Over the past ten days, he’d driven me to Hollywood where Dr. Susan Deffer, a middle-aged chiropractor, adjusted my spine with gadgets that sounded like power tools. He’d chauffeured me to Mrs. Sweet Tea, an aura healer in Compton and then to Stanislaus, a Phrenologist in Gardena who studied the bumps and grooves on my head.
The power tool chiropractor gave me a womping headache (yes, this could have been a healing “crisis”). Mrs. Sweet Tea said I had a gaping hole in the third chakra of my aura, which sadly, was a dark golden color. This hue signified that I’d been trying to make up for lost time. She waved her hands over me slowly and intensely for about forty minutes as I lay on a cotton-braided rug on her living room floor. At the end of our session she advised me to stay out of the sun for a day to allow my aura to knit. Then offered me peaches from her fruit tree in the back yard. I took her up on the peaches.
Stanislaus gave me a scalp massage for a half hour (very nice, but not as great as Alex’s shampoo), oohed and aahed over the bumps and dents in my head (I was a klutzy child) and declared I was over-thinking everything and was pre-disposed to anxiety. Should I continue on this course, I would most likely develop an autoimmune disease someday. Spot on, Stanny!
While my explorations were yielding a variety of results, I had to admit that ever since I’d hired Alejandro to drive, everything was going smoothly.
Until today.
Today we were stuck in gridlock traffic on the 10 Freeway as we snaked onto the 110 Freeway East into downtown Los Angeles. Apparently, getting anywhere in L.A. could take either a half hour or two hours. It all depended on the time of day, local disasters including earthquakes, helicopter chases of local bad guys (yes, they really did this in L.A.), or streets that were shut down for TV and or film shooting.
“Do you think we’ll get there in time?” I asked as we crept along the too-tall sweeping concrete curve of the 110.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. “When’s your appointment scheduled?”
“Six p.m.”
“Well, we’re a quarter past five with a couple miles to go. We could get there ahead of time, on the dot, or completely miss your meeting. I’m sorry. It’s L.A.”
“But this is one of the reasons I hired you!” I fumed. “I don’t know this city. You know it like the back of your hand. These appointments are important.”
“You already admitted I gave you a better scalp massage than Stanislaus.”
I shook my head. “Not every healer’s for every person.”
He glanced at me, skeptical. “I thought this was for research. For your book.”
“It is,” I said.
Even if technically there was no book.
“Maybe there’s someone out there who might read our book and find a healer or an experience that resonates with them. Maybe these interviews might help people. People who are sick or going through something painful or debilitating,” I said.
“You’re sweet,” Alex said.
I’m also a liar.
“I’m trying my best,” Alex said. “But you need to realize you’re not in Wisconsin anymore.”
“Trust me, we have crappy traffic in Wisconsin,” I said, knowing full well it was nothing compared to this. I stared at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on a nosebleed high ramp next to a huge building with a sign on it that read “The Staples Center.” “Isn’t that the place where you all have basketball games and hockey and concerts?”
Alejandro nodded. “I saw the Rolling Stones there a couple years ago. They blew my mind.”
A flatbed truck merging from a ramp swiftly angled in front of a Prius with a “Give Peace a Chance” bumper sticker and cut him off. The Prius man slammed his horn.
“Perhaps they blew his, too,” I said.
“Hah! Okay. I’ll get you there in time.” Alex veered onto the exit ramp.
I clutched one hand to my chest and raised the other to white-knuckle the handle above the side window. “Trusting you here.”
“Good. You need to put your trust in the right person. Got to be careful with that kind of shit.” He maneuvered down a few side streets. We passed skinny lots covered in litter. He gunned it—and we went fast, flying past a few disheveled homeless people pushing shopping carts. He hit the brakes when man in a BMW turned in front of us with no warning. Alex flipped on his turn signal and changed lanes as he accelerated around the asshat.
I flipped something different to Mr. Bad-Driver Beamer—my middle finger.
