The Story of You and Me

by DuMond, Pamela

  I’d read and re-read Lizzie Spark’s books since I stumbled upon them several years earlier. Her first: You Can Heal—No Matter What. Her second: Heal Your Disease—Naturally. And her third: You are the Healer—Not a Disease. And now here I was, in her waiting room, just moments away from talking in person with the woman, the legend, the diviner.

  The light was fading outside in a muted display of colors over the Pacific Ocean, maybe only a mile or so away. Wow. Gorgeous. Even though I had been nervous as sin about doctors injecting my spinal cord with stem cells, everything about today had gone easy peasy. The polar opposite of yesterday.

  Indira touched her headset. “Okay. Yes.” She nodded at me. Goosebumps grew on the back of my forearms. “Lizzie can see you now. Come with me.” She beckoned. I followed her as we walked through a doorway and down a narrow corridor lined with framed healing symbols on the walls. Indira opened a door for me. “Good luck!”

  It seemed wherever I went in Los Angeles someone was wishing me good luck. I wasn’t going to complain. I’d take all the luck I could get and then some.

  * * *

  I was in a small room with one barred window that was cracked open. I sat scrunched forward on an older upholstered chair. A single lamp rested on a side table next to a big cushy armchair where Lizzie Sparks sat across from me and held my hand. Even in this dim light, considering Lizzie was close to seventy, she was gorgeous. She had silver hair, high cheekbones and looked fit. I knew she was the medical intuitive to the stars but she wore unpretentious khakis and a floral peasant top. I hoped I would be lucky enough to look like her when I hit her age.

  If I hit her age.

  “You’ve traveled a long distance to be here, Sophie. You want answers about a disease that you were diagnosed with not too long ago. Your disease is early onset, but I sense it has already given you several debilitating symptoms.”

  “Yes,” I said. I really enjoyed the tremors that would come out of nowhere, the weakness, fatigue, dizziness and quite possibly my favorite symptom: a random seizure.

  Lizzie’s face was still. “You fear your symptoms will increase.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been through radical change in the past year. You had seizures, experienced blind spots. Your boyfriend left you. This hurt. Caused you pain. But you knew he wasn’t the one.”

  I nodded.

  “You came to L.A. to find someone.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I came to L.A. to find healing.”

  “Healing doesn’t necessarily arrive in the package or the pill that we think it will come in. We picture how our lives are supposed to play out. How healing is supposed to look or feel. But you know the old saying?”

  “Which one?”

  “Tell God your plans and then listen to her laugh.” Lizzie squeezed my hand and smiled.

  Laugh about this, God. I wasn’t expecting MS. Yes my Nana had it, but my mom didn’t and I thought I was free and clear. I was graduating high school and accepted at U of Wisconsin, Madison. I wasn’t anticipating that I’d have to stay closer to home and go to U of W, Whitewater. I was planning on majoring in pre-law—not being a guinea pig in a medical study.

  “Ms. Sparks. Do you have any intuition or feelings or a sense of who I should see or where I should go while I’m here in L.A.?” I asked.

  “Close your eyes,” Lizzie said.

  I did. We were both silent and held hands for a few awkward moments.

  “Your heart is closed,” Lizzie said. “Your heart is closed down, shut tight, locked up. And you are scared to open it. Go to the healers who can open your heart.” She released my hand but rubbed my arm maternally. “Does that make sense?”

  “No. I don’t know who can open my heart.”

  She was being too generic. She could be saying these things to anyone. I came here for answers. I didn’t come to be coddled.

  I pulled a list of names of healers and healing clinics from my purse that I’d printed out and thrust it in front of Lizzie. “These people, these types of healing? I’ve read about all of them. They all claim to have success for diseases like MS, Lupus, even Huntington’s and/or certain types of cancer.” My hand that held the paper shook a little.

  I heard the nurse’s voice in my head, “Take it easy for a few days, Sophie. Give your body a chance to rest. This isn’t a suggestion. It’s an order.”

