Creed had thought that was an odd question because Gator—Jean Marie back then—had two eyes and was looking right at her. Then she pointed at Auralia and then him, “Your visions are hazy; his are clearer.” She swung a gnarled finger around to point out the rest of their siblings, “The rest of you all didn’t come natural to the gift—a pity and a blessing as everything is like a coin, it has two sides.” They were all kind of spooked. She told the twins to get out of the circle. Then she picked through her basket, found three stones, and added them to the design.
When she finished, the wind picked up, the leaves turned to show their undersides, and dark clouds moved in from the Gulf. “We need the rain.” She turned to Gator, “Leave your work in place until after the storm passes, then give the elements back to the water. And be careful playing at things you don’t understand.”
Then, she walked away.
All eight kids tore back to the Rochambeau cabin like they were on fire and dove under the covers on the kids’ bed. And that’s how Mamma Rochambeau found them when the rain started, and she came in from the garden.
They told her the tale and described the woman.
“That was PittyPat Brown. You described her very well.” Creed had never heard of PittyPat Brown, but he tucked her name away.
Mamma Rochambeau looked hard at Gator, “She said you could see clearly? Creed and Auralia could see hazy? But she said the rest of you couldn’t see?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Auralia said. “But I see fine. Creed says he sees fine, too. And then she said the twins and Genevieve couldn’t see at all. That seems mean, doesn’t it, Mamma? I mean, of course, they can see.”
The storm was raging, and Mama Rochambeau opened the windows so she could pull the shutters closed and latch them. “Miss PittyPat has her own way of speaking. She’s old.”
That night, Creed asked his Mémère if she had any idea who Miss PittyPat was. He thought he knew everyone within walking distance.
“Where’d you hear that name, Honoré?”
“Mamma Rochambeau said it.” And he told her his story.
“Well, Miss PittyPat is long from this world. She died before any of you were born. She was a healer in these parts. And she was my midwife when I gave birth to your mamma.”
“Dead then?” Creed asked. And it felt very true and not at all strange that a ghost would walk down the beach and offer them her insights.
In their little neck of the woods, he never again saw the woman with the gathering basket. And that tale was just one of many such tales that filled Creed’s childhood.
But that one stuck out to him because it was so very true.
Creed and Auralia had astigmatic psychic vision, but Gator could sometimes sense things as clear as day.
How was it that he and Auralia could believe that Gator wouldn’t sense that they were a couple and had fallen in love?
It had to have been a love spell that kept them convinced that they could choose when they’d tell the world about their feelings.
Gator’s response today was not how Creed had seen things playing out.
But looking back?
Yeah.
Stupidly, willfully blind to think that they had space and time, and a choice.
Watching Deep jog across the field, Creed remembered the day when that might have changed everything about Deep’s life span.
Creed, Gator, and Deep were heading outside the wire when the Raiders were moving out on a mission. Creed and Gator often compared notes before they left the base, leaning heavily on things that they read in the ether alongside data they could gather from conventional sources.
That morning, Gator had seemed off his game. He kept staring over at Deep with conflict in his eyes. Since back when Creed and Gator hunted the swamps together, they’d learned to have whole conversations with a glance. Creed took advantage of that skill, shooting a thought to Gator, “Deep deserves to know.” Know what? Creed had no clue beyond a sense that Deep’s life was about to change.
Gator nodded and turned to Deep. “Hey, man, I’m not trying to jinx you nor nothin’. But today, I need you to listen to your gut. If you hear a whisper, you feel an inclination, act on it without thought nor hesitation.”
And sure enough, Deep later told them the story of how he’d felt someone grab hold of his chin and turn his head in time for him to see a grenade lying at his feet. He threw his hands over his head and dove out the door.
Not soon enough to stay whole.
But the reflex bought him enough distance that the doctors could piece Deep back together. Over time, he regained histactical capacity to the point where he could function on Strike Force.
