“You must have been resting,” she says, eyeing my ensemble, then shifting her gaze up to what I assume is my three-inch-long scrub of hair sticking up like a duck’s arse, before she settles into comfortably condescending eye contact.

“Resting? No,” I say, flatly at first, before I force myself to perk up and put Becky in her place. A hand flutters up to smooth my hair. Arms fold across my chest as I remember that I don’t have a bra on. “Emailing Toronto . . . developing a framework . . . new marketing campaign. For my company. In Toronto. Having some trouble filling my shoes. No rest for the wicked awesome.” I flash the biggest, fakest smile. Until I feel the crack of crusted sleep drool that gathered in the corner of my mouth during my mid-morning nap.

“How can I help you?” I say, my back teeth gritting with insincerity because frankly I’m more likely to bite her stupid blinky head off than I am to actually help her. Her chin sinks low to her chest, her gloved fingers clasp and wring in an anxious prayer.

“First, my condolences on the loss of your mother. She was a great woman. Secondly, I hope I’m not overstepping any boundaries here. But I heard you can see things.”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Not blind. Yet.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” Her eyes begin to well with wetness beneath her glasses. She turns to leave, with a none too subtle sniff and a whimper. I watch as a jagged mass of forest green shards sputter out from a damn near blinding lemon-coloured gush of aura crap. I know that what I’m about to do will give the whole goddamn Island an open invitation to knock on my door and ask me to fix their lives with my psychic powers, and I know that means the risk of becoming a spent, sore, posthumous community saint, just like my mother. I know that I hardly believe all this is anything more than a figment of my own chaotic brain chemistry with a touch of ancestral insanity anyway. And I know that I really can’t stand Becky Chickenshit, no matter how puppy-dog pathetic she gets.

Despite all of that, I take heed when I hear my mother’s voice whisper, Don’t you ever turn your back on a person in need. Look at her. She’s a mess. And you can help. Be somebody else’s light when you get the chance, lest you find yourself alone. In the dark.

Yes, Mama.

“Becky. Wait.” I step aside, making space for her and her sobbing mess of colourful thoughts. “Come in. I just put the tea on.”

Her bawling slows to weeping and then subsides to a sniffle as I place a pot of tea and a box of tissues on the table. She takes one from the box, making a meticulously folded square with which to dab the corners of her eyes, and clears her throat with a silent sip of tea.