Off we go. Looking, to all intents and purposes, like the perfect couple.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
David opens his bright blue Camden door to reveal sparkly blue eyes that defy his sixty or so years of age and a salt-speckled, distinguished beard.
“You must be Beth!” He exclaims warmly, shaking my hand vigorously and welcoming me in to the hallway, "Come in out of the cold!"
I remove my coat and scarf, taking care not to drop my Dictaphone on the tile floor as he closes the door behind me. He takes my coat and scarf and hangs them up, then steps ahead of me, motioning me to follow. I am nervous. I don’t quite know what to expect.
“I thought you might like coffee, so I have some brewing - but if you’d prefer tea...?”
“Coffee is great,” I smile and he leads the way into a bright oak kitchen with yellow walls and huge triple doors out to a well-manicured garden beyond. "What a beautiful garden," I marvel. "It must keep you very busy." He nods and smiles.
We sip our coffees at a big, honest-looking table; the sort you can tell was made from reclaimed wood, perhaps railway sleepers or old church pews. There are some huge dents and scrapes in the table top. Without them it would be even more beautiful. Absentmindedly, I follow the line of a deep scratch in the wood with my finger. “Ever thought of sanding it down flat?” I ask. “This table would come up great with some TLC.”
Surprise registers fleetingly on his face. I feel like a twit. How rude of me. It was probably his grandmother’s or something.
“The marks of age tell a thousand stories,” he says, smiling kindly like he knows how pretentious that sounds but doesn't really care if I think him so. “And I like listening.”
Oh. Deep. I think. I cradle my coffee cup, feeling like a fool. Then tell myself to pull it together. I am a professional.
“So tell me about what you do, David,” I ask.
He grins. “Would you like me to show you first?” he challenges. “With a reading for you perhaps?”
“OK – err – yeah that would be great, thanks.” And so begins one of the strangest mornings of my life.
David takes a pack of large pictorial cards out of the kitchen drawer. “These are archangel cards,” he explains reverently. I stifle an involuntary smirk. He starts to shuffle them while he continues talking about angels and orbs.
He hands them to me. “Hold the cards like this,” he says, cupping them in his hands, “and try to infuse them with your energy.”
I try not to giggle while I do what he says. And strangely enough, I really am able to imagine that my energy passes into the cards. A crazy kind of energy, bubbly and erratic. I hand them back.
He re-shuffles the cards, explaining that it’s up to me to tell him when to stop, or cut the pack, or do whatever I feel he should do with them. I let him continue shuffling for what feels like a polite moment and then ask him to cut the pack and place the bottom half on the top. He misunderstands, removing the bottom half and almost shuffling them into the top half. I surprise myself by confidently intervening before he loses the place where I wanted the cut to be made. I help him re-cut the cards the way I meant him to and place them where I wanted them to be.
“I’d like you to deal from there please,” I say, wondering why I was so intent on those cards being at the top.
The cards lay in the following order: Clairvoyance, Counsellor, Death. I must look a bit shocked. “That doesn’t sound good,” I mumble. If he heard me he doesn’t show it.
“Okaaay... The Clairvoyance card can have a wider interpretation, for example using one’s intuition, gaining a deeper understanding of others,” says David. He looks down, waits for a moment, deep in thought. Then his eyes meet mine with a confident expression. “However, I would go so far as to say that you have been speaking with spirits.”
I am gobsmacked. I try not to react so as not to steer him one way or the other. I have heard about cold reading, where your own reactions to statements are used to help a pseudo psychic ‘reveal’ truths that you yourself have unintentionally given away.
“The second card is what you are doing now,” continues David. “You are being an emotional counsellor for someone. A person who needs you to be there for them, to hear their thoughts.”
Wow.
“The third card is Transformation.”
“It looks like it says ‘Death’ to me…”
“Every exit is merely an entry to somewhere else,” he says quite matter of fact. “So said someone or other. I don’t recall. But Beth, this card is about transformation, about the end of one era and the rebirth of something new. Strangely there is no birth card in Tarot but the white rose that the Devil is holding, see?” He shows me the card more closely. “That signifies birth, transformation. You will embark on a new journey free of your old constraints and bindings.”
He pauses and holds my gaze for a moment. I try to keep my poker face on and fail miserably, I bet.
“But back to the Clairvoyance, Beth. Using these – powers – it is draining. You need to look after yourself. Protect yourself from bad spirits. Do you understand?”
Hot tears prick my eyes. I blink and look away. Outside the garden looks beautiful, in a rainy kind of way. A bird lands on the feeder, which is packed full of nuts. He eats; every now and then flicking rain water off his wings. A black cat watches from the neighbour’s conservatory roof.
“Another coffee? Or a biscuit?” David offers, rising from his chair.
