“One last thing,” Sylvie says. “It’s important you understand that I don’t have a clear definition for what I do. Psychics use their intuition or spiritual guides to gain information about the past, present, or future. Mediums are channels that deliver messages from those who have passed over. I’ve been called a psychic-medium, and that’s as good a definition as any. But the truth is that I’m not sure why I hear voices, see images, sing at times, or scribble notes—it just happens and I can’t tell you how because I truly don’t understand it.”

Sylvie takes a wobbly breath and the urge to reach out, give her hand a squeeze, tell her that I know she’ll try her hardest, always surprises me. That same concern is reflected on the faces of countless audience members. “We are about to embark on a journey,” she says. “I hope that whatever happens helps someone. But there’s a saying I’ve always lived by, though I can’t recall where I first heard it. The truth has two edges. Make sure you’re prepared for the answers you seek. Okay?”

Around me people smile back and say, “Okay.” I surprise myself by saying it, too.

Turning to the left side of the stage, Sylvie begins, “Far left . . . five rows back.” She moves forward, so graceful she almost floats. “There’s a motherly energy . . . she didn’t want to die in the hospital. Does that mean something to anyone in this row? Please take your time. I understand that many of you want to make a connection, but it’s really important to listen to the details so that you don’t mistake someone else’s message.”

My stomach does a flip as my friend Daryl stands up, runs a hand through sparse gray hair. Finally. One of the assistants in the audience races over with a microphone.

Daryl says, “My ma died a few months ago.”

Sylvie repeatedly taps her lips. The ring on her index finger sparkles. “Do you collect something . . . maybe pennies . . . no, they’re squares?”

“Stamps! I’ve collected them since I was a kid.”

She walks to the edge of the stage, right across from Daryl, the dog glued to her side. “Your mother says she didn’t want you to sell them.”

Daryl shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I used the money to pay for a home nurse, but I ran out anyway, had to put Ma in a state hospital and still work doubles to pay the doctor’s bills.” Daryl’s voice catches. “I was at work when she passed.”

A crease appears between Sylvie’s brows. “There’s a really young energy coming forward . . . Do you have a sister? She died when you were little . . . She’s signing the letter D, then holding up four fingers.”

Daryl flinches. “Uh. No. I’m an only child.”

Sylvie whisks a marker out of her pocket and scribbles on her palm. She holds up her hand and reads it like she’s learning what it says with the audience. “D wants you to S-T-O-P. Does that mean anything to you?”