Page 42 of And Still Her Voice
I couldn’t hold it in anymore, and why should I? What did I have to lose by telling Mother Mary? I didn’t want to run anymore. I shook my head.
“River says you need to talk to me.”
After I’d confided in River, it felt like a haunted house had been lifted off of me. I imagined how much better I’d feel if I did talk to Mother Mary.
“I um—my um.”
“No, Anna!”
“Well, I’m just going to say it. I share a consciousness with my grandmother.”
Mary stared at me, leaning her head as if she wasn’t hearing straight.
“You know those times when you’ve caught me talking to myself, well—I’m actually talking to her.”
“Her, your grandmother?” Mary smiled as if I were a two-year-old talking about my imaginary rabbit friend, Harvey. “And is she talking back?”
I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest, thrusting a hip. This was a bad idea.
“How exactly is that happening?” Mary asked.
For the second time in two days, I’d have to explain the whole Grandma Phoebe phenomenon. River had been quiteunderstanding and I hoped Mary would be, too. As I spoke, Mary simply nodded.
“It’s sort of like when Jesus died and then on the third day, he rose again. She didn’t exactly die, she just waited until the day I was born and transferred over to me. It’s a thing called Phowa.”
Mary’s brow crinkled. Whether she believed me or not, by just sharing this with her, a weight had been lifted. But it also felt as if Grandma were a pressure cooker about to explode. I’d been taking my time getting to the point when Grandma spoke up in an octave lower than mine. “Darling Mother Mary, you’re quite an intelligent young woman with all of your Eastern religious teachings. Are you sure you’ve never heard of it?”
Mary drew her head back slightly, searching my face. “An offshoot? No, but I don’t know everything. I can certainly ask.”
“Anna, this is exactly why I told you not to tell.”
Mary peered even closer at me. “Why do you sound so hoarse?”
“So, Mother Mary,” Grandma said.
“Puh, please, just call me Mary,” she said with a wary smile.
“Very well and you can call me Phoebe. Mary, whom might you query and what might you say precipitated the inquiry?”
“I can talk to my swami,” Mary said without skipping a beat.
“One of your modern-day teachers,” Grandma Phoebe said, dismissively. “How much can he possibly know?”
“Well, he’s studied the masters.”
“Ah, yes, I myself studied the divine wisdom of the masters back in 1908. Divine wisdom being the common tree trunk from which religions sprout as branches.”
“Wait, you said 1908.” Mary finally seemed to pick up on the lapse in time, the change in diction, and the lower C-sharp in my voice.
“Indeed, I traveled to India after the death of my dear father. I was searching for answers and a connection. It is there that I learned about the transference of consciousness.”
I wished you’d go back and unlearn it, already, I thought, and as soon as I did, I knew I needed to find a way to get to India. Maybe I can meet Mary’s swami. Or go to India and find Grandma’s, if he’s still alive.
“I was there until April, 1910 during the grooming of the New World Teacher, Jiddu Krishnamurti. I taught him music. He wasn’t very good at piano, all thumbs, poor dear.”
“Wait, you were there the same time as Annie Besant?” Mary said, eyes widening as if the British social reformer Besant herself had stepped into the room. Mary had once again swallowed the line, bait, hook, and sinker.
“You’ve heard of her?”