  Lizzie beckoned to me with her index finger. I gave her the list. She picked up a pair of glasses from the side table, slipped them on her face, clicked her table lamp to a brighter level and perused it. Shook her head, grabbed a pen from the table and drew brisk lines through people’s names, their occupations and contact information.

  “Don’t ask me why I’m doing this. I don’t want to bad-mouth anyone. Feel free to ignore my recommendations. Let’s just say I’ve been in this business for a long time and know the good ones, the opportunists, and jury’s out on a lot of other folks.” She handed the paper back to me. About a third of my potential saviors had inky black slashes through their names and contact information.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Out of all the people left, who should I go to? Who should I trust?”

  “Considering you don’t trust anyone right now—including me? I’d say that’s going to unfold pretty quickly. You already set your intention to explore healing. You put it out into the universe and prayed about it. The wheels are turning and the right people—and believe me that does not mean they’re all loving and kind—but they are exactly the folks you need because they facilitate your lessons. The right people are being cast, just like actors in a play. I bet they’re already showing up in your life.”

  “Okay,” I said. Why wouldn’t she be more specific? I wasn’t here for something I could read in one of her books.

  “What happened to your face last night?” she asked.

  My hand flew to my cheek. “Some drunken asshat pitched a beer bottle at another guy. His aim was a little off.”

  “That’s not the easiest way to spend your first night in a new city. Even though you hate hospitals, looks like someone took good care of you.”

  There was a gentle knock on the door. “Come in,” Lizzie said.

  Indira cracked the door open and whispered, “Your next client is here.”

  I got up from the chair and walked toward the door. “Thank you, Ms. Sparks.”

  “Wait,” Lizzie said.

  I stopped in my tracks and faced her.

  “I don’t make a habit out of asking folks this but you’re on a bit of an extraordinary journey. Keep me updated on how it’s going? I’m primarily a medical intuitive but only possess a pinch of psychic ability. And by the way, no extra charge for future check-ins.” She pointed to Indira. “Note that.”

  Indira nodded, pulled a card off the side table and handed it to me. “This is Lizzie’s private e-mail.”

  “Use it,” Lizzie said.

  “I will.” I palmed it. “Thanks so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Be sure and tell me his name when you realize who he is.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come with me.” Indira reached for my hand and gently tugged me out of the room, down the hallway.

  Chapter Five

  I paid Lizzie Sparks’s two hundred dollar consultation fee on my Nana’s credit card. And just like that I was back out in Venice proper. The sun had set and there was a chill in the air as the beach fog had rolled in, obscuring light and buildings and further confusing my sense of direction. Or lack of it.

  According to my research, Venice was this super cool place that was the surfer capitol of the world—Dogtown—like thirty years ago. I longed to see its funky boardwalk with tattoo parlors, grungy art and T-shirt shops, tarot readers and medical marijuana stores (I might or might not inhale), as well as Muscle Beach. But I wasn’t in that section of Venice. Technically, I was in the ’hood section of Venice—after dark.

  I squinted at my hand-written directions as I tried to walk back the
way I came. But it just wasn’t happening. The houses looked different. The streets appeared similar, but dissimilar, all at the same time. Maybe because it was nighttime? I pulled my phone out of my purse to check an app for directions. But my phone was dead. The idiot from the night before now owed me a phone as well as the bill for my ER visit.

  I paced down small blocks, rounding corners. But no matter what street I turned on, I still couldn’t find Lincoln Avenue. Lincoln was the thoroughfare with the buses that would take me back to my new temporary home close to USCLA. I trudged past a large, unkempt park where some older kids and young men in sleeveless T-shirts and shorts sunk low on their butts played a pick up game of basketball. “Hey guys! Could you point me in the direction of Lincoln?”

  Their game stopped for a second as they checked me out. “You a tourist?” A young twenty-something white guy with a shaved head whose arms and neck were tatted up asked, as he bounced the basketball. “You lost?” He cocked his head, eyed me up and down and licked his lips. He walked toward me, still bouncing the damn ball.

