Too Far Under

by Lynn Osterkamp

  “You might be right, Shane,” Lacey said. “For such a smart woman, Mom could be very naïve. I warned her that once the Scientologists get their hands in your pockets, you never get rid of them. But she was so gullible. She was paying them a fortune to help her with her grief. She said they were getting her to recover buried memories and erase the trauma from them, which brought her amazing relief. We argued about it over and over. Mom remembered incidents with Kari that I’m pretty sure never happened, but I couldn’t get her to admit that. In some way the process made her feel better and that’s all she cared about. She was addicted to those auditing sessions.”

  I didn’t know much about Scientology, but some of this sounded ominous. Maybe I’d reconsider meeting Brian for coffee. He wouldn’t know I was involved with the Townes family and maybe I could pump him for information.

  Angelica looked intently at Lacey. “But, Lacey,” she said. “To be fair, you didn’t give Mom much chance to tell you what she thought was good about the Scientologists. She told me they do a lot to help other people and they live ethical lives. They also believe in reincarnation like Mom and I do.”

  “Maybe that’s how she saw them,” Lacey said shrilly. “But she was wrong. They’re vultures who milk human tragedy to build their organization. They were using Mom, but she couldn’t see it.”

  “I have to agree with Lacey there,” Shane said. “When I was in California, studying game design at USC, I heard stories. Apparently Scientologists work really hard to recruit rich people and celebrities to promote their agenda and they get quite a few of the Hollywood types. I knew one guy whose uncle gave them over $500,000 before he figured out it was a cult that was using him.”

  Shane’s view of Scientology sounded accurate. It was pretty much my understanding of Scientology tactics. I sat back to see where the discussion would go.

  Lacey looked quizzically at Shane. “So if you thought they were using Mom too, Shane, why didn’t you try to get her out of it like I did?” she asked.

  “I figured she was a grown-up who could make her own choices. And I don’t have your taste for turmoil, Lacey. Anyway, I figured she’d get tired of them and quit pretty soon. Actually, I think she was already beginning to feel that Scientology wasn’t for her.”

  “What makes you think that?” Lacey asked.

  “She told me they were visiting too often and demanding too much of her time. It was getting in the way of all those causes she was always working for.”

  “So is that why you think she was going to change her will and write Scientology out of it?” Lacey asked.

  Shane shook his head. “No, Dad told me that. He seemed sure that she’d done it, too. If Dad can’t find the new will, I think he’s going to contest the Scientology bequest as having been made under undue influence. But Scientologists are good at winning those suits so they’ll probably still get the money.”

  “But …” Lacey tried to interrupt.

  “Let me finish, Lacey,” Shane said firmly. “This is why Dad’s crazy to find the new will. But it’s tough because Grandad’s always been her lawyer and he told Dad he never helped Mom make a different will. The thing is, we all know Grandad drinks a lot and his memory’s not as good as it used to be, so he might have forgotten. I’ve been trying to talk to him about it to see if he might say something different, but I haven’t gotten anywhere.”

  As I thought back on Shane’s interaction with his grandfather at the wedding last weekend, I wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t gotten anywhere with Vernon Evers. But Shane didn’t know I’d been there and seen him and his grandfather, and I couldn’t see any reason to bring it up. Besides, I needed to bring the session to a close.

  “We’re running out of time today,” I said. “I’m willing to have one of you be in the Contact Project to try to reach your mom,” but it can’t be you Angelica because you’re a minor child. So it will have to be Lacey or Shane.”

  Angelica’s face fell. “But I’m the one who was closest to her,” she said. “I’m the one she’d want to talk to.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But it wouldn’t be ethical or legal for me to have a minor in the project. Even if your dad agreed, which isn’t very likely, I wouldn’t do it.”

  Lacey spoke up. “Can’t you do it without telling him? We’d keep it quiet.”

  What is it about that being illegal and unethical that’s hard for her to understand? “No, Lacey,” I said. “I’m a licensed therapist and I have to operate within the rules if I want to keep doing this work—which I do. We’re going to do this legally or not at all. So it will have to be you or Shane.”

