The Haunting of the Gemini Read Free Page A

if to say, “How did you know that?” Now that I had their full attention, I began to explain about their son, father, and brother. I described his whereabouts, his drug use, his likely mental illness, his desperate need of help. I could hear the tears falling on the other end of the phone. One daughter said she always had a feeling that he was still alive. They had been told he had died in an accident years ago. I asked why there was no funeral, and they said that their grandfather had taken care of the arrangements and felt it best to just have him quickly cremated.
    There were heavy questions in the air around that kitchen table. The grandfather began to yell. “I don’t need this. I gave you girls everything that deadbeat son of mine couldn’t.” I could feel his pain. In a way, he was right. He gave everything he could, and he couldn’t forgive his son. Instead of the joy I’d expected, I ended the call feeling horrible for everyone involved.
    The grandfather contacted me the next day to instruct me to leave things alone. In his eyes, his son had died a long time ago. I tried to talk to the daughters. They said they were happy to know that their father was not dead, but there was nothing they could do for him alive. And then they hung up. I was left confused by the whole situation. How could they have this new knowledge and not act on it?
    This was such an unusual result for me. I almost never get to deliver the news that there is life instead of death. I don’t often get to tell people that amends can be made now, in this world, before anyone crosses over to the other side. I rarely get to tell clients that they still have time and can do the communicating on their own.
    Maybe that was why I couldn’t let it rest. This poor man needed help, and I felt I’d been brought into his story for a reason. Two days after his family told me to do nothing more, I set out for Union Square Park to do more anyway. I don’t like seeing people in pain. Helping the vulnerable is one of my own vulnerabilities. And unfortunately for me, there were those who knew this.
    I took a pack of smokes and some coffee with me. I know the currency of the streets, and a few cigarettes can usually buy you some information. I walked through the whole area, looking everywhere. I saw crack vials, empty dope bags, tiny specks of blood on the ground. I showed the man’s photograph around, though most of these people wouldn’t have recognized the guy if he were sitting on their laps.
    I kept searching as the winter sun went down and dark clouds moved in. I finally sat down on a bench, about to admit defeat in my search for this nowhere man, when I happened to notice the feet of the person sitting next to me, wearing the same torn sneakers I’d seen in my vision three days earlier. I peeked into the blanket he wore wrapped around himself and got a look at his face. Jackpot! I told myself to remain calm. I did not want to spook him. I slowly pulled out a cigarette and extended it toward him. An aged, soiled hand emerged from the blanket and snatched it from my fingers. I lit it for him and watched the smoke billow from his nose and mouth.
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” he said. “You a cop?”
    â€œNo. I’m no cop,” I said carefully.
    He peered around his blanket at me with a very alert expression in his eyes. “Well, I ain’t going home, and I ain’t going with you. This is no place for you. Go away.”
    Yeah, everyone knows how well
that
works on me. I knew of a men’s shelter where he could get medical care. “I want to help you. Please, let me get you a warm bed, some food, and a hot shower, and then we can talk.”
    He stood up and flung the half-smoked cigarette away. I stood up quickly, too, and said, “You have a family that loves you. You owe it to your daughters and yourself.”
    He stopped, and I thought for a split second that