I didn’t need to know the name of Dan’s childhood pet to know he was meant for me, and I was meant for him. So if I was so sure about him, how could I not see this dark streak in his personality?
Maybe I had overlooked it. I’d fallen in love by then. I loved him, and I liked him too. I liked his simplicity. I liked his gainful employment. I liked his dedication; his work ethic, his cool job—search and rescue medic—and I liked that his friends called him ‘Dan the Man.’ There you go. Fantasy complete.
Except . . . this fantasy had just taken a hard left, veering into the realm of stark reality.
Bear and I jog up to the boardwalk and slow to a stop. Lines of big crumbly waves from the storm that blew in yesterday stretch around the promontory of Bird Rock, where surfers maneuver for waves. To my left, Pacific Beach pier marches toward the rosy horizon, waves smashing against the pylons. Down by the water, a lone couple walks together in the wet hand, hand in hand, jeans rolled up, bundled up in coats against the cold.
I’m winded, but I have still have gas left in the tank, and Bear is straining at the leash, so we turn south toward Mission Beach, while my mind continues to grind.
Erin said she had a recording of what happened that night between her and Dan, and she offered to let me listen to it. I declined, stunned out of my underpants. A photo and a recording? Good God.
This allegation could completely destroy Dan. And not a single person would refute her story. Even if Dan is somehow proven innocent, even if the picture is a fake, his life could be ruined with the accusation. His career that he’d bled and sweated for? Gone.
I can’t dismiss the possibility that the picture is a Photoshop. I know it’s possible. Did she show me a fake picture? I guess it doesn’t matter, because if the police decide to kill the image, she can kindly provide a voice recording instead. And finally, as if her photo and her voice recording weren’t enough, she left words of warning that continue to haunt me.
Because if he did this to me, he’ll do it to you . . .
And now, I regret letting the terrible topic of his whereabouts that night fade. I regret not asking twenty-one questions back when we were getting to know each other. I regret skipping the interview process. And I regret not prying open his black box before moving in together.
I start off at a fast pace, my legs turning to jelly. Bear stretches to keep up, his mouth open in a wide grin, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. And I keep running and running, until finally, I can’t run anymore.
11
GIA
So I made the doctor’s appointment. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe a body scan will help. Maybe I have a hormonal problem.
I don’t have any regular health problems to afford me a doctor acquaintance, so I flipped open my Blue Shield booklet and called the office closest to my house.
The following Tuesday, after talking to Mom, three days after my eventful sail with James and Nikki, I follow a nurse down the busy corridor into a bright exam room. I take a seat on the padded table, and the nurse takes my vitals.
She takes my blood pressure twice, as they always do when they discover my reading is ninety over sixty, followed by a little chat about salt.
Then she leaves. I pick up a gossip magazine and start leafing through it, hoping the doctor won’t knock yet. There’s a messy divorce I want to read about. Okay, done. I close the magazine and look around, hoping the doctor won’t take much longer.
Then I text Mom. She’s anxious for some comforting news. So am I. Over the course of the last few days, I tried to recover my long lost skill, concentrated so hard on making it happen that at one point I gave myself a headache.
When my friend Samantha invited me over for dinner, I stood in her kitchen and tried some laying on of hands. Maybe it’s touch activated, I reasoned. That didn’t work either.
She was a good sport though, and poured me a glass of wine for my efforts. While I drank, I gazed at a light socket. Maybe a little jolt would get things going.
I wasn’t stupid though. Before I stuck a butter knife in the wall and fried most of my brain cells, I ran my theory past Sam.
"You’ll kill yourself," she said, taken aback. Then she launched into another story about how she heard of someone who knew someone who . . . .
So, reluctantly, I made peace with the loss of my superpower. It was a fluke, an acid flashback, a bionic arm that had stopped working. Lightning struck, literally, followed by a flash of insight. Now, I have nothing but a good dinner party story.
There’s a quick rap on the door. A man walks though and introduces himself.
"Hi, I’m Dr. Keating." He shakes my hand, a firm grasp, and lets go. He’s pretty fit for an older man in his late fifties, I guess. His salt and pepper hair is styled back, his waist nice and trim, and his buttoned up shirt fits well. He’s wearing wears a stethoscope around his neck and stylish glasses. "How are you doing today?" he asks, shutting the door behind him and consulting his file. "Miss . . . Eastland is it?"
Suddenly there's a flutter in my stomach, and a word comes to mind as soft as a whisper. Surgery. My heartbeat picks up a little. Is my bionic arm back online?
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"Yes, sorry." I look away. "I thought I,"—Stop. Stop right there. Don’t you dare tell a board certified doctor that you think you heard a voice in your head. "I . . . had a little accident over the weekend. I wanted to come in and make sure there isn’t any lasting damage."
He pulls a pen out from his pocket and starts taking notes in my file. "Can you tell me a little bit about it?"
"Yeah, sure," I say relieved that he’s taking me seriously. Sam had pooh-pooh’d me. I’m ready to find out the truth of the matter, however depressing. "I went out sailing with some friends, and we got caught in a storm."
"The one that blew on Saturday?"
"Yes, that’s the one."
