by Jodi Picoult
My mother and I resettled in Connecticut, where she got a job as a maid at a hotel and I dressed in black and dabbled in Wicca and survived high school. It was not until college that I started to really celebrate my Gift. I taught myself to read tarot and did readings for my sorority sisters. I subscribed to Fate magazine. Instead of my schoolbooks, I read about Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce. I wore Guatemalan scarves and gauzy skirts and burned incense in my dorm room. I met another student, Shanae, who was interested in the occult. Unlike me, she couldn’t communicate with those who had passed, but she was an empath and would get sympathy stomachaches every time her roommate had her period. Together, we attempted scrying. We would set candles in front of us, sit down before a mirror, and gaze into it long enough to see our past lives. Shanae came from a long line of psychics, and it was she who told me that I should ask my spirit guides to introduce themselves; that her aunties and her grandma, who were both mediums, had spirit guides on the other side. And so I formally met Lucinda, the elderly black woman who used to sing me to sleep; and Desmond, a sassy gay man. They were with me all the time, pets sleeping at my feet that would wake up, attentive, when I called their names. From then on, I spoke to my spirit guides constantly, relying on them to help me navigate the next world, either by leading me or by leading others to me.
Desmond and Lucinda were the best of babysitters, letting me—a virtual toddler—explore the paranormal plane without getting hurt. They made sure I didn’t encounter demons—spirits that had never been human. They steered me away from asking questions with answers I was not yet meant to know. They taught me to control my Gift, instead of letting it control me, by setting boundaries. Imagine what it would be like if the telephone woke you up every five minutes, all night long. That’s what happens with spirits, if you don’t set up parameters. They also explained that it was one thing to want to share my predictions as they came, but another to read someone unbidden. I’ve had it done to me by other psychics, and let me tell you, it’s like having someone go through your underwear drawer when you’re not home, or being in an elevator, unable to get away when someone invades your personal space.
I did readings for five dollars during the summer up at Old Orchard Beach in Maine. Then, after I graduated, I found clients through word of mouth, while supporting myself at various odd jobs. I was twenty-eight, working as a waitress at a local diner, when the Maine gubernatorial candidate came in for a photo op with his family. While the cameras were flashing on him and his wife with plates full of our signature blueberry pancakes, his little girl hopped up on one of the counter stools. “Boring, huh?” I said, and she nodded. She couldn’t have been more than seven. “How about some hot chocolate?” As her hand brushed mine to take the mug, I felt the strongest jolt of black I’d ever felt; that’s the only way I can describe it.
Now, this little girl didn’t give permission to be read, and my spirit guides were broadcasting that loud and clear, telling me I had no right to intervene. But across the diner, her mother was smiling and waving for the cameras, and she didn’t know what I did. When the candidate’s wife ducked into the ladies’ room, I followed. She held out her hand to shake, thinking I was another voter to charm. “This is going to sound crazy,” I said, “but you need to get your daughter tested for leukemia.”
The woman’s smile froze. “Did Annie tell you about her growing pains? I’m sorry she bothered you, and I appreciate your concern, but her pediatrician said it’s nothing to worry about.” Then she walked away.
I told you so, Desmond sneered silently as, moments later, the candidate left with his entourage and his family. For a long moment, I stared down at the half-empty mug the little girl had left behind, before I dumped its contents into a bus tray. That’s the hard part, honey, Lucinda told me. Knowing what you know, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
A week later, the candidate’s wife came back to the diner—alone, dressed in jeans instead of a pricey red wool suit. She made a beeline for me, where I was wiping down a table in a booth. “They found cancer,” she whispered. “It wasn’t even in Annie’s blood yet. I made them do a bone marrow test. But because it’s so early”—here she started to sob—“she has a good chance of surviving.” She grabbed my arm. “How did you know?”
