“Nicole, wait!”
I slammed the door, locked it, and slid to the floor. I would wait there until Monica returned, and if Jake tried to enter, I would shoot him.
44
Google offered six pages of results for “Zephyr Tott” including a link to a web site— www.awakeningbyzephyr.com—with sections titled “Visions to the Heart” and “Inspirational Insights That Lead to Conscious Awakenings.”
See and understand yourself.
You don’t have to be scared anymore.
Awakening brings liberation.
Any other time, I would’ve snickered at this language soufflé. But now, in these circumstances, one word—liberation—resonated with me, a glimmer of light in sulfurous fog.
An hour later, I stood before the front door of a white-washed cottage on Highland Boulevard. An ornate sign hung across the cottage’s face. Zephyr Tott Advisors. A neon sign in the bay window glowed OPEN. I had stopped at an ATM—I would pay for this visit with cash. I didn’t want a check or a credit card statement linking me to Zephyr Tott. And I would use a fake name to keep other “advisors” from seeing “Nicole Baxter” on their psychic-friend mailing lists.
I glanced over my shoulder to my getaway car. You can leave this place right now. My underarms prickled, and beads of sweat trickled down my ribs. Was I really about to do this? Was I really about to walk into a psychic’s—no, advisor’s—business? I exhaled, and told myself that if it got too weird, I’d leave and never drive down Highland Boulevard again.
Zephyr Tott’s waiting area was a mash-up of a mortuary’s family viewing room and my Aunt Beryl’s library (a room that had been filled with forty editions of the King James Bible, back issues of Cat Fancy, and hundreds of bottles of expired Vitamin E). Gewgaws of unicorns, angels and toddlers hoisting umbrellas sat in bookshelves, cubbies and glass cases. Pictures of Jesus, the Dalai Lama and Martin Luther King, Jr. were nailed to the walls. An old Black man in need of a shave and a bath sat in an armchair and stared into space.
Compared to Dr. Tremaine’s office, this place felt like… home.
A skinny black woman wearing purple velvet sat at the reception desk. Her hair was a patchouli-scented casserole of dreadlocks, shells and beads. She closed the book she had been reading (The Art of Tarot) and smiled at me. “Welcome to Zephyr’s. I’m Trish. Do you have an appointment today?”
I stepped away from the counter and said, “Oh. No. Did I need to call first?”
“We usually like appointments, but—”
“I can come back.” Yeah. Come back and never come back.
“No,” Trish said. “Don’t you dare leave.”
Piper, Dr. Tremaine’s receptionist, would have growled at me for making a last-minute appointment. Scratched my eyes out with her shiny black fingernails.
Trish picked up the telephone receiver and punched three buttons. After a moment, she said, “Can you squeeze in a new client?”
I glanced around the waiting room to confirm: there was one old man in an otherwise-empty waiting room. Squeeze?
Trish hooked the phone on her shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Emma.”
“Nice to meet you, Emma.” To the person on the phone, she said “uh huh” a few times, then hung up. “She can see you right now. The consultation fee is $150.”
Zephyr Tott’s office didn’t smack of New Age Freak, nor did it smell of Thai food or Burger King. Where papers had covered Dr. Tremaine’s credenzas, potted plants sat on Zephyr’s. A few diplomas hung on the walls, along with tasteful paintings one purchases at Pier One or Cost Plus. Yanni played on the stereo—no judgment from me. I had watched “Yanni Live at the Acropolis” on PBS three times.
Zephyr seemed young—late twenties or so. She was tiny in stature, barely hitting five feet, with sandy brown dreadlocks, mint green eyes and skin the color of buttered toffee. Jada Pinkett-Smith in Mrs. Roper’s fire-colored caftan. She handed me a cup of tea, and unlike Dr. Tremaine, joined me on the couch. “If it helps you feel more comfortable,” she was saying, “I was a psychiatrist in my former life. I published a few papers, wrote three books on loss, spoke at thousands of conferences. Made my momma proud. But my gift didn’t mesh well with the…” Fingers hooked. “Traditional types.”
