Too Far Under

by Lynn Osterkamp

  I know it sounds like one more flaky new-age Boulder fad, but it’s actually based in scientific exploration. I use a process developed by a medical doctor who spent years studying the experiences of people who had seen and interacted with apparitions of the dead. His method is based on ancient reports of deceased persons spontaneously appearing in a mirror or other reflective surface usually in dim light. Based on these accounts, he created an apparition chamber in which some people were able to contact spirits.

  My homemade apparition chamber emulates his. It’s a four-foot square mirror on the wall, surrounded by a black velvet curtain that creates a small booth with an easy chair inclined backward so the sitter can gaze into the mirror and see only darkness. I prepare people and set them up in the apparition chamber. Then I leave them in there alone to relax and focus on the person they are trying to contact. If the process is working for them an apparition appears as they gaze into the mirror’s shiny surface. At that point they can talk directly to the departed and also make their own assessments of the reality of the experience. Those who are able to contact a deceased loved one often go through a breakthrough healing experience that resolves much of their grief.

  After some of my grief-therapy clients found that this process helped them, they encouraged me to offer it to more grieving people. So I created the Contact Project, funded by an endowment from a local dot-com multimillionaire who was able to contact a family member and wanted to help other people do the same. I’m very selective about who I accept into the Contact Project and I insist that participants also be involved in traditional grief therapy.

  As it turned out, my ruminating about the Contact Project right before I ran into Lacey Townes was an omen. But I had no clue what was coming as I screeched to a stop in front of the petite young woman with long dark hair standing in the doorway to my classroom. I recognized Lacey, the girl blocking my way into the room, as one of my students who usually sat near the front of the class and actively participated in class discussions. Lacey didn’t move to let me in—just stood firm in a graceful dancer-like stance and stared at me with probing deep blue eyes. “Dr. Sims,” she said in a breathless voice, “I desperately need to talk to you right away.”

  I tried not to sound impatient. “Lacey, I’m already late for class. I can’t talk now. Maybe after class.” What was going through her mind thinking I’d keep the whole class waiting while I talked about whatever was bothering her?

  I squeezed past her through the door, tossed my stuff on the table, apologized for my lateness and started right in on my lecture. It was the sixth week of class. We’d been gradually working our way through research that supports the existence of paranormal phenomena as well as evidence that discounts the validity of many psychics and mediums. That day’s class focused on the work of the internationally famous psychiatrist Ian Stevenson who, until his retirement, was the head of the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia. He spent decades traveling all over the world recording and attempting to verify cases of children who claimed to recall past lives. While he never was able to prove reincarnation, the more than 2,500 cases he published raise interesting questions that suggest that it is possible.

  The students involved themselves in the topic right away, raising provocative questions on both sides of the issue. But I noticed that Lacey, sitting unexpectedly in the back of the room, looked as distracted as I felt myself. I already had to work to keep Gramma out of my mind and focus on the class, and now I found myself preoccupied by Lacey as well. I shook off those thoughts and pulled myself back to the discussion.

  “If reincarnation is real, how come most people don’t remember past lives?” asked Logan, one of my most talkative students who loved to challenge.

  “Maybe it’s hard to remember. Most of us don’t remember what happened when we were babies, so why would we remember past lives?” said Josie, a short fortyish woman, one of my several older students.

  “Maybe most people do remember but keep it to themselves because they’re afraid people will laugh at them,” said an intense woman named Aimee, who always sits in the front row.

  This led to a discussion in which a woman named Daphne told a fascinating story about being haunted by dreams in which she lived in Taos, New Mexico in the early 1900s. “I eventually did genealogical research and discovered that the woman I was in my dreams had lived in Taos and died in childbirth in 1931,” she said. “Then last year I visited Taos for the first time and it was amazing how familiar it all was and how much I felt at home. I’m sure I lived there in another life.”