That might have been the end of it—a good psychic deed, a way for me to tell the ever-snarky Desmond I told you so—but the candidate’s wife happened to be the sister of the producer of the Cleo! show. America loved Cleo, a talk-show host who had grown up in the projects of Washington Heights and was now one of the most recognizable women on the planet. When Cleo read a book, so did every woman in America. When she said she was giving away fuzzy bamboo bathrobes for Christmas gifts, the company’s website crashed. When she asked a candidate for an interview, he won his election. And when she invited me onto the show to do a reading for her, my life changed overnight.
I told Cleo things that any idiot could have guessed: that she would become more successful, that Forbes would list her as the richest woman in the world that year, that her new production company would launch an Oscar winner. But then something crept into my head, and because she had given me permission, I blurted it out—even though I should have thought twice. “Your daughter is looking for you.”
Cleo’s best friend, who was part of the show that day, said, “Cleo doesn’t have a daughter.”
This was true; she was a single woman who’d never been linked to anyone in Hollywood. But tears welled in Cleo’s eyes. “Actually, I do,” she confessed.
It was one of the biggest news stories of the year: Cleo admitted to being date-raped as a sixteen-year-old, and sent to a convent in Puerto Rico, where the baby was born and put up for adoption. She launched a public search for the girl, who was now thirty-one, and they had a tearful television reunion. Cleo’s ratings skyrocketed; she won an Emmy. And as a reward, her production company transformed me from diner waitress to celebrity psychic, and gave me my own syndicated show.
I had a special connection when it came to kids. Police departments invited me to go into the woods where the bodies of children had been found, to see if I could read anything about the murderer. I went into homes where children had been abducted, and tried to sense a trail for law enforcement to follow. I’d walk through crime scenes with blood spatter staining the protective booties I had to wear, and try to visualize what had happened. I’d ask Desmond and Lucinda if a missing child had crossed over yet. Unlike faux psychics who’d call in hotline tips as a way of garnering fame for themselves, I always waited for the cops to come to me. Sometimes the cases I pursued on my show were recent ones; sometimes they were cold. I had a remarkable accuracy rate, but then again, I could have told you when I was seven that I wasn’t faking. At the same time, I started sleeping with a .38 under my pillow, and I invested in a complicated alarm system for my house. I hired a bodyguard named Felix, who was a cross between a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a pit bull. Using my Gift to help those who had lost loved ones put a target on my back; perps who knew I could point a finger at them could find me easily.
Mind you, I had my critics. The skeptics called me a fraud who bilked people out of money. Well, there are psychics who bilk people out of money. I call them the swamp witches, the faux psychics along the side of the road. Just like there are good lawyers and ambulance chasers, good doctors and quacks, there are good psychics and charlatans. The other, odder complaint came from those who berated me for taking a God-given talent and charging money for it. To them, I apologize for not wanting to break a couple of my favorite habits—namely, eating and living indoors. No one ever bitches to Serena Williams or Adele for capitalizing on their talent, do they? Mostly, I ignored what people said about me in the press. Engaging with haters is like rearranging pictures on the Titanic. What’s the point?
So yes, I had detractors, but I also had fans. Thanks to them, I got to appreciate the finer things in life: Frette linens, a bungalow in Malibu, Moët & Chandon, Jennifer Anist
on’s cell number on speed dial. All of a sudden I wasn’t just doing readings; I was scrutinizing Nielsen ratings. I stopped listening to Desmond when he told me I was being a media whore. The way I saw it, I was still helping people. Didn’t I deserve a little something in return?
When Senator McCoy’s boy was kidnapped during fall sweeps, I knew I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to become the greatest psychic of all time. After all, what better endorsement for my Gift than a politician who was probably going to be president? I had visions of him creating a Department of Paranormal Affairs, with me at the head; of the cute little town house I’d buy in Georgetown. I just had to convince him—a man who lived every moment in the public eye—that he could gain something from me, too, other than the ridicule of his constituents.
He had already used every connection at his disposal to mount a nationwide search for his son, but nothing had turned up. I knew that the odds of the senator coming onto my TV show and letting me do a live reading were slim at best. So I used the weapons in my own arsenal: I contacted the wife of the Maine governor, whose daughter was now in remission. Whatever she said to Senator McCoy’s wife worked, because his people called my people; and the rest, as they say, is history.
