Psychic Junkie

by Sarah Lassez

  But what could I do, even if I did see the ring? That would be a problem for later, I decided, the key right now was to prepare myself. Not only am I not a fan of surprises, but I detest surprises and don’t handle them well at all. I was a child who couldn’t be left unattended in the house near Christmas, because I would tear everything apart in a hunt for my presents—and not because I wanted them early, or was even excited about my gifts, but because I simply couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. The suspense hurt. And though my parents should’ve taken note of my quirks and ruled out surprise parties, they did make one unfortunate attempt at such a celebration for my ninth birthday. There I was, convinced that they’d forgotten, when suddenly I was confronted with a room full of people smiling and singing and holding a cake. I was so completely caught off guard that I burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably for hours. From that point on they practically drew up programs for all events.

  Thus I knew: I could not be caught off guard with this ring. Very easily Wilhelm would be able to discern that my tears were not tears of joy, and that would pretty much be that. I went back into the dining room and put my hands on his shoulders, massaging like a caring, plotting girlfriend would.

  “Almost done?” I asked sweetly. “I’ve got some e-mails to write.”

  “Sure.” He got up, and I took his spot, and waited until he was in the other room, till I heard him channel surf and land on his new favorite TV show, elimiDATE. “It’s a marathon,” he said with excitement. “An elimiDATE marathon!”

  I scooted in toward the table. “Mmm-hmm. Good. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  Though the browser was now on Yahoo!, I hit the back button, and Bingo! There was his e-mail account, and, of course, being trusting and technologically inept, he’d not logged out. My heart, as if it were just clueing in to what was going on, started pounding furiously. What was I doing? I was being bad, this I knew, yet I couldn’t help but also feel exhilarated. Briefly I pictured myself as an undercover agent who’d slipped into a den in the midst of a party to hack into the host’s computer, and immediately felt better. Ah, yes, secret agent stealth mode. Very good.

  With Wilhelm safely snickering in the other room, I swiftly scanned his e-mails, searching for anything with the word “diamond” or “ring” or “purchase” in the subject line. Though I came across nothing with those words, I did stumble upon an e-mail with the subject “liebling,” a word I recognized as German for “darling,” as it was one of Wilhelm’s pet names for me. Um, darling? My eyes darted to the sender’s name: Nadja. Who the hell was Nadja? I knew it wasn’t his mother or sister, but prayed it was an aunt or someone else able to use the word “darling” in a nonsexual way. As far as I knew, the only person he kept in contact with back home was his best friend, a guy named Rolf—not a guy named Nadja.

  I opened the e-mail. German. The entire thing was in German. But then my eyes focused on two words, two words that needed no translation: Julia Roberts. I took a deep breath. I was Julia Roberts. Not that I was actually Julia Roberts, of course, but Wilhelm liked to say I looked like her, so evidently this e-mail was about me. And if it was about me, I had every right to read it—or so I told myself as I copied the entire thing, closed his e-mail, went to a site that offered free instant translations, selected German to English, and hit paste and enter. There. Heart racing, I leaned in. What sat before me was a passage Shakespeare might have written when completely hammered.

  Darling. It has been too long now since for the last time we saw or wrote. How is your treasure? Is truth resembles Julia Roberts? Remember my favorite that the woman you marry and the woman you have a fling with are completely separate pair of shoes. American women are to the shackle quick to the altar. But when the torches are out and the festivities done they resign to the cupboard. Yours, Nadja.

  The first thing I did, after reading this highly suspicious note to my boyfriend from a girl whose name conjured images of a six-foot-tall Aryan goddess, was try to envision my last Visa statement, in particular the itty-bitty amount under “Available Credit,” an amount that would hopefully serve as a psychic buffer zone before I hit the sharp and unsympathetic “limit.” There would be calls about this, of that I was certain. Of course, I couldn’t just pick up the phone with Wilhelm in the other room. I had to wait. So I shot off a copy of the e-mail to Gina, figuring she’d been an English major and should hence be familiar with passages that made no sense. Then, just for fun, I read the malevolent little note over and over and over again.