  I was not only totally lost, but now also freaking out. Crap.

  “No, not a tourist! Definitely not lost!” I said. “My ride’s on their way. I think I just missed the cross street where I was supposed to meet them. Where’s Lincoln? Could you just point me in the direction of Lincoln?”

  “I do believe Lincoln’s in a tomb some where and has been for a while.” His shorter, uglier and even more inked up friend also ambled toward me.

  “Hah!” I backpedaled. “You guys are hysterical.” I pulled out my phone and punched a number. “Hey, yeah, it’s me. You’re right around the corner? Great!” I said into my dead phone.

  “I’ll show you where Lincoln is, sweetheart.” The first guy smiled and kept moving toward me, a smug look growing on his face.

  “No problem. I’m cool. Thanks!” I turned and resumed walking. Fast. I broke into a sweat and reached the chain-link fence that surrounded the park. Passed it. Phew. I was in the clear.

  There was a loud rapid shuffle of feet as two rough large hands grabbed me, spun me around and slammed me face first into the metal fence. Their owner pressed himself against me from behind. I felt one of the bandages on my spine rip away from my skin. “Most of the tourists are a little closer to the beach. You coming here, all by yourself tonight, is kind of a treat.” He ground his pelvis against my backside.

  He was growing harder by the second. Not a turn on. Definitely not welcomed.

  I was nineteen, and like most girls my age, I’d been groped a few times—at a packed dance club, in the stands of a football game and once at a high school graduation party. I’d managed to make it through these random assaults with a little dignity and maintained my choice for when I decided to have sex for the first time, as well as whom I’d share that crossroads with.

  “A treat that my buddies and I might not be able to resist.” The skinhead grabbed the waistband of my pants with one hand and yanked them. But my jean capris weren’t giving.

  And neither was I. A wave of anger surged through me. Last night’s assault was unavoidable. Tonight’s didn’t have to be. “Go fuck yourself!” I slammed the back of my head into his face.

  “Ow!” He released his hold on me. “Bitch!” he exclaimed. Which was my opportunity to run.

  And I did. I raced down the block. I still didn’t know where Lincoln was and at this point I didn’t care. Just needed to make tracks.

  “You cunt! You broke my nose!”

  I stopped for a heartbeat, swiveled my head and eyed him, panting. He clutched his nose, which was trickling blood. Probably less blood than my face had oozed the night before. “Then maybe, you Pintdick loser, you need to stop attacking women half your size.”

  His friends stopped in their tracks bent over, clutched their stomachs and laughed out loud.

  I continued running. Yes, I was an idiot for stopping, let alone delivering fighting words, but my adrenaline was sky-high.

  “Yo, Oscar! A chick half your size takes you out?” one of his friends said. “Instagrammed it. And I’m sharing it with everyone!”

  “Pintdick?” another friend snorted. “You ground it against her and she didn’t feel anything? It’s confirmed. Pintdick Oscar it is!”

  * * *

  I found my way back to Lincoln Avenue and staggered toward a bus stop a little over a block away. I was sweaty, messy and sensing a pattern here. The stop and go traffic had let up and cars rushed past each other. The occasional jerk cut someone off and horns blared. Tall streetlights overhead sliced through the beach fog casting weird illuminations onto the pavement and people below.

  I trudged past a crowd of trendy attired twenty-somethings who posed like zombies had bitten them. They stood in a block long line that snaked into the entrance of a two-story brick building.

  I was so tired, so out-of–it, again, that the midwesterner in me found it comforting to see a brick building in L.A. I stopped for a second to catch my breath and took in the sign on its frontage. It featured a foreign name in large block styled font. “Is this is a local nightclub?” I asked a girl in line.

  She wore too much makeup and huge black sunglasses. She slid them down her nose and regarded me like I was a bug that had splattered onto her windshield. “It’s a sausage restaurant.”

  My eyes widened as I gazed up and down the long line of hipster people. “You’re waiting in line for… sausage?”