When I was little, and I couldn’t trust myself to tell the difference between a spirit and a living being, I just assumed that anyone and everyone had something to say to me. When I was famous, I knew very well how to tell the difference between the two worlds, but I was too distracted to listen.
I should not have gotten so cocky. I should not have assumed that my spirit guides would come whenever I called. That day on the show, when I told the McCoys that I had a vision of their little boy alive and well, I lied.
I didn’t have a vision of their boy. The only thing I was seeing was another Emmy.
I was used to Lucinda and Desmond covering my ass, and so when the McCoys sat across from me as the cameras rolled, I waited for them to tell me something about the kidnapping. Lucinda was the one who pushed Ocala into my head. Desmond, though, told her to keep her mouth shut, and after that, they said nothing. So I improvised, and told the McCoys what they—and America—wanted to hear.
And we all know how that turned out.
In the aftermath, I secluded myself. I did not turn on the TV or radio, where my critics were having a field day. I did not want to talk to my producers or to Cleo. I was humiliated, and worse, I had hurt a couple that was already devastated. I had given them the possibility of hope, and ripped it away.
I blamed Desmond. And when he finally showed his sorry spirit ass to me again, I told him to take Lucinda and go away, because I never wanted to speak to them again.
Be careful what you wish for.
Eventually, some other scandal took the place of the one I had created, and I went back to my TV show. But my spirit guides had done exactly what I’d asked, and I found myself on my own. I made psychic predictions, but they were overwhelmingly wrong. I lost confidence, and eventually I lost everything.
Aside from being a diner waitress, though, I was completely unqualified to do anything but be a psychic. And so I found myself in the position of those I’d once sneered at. I became a swamp witch, setting up tables at country fairs and posting flyers on local bulletin boards, hoping to attract the occasional desperate client.
It’s been over a decade since I had a true, electrifying psychic thought, but I’ve still been able to scrape by, thanks to people like Mrs. Langham, who comes every week to try to connect with her dead husband, Bert. The reason she keeps returning is that, it turns out, I have a skill for faking readings just as much as I once had a skill for legitimately performing them. It’s called cold reading, and it’s all about body language, visual cues, and some good old-fashioned fishing. The basic premise is this: People who want a psychic reading are highly motivated to have it be successful, particularly if they’re trying to connect with someone who’s passed. They crave information as much as I want to be able to provide it. This is why a good cold reading says way more about the client than about the swamp witch performing it. I can throw out a whole stream of non sequiturs: Aunt, the Spring, water-related, an S sound, Sarah or maybe Sally, and there’s something about education? Books? Writing? Chances are my client will react to at least one item in that list, trying desperately to make it significant to herself. The only supernatural power at work here is the ability of the average person to find meaning in random details. We are a race that sees the Virgin Mary in the cut stump of a tree, that can find God in the twist of a rainbow, that hears Paulisdead when a Beatles song is played backward. The same intricate human mind that makes sense of the nonsensical is the human mind that can believe a fake psychic.
So how do I play the game? Good swamp witches are good detectives. I pay attention to how the things I say affect the client—a dilation of pupils, an intake of breath. I plant clues with the words I choose. For example, I might say to Mrs. Langham, “Today I’m going to present a memory you’re thinking of …,” and then I start talking about a holiday, and lo and behold, that turns out to be exactly what she’s thinking about. The word present is already lurking in the back of her mind, so whether or not she realizes it, I’ve just cued her to think about a time she received a gift, which means she’s remembering a birthday, or maybe Christmas. Just like that, it looks like I’ve read her mind.
I take note of flickers of disappointment when I say something that doesn’t make sense to her, so I know to back off and head in another direction. I look at how she is dressed and how she speaks, and I make assumptions about her upbringing. I ask questions, and half the time, the client gives me the answer I’m looking for:
I’m getting a B … Did your grandfather’s name begin with that letter?