  This wasn’t symbolism here; this was mistranslation. “The woman you marry and the woman you have a fling with are completely separate pair of shoes.” I got that, sort of, though I was curious what in German could mistakenly lead to “pair of shoes.” Perhaps it was just some wacky German saying? Next was the part about American women. The word “shackle” was one that Wilhelm had used, and without having to be told, I knew that this girl, this evil Aryan goddess, had been the one to plant such a word in his head, because she wanted him. This was a thinly veiled manipulation, a letter written by a cunning woman posing as a friend, a woman who wished to destroy a relationship so she could get the man. I recognized this tactic because this was a letter I myself could’ve written.

  I was trying to figure out what “cupboard” meant when I heard Wilhelm get up.

  “Are you getting hungry?” he asked.

  “Uh, no, not yet.” I quickly saved the translation in a Word document, minimized everything, and stopped breathing as he passed behind my chair and into the kitchen.

  Nadja could be a stalker. He might not like her at all. Maybe he hates her but she just won’t leave him alone. In fact, she could be dangerous. Maybe she’s jealous and hates me, and Wilhelm’s kept this all a secret so I won’t worry! Or, or, I told myself, the whole thing was perfectly innocent. Nadja could be some overprotective cousin, a well-intentioned relative who just happened to hate American woman and felt the need to offer evil advice. The point was, I couldn’t jump to conclusions. I had to be cool. I might have wished to run into the kitchen and rip what was left of Wilhelm’s hair out, but I couldn’t do that. No. I couldn’t ruin our upcoming engagement over something that could be completely insignificant.

  I tried to be calm, but my only thoughts were that Wilhelm was cooking, ignoring my shiny rings spread about the kitchen, and having an affair with an Aryan goddess. Bing! A reply from Gina hit my in-box:

  What the hell is this and why’d you send it to me? Are you a shoe? Who’s Nadja? What’s up with the cupboard? I have to go out with that guy who’s way too old for me and spent most of our last date yelling about his dad. Do you need me to ditch him and come over? Do we need to figure out what kind of shoe you are? Off the top of my head I’d say you’re a Charles David gold leather sling-back with dreams of greatness. Call me.

  I turned off the computer. I counted to ten. I got up and went into the kitchen.

  He was stuffing, oh so tenderly, some sort of cheese and spinach mixture into chicken breasts, so I leaned against the counter and watched him. Casual. Yep, there I was, just watching my boyfriend cook, nice and normal, as if my brain weren’t caught in a loop, singing the name Nadja, Nadja, Nadja over and over. Normally his staying the night was a good thing, but I knew I couldn’t make it till morning without answers. No. If I didn’t address this now, I’d have to wake in the middle of the night, grab my cell phone, and sneak out of the house under cover of darkness for a reading. Thus I’d run the risk of him waking to an empty bed, and quite possibly I’d have to explain my decision to run outside in my nightgown with a cell phone and crouch by the azaleas to make a call.

  Obviously, coming right out with “Who the hell is Nadja?” wasn’t going to work. I had to be sly. I couldn’t scare him off. Subtlety was key.

  “Looks good,” I said. “So. Is dating American girls very different from dating German girls?”

  He tilted his head as if appraising the chicken breasts. And actually, he probably was appr
aising the chicken breasts. “No, not really.”

  “When was the last time you went home?”

  “To Germany? Last summer.”

  That was a bit more than a year ago. Okay, we weren’t together then. “That must have been fun.” I smiled sweetly. “Did you hook up with any old girlfriends?”

  He turned, and the look on his face reminded me that my goal was subtlety.

  “No.”

  As he focused again on his chicken, I pretended to absent-mindedly pick at the feta he’d left on the counter, trying to look innocent. I had to employ the right tactic here. The buddy tactic, I thought. I must use the “I’m your buddy” tactic and lull him into a false sense of security.

  “Oh, come on,” I said teasingly. “I bet you had hoards of fräuleins throwing themselves at you. You, the big man all the way from Hollywood, living by the beach with an impressive job and everything.”