  I made notes as she related her story and students pummeled her with questions. The discussion was so exhilarating at that point that I momentarily forgot about Gramma. By the end of our two-hour class, I was rejuvenated, but Gramma’s problems quickly rushed back to the front of my mind. I was ready to get out of there, grab some lunch, and find out more about her predicament.

  But Lacey, looking more troubled than ever, lingered behind as the students left class. She stood directly in front of me blocking my way to the door once again. Very determined young woman. “Dr. Sims, you absolutely have to help me. My mother drowned in her hot tub last August. You probably heard about it—Mirabel Townes? It was in all the papers.” Her voice rose as she went on. “My life has been a huge mess ever since and it’s getting worse every day.”

  She did sound desperate, but right at that moment I couldn’t summon the energy to listen to her concerns. I was starving and I had a lot on my mind and I had issues about taking on a student as a client. I looked her in the eyes with what I hoped was a sympathetic look. “Lacey, I did hear about your mother, and I’m so sorry. You must be going through a difficult time. But I can’t do grief therapy with one of my students. I can refer you to someone, though.”

  “No, no that’s not it.” Lacey held her hands out in front of my face to stop me. “I’m not looking for grief therapy, although I could probably use some because when Mom died, I hadn’t even gotten over my sister Kari dying of anorexia two years ago. But I can’t worry about myself with what’s going on now. Have you heard of Indigo children?”

  Whew! She was all over the place. How to respond? I dredged up what I knew about Indigoes, while trying to edge toward the door. “They’re supposed to be psychologically and spiritually gifted—sort of a more highly evolved new generation—right?” I said as I maneuvered gingerly around to her other side. This girl was persistent.

  “Exactly,” Lacey nodded vigorously, while at the same time moving to again block my way to the door. “And my ten-year-old sister Angelica is one. She sees below the surface. She’s been telling me that our mother didn’t die by accident. Angelica knows that someone pushed Mom under and drowned her! But she doesn’t know who did it. And we can’t get anyone to believe us and investigate. We need your help to contact Mom and find out what really happened.”

  She was drawing me in, but I resisted for so many reasons. “Lacey, I really need to go,” I said. A cold sweat came over me. I was overwhelmed, not like myself at all. I could see that she wanted me to get involved with Mirabel’s death, to become her partner and ally. But I just couldn’t. I had to be careful.

  Unfortunately, I got some very bad publicity last summer when the father of a client I was helping to contact her dead husband filed a complaint against me with the mental-health licensing board and it got in the local paper. He accused me of engaging in fraudulent and unsafe practice that placed his daughters’ safety and welfare in danger. He also charged that I was mentally ill, and delusional. None of it was true and the complaint was eventually dismissed, but I’ve had to work hard to maintain my professional image. So I’ve been trying to lay low and not take on any cases that might get me back in the news.

  “No, you haven’t heard the whole story yet!” Lacey held up her hands in front of me to stop me from leaving. Her eyes filled with tears. “You have to help us. We have money. We can pay whatever your rate is. We really need you
to help us.”

  “I wish I could help you, but I don’t have any more time right now,” I said. I pulled out one of my cards and handed it to her as I jumped around her into the doorway. “Here’s my number. Call me and I’ll give you some referrals to people who might be able to help.”

  Then I’m ashamed to say I turned my back on her and ran out of the room.

  Chapter 3

  Talking on a cell phone while driving is not a practice I support. It’s too easy to get distracted and do something stupid. But I have to admit that when it comes to my own need to make a call, I figure I’m the exception who can eat and chew gum at the same time. So while I drove back to my office, I called Pablo to share the bad news about Gramma. I was looking for some commiseration, but instead I had to leave a voicemail message. He’s a police detective, so he’s hard to reach. Next I called my best friend Elisa. This time I got a sympathetic ear.

  “The corporate goons are selling Shady Terrace to a developer, who’s going to plow it under,” I wailed, “and Gramma and all the residents have to move out. Can you believe it?”