I sipped the bitter liquid. Its warmth relaxed my shoulders and uncurled the spaghetti strands in my mind.
“To my esteemed colleagues,” Zephyr continued, “my gift was witchcraft and voodoo. At first, their dismissal hurt me. But then, I thought about it—most of them discounted the existence of God, so why would I want acceptance from people who didn’t believe in souls and soul givers?”
I took a longer sip, and eased back onto the couch. After getting past the tea’s sharp taste, I found lavender, honey, mint. It was more soothing than the so-called sleepy-time variety I guzzled at home.
“You like it?” Zephyr asked.
“The tea?” I nodded.
She rose, and strolled to the credenza. “Lavender has its medicinal uses, you know. Insomnia, anxiety, depression…” She returned to the couch with a big bag of tea. “It’s nature’s sedative,” she said, handing me the bag. “And it’s yours.”
I shook my head. “Oh. No. I can’t—”
“Please. It will help you.”
I said, “Thanks,” then stuffed the tea into my purse.
Zephyr watched me for a moment, then said, “Tell me, Emma. What do you want? Why are you here today?”
I stared into the fragile cup as though the answer floated in the amber-colored tea. “I’m lost right now. I’m seeing things I never thought I’d see. Scary, dangerous things. And it’s challenging everything I believe. I need to get back on track before I completely de-rail, but I don’t know how to do that on my own.”
“Do you have a church family?”
“Kind of, but… My situation’s unique, and the people there are older, you know? They would offer the same three Bible verses that wouldn’t apply to what I’m going through, and then…” My cheeks burned, ashamed from betraying the church with this admission. “I still believe, but right now, I need more than ‘Have faith.’”
Zephyr took my cup and placed it on the coffee table next to hers. “May I take your hands?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
Zephyr rubbed my knuckles, then closed her eyes.
I waited silently, puzzled. What do I do now? Are we praying?
Zephyr opened her eyes and said, “How long has he been away?”
I flinched and pulled back, caught off-guard.
But Zephyr didn’t release her grip. She smiled, and said, “Emma, death is merely existence in another realm. There’s nothing to fear from death. Or from those who have left us. Now. How long?”
I swallowed, then said, “Three weeks tomorrow.”
“You had so many things to say,” Zephyr said, then closed her eyes. “You had so many issues left to resolve, but...” She tilted her head as though she was listening to something. Her eyebrows crumpled. “But it was sudden and you didn’t get a chance to talk about those things that were tearing you both apart.
“You weren’t proud of your behavior,” she continued. “You betrayed him. After promising to yourself that you’d never betray him like that. But you did. Right before he died. With a very dangerous, very powerful man.”
I snatched my hands away and glared at the tiny woman seated beside me.
Zephyr shook her head. “Emma, what we discuss here is private. Consider this like you would any traditional doctor-patient relationship.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You can even give me your real name if you’d like.”
Name? I didn’t care about… How did she…? I shook my head, my mind at once dull and sharp. “How did you… Doesn’t it like, take three sessions or something before you…?”
She said, “I’m not a psychiatrist anymore, sweetheart. My gift’s bigger than that. You want answers. I give them to you. But my question to you is this: in order to be free, are you wi
lling to deal with the pain that comes with acknowledging your part in Truman’s death?”
I hopped off the couch, and shouted, “How do you know his name?”
Zephyr’s eyes sparkled. “Because he’s here with us. Right now.”
Freaked out beyond freaked out, I whirled around. Saw no one except the woman in the fire-colored caftan.
“It’s okay if you can’t see him,” Zephyr offered.
“No…” My eyes darted to the credenza, to her desk, to the open window and its silent wind chimes. Why couldn’t I see him?
Zephyr said, “Emma, just—”
I raced out of the office, and darted down the hallway to the waiting room.
Trish was lost in her book.
The old man was snoring loudly, his chin resting on his chest.
I ran through the waiting room and out the front door.