  Lacey sagged and began her hand-clasping thing. “This is the worst news,” she said glumly. “I thought it would be Angelica doing it. Mom and I weren’t getting along well at all, so I don’t know if she’d want to talk to me. I guess there’s no chance you’d do it Shane?”

  Shane shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure I believe in this or that it’s a good idea. I’ll think about it,” he said.

  But Lacey was in no mood for delay. “Oh never mind, Shane,” she said exasperatedly. “I’ll do it. But if I can’t reach her, you’d better be ready to be the backup.”

  I was totally ready to see them go as I ushered them out of my office. Lacey and Shane’s lukewarm enthusiasm was a real turnoff. I had hoped for more, given that I was getting myself involved in a messy situation that both Pablo and Elisa had warned me to stay away from.

  Chapter 12

  After they left, I headed straight to my tiny under-counter refrigerator and poured myself a glass of sun tea to fortify me while I did some hard thinking. I took it into my office where my desk faces the window. As I sipped my tea I took a few minutes to enjoy my gigantic maple tree’s colorful display of red and orange leaves.

  In my weekly meditation class I’ve learned to sit quietly, breathe deeply and fix my attention on a plant or flower to center myself and clear my mind of upsetting thoughts. At my desk, the maple tree is my focus. I learned the centering technique to help me cope with the helpless feeling I had about Gramma’s deteriorating mind. But I’ve found it useful to get clarity in any tough situation. Like today’s decision to help Mirabel Townes’ children try to contact her.

  I gazed out at the fiery leaves fluttering in the afternoon breeze, and considered the choice I’d made. I wanted to believe I had solid reasons that supported my decision. I wanted clarity. I wanted to be sure I was doing the right thing. I had almost lost my license to practice as a psychologist in the state of Colorado the last time I helped someone go after a murderer. And my teaching at the university was on a trial basis because so many faculty saw me as being on the fringe.

  But instead of clarity and solid reasons, I had my intuition—a gut feeling that I was supposed to help—and of course Tyler’s encouragement. I knew I had to go forward. The times in the past that I’ve let fear overcome my intuition or stop me from following a spirit’s advice hadn’t worked out well.

  My thoughts drifted back to a time when I was fourteen and had gone with some friends to see a psychic. My friends had asked about their futures—would they marry, have careers, have children? But when my time came to go inside the curtain, I had something much different on my mind. “Sometimes when I wake up in the night, I see someone,” I said. “She’s always the same—a woman, very beautiful wearing amazing jewelry. I think she’s Cleopatra. I was named for her and I’ve watched that Elizabeth Taylor movie about her over and over. She tells me that I have a gift that I should use to help people. I don’t know what this means. Maybe it’s a dream, but I don’t think so.”

  I’ve never forgotten the psychic’s answer to me because her advice turned out to be so accurate. “You are closer to the curtain than most people,” she said. “Trust your feelings.” That may sound confusing, but I took her meaning because deep down I already knew that my visitor was a spirit. I didn’t talk about my Cleopatra visions to other people—certainly not my family—because I d
idn’t want them to think I was strange. But I did take the visits seriously.

  As it was, I got into huge trouble with my father a couple of days later when he found out about our visit to the psychic. “Cleo, what did you think you were doing going into that part of town at night to see a psychic? They’re all fakes who are after your money. You need to learn to think before you act.” To reinforce that point, Dad had grounded me for two weeks—overreacting in the harsh direction as usual.

  The next week the spirit visited me just after midnight, waking me out of a sound sleep. “Your friend Emil needs you,” she said. “You need to go to him now.” I knew Emil had been seriously unhappy ever since the school bitch had dumped him two months ago. I’d listened and tried to be supportive as he grieved the breakup, but nothing I said broke though his wall of misery.

  “I’m grounded,” I said to the spirit. “I can’t go out or even use the phone. My father would kill me.”