  “Ohmigod, that’s unexpected!” Elisa’s gravelly voice had an overtone of shock. “How soon does she have to move out?”

  “I think it’s sixty days, but even if it was a year, I don’t know how I’d find a good place and get her moved and adjusted to it. I feel sick just thinking about it.”

  “Hold on, Cleo. You need a plan, and you need it soon. But I have to run out now to teach my class. Anyway, we can talk about this better over some strong drinks. Can you meet me at the St. Julien after work? How about 5:30?”

  “Thanks, I’ll see you there.” A wave of relief flooded over me. Not that I thought Elisa could change the situation, but just having someone to share it with was major.

  When the St. Julien Hotel opened in 2004 it was the first new hotel in downtown Boulder in nearly fifty years. I love its big-city air of classy sophistication combined with a smidge of Colorado casualness. The red and buff-colored sandstone building almost melts into the surrounding mountain landscape, and it’s situated to take the best advantage of the stunning views of the Flatirons rock formations. But my favorite part is the intimate T-Zero martini bar’s daily happy hour with reduced-price wine, beer and drinks, and half-price bar food menu. It’s quickly become a favorite after-work spot to see and be seen, catch up with old friends, and meet new ones, so it’s always crowded. The crowd spills out into the spacious lobby furnished with stylishly comfortable chairs and couches that mirror the reds and browns of the outside of the building.

  Elisa had already snagged a good spot with two comfy oversized chairs and a round glass-topped cocktail table facing the glass wall on the south side of the room with the best view of the mountains. I noticed a guy by himself at the table next to her checking her out. No surprise there. She looked sensational as always. Elisa is a woman you notice because of her natural good looks—tall and thin with thick blonde hair—and because she dresses in a casually elegant way. Today she wore a soft cotton patchwork jacket of muted greens, blues and browns over a simple black tee and flared skirt. What totally made the outfit was a low-slung metal belt with glass stones that echoed the colors in her jacket.

  As usual, I felt a little plain in comparison. I’m only 5’4,” with medium-length brown hair and green eyes—my only distinctive feature. I had on my favorite jean skirt and a long-sleeved lavender ribbed cotton sweater. Adequate, but nothing special.

  Elisa jumped up as soon as she saw me and enveloped me in a huge hug. “Life sure sucks some days, and today is one of those days,” she said. “It’s so unfair. Just when everything was going smoothly for you, this has to happen.”

  “Well, my Grampa always told me that no one ever said life was supposed to be fair,” I said, as I positioned my backpack under my chair and sat down. “But pushing all those old people out of their home seems beyond unfair to me.”

  “I talked to Jack to see what he knows about it,” she said, referring to her husband who is a Boulder real-estate developer. “He said Hugh Symes has wanted that land for years and saw his opportunity recently when the corporation that owns Shady Terrace was having some financial problems. Symes made a good offer and the corporation went for the money. It doesn’t sound like there’s much chance of stopping the sale. Especially if you know Symes. When he makes up his mind to move on something, there’s no stopping him.”

  “Evil money-grubber. How does he sleep at night?”

  “He’s a strange bird,” Elisa said. “Doesn’t fit the Boulder liberal image at all. A political conservative who thinks Boulderites tend to be whiny do-gooders who don’t understand the real world.” She stopped short, shrugged her shoulders, then moved on to more immediate business. “But enough about Symes. Let’s get a drink.”

  We looked around for a server to take our drink orders. The room was filling up quickly, and there were way more people looking to order drinks than the three young waitresses could keep up with. Elisa caught the eye of a perky dark-haired girl with a wide smile and huge silver hoop earrings. We each ordered one of the T-Zero signature Kettle One martinis that come with three giant olives. And a mozzarella melt to share. My mouth watered in anticipation.

