its silvery glow. It could have been a little more atmospheric as Teresa Tate closed her car door. I welcomed her into my home. The heat from the Aga beckoned her to remove a quilted jacket from her back.
I could sense she was somewhat nervous as she watched tentatively while I filled the kettle. She was eager to get started. I needed to calm her, offer her a little psychological friendship. There was nothing worse than an over enthusiastic client, forever expecting Spirit to appear.
“Let’s sit down for a while,” I suggested, placing two mugs of hot tea on the kitchen table. Mrs Tate’s chair scraped across the tiled floor as she anxiously perched herself upon leather seat. I looked at her. Perhaps I should have offered her a brandy.
“Before we start the reading, I would ask you not to give me any names of family members, or indeed those departed. Should we be fortunate enough to connect with Spirit tonight, I shall give you confirmation of this by giving you information about them. But please don’t be disappointed if no one comes through. It doesn't always happen. We can not order the Spirits to connect, it is their wish only.”
I think she understood. It was time we moved into the reading room, my peaceful space where I would welcome Spirit into my home. This woman had come to me specifically to contact her husband. I knew this the moment we walked into that little room. He stood by the window. His hands stroked the velvet curtains in his bid for me to mention them. He had only eyes for his wife. I might not have been there but for my ability to communicate with him. I could not see his feet, his legs ended mid calf as he appeared to float several inches above the floor. A stocky man, tall and broad shouldered. Grey hair, a few strands of which lapped over his head. His eyes were kind. He wore a black suit and tie, typical funeral attire.
“Sit down, Teresa.”
"I'm a bit nervous," her voice almost gave way to a fraudulent laugh.
“I want to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“Is he here?” Her sensational enthusiasm overwhelmed me as I tried hard to keep the connection. Trying to ignore her I continued.
“I feel you buried your husband in a velvet lined coffin."
“He’s here isn’t he? Please tell me he’s here.”
“I do believe he is. But please stay calm. Let me see if I can make a better connection.”
The Spirits could often be deterred by anxiousness. I so wanted Mrs Tate to go home that night, content that her husband had visited her and satisfied that the work I offered was legitimate. Sniggers and negativity no longer worried me. I had learned to live with it over the years of my mediumship, but I, like anyone, felt happier if my clients believed my power to communicate with the departed.
Mr Tate stepped forward. Cut off legs hovered above my Axminster carpet as the rest of his body moved to stand beside his wife. He continued to stare at her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered.
“Your husband is at your side.” I psychically encouraged her not to move. He was ready to communicate.
I looked up at him. So did she. Her eyes scanning the corner of the room. She believed he was there, even though she could not see him. I knew I could communicate now, they were both ready.
His voice, strong and deep, emitted in my head. As his lips moved, the sound could only be heard by me, the sound of his breathing as he spoke. If he had not spoken I would have confirmed to his wife that he was happy and well. His eyes told me as much yet now I was hearing his words.
“Your husband wants you to know he is no longer suffering. The cancer has gone and his body feels young again.”
My client began to cry. I should have known she would. It can be a very traumatic time to know a loved one is still around, even though they have left the physical world.
“Teresa?” I asked, with care, my hand resting on her arm. “Why did you put the clock in the hall?”
“He bought me that, just before he died. I wanted to look at it every day so I moved it near the front door.”
“He wants you to replace it with a picture. He does not want you to be upset each time you use the front door.”
She looked disappointed. Perhaps a little annoyed. I begged this soul to relay more information. I needed something to make his wife smile again. Something she could tell her children when they asked about her reading with the medium. Spirit showed me a picture of their wedding day. A black and white photograph in which they looked blissfully happy. I gave her this information, at last making her lips turn up, her eyes sparkle. And then he showed me another photograph. Of a baby. Their baby. A daughter, born to them thirty years previously. I told her about the baby photograph. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“Why is he showing me this photograph?” I asked myself, silently. I did not want Mrs Tate to tell me, even though, as the question had appeared in my mind, I knew there was something sinister in her husband’s confirmation.
I looked at my client. Her face ashen, she looked at me. Her arms folded. Her legs crossed. Spirit took a step backwards. He no longer wanted to comfort his wife. He no longer wanted her to feel his surrounding energy. His eyes had become harsh and the answer was staring me in the face.
“I couldn’t tell him.” Mrs Tate sobbed as we made our way back to the kitchen. Spirit had left the room. Communication had ceased. The reading had drained my energy, taken my soul and used it to punish this woman who wanted so much to make contact with her departed husband.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“No, I need to go home. How much do I owe you?”
I did not read for an individual in order to take money from their trusting hands. It was not my way. I had given this poor woman only half an hour of my time and she stood before me with an open purse. I refused her money. And she changed her mind about the tea.
“It can sometimes be a relief to talk to strangers about your inner most feelings. Your husband will visit again, of that I am sure.”
“The child is not his.”
It was no surprise. The look on Spirit’s face as he backed away from his grieving wife told me why he had come to see her. As he left, he impressed thoughts upon me. Thoughts I was certain would cause more pain for Teresa Tate after she had obviously been through so much already. Had he not been away at sea those thirty years ago, his own brother would not have felt compelled to care for his sister-in-law. She may not have been tempted therefore, to conduct an affair with her brother-in-law of which resulted in the birth of a child. And of course, for three decades, Teresa Tate had allowed her own husband to live as the child’s true father. My vow never to judge remained and I sat down at the kitchen table that night, until 1am, listening to a total stranger reveal the truth about her life as Mrs Tate.
©Copyright CJ 2007