"Just them," I said quickly, maybe too quickly. Her eyes cut to me, sharp. Measuring. Then she went back to sorting herbs like she hadn't just cracked something open. "They recognize you?" she asked. "I don't think so." My hands slid over my thighs, grounding myself. "I shook the sister's hand, unintentionally. And I saw a whole lot." Her jaw tightened. "I can imagine," Madame Laurent said.
I stared at the water, my reflection breaking apart every time the breeze touched it. "I saw their family. Happy. Whole. Everything my mama wanted but never had." My voice dipped."And then I saw my mama too." Madame Laurent didn't interrupt. "I felt it all at once," I continued. "Like it all rushed through me. Their past. Ours. The curse. The wanting. The punishment." She finally turned to me fully then, eyes dark and knowing.
"You still ain't pray to Rosalie like I told you." It wasn't a question. "I been scared," I admitted, my throat tightening. "What if I see something I can't undo?" She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Truth don't undo you. It reveal you." I laughed weakly. "Sometimes that can feel worse."
She reached over and placed one of the small jars in my palm. The glass was warm from the sun, heat seeping into my skin like it had been waiting on me. Inside sat a mix of crushed leaves and something darker, root, maybe. Thick. Earthy. Old. I could feel it before I smelled it, like my body recognized it before my mind caught up. "You caught between bloodlines," she said softly, but there was nothing gentle about the truth in it. "One that birthed you. One that bound you. Both entwined in one. That kind of crossroad ain't gentle." I closed my fingers around the jar, my grip instinctive, like I needed to anchor myself to something solid before the ground shifted again. "You go and you pray to Rosalee like I told you," she continued, her voice firm now. Instruction, not suggestion. "Ask her to give you sight and the ability to discern and manage what you see. Sight without wisdom will break you. You hear me?" I nodded slowly.
"Kounyé, sé tan-a," she said.It's time now.Then her eyes hardened, sharp as cut glass."And that mama of theirs, you stay away from that witch," she warned. "Mozele won't take kindly to lookin' in your face and seein' pieces of her late husband and yo mama starin' back at her."A chill slid down my spine. “She been watchin' bloodlines longer than you been breathin'," MadameLaurent added. "Kè'y rèd lè I vini pou padon."Her heart is hard when it comes to forgiveness.
I swallowed, my throat dry. I understood what she was really saying. Some doors, once opened, don't close again. Some truths don't just inform, they expose. I looked down at the jar in my hand, the sunlight catching the glass just right, casting a shadow across my palm that didn't feel accidental. Whether I was ready or not, sight was my fate. It always had been. I'd spent years trying to soften it, ignore it, pray it away. But this was different. This wasn't a warning anymore. This was a calling. And callings don't wait on comfort.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself, feeling the weight of generations press against my ribs. My mama's longing. Her mistakes. Her secrets. Fidel's silence. His wife's wrath. The children born into power. The ones born into consequence. Sight had always followed me. I'd just stopped running. I nodded quietly, more to myself than her. Madame Laurent nodded once, satisfied.
—
Later that night the house felt still like it was stuck in time. No TV. No music. No fan humming loud. Just the faint creak of old wood settling, the soft tick of the clock in the hallway, and the sound of my own heartbeat steady, nervous, and loud in my ears like somebody knocking from the inside. Noles wasn't home. I wasn't expectin' him either. And truthfully I needed it like that.
I needed the quiet the way a drowning person needs air. I moved through the kitchen first, barefoot, slow, like my feetknew the way even if my mind was still catching up. I cut the lights off one by one until the only glow left in the house came from the stove clock and the moonlight slipping in through the blinds. Shadows stretched long across the floor, soft and heavy.
I grabbed what Madame Laurent told me. Cornmeal. Fatback. A small pan. A bottle of Crown Royal I didn't even like the smell of, but Rosalee did. A white plate. A tall glass. A clean cloth. My hands shook a little, enough for me. Because this wasn't just me doing "altar work" like it was a routine. This was me opening a door. I was always taught that once you open certain doors, you don't get to pretend you never touched the handle.
I fried the corn like she taught me. fatback grease popping, scent rising thick and salty, coating the air. It was the kind of smell that clung to the curtains and your hair, the kind you could taste. My stomach turned a little, not from hunger but from nerves. Even the oil sounded loud in the quiet house, like it was announcing what I was about to do. When it was done, I set the corn on the plate, neat. Then I poured the Crown Royal. A tall glass, just like she said. The amber liquid caught the moonlight and looked almost golden, almost holy, like something sweet even though I know it burned.
I carried everything down the hall toward my alter, and the deeper I walked, the heavier the air got. Like humidity before a storm. My altar sat in the corner where I kept it, covered in a clean cloth with my candles arranged like guard dogs around it. My beads lay curled near the front. Little jars of herbs. Crystals. The bowl of Florida water. The small, framed picture of my mama that I never looked at too long because it always madesomething ache in me. Tonight, I added Rosalee. Not a picture, because I didn't have one. But her name.
