Free Caught Dead Handed by Carol J. Perry

glimpses of recent events.
    Again, I saw the yellow plane bursting into flames. I saw my mother’s face, mouth open in a silent scream. I saw sad-faced people and big bouquets of flowers. I saw my five-year-old self curled up in my bed, unable to speak. Scenes of school days, childhood friends flashed by. I saw my wedding day. I saw Johnny at Daytona, proudly hoisting a trophy. I saw the black car careening toward me out of the night, and I watched my own hands on the steering wheel as I tried to get out of the way. And again, I saw Ariel’s hand, floating, beckoning from the water.
    I threw the shoes onto the dusty attic floor. Maybe I fainted then. I’m not sure. The screaming had stopped, and I was crying, great gulping sobs against Aunt Ibby’s shoulder.
    I was vaguely aware of walking downstairs, sipping a cup of hot tea, patting the yellow cat, who’d climbed into my lap. Slowly, reality returned, and I felt self-control kicking in.
    â€œFeeling better?” Aunt Ibby’s face mirrored her concern.
    â€œYes,” I said. “Sorry I kind of lost it there.”
    â€œOh, Maralee, forgive me. I never should have told you.”
    â€œYou were right to tell me, Aunt Ibby,” I assured her. “It’s just so overwhelming. Things I’d forgotten are all crowding into my mind at once. I just need to sort it all out. Especially the gazing thing.”
    â€œI wish I knew how to help,” she said. “From what I’ve read, some gazers are able to control the visions.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “if I really have it, it’s apparently been under control for all these years. Maybe it’ll go away again.”
    â€œMaybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “After it happened . . .” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “After it happened, and you told me what you’d seen in your shoes, I still thought it was your imagination. Then the phone call came, and I knew it was real. But I didn’t tell anyone about your . . . vision. Not a soul.”
    She paused, looked away, and then continued. “After the funeral you stopped talking. Didn’t speak a word for nearly six months. You walked and you ate and you looked at your books, but you couldn’t be coaxed to speak. Then, one day, you began to talk again. You knew your parents were gone, of course, and you were sad about that. But you never said anything about what you had seen. Naturally, I put the shoes away and made sure you never had another pair of Mary Janes, but other shiny things, mirrors and the like, didn’t seem to bother you at all. I thought . . . I hoped . . . this thing, whatever it is, was gone for good.”
    I patted her hand. “Maybe it’ll never happen again. And probably what I saw in the ball was really just a reflection.”
    â€œI hope so, Maralee. I truly hope so. But you saw something in the shoes again just now, didn’t you? Do you want to talk about it?”
    I tried to describe what I had seen. “It went by so fast. It was all blurred together. But it was very real.” The admission came with difficulty. “I’m afraid you may be right. About me being a gazer.”
    â€œI’m sure you understand now why I’ve tried to discourage you from taking on this psychic thing at the station. It’s not a good idea. Please be sensible and tell them you won’t be hosting Nightshades. ”
    â€œNo,” I said, surprising myself with the firm sound of the word. “No,” I repeated in a softer tone. “What did you tell me just yesterday, before I drove to the station, when I admitted I’m still terrified every time I get behind the wheel of a car?”
    Her smile was brief and wistful. “I handed you the keys to the Buick and told you to face your fear.”
    â€œAnd you were right. I know I have to face my fear of this . . . ability I seem to have. But I’m still struggling.