The Haunting of the Gemini Read Free

did this over and over, and slowly the answer came as the story of his life started to unfold. First I saw a little boy in a white shirt and blue short pants held up by suspenders, riding a tricycle. Then an adoring mom standing next to him at his high school graduation. I could smell the gardenia in the corsage she wore pinned to her dress. I knew I was on the right track now. His first kiss to a cute little redhead . . . his dad taking a picture of him standing alongside what I assumed had to be his first car . . . so far, the picture-perfect family life.
    But then it began to change. I saw him slumped over a steering wheel, a syringe and spoon on the seat next to him . . . again and again over the years as the drugs took over . . . his attendance at what must have been a daughter’s wedding, a train wreck of a father bringing no joy . . . a flash of his family, sitting in a kitchen and mourning what they thought was his death . . . and then there he was, sitting on a park bench with some other homeless people. Yes, he was definitely one of them—dirty clothes, ripped sneakers and no socks to cover his swollen ankles, a cigarette butt behind his ear, wrapped in a worn blanket. He showed signs of schizophrenia, which is very common for someone living in those conditions. My heart went out to him. A lost man at rock bottom, huddled in the cold, thinking no one cared anymore.
    I looked at the bench, at the city around him, and sat up straight in astonishment. It was Union Square Park, near Greenwich Village, in the city. It was no more than a thirty-minute train ride from my house. Man, did I have a wonderful belated Christmas gift for this family! Their father and brother was alive, and we could help him. I would gladly give my assistance in reuniting them.
    I put down the pen with which I had furiously been taking notes and pushed the intercom button to speak to my daughter, Joanne. “Get this family on the phone now! I have good news for them!”
    Her voice came back at me. “Are you kidding me? You always change the schedule.” I knew I had other people waiting to see me. “It takes me days to fit people in,” she said.
    I knew that. I knew how I made her work as my assistant much more difficult. I was always changing things up at the last minute. And that wonderful daughter of mine is always my miracle worker, somehow finding a way to make everything still run smoothly. As she did again this time—the family called me within five minutes.
    We greeted each other, and I could tell that I was on speaker phone. Normally, I hate that. I feel a reading is very personal, and I should be talking only to that person, not a whole audience.
    But in this case, everyone on the other end of the phone wanted to know about their dear, “departed” father and brother. I saw them sitting around a kitchen table, passing a box of tissues before the questions started.
    â€œDoes he have a message?”
    â€œHow is he?”
    â€œDoes he know we love him?”
    As I listened to the questions, I closed my eyes and left my body, until I was standing outside a back door and looking into a kitchen. Leaning against a counter was an older man, probably in his eighties but still quite sharp. He looked a little nervous. Ah, that was because he was wanting me—on the other end of the phone line—to prove him right. He was the one who had arranged this reading for his son’s daughters and sister. He wanted me to say some otherworldly gibberish, some kind of hogwash, and confirm that his son was dead. His very much alive and homeless son.
    Well, since I am not a fraud, I was unable to do what he had hoped that I would. I opened my eyes and was back in my office. I stopped the family’s questions with one of my own.
    â€œWho is the older gentleman standing to the back of you?”
    I could feel them turning around and looking at him as