Free The Frenchman's Slow Seduction by Flora Lanoux

words,
which were almost identical to the words she used when she visited
me in the night.
    “When Lyssa’s time for
dying came, I held her hand and stroked it for four hours, from two
to six in the morning, as family members surrounded her. Around six
o’clock, I saw and felt a vortex suddenly appear above us. A hole
opened and a hand reached out. It was Lyssa’s mother’s hand. ‘I’m here for you, Lyssa. It’s your time,’ she said. ‘Oh
no!’ I thought. ‘Lyssa is so scared of the spirit world, she’ll
never go!’ But just as quick as I had the thought, I saw Lyssa’s
spirit shoot up towards her mother. They were finally reunited.
Instantly, the hole closed, and the vortex swooped upwards. When I
looked down at Lyssa, I could see that her body was dead.”
    Liz takes my hand and
says, “Rachel, get busy living and experiencing all aspects of
life. If something or someone is making you unhappy, you must not
endure it. It’s bad for the spirit and it indicates that you’re on
the wrong path.”
    For the rest of my
visit, we play card games.
    Spiritually uplifted, I
leave Northcliff and drive to the address Bryan gave me to pick up
a brown track suit. I can’t believe how butt ugly it is.
    At the clinic, the mood
is still tense. Mike doesn’t know how to talk to me since the
incident with KoKo.
    “The dinner’s arranged
with Vanessa and Gordon for the Friday before your birthday,” he
says. “Do you want to do something tonight?”
    “Not tonight, Mike. I’m
just not up to it.”
    “Okay. Call me if you
change your mind.”
    By the time I get home,
it’s six o’clock. A half hour later, Bryan drops by and suggests a
bike ride.
    “Maybe I could wear
this,” I tell him, pulling out the track suit.
    His eyes pop wide open.
“Wow. That’s really ugly.”
    A one hour bike ride
makes me realize how much I’ve missed the endorphin rush that comes
with exercise; no strings attached.
    “You looked just like a
kid on that bike,” Bryan says.
    When I offer to make
him dinner, he accepts.
    “Are you looking
forward to tomorrow night?” he asks, as we sit down to toasted
western sandwiches.
    “Sure, but am I going
to get thrown around?”
    “Maybe.”
    I laugh. “It’s at times
like this that I wish I worked out.”
     
    Tuesday is as strained
as Monday, except Shane shows up for work and gives us something
else to think about. Mike tells him what happened.
    “Bummer,” he says, and
heads out back to start his day. Wearing headphones, he sings along
with a heavy metal song. There is some comfort in seeing someone
oblivious to what’s going on around him.
    Mid-morning, after I’m
finished with a client, Mike walks into the treatment room.
“Rachel, shouldn’t we talk about things?”
    I turn to him. “Not
yet, Mike. Can we hold off? I just need some time.”
    At the end of the day,
I decide to bring the conference material home with me. Working
late at the clinic is no longer an option.
    The self-defence class
runs from seven to eight thirty, so I get to the gym at six thirty.
The cadets are already in the changing room talking and laughing
about some guy named Eddy, who was at the pub the previous Friday
and who got a woody every time some blonde with fake boobs walked
by.
    I walk up to them. “Hi.
I’m Rachel. I’m here for the class.”
    A tall sturdy woman
with a brush cut holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Sondra. Welcome to
McMahon’s Magical Mystery Tour.”
    I remember Bryan saying
Andy McMahon was the instructor.
    Sondra introduces the
others who take turns shaking my hand. I like them already.
    “You know why he picks
brown for the track suits?” a cadet named Rhoda asks.
    “No,” Sondra says.
“Why?”
    “Because it hides the
blood stains.” They kill themselves laughing and call her a
liar.
    When we walk into the
gym, the instructor, a tall, solid man, is standing at the far end.
He looks about fifty-five, has gray hair that’s thinning at the
top, and has a broad face