“Who are you?” I whispered. I knew I’d never seen this woman before in my life.
“That’s a good question,” said a voice from behind me. I whirled toface the source and saw a woman standing in the shadows. “Better question, however—who areyou?”
“I know who I am,” I said. “Rainy March. Who are you?”
“You already know. But I don’t think you want to know.”
“That sounds ominous. Are you trying to be ominous? If so, congratulations. If not, please find a new way of being because you are freaking me out.”
I couldn’t see the woman, but I heard her laugh. From nowhere, a light flickered on. A gas streetlamp, like something out of a Sherlock story. And a pretty brunette in a trench coat leaning against the post.
“Recognize me?” she asked.
“No. Although…you do seem kind of familiar?”
“This is how I used to look back in the day. I didn’t routinely lean against gas lamps in the dark, but I wanted to. Maybe you’ll recognize me…this way.”
She stepped out of the circle of lamplight, and when she came closer I saw soft white hair, a face gently wrinkled. If you cut her open, doilies and Werther’s Originals candies would fall out…
“Medda?” I asked. “Medda Baker? How did you get here?”
“Not Medda Baker,” she said. “But close. Maxine Blake. We have met before, in a way.”
“Okay, enough dancing around answers,” I said. “Tell me who you are and what’s going on?”
“Soon, very soon. Call it…suspense,” the old woman—Maxine, apparently—said, stepping closer. “I like suspense. Keeps readers on the edge of their seats.”
“Can I not get a straight answer, please?” I begged.
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight answer,” Maxine said. “But the distance between the self and self-discovery is a very long story.”
“I’m starting to dislike you. A lot.”
Maxine Blake, whoever she was, only smiled. “Here, this will help. You think of a number between one and infinity, and I’ll tell you what you’re thinking.”
“Fine,” I said and immediately thought of an impossible-to-guess number—19,325.
“Nineteen thousand, three hundred twenty-five,” she said.
I stared at her. She raised her hands as if to say,Told you so.
“How did you…never mind,” I said. “Let’s do it again.”
I thought of the number eight.
She said, “Eight.”
I thought of the number eight again.
She said, “Eight. Again.”
I thought of the number one hundred billion…and two.
“One hundred billion…and two,” she said. “Also, your favorite color is fog gray, not only because you like the fog, but because it’s the same color as Koshka’s fur.”
It was. She was right. But how? I thought of Koshka at home, his fog-colored fur and how soft it was. But then, I thought of his eyes, his glimmering fern green eyes, which were an even more beautiful color.
“Wrong,” she said. “Now your favorite color is fern green for his eyes. You tell people your favorite movie isThe Red Shoes,but that’s only your second favorite movie. Your first favorite movie is—let’s see…”