“Relax,” Alex said. “He’s just a bad driver. One out of a bazillion in L.A. Save your third finger salute for the real assholes.”
I felt a little nauseous, squeezed my eyes shut and put one hand on my stomach as we rounded a corner. “Did you know that Lambeau Field where the Green Bay Packers play is the only professional football stadium in this country that is still owned by a consortium of little people like you and me? Not some mega-corporation that’s touting office supplies or cell phones.”
“I admire that about Wisconsin.” He braked abruptly.
I whiplashed forward, then back in my seat.
“You should be proud to call yourself a Cheesehead. Open your eyes and drink in the majesty that is…”
I opened my eyes and gazed up at an overhead sign. “Chinatown,” I said. A large metal overpass that featured two golden snakes with dragonheads hissing at each other swooped over the road. “No way!” I said. “You got us here…” I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “…ahead of time!”
“I promised.” He pulled up next to a car and parallel parked. “And score. Metered parking space.” We were officially in L.A.’s Chinatown surrounded by Chinese signs, restaurants and emporiums. He hopped out of the car, jogged to the curb, opened my door and stuck change in the meter. “What’s the address?”
“Hang on.” I fumbled through my purse for my notepad.
“Why don’t you just enter everything into your phone?”
I pulled my book from my purse, flipped open to the page that was marked with a ribbon. “Because I like paper and pens, Ralph. I’m a little old-fashioned that way.”
“The infamous Ralph.” He followed on my heels. “I’m hoping this doesn’t mean that I make you nauseous. Like—” He opened his mouth and pretended to vomit.
“Oh, stop it.”
* * *
I’d filled out all the paperwork forms at Dr. Tung’s Acupuncture and Cupping Healing Center. (Could some university somewhere just award me an undergrad degree for filling out paperwork forms?) There were diplomas and a few framed pictures on the walls: A photo of Dr. Tung needling a famous athlete. A newspaper clipping of Dr. Tung smiling and shaking hands with the former Govinator.
Alex sat in a chair next to me and read a Chinese newspaper.
“Like seriously? You know Chinese?” I asked.
“No,” he whispered. “But thanks to my mom, I can spot coupons in any language. Maybe there’s a two for one coupon in here for acupuncture or whatever you’re here for at Dr. Tung’s Healing Center.”
“Have you ever been to an acupuncturist?” I asked.
“No. Needles scare me.” He flipped through the thin Chinese newspaper, scanning it from top to bottom. Then bottom to top.
“Me too, sometimes,” I whispered. “So why do you want a coupon?”
“Because I need to know more about your research. Understand more about what you’re doing. You know—for this book proposal that you and your grandmother are putting together. Maybe I could help you with that, too.” He flipped a page. “Found it.” He tapped the middle of the paper. “This ad features the name and contact info for an acupuncturist and it’s a two for one promotion.”
“Jeez, you’re good,” I said.
“You have no idea.” He winked at me.
“How do you know it’s a two-fer?”
“Because it says right here, ‘Two new patients treated for price of one’.”
“How can you know that unless you know a little Chinese?”
<
br /> “Because it’s printed in English,” he said.
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Smart-assery. Use your detective skills to find a Chinatown Dim Sum restaurant with two for the price of one,” I said.
I didn’t want Alejandro figuring out what I was really doing. I also didn’t want to lose him. He’d helped me so much—without pushing himself on me. He was hot, he was Alpha, but so far—he was safe. I wanted our relationship to stay that way. Casual. Helpful. Safe.
“Do you want me to ask Dr. Tung’s receptionist if they’d do a complimentary first time customer two-for-one needle thing?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Okay.”
“Wait a minute,” Alejandro said. “Ralph. Why didn’t I get this before?” he smacked his palm to his forehead. “Ralph’s that actor from The Karate Kid? Ralph Macchio? It’s him, isn’t it? It totally is. If it’s not—and you have to be honest with me? Then you can ask the receptionist if they would do a two for one.” He smiled. Smugly.