The sun had seared the blue sky white, and its heat slowed my step. Blood had drained from my face, and my shaking had tightened to become shivering. I collapsed near the Volvo’s tires and hunched over the pavement as the eruption bubbled first in my stomach, then erupted from my mouth. Fear, anxiety, tea—all of it spewed out and onto the concrete in a frothy, lavender-scented mess.
I couldn’t see him. Why couldn’t I see him?
45
How could she know his name?
I hadn’t given Zephyr my real name, even though she had “sensed” Emma was a fake. Still: I hadn’t made an appointment, and I had paid cash so that no one could discover my true identity through banking information. And still, she knew…
This shit was scary, and the tiny part of me that still prayed and believed and didn’t eat pork or say words like ‘shit’ regretted transgressing against the Bible and seeking counsel from someone who sees dead people.
I couldn’t go home now. A rip in the space-time-life-death continuum had occurred, and an empty house with strange drafts and eerie creaks was the last place I wanted (or needed) to be.
Leilani didn’t answer the phone the ten times I called her, and as the sun dipped towards the ocean, I had no choice but to pull into Visitor Parking at Monica’s condo in Marina del Rey—as far from Benedict Canyon as I could drive in my state of mind.
I offered Monica no explanation for my visit, and let her guide me to the guest bedroom. I’m sure my ashen face and the stench of sweat and vomit told her plenty.
Monica left me a cup of peppermint tea and clean towels, then closed the door behind her.
What should I do?
What should I believe?
Should I sell the house?
Or should I keep the house and let Leilani live there while I find a smaller place?
I lay in Monica’s guest bed, unable to answer these questions because I had become imprisoned in an everlasting paralysis dream. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Told myself to wake up, to wiggle a finger, to do something, but I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.
Truman was everywhere. At home. At Zephyr’s. I couldn’t escape him even though my heart had longed for him since that day in June. Strange and sad, I know. Pushing and pulling. Wanting him near, yet fearing him and running away to keep my secrets secret. Knowing that each time he visited meant one more dodge.
U have something 2 tell me.
What would he do to me if I told him the truth?
46
That night, I didn’t see Truman again after doubling my Klonopin dosage. Safe in a drug-synthesized cocoon, I slept without dreaming, and resented the sun’s morning light forcing my eyes to open. The new-day noises irritated me: the pounding surf, Monica’s rumbling clothes dryer, the roaring crane at the condo construction site next door.
I trudged to the bathroom. Closed my eyes as I leaned against the towel rack, my mind and body noodle-limp. I twisted the shower knobs, and hot water blasted from the silver nozzle. I turned back to the sink, and stared at my reflection in the mirror as steam clouded its surface. I pulled off Monica’s T-shirt and boxers and stepped into the shower. I stood there, not moving, as water beat against my body.
I dunked my head beneath the stream, then scrubbed and lathered with Monica’s fancy shower gel. My muscles appreciated the movement and the manufactured scent of Clean Linen. My mind cleared, and oxygen shot through my invigorated limbs. I could’ve stayed in the shower forever…
I rinsed off, twisted the taps and stepped out into a cold, foggy world.
Words had been written across the mirror’s steamed surface.
I’LL LUV U 4EVER. TRU.
47
Monica didn’t speak as she poured coffee into three mugs. Leilani stood at the countertop and silently spread blackberry jam on toast. Moments before, I had burst into the kitchen, wet and naked, demanding that my friends see the message written in steam. By the time Monica and Leilani reached the bathroom, the words on the mirror had evaporated.
Monica slipped a cup of coffee near my hands, then sat at the tiny dining room table. “Don’t get mad at me for saying this,” she said, “but you need help. Maybe you should go someplace.”
I glared at her. “What do you mean by ‘someplace’?”
Monica hesitated before saying, “There are very nice centers or whatever that can help you figure all this out and help you get the rest you need. Don’t worry about the house, or the bills, or any of that. I’ll take care of everything. Just say ‘yes’ and I’ll get everything in place.”
