the clairvoyant

fiction

Today is the third day in a row that I’ve missed work on account of being ‘sick.’ I’m not really sick; I just can no longer stomach the plastic surgeon’s office. All these older women and men and some younger women and men and they all chop themselves up. Their faces are wrapped in bandages and gauze, and often they are either dragged out or wheeled out by reluctant loved ones. They are terrifying monsters from horror films. And their stench. I can smell the open wounds.

Half the time patients come back unhappy with their results. Their noses aren’t pointy enough or their chins are still too saggy or their breasts feel mismatched. But Dr. J is a surgeon, not a miracle worker. Sometimes he will cut them open again and again until the patient gives up or runs out of money. Occasionally, patients will travel to Mexico for cheaper surgeries and return worse off than ever before. They never learn.

I have to remove myself from this vapid wasteland. I’m around people all day long. Checking in patients, directing family members, chatting with nurses, and assisting the doctor. But I have never felt so isolated. I have never taken a needle to the face. Or anywhere, for that matter. I am alone in this. I feel constant pressure that my lips are not plump enough. My arms and thighs are too thick. My forehead contains ripples of wrinkles. There are procedures for all of these things, but I don’t want to succumb. I don’t need it. I am young and healthy. I don’t want to be fooled.

I hear that Britney Spears song playing in the waiting room.

My loneliness is killin’ me

I love this song, but this time I hear it differently. My loneliness really is killing me. Because what is the point if I have no one? I have always wanted a partner. It’s really all I want. I would trade any riches I could ever have for someone to love me. Why is the one thing I desire most the hardest to obtain?

My dear friend, Destiny, suggested I speak to her psychic, who told Destiny exactly where and when she’d meet her husband. The psychic was entirely accurate. Maybe a session would put me at ease.

***

The Mystic Myrna has deep set wrinkles through her face. She has lived lives I can’t even imagine. She has seen things. She knows things. I can tell. Her aura is strong and mystical, her energy is penetrating.

I sat on the psychic’s waiting list for about a year. The Mystic Myrna is highly coveted and her fee for 1 hour is only $199. She should be a lot more expensive, but she actually wants to help people.

Myrna has an accent that I cannot trace, and I’m too nervous to ask her where she is from for fear of seeming ignorant. Possibly she is from the Balkans.

She beckons me into her apartment and guides me to a round bistro table in the kitchen. “Sit,” she says. I oblige. She pours something into a large glass cup and I wonder if it is some kind of potion. Maybe it is an energy-infiltrating potion for better psychic abilities. But then I realize that it is just cold brew. “Would you like some?” she asks. I shake my head, no. I’m already too anxious.

“Do you use anything for readings? Like crystals or cards or anything?” I ask awkwardly.

Myrna ties her black hair behind her head. “No, I don’t need.”

Myrna sits down across from me with her cold brew and sets a glass of water in front of me. I hadn’t realized how parched I’d been until I gulped the water.

“Don’t be nervous,” Myrna orders.

“Okay, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Okay.”

Myrna smiles. “It’s okay, I don’t bite.”

My shoulders relax a little.

“What do you want to know?”

I wrack my suddenly empty brain for a single thought. My mind instantly goes to Dr. J’s office and my stomach turns.

“Will I ever have a successful career?”

“Yes. You will write many books and you will sell many books.”

“Really?” At this point in my life, I have never written a book. I didn’t think I could.

“It is certain. It will take time, but yes. You will do it.”

“Wow.” I am a bit stunned. I’m not sure I believe her. Then I ask the question that really frightens me, “Will I ever get married?”

Myrna’s smile disappears. She looks at me. I can see it in her eyes that it’s not good, whatever it is. My heart drops. She narrows her thick fake lashes.

“It may not happen for a long, long time,” she says quietly after a long beat. “If at all.”

“If at all?” I echo. My heart thumps in my throat. I might throw up all over the Mystic Myrna. I hope she is a fraud. She must be a fraud. She’s not a psychic at all. She is a fraudulent, manipulative witch. My heart pounds faster.

Myrna nods.

“Will I find love, even if I don’t ever get married?”

“It is uncertain.”

“How is it uncertain?”

“The spirits do not wish to tell me.”

“What?” I can’t hide the tears in my eyes. “Why—?”

“Sometimes the spirits are quiet. Perhaps you are not ready to hear what they have to say.”

“Is that normal? That the spirits go quiet?”

“Sometimes, dear. It will be okay, you will have great success.”

“But–” my voice cracks. I am embarrassed to tell her I don’t care to have success if I don’t have love. It feels worthless. I feel worthless. A career is never going to love me back. What have I done to get me here?

“Cheer up, you will be a wealthy woman,” Myrna says. She takes my hand in hers. “That is the best thing.”

I leave in a daze. Myrna had more wisdom for me, but I didn’t hear anything else. My brain feels like it might implode. I can’t stop thinking i’m going to be alone forever i’m going to be alone forever i’m going to be alone forever.

My loneliness is killin’ me.