He whistles. "That was pretty bad."
"Yes it was. Lightning hit the boat and the electrical equipment got fried. The captain asked me go down below and flip the main circuit breaker. So I did, but I guess my hand slipped or something because I got a pretty bad shock."
"Okay. Do you have any idea how much power was on board?"
"No, but I could feel my hair stand on end though. I actually thought my heart would stop beating. Electrical impulses and all that . . ."
"Well, luckily, the heart is a pretty solid piece of machinery." He puts his pen down and walks to the edge of the exam table. "I’ll examine you first and see if I can find anything untoward. If you could lie back and relax . . ."
"Great. Yes. Examine away." I lie down, relax, and hope he finds something. Nothing deadly. Just something concrete.
He peers into my ears, my throat, and my eyes. He pokes around my belly, explaining that boats carry two types of power. Those made for the American market run on "one ten," meaning one hundred and ten volts. Or the boats destined for the international market, which sport a more robust package of "two-twenty," i.e. two hundred and twenty of those suckers. His boat runs on one ten, apparently.
"Both are survivable, in case you’re wondering. But there might have been some extra power stored up in the batteries that discharged when you flipped the master breaker," he’s telling me.
Then he asks me to sit up, and tests my reflexes, fires off my funny bone, and says that he can’t find anything untoward. He’s writing notes in my file, recommending that I "take it easy over the next few days," when the words flash in my mind: Surgery. Of the stomach.
The inkling turns into an urge. This is definitely the tentative return of my bionic arm. I’m excited, but nervous. I don’t want it to slip away again as elusive as a deer. I want to capture and keep it, but I don’t want smother it.
I definitely don’t want another James event. But I have a fleeting grasp on something powerful and mystic, something as delicate as a butterfly, something that I have missed.
Maybe I need to honor the inkling by speaking
it aloud.
My mouth goes dry. I clench my teeth as the words come to me again.
Surgery. Of the stomach.
My heart pumps fast. I feel a little dizzy, but I speak anyway. "Doctor Keating, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this, and—and please don’t think I’m crazy, but I need to tell you something."
"Mmhm?" He keeps writing.
"Something about a—a surgery . . . of the stomach?"
He stops writing mid-sentence.
She needs surgery. Of the stomach.
I swallow. "I mean to say, she needs surgery . . . of the stomach."
He looks up at me, eyes wide with astonishment. "How did you know that?" he asks, voice small with disbelief.
I grimace and shrug. "I guess, I’m psychic?"
12
GIA
Mom calls after my appointment with the doctor. I relate the most important detail: it’s definitely back.
Then I tell her how I shared my strange inkling with Dr. Keating, who told me about his wife’s ongoing mystery stomach complaint and the exploratory surgery that her specialist had recommended. Dr. Keating said his scientific mind wouldn’t allow him to believe in psychic powers, but he cited placebo affects and other scientific mysteries that given him pause over the course of his career. He said he’d talk to his wife and consider moving forward with the surgery.
So I left, feeling good. Feeling helpful. Feeling like maybe my ability won’t tear me apart again.
"So have you figured out how it works yet?" Mom asks. "I mean, do you have to say a magic word or something?"
I roll my eyes. "Mom, this isn’t Lord of the Rings."
"Well, how do you know?"
It’s a fair question.
I sigh. "I don’t know."
"Well, don’t you think we should try to figure it out? Maybe we should rule some things out."
"Like?"
"Well, like you said. You’re not a wizard, so it’s probably not word activated."
She’s joking. I think. "Yeah?" I ask, laughing anyway.
"And you said concentrating doesn’t seem help any."
"Mmhm."
"So try not to think too much about it because you can be really analytical, you know."
"Not that analytical."
Silence.
"Gia, remember that pie chart you drew up when you were trying to figure out if you should break up with that Marky guy? What was his name?"
"Mark Marshall." I forgot about that.
"Marky Marshall, poor guy. Awaiting the pie chart of doom."
"Mom, he turned out to be gay."
"He was?"
"Yeah, I told you. He took me on a date . . . to a gay bar."
Mom sighs. "Dating has gotten so complicated these days. I remember when I was your age, we didn’t have all this internet dating and swipe right crap . . ."
"Another bad date?"
Mom doesn’t reply. I had joined an online dating website and found Mom’s profile. Shock. Horror. Mom is a beautiful woman, but like all women in their fifth decade, she’s a little sensitive about her age.
Her profile picture featured a stunning ethereal headshot taken at the height of pixie hair 90’s. It was one of those weird things, when you discover something about someone who you think you know like the back of your hand. Then the mask slips a little, and you question your knowledge of that human. Was Mom really into online dating? She’d had plenty to say about the desperadoes on dating sites. And why hadn’t she put up a recent picture? It seemed a little dishonest.
But Mom had her reasons. She was eighteen when she got pregnant with me. Her father, Papa I called him, chucked the word bastarda around, wringing his hands with fear and anxiety and terrible, crushing disappointment. How could his good Catholic daughter get knocked up just out of high school? What would this mean for his only daughter, on whom he had pinned his hopes and dreams?