Leilani smirked at me and cocked an eyebrow.
Monica touched my wrist, and said, “I’m only saying this—”
“Because you think I’m crazy,” I said, snatching away from her.
“Ghosts, Nicole?” Monica said, wide-eyed. “Ghosts that send text messages, hang paintings and write on mirrors? Does that sound normal to you?”
I glared at her and said, “Of course it isn’t normal.”
Monica said, “Lei and I don’t want you picked up because you broke down on the 405. Do you want The People carting you off to some asylum so that we’d never see you again? The State can do that, you know.”
“Yeah, a seventy-hour hold,” I said, “but I’m not—” What? Crazy?
Leilani reached into her handbag and pulled out a silver flask.
Monica watched as Leilani poured bourbon into her mug. “It’s eight in the morning.”
Leilani ignored her, and turned to me. “Didn’t Dr. Lucas give you something?”
“He gave me pills for anxiety.” I lay my head on the table, confused by Monica’s offer to help.
Monica smirked. “We should sue the Einstein in the lab coz them pills ain’t working.”
Leilani said, “You can come stay with me since Mo’s obviously tired of you.”
“I’m not tired of her,” Monica snapped.
“Why are you trying to foist her off on strangers, then?”
Monica slumped in her chair. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… Nicole, if you’re not ready to go, please stay. I just want you to be okay. But I also want you to be able to sleep and not be afraid.”
Leilani poured bourbon into my mug. “This will make the freak-outs go away.”
As Monica and Leilani prepared to leave for the day, I trudged back to the bedroom, my belly warm with Irish coffee, and climbed into bed. I burrowed deep into the comforter until I could no longer hear jingling keys and dishes clinking in the sink. I barely heard my friends shout their good-byes.
48
The telephone was ringing.
Knocked out of sleep, I sat up in bed. The comforter now lay crumpled on the floor. My shirt stuck to my skin, and I tugged at it with thick, sausage-like fingers. I glanced at the clock in the DVD player. Almost noon.
The telephone kept ringing and I ran to the living room to answer.
“May I speak with Monica Gladwyn?” a woman asked.
“She’s not here,” I said. “May I take a message?”
“This is Terese at Rayo del Sol. I was calling because Miss Gladwyn called
earlier today. She wanted more information about our services.”
“Rayo del Sol,” I said, scribbling the message on a notepad. “And that’s…”
“We’re a mental-health retreat located near Santa Barbara,” Terese said. “It’s a beautiful facility, gated and very private. Extremely discreet. Please tell Miss Gladwyn that she and her sister are welcomed to visit this week, if she wants. Who am I speaking—?”
I slammed the phone back in the cradle.
Monica didn’t have a sister. The only person she’d want committed still wore pajamas at noon.
Crap.
I closed my eyes and imagined being connected to wires, jerking from electric shock therapy, thrashing around in a straight jacket with stringy hair, using my feces to write “Truman” over and over again across the walls of my padded cell. Slowly and painfully dying while trapped in my twisted imaginations. Discreetly.
Monica wanted to put me away. And if I proved to be a danger to myself (almost burning down my house with candles was a decent start), she’d have Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institution Code to help her.
I rushed back to the bedroom and threw my clothes and shoes into a plastic grocery bag.
But now you know: you can’t trust anyone. Not even Monica.
49
Dr. Lucas didn’t ask me to undress. He listened as I told him that the Klonopin wasn’t working, and that I was still anxious, that my panic attacks were worsening.
“Strange,” he said. “It usually does wonders for people. Let’s try something else, then..” He pulled a drug catalog from his coat pocket and hummed as he flipped through the book. He grunted, then scribbled onto a prescription pad.
I waited, and peeled dry skin from my lips and watched the flakes gather on my knees.
He handed me the slip of paper. “This should do it.”
I studied his scribbles. “Does that say Xanax?”
He nodded. “It’s more powerful than Klonopin. Trust me: Xanax will definitely do something about your anxiety.”
The View from Here Page 17
