Chapter 2
1549 Words
Chapter 1
My name is Amanda Clarke, and I have a secret.
But I'm not sure how to describe it.
It's not like I can see the future or anything, and I wouldn't call it luck, but sometimes I wake up in the morning, and I just have a feeling about something. A strong, not to be argued with feeling that I either have to do something or absolutely cannot do something. I've never not obeyed that feeling, not even once.
Take for instance a perfectly ordinary Monday morning last April. I woke up an hour before my alarm was set to go off with a strong urge to go into work. I got dressed in my server's uniform and headed out my apartment door without even making any coffee or grabbing a bite of toast. I walked the couple of blocks from my building to the diner that has been the focal point of my entire life, my mother's workplace before it was mine, and let myself in the back door.
And found Mr. Schneiderman, the man who was like a grandfather to me, collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Heart attack. The paramedics said I saved his life. I wouldn't have found him in time if I hadn't woken up early and headed straight to the diner. Mrs. Schneiderman had been visiting her sick sister, and he had been alone.
Or that cold winter morning my senior year of high school when I had woken up with the certainty that I should call in sick to school, although I felt fine. Just before noon, as I was huddled in a nest of blankets watching Titanic for the umpteenth time, my mother had given a cry of alarm and staggered out of the kitchenette to collapse on the couch beside me.
Brain aneurysm. There was nothing I could do to save her. Maybe that's why I don't call these feelings any kind of luck. But I was there to hold her hand as the light faded from her eyes. I was the last thing she ever saw. I'm grateful to the powers that be, the ones who send the feelings, that I didn't go to school that day. That my mother didn't die alone.
But the strongest feeling I ever had didn't have a clearcut beginning. It seemed to grow, pretty much from the day my mother died over the four and a half years until the day Cynthia Thomas entered the diner and my life.
The beginning may have been vague, but the feeling was not. It was very clear in my mind. Under no circumstances would I leave my hometown of Scandia, Iowa.
No one thought anything of it when I quit the traveling hockey team. My mother had just died, and the season was winding down with no shot at any playoff wins since all of our best players had graduated the year before.
And it didn't strike anybody as odd when I stayed on at my diner job. I had applied to a few colleges before she had died, but I didn't even bother opening the letters that came back. I wouldn't have been able to afford it anyway.
And not leaving after that wasn't odd either. I was saving every penny I earned with the hope of someday soon having enough to get a trailer of my own in the park on the edge of town.
But even if anyone had asked me, I wouldn't have admitted that I just had a feeling. Scandia, as the name probably suggests, is populated with the descendants of Scandinavian immigrants, dairy farmers mostly. They are practical people, stoic, logical.
I can imagine the looks I'd get from the regulars at the diner if I admitted to even having these feelings, let alone letting them dictate my life.
Strangely, the most impulsive decision I ever made, the one prompted by Cynthia Thomas the day she appeared in the diner and took a table like any other customer off the highway, wasn't based on a feeling. Quite the opposite.
When Cynthia had finished her patty melt, leaving most of her fries but drinking six cups of coffee, her eyes never leaving me as I worked all my other tables, she waved me over. Thinking she was in a hurry like most off the highway were, I already had her ticket ready.
Instead, I found myself looking at a cream-colored business card, with Cynthia Thomas, Attorney embossed on it.
I sort of heard what she was saying, but it was like listening to someone talking on a boat while your head's underwater. Something about a Miss Zenobia Weekes who had recently passed, and how her will had been very clear that I must be present at the reading. And the reading had to take place at midnight on the next full moon.
I know, weird. But I didn't think anything of it at the time.
Because I was too distracted by the sudden feeling of freedom. I hadn't even realized I wasn't free until just then. But it was like I had been shackled, both ankles, with balls and chains like in the old cartoons. And now I wasn't.
I could leave Scandia.
I could go anywhere.
But Cynthia Thomas had handed me a thick envelope filled with traveling money and a map to Miss Zenobia Weekes' Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, Minnesota.
I had played hockey there once or twice, or rather in some of its suburbs. It was a pretty city. As good a place as any to see some of the world outside of Scandia. Because I still wanted that trailer to myself, and this trip was being paid for by the estate of Miss Zenobia Weekes.
How could I say no?
That was a month ago. Since then I've had more time to think, and yeah, the few details of the will I know are strange. And I'm not even sure why I of all people am being summoned to the reading. Cynthia couldn't - or wouldn't - tell me why. She said it would be clear at the reading.
She did tell me, when I asked, that Miss Zenobia Weekes wasn't a relative of mine. Which might seem like an odd question to ask a stranger, so let me explain.
I was born in the diner parking lot. My mother and the man who must have been my father were in a car going far too fast down the road in a sleet storm. He had hit a patch of ice and spun into a utility pole. By the time Mr. And Mrs. Schneiderman had gotten outside, he had been dead. My mother looked dead too, unconscious and bleeding from a blow to the head, but she jerked awake at Mr. Schneiderman's touch.
Then she went into labor. The nearest hospital was several miles down the highway, and I was born before the ambulance could make it there.
My entire life, my mother never spoke a word. She never wrote a word, either. She understood when others were talking and could nod or shake her head, but she largely preferred not to.
I don't know her name. My father had been wearing a work uniform with the name Clarke written on the breast pocket. Mr. and Mrs. Schneiderman named me Amanda when I was about three months old.
My mother worked in the kitchen at the diner and took care of me just fine. But she could never tell me anything about where she came from or who our people were.
But somehow this Miss Zenobia Weekes must have known her because she certainly hadn't known me. I would've remembered a name like that.
And if I was nervous at all at attending the reading of a will at midnight on September's full moon, I just remembered Cynthia Thomas. She hadn't looked like someone up for summoning spirits or engaging in bloody sacrifices. She had looked exactly like what her business card said she was: a lawyer. Slacks and nice shoes, a business jacket over a cream-colored blouse. Not showy - she wasn't a corporate lawyer (if she had been, I probably would have had a different impression of her likelihood to be mixed up in sacrifices) - but clearly expensive, especially compared to the normal Scandia crowd around her.
But more than that, she had been kind. I had seen it in her blue eyes, in the wrinkles that a lifetime of soft smiles had etched into her skin. I had heard it in the tenor of her voice and the way she kept calling me "Miss Amanda." I had felt it when she had taken my hand just before leaving, a handshake that had lingered affectionately although we had just met.
I didn't know who Miss Zenobia Weekes was but hearing the reverence in Cynthia's voice every time she said her name, I knew she had been someone very special. I was sure to learn more about her when I visited her school.
And I tried to not get my hopes up about the reading of a will. I was getting a free trip to a nice city, and a free stay in a house on the fanciest street in that city. That was treat enough for me.
But another part of me felt like all of that time I had spent trapped in my hometown, I had been waiting for something amazing.
And now that amazing thing was about to happen.
- Writer
