Page 105 of Don't Let Me Go
“All your life, you’ve known that you are destined for greatness. But greatness isn’t given. It’s taken. If these two men have what you need—stability from one, passion from the other—don’t be afraid to take it. If they find the arrangement unorthodox, get rid of them. They are unworthy of your greatness. But if they can stand by your side and give you what you need so that you can achieve all that you are capable of, you will have found men worthy of your love as well as partners worthy of a queen.”
To my surprise, Dionne nods in agreement, and the entire audience bursts into applause. The two women stand, and Jocasta embraces an overcome Dionne before sending her back to her seat.
“What the hell was that?” Jackson whispers.
“I think Jocasta just told that woman it was okay for her to be in a throuple because she used to be Cleopatra.”
Jackson shakes his head in disbelief, and I find myself more confused than ever.
I know a lot of weird stuff has happened in the past couple of weeks—enough to make me question the very nature of reality and my own sanity. I’ve conceded that past lives and reincarnation might be real and that Jackson and I might have known each other in Pompeii, Brattahlid, and London. But asking me to believe that Cleopatra—theCleopatra—is here in Orlando getting a psychic reading because she’shaving trouble with her love life? That’s too much to swallow. Not least because Jocasta’s got her history wrong.
Cleopatra never had to choose between Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. Cleopatra was with Caesar first and got with Mark Antony only after Caesar died. She was never part of some ancient Roman power throuple. Anyone who’s seen the Elizabeth Taylor movie or read Cleopatra’s Wikipedia page would know that.
So why doesn’t Jocasta?
Despite my misgivings, Jackson and I watch for the next hour as Jocasta continues to summon audience members up to the stage. One by one, she explores their past lives before offering them advice about their current dilemmas. She tells a short, balding man that he used to be Napoleon and that he should demand a promotion at work. She tells a silver-haired older gentleman wearing a rainbow Pride pin that he used to be Oscar Wilde and that he shouldn’t give up on the play he’s been writing for the past ten years.
Even the people who don’t discover that they were once big names like Frederick Douglass or Joan of Arc still seem to have led extraordinary past lives. Each and every one was a brave soldier or a gifted artist or a brilliant scholar. No one leaves the stage without being told that they were exceptional in a former life and (more important) that they can become exceptional in this lifeifthey follow Jocasta’s advice—advice that is in her new book, which is conveniently on sale in the hotel lobby.
“She’s a fraud,” Jackson scoffs, shaking his head in disgust.
I nod. Though, annoyingly, no one else in the auditorium seems to share our outrage or our disillusionment. When Jocasta brings her show to a close, the entire audience leaps to its feet, showering her with deafening applause.
Part of me wants to run out on the stage and yell at the crowd forbeing so gullible. It doesn’t seem possible that so many people could be this delusional.
Then again, who am I to judge? I just blackmailed my best friend’s brother because I was as desperate as everyone in this room to meet the woman who I thought could magically solve all my problems.
“What do we do now?” Jackson asks.
“I don’t know.”
Jocasta’s definitely a liar, a fraud, and an opportunist. She’s also undeniably the same woman from our dreams. That can’t be a coincidence.
I suppose it’s possible that she’s both a fraudanda reincarnated witch. That would explain why she hasn’t aged in a thousand years and why she’s still doing the same hocus-pocus shtick that she did when she was calling herself Ulfhild. Who knows. If Jackson and I keep reincarnating because we’re soulmates who are meant to find each other, maybe Jocasta keeps reincarnating so she can scam people out of their money. It seems like an insane waste of such an amazing opportunity, but maybe that’s how it works. Maybe whatever happens in your first life you’re forced to repeat over and over in all your future lives.
“We should talk to her,” I say as Jocasta starts to make her way backstage. “She might be a con artist, but right now she’s our only lead.”
Jackson nods. “So how do you want to do this? Do I just go up to her and say, ‘Hey, remember us? We used to be Vikings and you told everyone I had the plague.’?”
Before I can answer, I see Jocasta marching in our direction. She’s deep in conversation with a young woman holding an iPad who I assume is her assistant. Instinctively, I pull Jackson farther into the shadows and out of Jocasta’s line of sight.
“What time’s my flight?” Jocasta asks the young woman.
“Not until seven thirty.”
“Good. I’m going to head up to my room and take a nap. Make sure I’m not disturbed.”
“Of course, Miss Devereaux. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave for the airport.”
Jocasta strides toward the exit but then stops and turns back to her assistant. “What room am I in again?”
“Room ten thirteen.”
Jocasta nods and slips out the door, and the assistant hurries off to harangue some stagehands who are clumsily attempting to carry Jocasta’s ornate chair offstage.
“So,” Jackson says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Room ten thirteen?”
Five minutes later, Jackson and I are standing outside Jocasta’s door. And for the first time, I wonder if we’re about to make a huge mistake.
