The Crossover by E. Clay Page B

I’ve only seen her once. She only leaves the house to get groceries. Her car didn’t move all weekend.”
    “Hmm, does she have a family, any kids?” I inquired.
    “I think she’s a spinster. Carl asked around and I think she’s a writer. I think you’ll get along with her.”
    “Okay, why is that? Because she is a writer?”
    “No, because she speaks your language, she’s a Yank.”
    I’d lived in England for just over a decade and it always tickled me when Brits referred to every American as a Yank no matter what part of the States they come from. Whenever my Brit friends would try to imitate an American, invariably they defaulted to a thick southern accent.

    I found myself checking my watch every now and then wondering what Monet was doing at that moment. The five-hour time difference was inconvenient but workable. I usually had to wait until midnight to Skype her.
    Ring, Ring, Ring.
    “Clay, I can see you but you are frozen. Can you see me?”
    “Yeah, but there’s just one problem?”
    “What? Am I pixelated?” Monet asked.
    “No, just overdressed. Too much clothing.”
    “Well, you will just have to use your imagination then. I hope you have a good memory,” Monet responded.
    “Monet, I have to come clean. There’s another female in the picture and she lives with me.”
    Monet didn’t say a word but her eyebrows were slightly raised. She crossed her arms.
    I left the camera’s view and returned with the lady of the house on my lap.
    “Monet, meet Missy,” I said, just before Missy sprung from my lap onto the floor.
    “Clay, don’t make me come across the pond. Because you know I will,” Monet said, relieved.
    My picture finally unfroze and Monet was glad to see my face again. We got disconnected a few times but it was worth the hassle to see her face and hear her voice. This would become the new norm.
    Skyping with Monet really helped me take my mind off work.

    While lying in bed I found myself thinking a lot about my strange encounter with Winnie at the Hypno Expo. Her conversation looped in my head and I tried to make meaning of it.
    “You have the gift, yet you don’t believe.”
    I needed to know what she meant by that. Then I remembered Monet’s comment about psychics. Maybe Winnie was the real deal. The rest of the night I kept asking myself, What gift? I also thought of the message from my dad, Hold up the light . I believed it was a message from my dad. I now had a better understanding of those people I once ridiculed as gullible.
    1 British term meaning to wash the dishes after a meal

ELEVEN
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Bumper to Bumper
    I was pleased that I had a writer for a neighbor, especially an American. As a writer, I took that as a good omen. Maybe she could help me land a mainstream publisher. The only problem was I never saw her. She appeared to be a recluse. It would take three weeks for us to be formally introduced but it would be a less than desirable introduction.
    One morning on my way to work I saw a note on my windshield.
    Your car is hogging up the driveway, I can’t get past. That’s what garages are for!
    I took the note off the windshield and looked over to her house. She was watching me from her living room window. She closed the curtains.
    I normally would have knocked on her door and apologized but I really wasn’t in the mood for confrontation so early in the day. I balled up the note, put it in my pocket and drove to work with an attitude. Anyone who’s ever lived in Britain knows that garages aren’t for parking your car, they’re too small. To avoid any more nasty notices I decided to park my Range Rover on the street, against my better judgment.
Two Weeks Later
    While feeding Missy before work, I heard a loud crash in front of my house. Cat food spilled all over the kitchen floor as I rushed outside to see what happened. It was ugly. My neighbor from hell hit my car from behind as she accelerated out of our drive. The force of the impact pushed my SUV halfway on the