The Adventures of Jillian Spectre. Nic Tatano

      It helps that he’s a master of astral projection. Basically he can send his spirit anywhere at any time, which gives him a huge advantage when it comes to spying on criminals. He’s a human fly on the wall, eavesdropping on the bad guys and often catching them in the act because he knows what’s coming and they have no idea he’s there. Fuzzball could obviously make a fortune as a corporate spy or a private detective checking up on cheating politicians, but feels that those with superpowers should act like superheroes. He once climbed the tree in our front yard to save my kitten.

      As for his nickname, it has nothing to do with his appearance, as his ever-present three-day stubble isn’t remotely fuzzy. I’m told that back when dinosaurs roamed the earth (the sixties) police officers were referred to as “the fuzz.” Combine that with his last name, and you get a moniker that stuck to him like superglue in his rookie year on the beat. He doesn’t mind, and seems to get a kick out of it when people my age use it. One time our school bus pulled up to a red light next to his car, and we all yelled, “Hey, Fuzzball!” at him. He shot a crooked smile at us and did that “I’m watching you” thing cops do on TV when they use two fingers to point at their eyes and then the person they’re watching.

      Anyway, back to my calling him the other night, and he was the only law enforcement person I could call. I mean, who else would believe me? Imagine this 911 recording:

       “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

       “Hi, I’m a mystic seer and the guy I did a reading for is about to kill his slutty fiancée and the guy she’s sleeping with. I saw it clear as day in my crystal ball.”

       “Uh- huh .”

      Since Fuzzball lives across the street and has known me since I was a little girl, he knew it was serious when I called. He zapped his spirit into the office where the two lovers had been, ahem, working late and saw them both being pummeled by my client. He rolled on it, called for backup, and managed to get there in time. The two had been beaten within an inch of their lives. My client was charged with two counts of attempted murder, as both of them survived. Fortunately I’m not going to be involved since the guy couldn’t possibly say he found out about the affair from a mystic seer and hope that a jury would take him seriously.

      Fuzzball stopped by our house the next day (the actual person, not the spirit) and I told him about my earlier experience as well, so he made me put his number on speed dial. (Can you imagine the buddy cop movie this would make? Crystal Blue might be a good title.)

      I don’t want to see murders on a regular basis. Really, I don’t. But so far I’ve saved three lives, which is pretty cool. And that, my mother says, trumps any uneasiness I might experience.

      ***

      Sebastien has set up what he considers to be a simple test. He first wants to study my afterlife experience, and hopes to recreate it.

      I’m thinking, okay, how are you going to set up a reading with someone which will result in my seeing the great beyond? I’m also wondering what happens if I do get another glimpse and it happens to be the person on the elevator going down. (Then again, Hell might look like Newark, New Jersey and I wouldn’t know the difference.) I’m going on the assumption that what I saw the first time was indeed Heaven.

      Anyway, here’s the deal. Sebastien will have me do a reading with a man who is terminally ill. He’s been dating a woman and wants to know if she will remain with him after he tells her he’s headed for a dirt nap. According to doctors, he cannot possibly live more than two years. So Sebastien’s test should, in theory, give me a look at whatever awaits this guy on the other side. If I see nothing, that might confirm our suspicion that my emotion is a necessary ingredient.

      He assures me there will not be a murder involved as he leads me into a small room set up much like the one we have at home. Except the curtains are all black, which makes a sharp contrast to my burgundy cape. But the man is not what I expect. He’s maybe forty, and when you think of someone about to die you’re thinking about someone ancient. The man honestly doesn’t look that bad. He’s short, maybe my height, and thin. Bald, from chemotherapy. Face is a little drawn and a bit pale, but that’s about the only indicator that might tell you he’s sick. His light brown eyes are filled with sadness as he extends his hand and offers a slight smile. “Hi, Frank Donovan.”

      “Jillian Spectre.”

      “I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”

      Neither was I, though I don’t say it.

      “She’s a prodigy,” says Sebastien. “I’ll leave you two to the reading.” He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. I gesture toward one of the chairs, we both sit.

      “So, I understand you have a question about the woman you’re dating.”

      His eyes grow misty. “I, uh—”

      “Sebastien’s already filled me in on your…situation.”

      He nods.

      I reach across the table. “I want you to take my hands for a moment, look directly at me and tell me the question you have. It must be about romance, and you must think of nothing else.”

      He takes my hands, holding them softly, and his sad eyes lock onto mine. “I want to know if Patrice will leave me when I tell her…I’m…terminal.”

      “You brought a photo?”

      “Yes.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wallet-sized shot showing the two of them on the beach. She’s a cute, petite brunette with long tangled hair and big eyes. It’s clear they are in love from the way they’re looking at each other.

      I take his hands again and try my best to comfort him with my gaze. “Now I’m going to let go. I want you to close your eyes for about a minute and focus on your question. Remember, focus only on your question.”

      I let go of his hands and hold the crystal ball. He nods, closes his eyes and I do the same. I focus on his face, the photo. Is there emotion? Sort of. I mean, I feel bad that this poor guy’s going to die, he seems like a decent person. But I don’t really know him. I’m hoping what I see tells me his girlfriend is going to stick around. It’s as happy an ending as he can hope for.

      A minute later I open my eyes.

      The ball is already fogged up. Has to be the touch.

      “Okay, open your eyes.”

      He does so and looks at me, then the ball. “How long will it take—”

      “Shhhhh.” The image clears. I see the two of them at dinner, him taking her hands. She begins to cry. But doesn’t leave. Now they’re in a jewelry store shopping for an engagement ring. The images are still at normal speed. I look up at him. “She’s definitely staying.”

      His exhale is audible as he smiles and his eyes brighten.

      I see her walking down the aisle, him waiting at the altar. “You’ll be getting married before…” I catch my words by the tail.

      His smile gets bigger.

      The image of their honeymoon on a cruise ship fills the ball. Then she’s pregnant. Then he’s holding a baby in a hospital.

      Then it goes to black. Till death do us part, indeed.

      “Well?”

      “You’re going to have a daughter.”

      He begins to cry, tears of joy. “Did you see…. you know….”

      “No, Mr Donovan. I can only read matters of the heart.” I look at the ball, waiting, hoping for the afterlife movie to start playing.

      But nothing happens.

      Until he reaches across the table and takes my hands again.