I stood up, grabbed the newspaper from him and walked three feet to the receptionist’s desk “Excuse me. I found a two for one coupon for a first time acupuncture appointment. Do you think Dr. Tung would honor… ”
Chapter Nine
I lay on a flat table on my stomach in a thin gown in a tiny room that had two narrow treatment tables. Posters of acupuncture dummies with meridian lines drawn down their bodies and little notations for needle spots like LI6, or BL5, were noted on the mockups.
Dr. Tung was an older gentleman with a thin earnest face and a crew cut of thick white hair. He poked acupuncture needles into my head, back, forearms, wrists, knees, ankles and feet. He twisted the needles until I felt burning, sizzling and tingling on most of the insertion points.
“Ow!”
“You are here for healing,” Dr. Tung said. “Healing sometimes hurts.”
“Yeah there, got it.” I breathed through my discomfort. I glanced at Alejandro who lay on his back on a table next to me also clad in a threadbare patient gown. Strangely, it suited him. His eyes widened as he watched what I was going through, most likely realizing—he was next. “Dr. Tung,” I said, “please be super gentle with the needles on my friend, Alejandro. He’s not here to heal. Or research. He’s just here to experience… life. I think.”
“Yes.” Dr. Tung gently stuck in a needle in Alex’s forehead. “Yin Tang. Third eye point.”
“Hey!” He jumped halfway off the table. “What are you doing? This feels weird.”
Dr. Tung put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down. “You have energy shut off from accident that happened about four years ago.”
“You were in an accident?” I asked.
“You’re not an official Angeleno until you’ve had your first fender-bender,” Alex said. “It’s practically a rite of passage.”
Dr. Tung stuck a needle in Alex’s chest and then—bam, bam, bam, three needles in his right ankle and foot. “You need to release that energy so chi flows. So life flows.”
“I’m not a human pin-cushion, you know?” He squirmed.
“Stop moving,” I said. “You’re going to screw up the needles. You don’t want to do that.”
Alex frowned but stopped fidgeting. “Fine. But, I’m doing this for you, Sophie.”
Dr. Tung stuck a few needles in his ear. And one in his nose.
He sneezed, which didn’t help matters. “Dammit!” He was filled with needles, half naked and wearing a stupid gown. He looked at me like a miserable puppy that was getting shots at the vet.
I started giggling. I knew it was wrong. Very wrong. But I couldn’t help it.
“Stop laughing,” Alex hissed. “You’re going to screw up the needles. God knows you don’t want to screw up the needles. Because we could actually be having a normal date.”
“But we’re not on a date,” I said.
“Whatever. We could be catching a movie. Going to a party. But no, we’re in Chinatown. And not for Dim Sum. We are quite possibly screwing up the needles.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “Dr. Tung. Dr. Tung?”
“Yes?” he asked.
“I think Alejandro needs his Yin Tang opened a teensy bit more.”
Dr. Tung moved toward Alex and eyeballed his forehead. He twisted the needle deeper.
“Ow!” He hollered.
“I come back in fifteen minutes. You two be quiet. Do not scare other patients.” Dr. Tung quickly left the room.
“This is like hitting me with the kickball in middle school, isn’t it?” Alex asked. A grin grew on his face. “I think this means you like me.”
“Get over yourself,” I said.
* * *
Summer school continued. I learned about genotypes and genetic predispositions. I even heard about the time, several semesters back, that a student in this class discovered the man who was raising him wasn’t, technically, his dad.
I talked to my mom. There had been no alien centipede invasion of my hometown but she did have news. Nana had decided to move out of our house into an assisted living retirement community.
“Why didn’t you talk her out of it?” I asked. “Like, what are we going to do without her? She’ll miss us. This isn’t good for anybody! If I was home I could have talked her into staying.”
“When’s the last time you talked your grandmother out of doing something she’d already decided?” Mom asked.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“I tried, Sophie. But she does what she wants when she wants. Besides, I think she’s tired of me mothering her. Or as she calls it, ‘smothering.’”