Nonna had a different view on the matter. She was a psychic much like her mother before her, making me a fourth generation psychic. She said my birth was written in the stars, albeit a little inconveniently, and that I’d become a powerful soul reader, one who would go on to help many people. So far, her prediction had proven to be questionable.
My grandparents, Nonna and Papa, had left behind their beloved Italy so that their daughter could have a life of options, of hope, of monney! And here, she’d gone and screwed it all up. "Santa Lucia!" Papa had cried, burying his hands in his thick hair. What now!
I can talk about this without fear of making Papa sound like an antiquated dickhead because he was there the day I was born, crying tears of joy when I came out yowling.
He was there, following the staff around with words of caution. "Gentile, gentile," he told any nurse who held me. Gentle, gentle.
"La luce de meie occhi," he said, when he finally got his turn to hold me tight. The light of my eyes. So Mom named me Gia, God’s gracious gift, because my birth was the most glorious day of her life. I like to remind her of that day, particularly when I spoofed her online.
"Who wants to talk about bad dates?" Mom asks.
"Me." And we both laugh. "Well, anyway, about my skill. So far, I’ve been physically close to both James and Dr. Keating when my ability started working again," I say.
"So that’s a common factor. And that makes sense because that’s how it worked last time."
"That’s true."
"However it unfolds, always remember to listen to the quiet spirit within," Mom says, in conclusion of our discussion about my budding superpower. "Listen with your heart, not your head."
The next day proves to be a gleaming Southern California day, the same as any other, except when a storm blows in and gives me back my psychic power. I used to get excited when a cloud appeared in the blue sky, signaling drizzle mayhap.
Now, I’m happy for the grinning sun. I’m happy for predictably uneventful weather because ever since my sailboat jaunt with James and Nikki, my life has turned upside down.
Furry Baby, the boutique pet shop where I work, is a great place for me to build back up my confidence with intuiting. As I ring up customers, I gently open myself up to other people’s energy.
Like putting on an old pair of house slippers, I’m finding that it’s comforting to have my old friend back, even if I am still shuffling around the house.
This is a little bit like hopping aboard a spaceship, handling my newly awakened ability. I feel like I’m sitting in front of the warp drive nozzle, not sure how much pressure to apply, not sure which solar system to aim for. The answer will come to me, I hope.
It’s closing o’clock. I need to rush home so I can take my dog Jack out for a wee; he’s been home for over five hours, well into the danger zone of another potentially ruined area rug.
I’m zeroing out the till, when I hear the front door jingle. Hopefully it’s the mailman, making his last zippy delivery for the day, and not an indecisive customer who wants to peruse the cat toy section. Does this one have organic catnip? I swallow the last dregs of my tea and look over at the door.
In walks a platinum blonde with slightly feathered (fried?) hair that reminds me of the eighties, but somehow it works for her. From her shoulder hangs a big Louis Vuitton bag. Her eyebrows are shaped in a pretty arch over her eyes. The tip of her nose is bulbous, but not in an unattractive way. Her plump lips—inflated?—balance out the nose.
"Hi," she says, walking toward me. She has a soft vulnerable voice, a stark contrast to her hard brown eyes. "I’m Erin, the manager of Nail Palace there across the street." We both look beyond the shop window, where she’s pointing with her long manicured index finger. In the distance, above the blur of rushing traffic, I see a pink crown with some pink words on a storefront that I never noticed before. "We have some awesome nail art girls. Next time you need to get your nails done, you should come by."
"Oh okay, thanks for the invitation. I haven’t been to a nail salon in forever though. A friend of mine got a terrible nail fung
us, so I just decided—"
"Tell me about it." Erin plumps her bag down on the counter and sticks out her right sandaled foot, wiggling her long toes. "See that? There was a fungus among us. I lost my entire toenail! It’s like having a deformity. So as you can imagine I’m super scrupulous about keeping things clean."
"Losing a nail is definitely not ideal," I agree, and then the words just come to me. Hemorrhaging money. "So how’s business?" I ask her.
She blinks, a little taken aback. "Um. Okay, I guess. The colder months are tough because people tend to wear closed toe shoes. That’s a fifty percent loss in revenue right there." She laughs. "Anyway, that’s why I’m visiting all my neighbors." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a flyer with the words ‘10% discount’ floating in a big pink bubble and hands it to me with a shy, embarrassed smile. "We’re offering a discount to all first time customers, so come by anytime."
"Yeah, I will," I’m saying, happy to help. But as I grasp the paper, a strange distant sound comes to me.
Chugga-chugga-chugga.
It’s a train, barreling down the tracks. Then I hear the sharp shrill blow of a whistle, and the ghost of a voice, too. With keen ears, I focus on the small wisp of a sound. What’s it saying?
Nine one one. What’s your emergency?
I step back, unnerved, setting the flyer down. After my sail with James, I’ve heard a lot of radio static: indecision at the kibble aisle, an attraction at the office gone wrong, and of course surgery of the stomach.
But this—this is something way beyond the usual. This is something tinged with shades of my friend Melissa, the one that I couldn’t save.
"Sorry, I have to get going," I say, busying myself. "I need to get home and take my dog out for a walk."
Keep Me In Sight Page 5
