harlotte awoke in her bed with a nasty headache. There was an icepack on her forehead, but it was not helping in any way.
Her mother sat at the bedside, and when she saw Charlotte’s eyes fly open, she was ready immediately with a spoon full of something that smelled quite nasty.
“Charlotte? Here, take this. It will do you good.”
“Did I faint?” Charlotte asked, after obediently swallowing the stuff, which left an oily residue on her tongue. “May I have some water?”
“Of course,” said her mother, and went across the room to pour a glass from a pitcher, “and no. Don’t you remember?”
“We were in the sous-sol.”
Miriam Rowe looked critically at her daughter.
“It is not polite to speak French, except with the French.” Her mother was never good at languages.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I don’t know why, I just had the word ready in my head.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
Charlotte shook her head. “What happened?”
“The most wonderful and amazing thing,” Mrs. Rowe said. She handed her daughter the glass of water. “You are the most incredible medium.”
“Medium?” Charlotte asked.
“I knew when you were born that you were special. You were born of the ethereal plane. You were a child of the highest spiritual power. Now, your birthright is coming to fruition in light of the Grace you have worked so hard to attain.”
“What happened?” asked Charlotte.
“It is so exciting. We must bring your talents to the world. We must—but of course you need your rest at the moment. So try and get some sleep, and I will bring you some blood pills in a moment.”
Charlotte looked away from her mother. “Que s’est produit? De que ma mère parle-t-elle?”
“Charlotte! What did I tell you?”
Charlotte turned to her mother, and raised her eyebrows. “You told me it was only polite to speak French to the French.”
“And since when do you disobey your mother?”
“I am not disobeying!”
“What language was that, if not French?”
“I did not say I was not speaking French!”
“Well? Is there a French person here? To what French person were you speaking?”
Her mother was puffing up her chest and turning red in the face.
Charlotte opened her eyes, with a surprised expression.
“Why, to Nannette.”
Mrs. Rowe stared at her daughter.
“Nannette?”
“Yes, Mother, of course. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Who,” asked her mother, “is Nannette?”
“Nannette. You know.” Charlotte searched for words. “What is wrong with you, Mother?”
“Charlotte. Answer me carefully.” Mrs. Rowe dropped down beside Charlotte’s bed again, kneeling by her daughter and caressing her forehead. “Is Nannette here with us now, darling?”
“Of course, Mother. Nannette is always here.”
“And she is French?”
“Of course!”
“Where is she, exactly?”
Charlotte looked around the room. “Why she’s here. Around. Sometimes all around the room, and sometimes right at my ear.”
“Why have you never told me about her?”
Charlotte looked puzzled. “Haven’t I? She’s always been here.”
“This is wonderful, Charlotte. Simply wonderful. Can you talk to her right now?”
“Of course I can.”
“Ask her... Ask her if she is in contact with Charles.”
“Oh. Umm. Parlez-vous avec Charles?” She turned to her mother. “Oui. Oh. I’m sorry. I mean, yes.”
Her mother was practically quivering now, sitting on the very edge of the bed, and nervously caressing Charlotte’s head.
“Can she ask him where he is?”
“Okay, Mother. Nannette? Où est Charles?”
“Well?” asked her mother.
“She says...”
“Speak, child. What does she say?”
“Il est avec vous.”
“He is... What?”
“He is with you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know!”
“You must know!”
“I don’t know, Mother. I really don’t know.”
Mrs. Rowe realized that she was holding her daughter’s shoulders in a white grip. She let go and looked around the room.
“The problem is that the language of the spirits is translated through our own minds. And, on top of that, your spirit guide speaks French!”
“Spirit guide?”
“Yes, darling. Nannette is your guide, and she will give you information from beyond the fabric of our mortal universe.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte.
“This has all been quite trying,” said Miriam Rowe. She rose and wiped her hands on her skirt. “We must converse with Nannette at length, and find out about her. Well. I will bring up those blood pills. You will need your strength.”
“No,” said Charlotte.
“Do not disagree with me, child.”
“It’s not me, Mother. Nannette warns me strongly against blood pills.”
“She does?”
“Yes, she says that I must take them under no circumstances.”
“Oh.”
“No man-made medicines must enter my systems, for they stifle mediumship.”
“Oh. Of course, I should have recognized that. You have passed beyond the efficacy of medicines. Your body is now in a higher state. Yes. I see. I will bring you orange juice.”
Well, you have to remember that I was just a child. I was young, and my mother was a self-centered woman. And blood pills tasted horrible. She always had a medicine at her fingertips, something syrupy or oily or bad tasting. Something to pep me up that would give me a stomachache. Something to cure my liver that would make my head spin. It was all awful. Damn my liver, damn my blood, I didn’t want to take any pills or elixirs.
On top of that, my mother was acting strange. She was paying attention to me. I was a bit fuzzy on the details, but she was hovering over me in a protective, mother-like way. This was strange, but good. It played with my mind.
And then, I was rather proud of my French.
I admit it, I made up Nanette on the spot.
Or, I think I did. That’s the trouble with things, they get confused. She’s been with me so long. I see her in the mirror, and her story is always changing. Her life is one way, and then another. And then, she comes to my bedside with a cup of tea, and she seems to be a normal, middle-aged French woman. “Nanette?” I ask. “Is it really you?”
“Of course, it’s me. Who else would be bringing you your tea?”
“Do you remember when I was a child?”
She laughs. “Sure, my dear. Don’t you?”
Perhaps I’m mixing them up. I thought I just imagined her.
After all, it got me some attention.
And I was always proud of my French.
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