  “Emil’s needs are greater,” she said. “You will survive. He may not.” Then she faded away.

  Dad was still up. I could see the light from the living room where he read at night. I knew I couldn’t get past him. I wanted to help Emil but I was afraid, so I didn’t go. I didn’t see Emil that night or ever again. He killed himself at 2:00 a.m. And that was the last time I saw the beautiful spirit.

  Even worse than my grief over losing Emil was my guilt that I had let fear win over what I knew I should do. I was torn between hoping I’d never see another spirit and hoping the Cleopatra spirit would return and give me another chance. Mostly I vowed that in the future if any spirits did show up, I would do what they asked even if it seemed risky to me personally.

  But my life was spirit-free until Tyler showed up a few years ago when I was trying to contact my Grampa, who had been dead for five years. By that time I had gotten so interested in finding a way to contact Grampa that I had built my first apparition chamber in a spare room in my house. I was astonished when instead of Grampa I got Tyler—a surfer I’d never heard of or known.

  At first I wondered whether he was real or a figment of my imagination. Then I asked myself which way made me crazier. Inventing an imaginary surfer-dude friend who tells me what to do, or seeing and talking to a surfer-dude spirit who no one else can see or hear? I figured I’d come off as kind of nutty either way.

  But I couldn’t make up the strange way he talks in surfer language. I’ve spent most of my life in Kansas and Colorado. I’ve never been surfing, never known a surfer. After the first time he spoke to me I had to look up surfer lingo on the internet to make sense out of what he said. So why and how could I have invented Tyler? I decided he must be real. And I resolved to take his advice seriously.

  By then the sun had gone down behind the foothills so my tree-gazing was over. But I had my answer. Go with my gut and help Lacey and Angelica, like Tyler had been telling me to do.

  I left the office at 6:00 to meet Elisa for an early dinner. Since Sunday I had managed to squeeze in a few more trips to check out nursing homes and she had offered to help me sort out my impressions. We met at our favorite Mexican restaurant, The Rio Grande, famous for its strong and tasty margaritas—on-the-rocks, frozen, strawberry, they’re all delicious.

  We got a table in my favorite part of the restaurant. It’s called “the garage” because of its huge garage-door-style windows that open to the street on two sides. I love the porch-like feeling of eating outside while being inside out of the chilly evening air. A young guy in jeans and a dark blue tee shirt showed up right away with water, homemade chips and fresh salsa. Our server took our drink order and promptly grabbed us a couple of salt-rimmed margaritas from the bar.

  “Whew! I’ve been tasting this drink in my mind all day,” Elisa said after taking a mega-swallow.

  “Like I always say, their margaritas are the best I’ve had anywhere, including Mexico,” I said. “I wish I could get hold of their secret recipe.”

  Our server came back for our order—a chicken tostada for Elisa, and mahi-mahi tacos for me. Some people say the drinks are the only reason to go to the Rio, but I love their fresh, healthy tex-mex food as much as the margs.

  While we waited for our food, I filled Elisa in on the nursing homes I’d visited and we discussed pros and cons of various ones. As usual she helped me see through my confusion. “I’m not hearing any enthusiasm from you about any of those nursing homes,” she said.

  “Okay, bottom line—I don’t have a good feeling about any of the places I’ve seen, and there are only two left to visit,” I said. “I’m starting to think bringing her home and hiring a round-the-clock caregiver might be the way to go.”

  “Can you and she afford that?” Elisa asked. “The agencies charge a fortune for twenty-four-hour care.”

  “I know. I’m hoping I can hire someone privately, so I won’t have to pay the agency fees. But it can be hard to find someone good. I think I’ll talk to Tim Grosso about that. He said something the other night about some bad experience he had with his father’s housekeeper. I need to know what to look out for.”

  Our food arrived and we took a break from conversation while we poured salsa over everything and dug in. After her second bite, Elisa looked up and said, “Between the Psych Department and the ombudsman thing, you’re getting to know Tim pretty well. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s helping me and he seems nice enough. I’m amazed that he gives so much time to a volunteer job when he’s also the chair of the Psych Department. But it’s hard for me to picture him with Faye. She’s so fiery and he’s so laid back. She’s an elegant dresser and he’s mostly a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of guy.”