No … Could it be a P? My grandfather’s name was Paul.
And bingo.
If I don’t get enough information from the client, I have two options. Either I can Go Positive—create a message from someone dead that anyone in their right mind would want to hear, such as Your grandfather wants you to know that he’s at peace, and he wants you to be at peace, too. Or I can “Barnum” the client, with a comment that would apply to 99 percent of the population but that she is bound to interpret personally: Your grandfather knows you like to make decisions carefully, but feels that occasionally you rush to judgment. Then I sit back and let the client feed me more rope I can run with. You’d be surprised how people feel the need to fill in all the gaps in the conversation.
Does this make me a con man? I guess that’s one way to look at it. I prefer to think of myself as Darwinian: I’m adapting, so that I can survive.
Today, however, has been an absolute disaster. I lost a good client, my grandmother’s scrying bowl, and my composure—all within the past hour—thanks to a scrawny kid and her rusty bicycle. Jenna Metcalf was not, as she said, older than she looked—Christ, she probably still believed in the tooth fairy—but she was as powerful as a giant black hole, sucking me back into the nightmare of the McCoy scandal. I don’t do missing people, I told her, and I meant it. It’s one thing to fake a message from a deceased husband; it’s another thing entirely to give false hope to someone who needs closure. You know where that kind of behavior gets you? Living above a bar in Crapville, NH, and spending every Thursday collecting unemployment benefits.
I like being a fraud. It’s safer to make up what clients want to hear. That way they don’t get hurt, and neither do I, when I find myself reaching into the next world and getting no response, just crushing frustration. In a way, I think it would have been easier if I’d never had a Gift. That way, I wouldn’t know what I am missing.
And then along came someone who couldn’t remember what she’d lost.
I don’t know what it was about Jenna Metcalf that rattled me so badly. Maybe her eyes, which were a pale sea green under the shaggy red fringe of her hair—supernatural, arresting. Maybe the way her cuticles had been bitten down to the quick. Or maybe how she seemed to shrink
, like Alice in Wonderland, when I told her I wouldn’t help her. That’s the only explanation I can offer as to why I answered when she asked if her mother was dead.
I wanted my psychic abilities back so badly in that moment that I tried; I tried in a way I’d given up trying years ago, because disappointment feels like slamming into a brick wall.
I closed my eyes and attempted to rebuild the bridge between me and my spirit guides, to hear anything—a whisper, a sneer, a hitch of breath.
Instead, there was utter silence.
And so, for Jenna Metcalf, I did exactly what I swore never to do again: I opened up that door of possibility, knowing damn well she’d step into the slice of sunshine it provided. I told her that her mother wasn’t dead.
When what I really meant was: I have no idea.
When Jenna Metcalf leaves, I take a Xanax. If anything qualifies as a reason to break out the antianxiety medication, it’s this—a girl who hasn’t just made me think of the past but has cracked it over my head like a two-by-four. By three o’clock, I am blissfully unconscious on the couch.
I should tell you that I haven’t dreamed in years. Dreaming is the closest the average human gets to the paranormal plane; it’s the time when the mind lets down its guard and the walls get thin enough for there to be glimpses to the other side. That’s why, after sleeping, so many people report a visit from someone who’s passed. But not me, not since Desmond and Lucinda left.
Today, though, when I fall asleep, my mind is a kaleidoscope of color. I see a flag, whipping across my field of vision, but then realize it’s not a flag—it’s a blue scarf, wound around the neck of a woman whose face I can’t see. She is lying on her back near a sugar maple, immobile, being trampled by an elephant. At second glance I realize maybe she isn’t being trampled; the elephant is going out of its way to not step on her, lifting one of its back feet and moving it over the woman’s body without touching it. As the elephant reaches out its trunk and tugs at the scarf, the woman doesn’t move. The elephant’s trunk strokes her cheek, her throat, her forehead, before slipping the scarf free and lifting it, so that the wind carries it off like a rumor.