  Now he smiled in that “Aw, shucks” kind of way, and I knew I had him.

  “I guess so.”

  Good work, Sarah, keep it going. “I bet you left behind quite a few broken hearts that trip.”

  He shrugged, went to the fridge, and pulled out a bundle of asparagus. Briefly I wondered where the hell all this food came from. Had he gone grocery shopping? Had he brought this food over earlier? I supposed there was a chance he’d arrived at my house with bags and bags of food, yet I’d been so busy eyeing his pockets for the shape of a small ring box that I’d just not noticed. Whatever. I was getting hungry and was now captivated by him browning butter. Stop it! Concentrate, Sarah! You need to be alert here! “So,” I said offhandedly, “who’d you fool around with?”

  I swear his head spun around like in The Exorcist. Or maybe it didn’t, but he did look at me in a way that told me I had to act quickly. I smiled and jokingly hit him on the shoulder. “Come on, you can tell me. Give me all the gory details. Let’s hear it.”

  “I just kissed a couple girls, no big deal.”

  Time to go in for the kill. “What were their names? I bet they had funny German names.”

  He glanced at me, and I saw one thing: It was dawning on him that this could be a trap.

  “I can’t remember,” he said, and quickly looked to the asparagus. He then began precisely, too precisely, chopping off their ends. Usually he’d just snap them off. It occurred to me that ours was a strange relationship, that I could tell my boyfriend was uncomfortable by the way he was cooking.

  “You can’t remember?” I said this jokingly, yet with a touch of “genuine” shock. “That’s terrible! I’m surprised at you. I never thought you’d be the kind of guy who’d fool around with someone and then forget her name.” I paused for emphasis. “I always thought you were a gentleman.”

  I let that last word hover in the air, and watched his brow furrow.

  “Well, I guess I just hadn’t thought about it. But yes, I do remember.”

  Manipulation a success. I smiled, feeling a bit like a grinning lion watching a clueless bunny hop into its lair. “So? What were they?”

  “Let’s see. Hilde and Nadja. Those were their names.”

  Nadja. He’d said it. With her name finally spoken, I felt as if I’d made some great accomplishment, and then felt the need to sit down, put an icepack on my forehead, and not move or think for the next hour. Just a few more questions, I told myself, but then my brain reversed and hitched on Hilde. Who was Hilde? Who cares, Sarah, get to the point here.

  “Hilde and Nadja. Poor girls. I bet they were brokenhearted when you left. You didn’t lead them on did you? Act like there was a future?” This last part I said in a conspiratorial manner, as if we all led on German girls when we went back to the motherland. Just to be safe, I also lent it a slight “You da man” feel.

  “No,” he said, his mouth toying with a smile. “It was no big deal. I just kissed them.”

  Hoping he’d answer without actually digesting the question, I spoke at the speed of light. “Soyou’renotincontactwiththemanymore?”

  He shook his head. “Nah.”

  And that was that. I could do no more. I abandoned him in the kitchen and went to brood on the couch. Why was he lying about being in touch with Nadja? Then again, if he’d only kissed the Aryan Goddess, what was I worried about? They were basically nothing more than friends. Most likely he just didn’t want to upset me, and had spun a little white lie to save explaining something completely insignificant. Or, I thought, maybe she is stalking him and the whole subject is just too painful for him to talk about. The possibilities were endless, but I comforted myself with the fact that Nadja had now been officially identified and discussed. As long as he’d openly said her name, and not kept her as a deep dark suspicious secret, what did the odd e-mail from an ex-fling really matter? Feeling better, I grabbed my Martha Stewart Living from the coffee table and tore out a recipe for lemon pound cake.

  Though I repeated the mantra “All is fine, all is fine” over and over, my mind still obsessed for psychic verification that Nadja was nothing to worry about and that, indeed, all was fine. Yet still I had to wait. The whole night I waited, and the next morning I continued to wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, when he offered to make me brunch, I told him that sounded lovely but that I had a lot to do that day.