  Then I flashed on what Pablo had said about Tim. “In fact Pablo says Tim’s an old hippie. Do you know anything about him growing marijuana?”

  Elisa laughed. “I think Pablo’s got that right. Tim’s laid-back style probably owes something to his favorite herb. I know he’s a smoker, but I have no idea where he gets his supply. If he’s a grower, he’s a very careful one.”

  We were distracted by a toddler at the table next to us who was happily eating black beans with his hands, smearing them all over his face in the process. His bemused parents watched but didn’t interrupt his fun—probably content to enjoy their own dinner and drinks in peace.

  My thoughts kept drifting back to the decision I’d made about Lacey. I knew Elisa would disapprove, but I decided to bite the bullet. I didn’t really want to hear what Elisa had to say about it, but she’d find out eventually so we might as well get it over with. “I met with the Townes kids today—Lacey, Angelica and Shane—and I agreed to bring Lacey into the Contact Project so she can try to reach Mirabel.”

  Elisa slammed her glass down on the table so hard that some margarita slopped over the side. “Cleo you need to think before you jump into a hornet’s nest. This business with the Townes family has trouble written all over it. I thought you were trying to lay low for a while.”

  I watched the small lime-tequila pool that had spilled from her drink dribble along the smooth black table toward its lowest corner. I told myself that if she stopped talking before it flowed over onto the brick floor, she wasn’t as upset as she seemed. But it dripped over, and she continued.

  “Here you’ve finally gotten yourself a sweet spot at the university teaching this paranormal class, which can help you build some credibility for what you do in your Contact Project. If you remember, I put myself out there in the department supporting you for that. But now you want to blow it to get involved with a drama queen, an Indigo child and a slacker! Sounds like a death-to-your-career wish to me!”

  I sighed. “Give me a break, Elisa. I can’t operate out of fear when someone needs my help, especially when the main victim is a ten-year-old child. It’s not easy to refuse a little girl who has lost both her sister and her mother and whose father is more interested in his mistress than in her. I don’t think you’d turn her down either.”

  “Honey, you know I�
�m not one to back off to save my own ass. But I always say pick your battles, and I say this is a bad pick.”

  “Well, it’s my pick. So I’ll have to live with it.”

  Our server came by to see if we wanted seconds on drinks. I was sorely tempted to drown my annoyance in more tequila, but I resisted and asked for the check instead. As the server went off to get our bill, I continued pleading my case to Elisa. “Look, I’ll get plenty of grief from Pablo when he gets back from his conference on Saturday and finds out what I’m doing. It would help a lot not to have you on my case along with him. How about I agree to be extra careful and you agree to trust that I’m not going to do anything stupid?”

  She sighed and gave me a penetrating no-nonsense look. “Okay but you have to promise to keep me in the loop, so I have a clue what’s coming before it blows up in your face.”

  I smiled. “That request wouldn’t have anything to do with satisfying your love of gossip and your insatiable curiosity about scandals, would it?”

  “Touché. I admit I’m curious and I like to know what’s up. But I also care about you and I don’t want to see you get sucked under.”

  “That’s fair. I agree,” I said, “and now I have to go.” We settled the bill and made our way to the door. Once we were outside we gave each other a big hug. Although I was nowhere near as comfortable with my decision as I pretended to be, I felt much better having Elisa’s support.

  Chapter 13

  I walked home along Pearl Street enjoying the view of the foothills and basking in my margarita-induced glow. I decided to take my new energy into my studio to work on a painting. I live in my grandparents’ old historic house and my studio is the stone carriage house behind it, which my grandmother remodeled years ago and where I spent so many sweet summer mornings painting with her during my childhood and teenage years. The room is full of stacked paintings—both mine and Gramma’s—and happy memories of our time together.