Suddenly I feel brave, well either brave or just ridiculously scared.
“Can I tell you something crazy?” I ask.
He nods and sits back down. So I tell him. Pretty much everything, actually.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Joel
We have to cancel the Chile gig because the band agrees with me; I can’t leave the country while mom is so ill. Three days later and there is no change in her condition.
We cancel Rio de Janiero too. The crew has already gone ahead so, with our blessing, they treat it like a holiday, tweeting photos of the beaches and clubs and meeting the fans, giving out autographed postcards by way of an apology. Two more days pass and we are reminded that next week we are due to be in Los Angeles at a big awards ceremony. Our new album is nominated. I tell my manager I will think about it but that it’s probably not possible.
Every day, my two brothers and I visit mom. Every day we lose her a little more. She can’t keep food down now; they have stopped feeding her anything but morphine. She looks gray and frail. I feel a crushing sense of loss, she looks like she’s here but she is getting further away each day. I sit by the bed and sing softly. I sing all her favourite songs. She holds my hand and she asks for my dad, forgetting that he died ten years ago.
Selfishly, I will her to live.
She dies as she would have wished to, surrounded by family; enveloped by love and tears and howls of pain. We kiss her forehead. We thank the medical staff. We pray together. My aunt phones to tell friends and family that mom is finally at peace. As I prepare to leave the hospital, I sit by her one final time. I put my head in my hands, rubbing my forehead as if I can force my mind to make this make sense.
I am a grown man. Yet losing my mom transports me. I am a lost child, no mom and no dad. I am scared of life without her, scared of being alone. She has always been my strength, my support.
Suddenly, through my eyelids and on my skin, I feel sunshine fill the room. The brightest light. I open my eyes. The sun is shining on her face, giving an illusion of warmth and life. I get up. It is time to go. I blow her a sweet kiss then I walk away and I don’t look back. A nurse shows me where the staff exit is and I jump into a waiting taxi.
I give the driver my address. Then I pop another two sedatives to keep me even. Georgia is waiting for me at home and Harry, oh Harry. I am struck by the thought that he will never know his Gramma any better than he does today. His memories will fade to nothing. At this thought, the tears come. Every memory of her life, her journey, plays
through my mind’s eye. What was it all for, my fame and fortune, just to lose her now? Why must we love people so much that this amount of hurt is possible? I cry like a baby all the way home and all evening.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“It’s called Empathic Communication, Beth,” explains David, showing me the web page he has found just by typing a few of my symptoms into Google. Why didn’t I think of doing that? I take the mouse and click through to see a few of the forum posts. After a few minutes’ reading, I am opened up to a whole new world. My story – that of being subjected to the whim of someone else’s thoughts and the tidal waves of emotions that aren’t my own – is mirrored all over this site. Dozens of people who thought they were crazy, who hear voices, see images and feel feelings that aren’t their own.
Granted, a couple of them sound absolutely BARKING – and there is much talk of unicorns and angels, reincarnation and time portals. But hey, I am not alone. I am not alone.
These people understand what I’m going through. The advice they give each other; to reaffirm your name and what you like when you feel taken over by others; that sounds sensible to them but silly to an outsider. I wonder, am I an outsider, or one of them?
I think David can see this is an unexpected gift. He is smiling.
“You’re an empath, Beth. Most empaths are creative types,” he explains. “Writers, poets, musicians; dreamers who understand pain and passion, laughter and love. “If you treat yourself better, Beth, you can find this talent will be the making of you, perhaps?”
The explanation tells me that Joel is probably an empath too. That’s how we connect.
I mull over what he has said. The death card is still playing on my mind, despite what David said about transformation. “Do you believe in reincarnation, David?”
He thinks for a minute. “Yes, I think perhaps I do.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything, Beth. I don’t even truly believe that time is a line we must follow. Those who believe in reincarnation might suggest that you and your Joel were together in a previous existence. But who’s to say how time works? People see ghosts from a thousand years ago walking among us, which suggests that time may play out quite differently.”
“You mean different times could run alongside themselves, like parallel universes, or something?”
“Well there are theories about parallel universes. I’m familiar with a few. I think there’s one called the Everett ‘Many Worlds’ interpretation; that one’s been around since the 1950s. You should look it up.” He scratches his head as I wrestle my notepad and pen out of my bag to take note of what he is telling me.
“Everett, you say?”
“Yes… I’m sure it’s Everett. And I’ve read articles from a science perspective on the quantum theory of reincarnation and quite recently there was some highly credible scientific research published on things called mirror neurons, which could also be behind what you’ve experienced.”
I write down ‘quantum theory - reincarnation’ and ‘mirror neurons’.
A few more taps on the keyboard and he shows me a number of web pages about something called Twin Flame or Twin Soul reunions.