  “You,” he said slowly, curiously, “have things to do?”

  Oh, good grief. I’m not that bad. Still, I had to be realistic. “Yes, believe it or not. I made an appointment for a milk bath at Burke Williams at two o’clock, but I want to get there early to hit the sauna. You know how it is at a spa. I need time to eat the fruit.”

  He nodded, apparently assured I was telling the truth. Downstairs I gave him a nice kiss good-bye, paused about ten seconds after shutting the door, then catapulted myself back up the stairs. Attempting to be the spendthrift I knew I should be, I immediately called a cheap psychic, was told there was nothing to worry about, but then had to call Erlin just to make sure.

  “She’s a friend, Sarah. You don’t need to worry. The attraction he felt for her long ago was fleeting, completely transitory. He sees her as only a friend, and doesn’t want to take it any further. Trust me on this.”

  I finally agreed to stop thinking about it, as really, I did trust Erlin.

  Upon hanging up I was consumed with a new idea: a Burke Williams milk bath. I vaguely remembered my manager giving me a Burke Williams gift certificate years ago and opting to save it for a special occasion. Since no special occasion ever came, and I never organize my drawers, that fabulous piece of card stock was most likely still buried beneath my socks. In fact, if I made an appointment, I wouldn’t have lied to Wilhelm at all. I’d be right on schedule and not at all deceptive! Brilliant thinking, Sarah. You are such a good girlfriend; now go treat yourself to a day at the spa.

  August just kept on going. It was unrelenting in the way the days continued, despite the bareness of my ring finger. By mid-August I was fighting to remain patient, but desperately wanted to get the show on the road. If we were to get married next summer, we needed to start planning! We needed to secure a venue! Each day that passed was another caterer hired by someone that wasn’t me.

  And then there was this: a tenseness that had taken over Wilhelm’s demeanor. He seemed distracted, a bit more distant, and rather stressed. I attributed this to his drama at work, as that’s what my tarot cards and a few psychics suggested, and the theory was pretty much confirmed when his employees attempted to share their distaste for his German efficiency by keying their sentiments—albeit with a vastly different word choice—across his car’s driver’s side door.

  It all made sense, him being so distracted, but I worried that such troubles would render his mood anything but romantic. There were also the simple logistics of the matter. How could he propose when the body shop had his car? He was far too great a gentleman to make me drive on our big night, of that I was sure. But what else could he do? Keep the taxi idling just around the bend as we enjoyed a picnic? Ride a bike to my ho
use, have me hop on the handlebars, then pedal off to a fancy restaurant?

  And then he was struck with depression. Seeing his mood shadow with despair actually slightly pleased me, because depression was my territory and I figured I’d finally be of help. Seriously, I may not have had stellar advice when it came to employees or bosses, but if we were talking about not having reason to get out of bed in the morning, I was your girl.

  One night we were at his house, doing absolutely nothing, when I decided to address whatever was bothering him. Well, I guess if you consider my sitting on the couch fretting over him, and his sitting in his hard plastic straight-backed chair, staring blankly at an episode of The Bachelor, “doing nothing,” then we were doing nothing. To Wilhelm, however, what we were doing was an actual activity: We were “enjoying an evening at home.” Of course, as may be evident already, Wilhelm and I possessed vastly different definitions of “enjoyment,” a fact that could be illustrated by the chair he was sitting in, a chair that was clearly not meant to be sat in. Calling his hard plastic straight-backed chair “uncomfortable” would be like calling Saddam Hussein “a tad ornery,” and as far as I could tell, the chair had been built with no function in mind other than to hold one’s purse or show off a stack of books on some obscure architect. It was, basically, a decoration, not a chair. However, this was Wilhelm, a man who window-shopped at Ross, and for reasons I’ll never understand he insisted this was how he relaxed: stiff, upright, and unmoving in the hard plastic chair. For hours he’d sit there, which made me theorize that the chair was similar to a bed of nails in that once you got situated, no good could come from squirming.