In our world, a name carried weight. A name was a key. I set the plate down first. Then the glass. I opened my drawer and pulled out the black veil. My fingers paused on it, just for a second. It was to remind me: this wasn't regular life. This was spirit business. I draped the veil over my head and face, letting it fall like night. Instantly my world narrowed. The house disappeared. My room disappeared. All that existed was the altar and the little circle of space around it. The veil made me feel small, But it also made me feel protected. Hidden from what I wasn't ready to see too clearly.
I sank down onto the floor in front of the altar, sitting on the heels of my feet, knees bent, spine straight like Madame Laurent trained me when I was a little girl. My hands rested on my thighs. I breathed in slowly. The first inhale felt like it scraped my lungs. The second inhale felt easier. The third inhale felt like somebody else breathed with me.
My eyes stung under the veil. Not from tears, just from the weight of what I was holding inside my chest. I reached forward and began lighting the candles one by one. The first flame flickered stubborn, like it didn't want to catch. I whispered, "Come on now," and it finally took, bright and steady. The second candle lit easy. The third candle lit like it had been waiting. The scent of wax warmed the air. Then the faint sweetness of whatever oil I'd rubbed on the wicks earlier. Smoke curled upward in thin threads, slow, almost lazy. The candlelight made the room feel alive. Shadows moved even when nothing moved.
I bowed my head. My palms came together at my chest. And I started the chant the way Madame Laurent taught me."Rosalee" I whispered first, tasting the name. "Aunty Rosalee,” My throat tightened. I kept going. "Rosalee... mwen vini pou ou."I come for you.My voice sounded small under the veil, but the more I spoke, the more it steadied.
"Rosalee, Ive been told you can make the dreams clear." I swallowed. "My spirit is tired." My lips trembled, and I pressed them together, forcing myself to continue. "Rosalee I'm asking' you for sight." The candle flames jumped. Just a little. Like they heard me. I stayed still, but my skin prickled. The air thickened. Not heavy like suffocating, but like presence. Like walking into a room where everybody stopped talking and looked at you.
I slid my hands forward and touched the floor in front of the altar, feeling the cool wood. I lowered my forehead toward my hands. "Give me the ability to discern," I whispered. "Give me the ability to manage what I see." My voice cracked on manage, Because I didn't know if I could. I didn't know if the truth would free me or bury me. I lifted my head slowly. The veil shifted, brushing my cheeks. My breath sounded loud again, and I realized I was breathing faster. I forced myself to slow down.
My eyes found the offering plate even though the veil blurred everything soft. The corn. The fatback grease. The Crown Royal. I spoke again, firmer. "I made it how Madame taught me. I did it right. I did it respectful." A pause. Then, quietly, like a confession, "I need help." The words hung in the air.
And the moment I admitted that, something in my chest loosened and something else tightened. Because now I wasn't just speaking. Now I was listening. The candles started acting funny. One flame stood tall, straight, too steady to be normal. Another flame danced sideways like it was leaning toward me.
Smoke from the candles curled thicker, wrapping around my veil and drifting across my face. It smelled sweet at first, then bitter, then sweet again, like the air couldn't decide what it was.
I felt my stomach turn. My hands gripped my thighs. And then my ears popped. Like pressure changed. Like something crossed into the room.
My mouth went dry. I tried to speak again but the first sound that came out was just a breath. "Rosalee?" I whispered. The candle closest to the offering glass flickered twice. My heart hammered. I forced myself not to jump up. Madame Laurent always said: Don't run when spirit arrive. You asked for it. Sit still. So I sat still. The room got hotter and colder at the same time. My skin felt damp, like sweat wanted to come but couldn't. Then my mind started sliding.
Sinking, Like stepping off a ledge you didn't know was there. The altar blurred. The candlelight stretched. And suddenly, I wasn't in my room anymore. I was somewhere dark. Deep water dark. The kind of dark where you can still feel eyes on you. I heard a baby cry.
My breath caught. That cry cut through everything. It was the same cry from my other dreams. And the sound alone made my stomach twist because my body recognized it before my mind did. I tried to move, but my limbs felt heavy. Like my spirit was traveling and my body stayed kneeling on my floor. I whispered, "No." because I didn't want to see it again. But the dark shifted.
And there she was. That same pretty slick haired baby. With her little lips pouting fists curling and uncurling like she was fighting sleep.
She lay in a crib. And the crib looked old, wooden, like something passed down.
I stepped closer except. The baby cried again, and my chest tightened so hard it hurt. Then the shadow man came. Just like in the dream. Tall figure. Broad shoulders. No face. Only shape. He stood over her And the rage that rose in me was instant.
I tried to scream at him, but my voice didn't exist there. Then I heard the phone call. My whole body went cold. The shadow's voice wasn't frantic. It wasn't emotional. It was steady. Like he had done this before. as he spoke into the phone, I could hear little pieces. Not full sentences. But enough. A location. A time. Names.