“Then you have the slightly – err – less scientific explanations,” he adds with a wry grin, showing me this:
*****
Have you met your twin?
Signs that you have found your twin soul include overwhelming attraction, a sense of feeling ‘complete’ in the presence of the other person and the ability to know and feel what the other person is feeling, even when apart. The strength of feeling can be so great upon finding their twin, as to cause a complete breakdown in the person’s previous relationships.
How does this happen? The soul begins as one but becomes split into two, whole souls. During many incarnations, the separated souls must gather a richness of human experience before being reunited in their final lifetimes, after which they may ascend to heaven, together.
*****
“So Joel could be my… my soul twin?” I hesitate over the silliness of the phrase while secretly feeling like it’s spot-on in terms of what’s been going on with me and Joel.
“It’s a possibility but there is only the flimsiest of circumstantial – well you couldn’t even call it evidence… There’s nothing to prove it.”
My brain is racing with a hundred thoughts. If Joel and I had originally been one soul and somehow we were split at some point, were we doomed to spend multiple lifetimes apart before coming together?
“But aside from the theoretical possibilities, what do you think I should I do about Joel and Richard?” I ask.
He pauses reflectively; glances over at a photo on the wall. It’s of him and someone who I guess is – or was – his wife. He exhales slowly, like it hurts. Then he looks straight at me, all humour gone from his eyes.
“Don’t be rash, Beth. Who makes you feel safe? Who loves you the way you need to be loved? Who is the calm in the storm? Who is true?”
I know the answer is Richard and so does he.
“But Joel is... well I feel he’s my soul mate. What if he is the one I’m meant to be with?”
“Joel sounds like another empath. It is not ideal to have a relationship – even if you could – with another empath. You would be like... like cannibalistic vampires, feeding off each other.” He looks proud of his analogy. “You could never be happy,” he reinforces.
We talk some more and then I notice the time; I need to go. David hands me my coat and scarf. I agree to reschedule the interview for another day.
“We didn’t even get to speak to the spirits,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” he says, softly. “You’re a great girl, Beth. I hope to see you again soon. Take care.”
“I will. Thanks so much David. Bye.”
I walk back to the tube station overwhelmed but happy. I feel like a weight has been lifted. I am glad Joel hasn’t come back. I’m glad. There is no good that can come out of being with him, we have no future together.
I repeat my mantra. My name is Beth. I like sunshine, holidays, great books and music. I am me and I am not crazy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I get through most of the next day at work. At two pm with no warning I am suddenly floored by a migraine. Waves of nausea threaten to manifest as immediate vomit so I make my excuses and take a steady drive home. For the next 36 hours I am not physically sick but I feel awful. I just cry and cry, there is nothing else I can do. I try to distract myself by watching ‘The Proposal’ because it’s a rom-com and I think it might help. But still the tears come.
It’s not long before I start to wonder if somehow Joel is causing this. It simply doesn’t feel like my pain. I check on twitter. The band has cancelled some gigs. I know something bad has happened. A few more clicks on Google and I understand.
It’s his mum. She died on the day I got sick and tomorrow is her funeral.
I am a prisoner. I can’t eat, can’t sleep. We are together in our pain. He doesn’t appear or speak to me directly. I figure this time his 'connection' is involuntary. An accident. Such a strong level of emotion that it came across to me without him intending it. I am merely a passenger to his devastation. The intensity reminds me why I am addicted to this connection. It feels like we belong together.
Eventually it passes. I am free again and it feels good; lonely but good to be myself again. I build up in strength, day by day. Back at work I throw myself into the creation of a new feature proposal and I try to forget about Joel.
I spend time with Richard making final wedding preparations, go for dinner with my sister and eight of our girl friends in lieu of a hen night, then come down with yet another cold and spend a week filling the rubbish bin with used tissues. And still, no Joel in my head. I am kind of too busy to complain about that. My head has no room for him. He doesn’t make contact and neither do I. It’s a psychic standoff.
Despite my previous convictions that t
he connection with Joel was real I begin to tell myself that the visions could quite plausibly have been some kind of temporary insanity... perhaps it was all a delusion, nothing more. Because my brain knows that it only makes sense to marry Richard if I tell myself he really is the one. In my heart I would rather be crazy than stupid.
The wedding approaches.
*****
I get home from work one day in February to find a letter on the doormat. This doesn’t strike me as unusual until I see that it’s addressed to me and it has French stamps on it. I don’t know anyone in France. I place it on the kitchen worktop while I fill the kettle, switch it on to boil and grab a mug. Outside the wind is blowing a gale. The kettle boils and I make myself a cup of tea. It’s six o’ clock – Richard should be home at about midnight. He mentioned he was having dinner with the boys from work and then going on for drinks.
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