  Elisa and I have been friends for about fifteen years and we know each other inside and out. She turned forty this year, which makes her three years older than me. We’re both psychologists, but she has a full-time faculty appointment at the university, where she teaches in the doctoral program in clinical psychology and serves as both a research advisor and clinical supervisor. Aside from the one class I’m teaching, my work is not at the university. I do mostly clinical work with my grief therapy practice. Elisa is also my therapist and clinical supervisor when I need one, so I can tell her anything, even about my clients. She keeps my confidences and she’s never shy about giving me her straight-up honest opinion.

  “I know I’m going to have to find Gramma another place,” I sighed. “But she’s been getting along well there lately and finally stopped wandering around in the middle of the night. I’m afraid she’ll go downhill in a new place. I promised Grampa I’d take care of her and now I don’t know if I can.” Tears welled up and trickled down my face as I thought of letting down my grandparents who had always been so good to me.

  “Cleo, you know they wouldn’t see it that way. None of this is your fault. It’s just been dumped on you. Is Shady Terrace going to help people look for new places?”

  “They say they are. Oh…and here’s something amazing. Did you know that Tim Grosso, the head of the Psych Department, is a volunteer long-term-care ombudsman? He was there at the Shady Terrace meeting this morning to help families with information about other nursing homes in town. I didn’t get to hear what he had to say because I had to leave for class, but I plan to talk to him later.”

  Before she could respond, the waitress arrived with our drinks, and we took a moment to sit back and enjoy the scene. Couples sharing intimate moments, groups of friends catching up, all looking relaxed and happy, releasing the day’s tension like the air from a balloon. Conversation mingled with the soft sounds of a live Brazilian band to form soothing waves of sound that ebbed and flowed around us.

  We talked on about Gramma’s situation for twenty minutes or so, Elisa helping me explore various possibilities until I had a semblance of a plan in mind. I would collect what information I could from Tim and from the Shady Terrace social workers, choose two or three places to visit, and see how well Gramma might fit in there.

  I felt much better by then, maybe because the martini was working its magic, but I did need some food to balance out the liquor. Just as I realized how hungry I was, our mozzarella melt finally arrived. The waitress apologized for the delayed service, which we knew was typical for Friday evening.

  “Yum,” I said, breaking off a messy piece of the gooey cheese, tomato and basil on crusty bread. While I chewed, I decided to move the conversation on to a different subject.
r />   “Did you know Mirabel Townes?” I asked. “You know, she was that local activist who drowned in her hot tub last August.”

  Elisa was about to eat her own cheesy bite, but stopped to give me a quick answer. “Sure. Knew her for years. You probably met her at some of our parties,” she said as she popped the morsel into her mouth.

  “Where did you know her from?” I asked, taking another sip of my martini.

  “Her husband Derrick is a real-estate developer who’s done some projects with Jack. And their daughter Kari was the same age as my daughter Maria,” Elisa said, tearing off another piece of mozzarella melt. “Kari and Maria were great friends. I felt terrible for Mirabel when Kari died of anorexia two years ago. Don’t you remember me talking about it?”

  I searched my memories. “Now that you remind me, it’s coming back,” I said. “You asked me to spend some time with Maria helping her cope with the loss. And I did. But I’d forgotten that Maria’s friend was Mirabel Townes’ daughter.” I ate another bite and wiped my messy hands on my napkin while I thought about Mirabel’s loss. As a grief therapist I know the agonizing pain that follows the loss of a child.

  “Poor Mirabel,” I said. “Losing a child is always tragic, and even worse when you feel like you could have prevented it. There’s so much guilt along with the grief. It must have been horrible for her.”

  “It was. Mirabel was never the same after that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘never the same’?”

  “Well she crashed, like you’d expect after losing a child. I don’t need to tell you, you’re the grief therapist. I don’t know what I’d do in her situation. What Mirabel did was join the Church of Scientology. Apparently thought they could help her cope with her grief. She got very involved with them, dropped a lot of her old friends who I guess weren’t big fans of Scientology. Why are you asking about her?”