I focused on the white words at the bottom of the screen, not unlike the ones on the teleprompter. I wondered how closed captioning worked. Did the teleprompter people send the language to the network? Does something automatic happen?
[The emergence of Soulmails
has impacted every
single
human being
on earth... Their existence...
confirms something big
for a group of people known as spiritualists.
On social media, a rising number
of them... have been
extolling the concept of asoul family]
“What on earth is a soul family?” Natalie asked.
“Well, according to this guy, it’s not on earth,” I said. “It’s like a family tree, but for souls.”
Mom made a polite throat-clear. We lapsed back into silence.
Camera B zeroed in. Ethan, the spiritual regressionist, seemed shorter on-screen. “Thank you, Olivia, and yes. When we die, our soul is freed to journey back to its home.”
My smiled flashed. “A home, like what various religions would call the afterlife?”
“Or, thebefore-life,” Jada answered in that breathy way of hers. “It’s the spirit world. Where we all come from and return to.”
I remembered the poppy seed stuck in my molar. I’d been riding the high that came from preparing to leave for this trip. “And what is this place like?” that me prompted.
Camera B framed Ethan and Jada together. They exchanged a glance that was so loaded, so full of something—trust? Joy?—that I was suddenly sucked in, too. I didn’t remember this glance being so fraught with purpose.
“It’s warmth. It’s love. It’s dazzling,” Jada said.
Ethan grinned. “We’ve each got a soul group—soul family, right? Of, depending on who you talk to, about five, ten, twenty people. And in your life, they might be your mother, your neighbor, your mailman. Let me ask you something: Have you ever had the experience where you seemingly just have a solid bond with someone, without really being able to explain how you developed it?”
“Of course,” I’d answered. (Now, it felt like everyone in the room turned to me, as if they wondered if it was them. I studiously glued my eyes to the screen.)
“So you know, then,” Jada said. “They can also be your childhood next-door neighbor. Or that one friend you meet when you’re thirty-five who you just click with, like you’ve always been friends with them. They might start out as your grandmother, and then in the next life, they might be your child. Roles change; purpose doesn’t.”
“If you’re just tuning in now, we’re with spiritual regressionists Ethan Kincaid and Jada Sawyer, whose lives have gotten very busy since Soulmail began.” I turned to them. “It’s a fascinating field, one I’m sure viewers are interested in learning more about. Tell me how Soulmail altered these beliefs for you.” The television version of me recrossed her legs.
“Oh, it’s only confirmed them. In the context of Soulmail, it makes so much sense,” Ethan explained. “Soulmail operates on the concept of a soul pair. One to one.” Wells’s hand pulsed over my leg. “But we form additional bonds with other souls in our direct path. If you’re someone on earth whose soulmate has passed back to that realm, then you still have those tangible bonds with your soul-family-on-earth. So while Soulmail highlights yourstrongestbond, it might not be your best one.”
I stiffened. As soon as I’d spotted Wells sitting in my office, I forgot, forgot, forgot this part of the interview. Sitting there, my mind had flashed to Natalie and Caleb, to my parents. To my sister, even. Ethan and Jada’s theories didn’t jive with me, which was fine. It was my job to present them, not to subscribe to them. But I couldn’t help but wonder: What if they were right? What if soul families were real, and Natalie was part of mine? Or Caleb?
The program went to commercial, and the room stirred. I stretched my arms above my head, seeking the relief of myelbow joints popping. I turned to ask Mom what she thought, and my mouth parted.
Grief aged most people. Mom had somehow withstood that test of time. Her hair had grayed early, the same way strands were shooting in for me now, but where most peoples’ features lengthen and droop with time, my mother’s almost withdrew, lifted instead. She was a classic beauty. A grocery store cashier had once compared her to Michelle Pfeiffer, and the comparison fit.
But still, I was unprepared for this fragile vision of my mother. Mom’s profile, to be more specific, a single tear tracking down her pert nose, the skin beneath her eyes glossy, wet. For a second, I’d mistaken the crying as a sign of pride, as her only living daughter’s career had such an obvious display of success. But the raw glint in her eyes told me it was something else. Something more, something I couldn’t tap dance around or make jokes to fix.
She looked at me. “Do you believe it?” she asked, her voice high. “The soul family? That we’re all together?” Mom sniffed. Guilt blushed her face, and she worked to clear it, but it was too late.