  “Thirty minutes. The chef worked at Zertie’s before he opened SpreckenZie. This place has the best sausages in L.A.”

  I shook my head. “You all need to visit Wisconsin.” I resumed walking.

  “Your face is bleeding, you know.” The girl pushed her glasses back up her face, shrugged her shoulders at her friends who giggled and then ignored me.

  I’d almost made it to the bus stop. My face hurt: especially the part that had been shoved up against the fence. I was outside the pet store. Tall bright security beams fixed close to the top of the building illuminated their parking lot. A tiny light in the store’s interior hovered over the cage of kittens in the window.

  All that lovely adrenaline was draining from my body, leaving me weak and tired. Or maybe my exhaustion was from going under general anesthesia while they pumped my spine full of stem cells.

  My second night in L.A. might have been shittier than my first night.

  But the store with its decent lighting seemed like a safe enough place to stop, catch my breath and rest for a moment. I glanced behind me—no Pintdick or his pals. Thank God. I rested my hand against the store window. I heard a few tiny squeaks. Oh, please, no rats or mice. But the peeps were coming from inside the store.

  I peered into the window. All the kittens were sleeping with the exception of the longhaired black one I’d noticed earlier. He wrestled a pink fuzzy toy about half his size; gripping it with his two front paws, biting and kicking it repeatedly. “You are too cute,” I said.

  He dropped the toy, toddled to the window, looked up at me and meowed, mouth wide open. Something stirred in my chest.

  “Your heart is closed down, shut tight, locked up…” Lizzie had said. “Go to the healers who can open your heart.”

  Lizzie Sparks’ comments did not apply to a cat.

  “No,” I said. “No freaking way I need a cat right now. I give you major points for being charming and I’ll say a prayer that the right person adopts you soon.” I tapped on the window right over his fat funny face. He stopped meowing. I swear he squinted and frowned. I frowned back, forced myself to leave and walked the few steps toward the bus stop.

  A disheveled man wearing pink robes with a long gray beard that matched his hair stumbled from a doorway onto the sidewalk in front of me and yelled, “Hare Krishna! Hare Rama!”

  I quite possibly jumped two feet in the air. “Hare awesome!” I veered around him and made it to the curb where I huddled on a small metallic bench under the bus sign as the Big Blue Bus approached.

  * * * />
  I sat on that hard industrial seat through the forty-odd bus stops from Venice to Westwood. My bones ached. My back spasmed. My face hurt. My thighs cramped—probably from all the sprinting to get away from some asshat or crazy person that showed up in my play. Because this was, according to Lizzie Sparks, my intention. Hah! Like I really wanted a skinhead rapist and a man wearing pink robes to be in my play.

  My mom had not wanted me to come to L.A. for the stem cell program. She said something would open up in Madison or Milwaukee or Chicago. But I hadn’t told Mom about my other reason for coming here. She most likely assumed I was simply being a typical stubborn nineteen-year-old college girl who needed to leave home and act out my 90210 fantasies. But that wasn’t the reason I’d picked L.A.

  I loved my mom. She was the hardest working single mom I’d ever met. (Yes, I was prejudiced.) But there came a time in a girl’s life where one had to move a bit away from parental approval, even if that meant doing something pretty big that one’s parent didn’t approve of. That time was now.

  An hour later the bus pulled up at my stop and I held onto the handrail as I descended its tall stairs. It seemed like today was the longest day ever. But that couldn’t be possible, because yesterday was the longest day.

  Cole was outside my apartment with Gidget. She sniffed the grass, squatted and piddled as I approached my door. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I searched through my purse for my keys. “Why?”

  “You look even paler than yesterday and you’ve got some blood on your cheek.”

  The poser girl was right. Pintdick’s assault had re-opened one of my wounds. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I saw flowers on your doorstep this morning. And this afternoon some gorgeous man with shoulders I’d kill for dropped off a basket of cookies.”

  I glanced down and saw a basket on my doorstep with tinfoil tightly wrapped around something inside. “How do you know that basket has cookies?”