“What about coming out here to mother…I mean…visit me?” I cringed because I sounded like a needy child asking for attention. I didn’t want to be that person. Unfortunately, I was spot-on, exactly that person.
“I’d love to visit, kiddo. But right now I’m not going anywhere without your Nana. Talk her into it and I’ll book the flights.”
I called Nana and left numerous messages, which apparently she didn’t pick up or return. I yakked into her voicemail about the Pacific Ocean, the park where you could watch airplanes take off right over your head and even tempted her with the magical guacamole. When I finally got her on the phone I begged her to visit me in L.A.
“Sophie, my favorite granddaughter, I would give my left foot to see you.”
“Don’t do that, Nana. Promise me.”
“Okay. I’ll keep the foot. I’m finally unpacking the last of the boxes and settling into my new home.”
Duh. What was I thinking? Moving was a huge life transition, a shock to anyone’s system. Especially someone older, in their seventies. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have been there to help you.”
“You’ve got your own important things going on. Have you met new friends?”
“I think.”
“Be nice to them. Don’t be cactus-Sophie.”
“I am not cactus-Sophie!”
“Sweetie, you are beautiful. Strong. Resilient. A little prickly—like a cactus. You get that from my side of the family,” she said. “Don’t apologize for it. Just be aware of it.”
“Okay.” I knew she was totally right. “Have you met any new friends?”
“Yes!” She coughed deeply. “Hold on.” She coughed some more. Blew her nose. “Damn allergies.” She sighed.
“Are you okay?”
“Never been better! I have met new friends here, but they speak a foreign language. Because life is regrettably, short, I’ve decided to immerse myself in Berlitz to learn their foreign tongue. I hope to be able to converse with them in a more authentic fashion.”
“Nana, that’s awesome,” I said. “What language are you learning? Spanish? Italian? Chinese? Where are they from?”
“Skokie, Illinois, my bubbelah.”
“You’re learning Yiddish?”
“It’s a mitzvah, I tell you. Learni
ng new things keeps one young. We’ll see each other soon. Oh, I got a couple of charges for—”
“Are you still okay with that?” I asked. “Me going to the healers?”
“Stop asking,” she insisted. “You are young and following your dream. I want you to have that.”
She was astute, but she hadn’t figured it out yet. Which was a good thing.
“But—”
“No buts, Sophie. We’ve already had this conversation. You need to be exactly where you are, doing precisely what you’re doing. I must go. Esther Rosenstein is hosting a game of cards. I asked what I could bring and she suggested I give her a holler.”
I shook my head and smiled. “Challah, Nana. It’s a kind of yummy bread. I’m guessing she wants you to contribute some snackies. Have fun. I love you.”
“I love you too, my favorite granddaughter.”
I hung up the phone. I felt sad and happy and nostalgic all at the same time. And then I felt grateful I was here in L.A. On my journey.
* * *
Alex drove me to some more appointments: a yoga class where we breathed and examined our every movement, body posture, joint alignment and then chanted funny words. It felt wonderful and I felt incredible the day after this class: no twitches. No leg weakness. No lethargy. I wanted to go back as soon as possible.
But the next day I was scheduled to be at the generic waiting room at the vanilla medical center waiting to get my dreaded, ear-killing MRI done. They wanted to ensure that the stem cells hadn’t turned from good to bad. Because apparently, stem cells could be deceptive.
These cells that were meant to be potential healers could once in a while morph into monsters that could form tumors that would further disable or even kill people that were getting them. That included me. Yeah, life was a laugh a minute in L.A. as I lay on the imaging tube, was shuttled into the MRI tunnel and tried not to grimace through the machine gun and explosion noises as the medical device took pictures of my spinal cord. My mind desperately needed to escape from this freaking hellhole and that’s when I thought about him. To be honest, started to obsess a little about him.
The Story of You and Me Page 8