***

I keep falling asleep with mascara on and waking up with black goop crusted on my eyelids. I scratch the gook out and wipe it on my pillows. I told Dr. J that I was having a mental health crisis and I wouldn’t be coming back to work for a while. He didn’t ask any questions. All he needed to hear was ‘mental health crisis’ and I’m sure he had his assistant put out a LinkedIn ad for a new receptionist.

What do I do now? I think to myself. It’s all I can think of. I feel completely unmoored. My worst fear has been confirmed. I don’t know who I can go to with this information. I don’t want to be told I’m crazy, even though I feel entirely crazy. But I know Myrna is right. I must have always known and that’s why I’ve always feared it.

I call my best friend.

“It’s freaking me out to even talk about it.” I whisper into the phone.

“What is it? You’re scaring me.” Nellie replied.

“I went to a psychic.”

Nellie exhales a sigh of relief. Then her tone becomes sharp. “Don’t play with me like that.”

“The psychic said I will never find love.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“She said those exact words?”

“She said ‘it is uncertain’ and that the spirits didn’t want to tell her. That to me sounds like a resounding No.”

“Oh, well she’s obviously just trying to get you to go back and pay her more money for another reading. If the “spirits” didn’t want to tell her.” She scoffs and I can picture her air quotes around “spirits.”

“Nellie, this is serious. I know it’s true. This is Myrna.”

“Myrna, who? It’s not true. First off, whoever she is, she’s probably a scam. Second, you are just feeling down on your luck. She took advantage of you. I promise you, you are not destined to be alone. Or cursed. Or whatever.”

“But what if I am?”’

“You’re not. End of story. Listen, I love you and it’s all going to be okay.” I hear honking and what sounds like seven separate sirens in the background. “I gotta go. I have to pick up Jacob from daycare. I’ll call you later!”

Nellie hangs up and I’m left feeling worse than before the call. I go to the liquor store and buy a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes. I return home and down three glasses before I light an American Spirit. Then I kick myself for buying American Spirits. I don’t even like them. Halfway through the cigarette I put it out. I can’t finish it. I kick myself again for not even being able to succeed at self destruction. I should’ve gotten the 27s.

I decide I want a hamburger. I haven’t eaten red meat in years. I’m a bit tipsy. Not drunk. Perfect time to drive.

I get in the car and cruise down Santa Monica Boulevard. I imagine crashing my car. I imagine wrapping the passenger side around a pole. I imagine driving straight off a bridge. It would be so easy. If I do it right, maybe even painless. But probably not. Odds are the smashing of metal into my soft soft skin would hurt a lot.

While waiting in the In N Out drive thru I draw all over my arm in black ink. Maybe I’ll get a sleeve of tattoos. Maybe I’ll cover my entire body with tattoos. I don’t have to worry about a potential life partner ever having an opinion about my body–tattooed or not. I draw flowers along my wrist. Then I imagine the pen is a switchblade. It would be so easy.

My order is ready and I sip my Diet Coke and I want to die slightly less. I put the carby red meat to my lips and feel a small rush. The rush is short lived. I am back to feeling miserable within minutes.

At home, I finish the bottle of wine. It’s been a long time since I drank an entire bottle. I always thought drinking made me unsightly. Or that it would make me unlovable. Now I know that I am unlovable either way. I open a small bottle of tequila, a gift from a coworker that I hate. I had no intention of ever drinking it. Until now. Down the hatch it goes.

I scroll through my phone as the tequila addles my mind. My disgust towards happy couples dissipates a bit. A post pops up by someone who was friends with my ex-boyfriend. The only person who has ever truly loved me. Clay. He actually did love me. I search his account and see his familiar image. He has the same icon photo as when we were dating, which is a photo I took. I knew he still loved me. I am relieved. I look at his tagged photos and my hope is extinguished. There are several photos of him with a blonde girl. In an instant it is clear to me that they are together. Together in a serious way. My heart drops to my feet. The euphoric drunk feeling I once had sours into a masochistic anger, threatening to bubble over. I light another American Spirit and furiously inhale the smoke. I nearly cough up a lung. I open my laptop and type one way flights to Paris. I book a flight for the morning after the next. I’ve never been to Paris and it has always been my dream to go. Might as well cross some things off my bucket list before I kill myself.

***

I swallow a Xanax right before takeoff. Another thing I haven’t taken in ages. My panic attacks have mostly subsided over the last several years, which is an incredible feat. But since my psychic experience, I am no longer so calm. The Xanax cradles me until I fall asleep way in the back of the plane in 27B. Why didn’t I spring for first class? Or at least just a window seat? Money means nothing to me anymore. I won’t need it for much longer, anyway.

I wake up groggy at Charles de Gaulle. People are spitting French at me and it is simply not computing. My high school-level French is not what I had hoped it would be. In the car from the airport, my spirits lift. I am confused and exhausted, but Paris is the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. I feel something bubbling up inside me, something not familiar to me. I see several boulangeries and my mouth waters at the sight of croissants and pain au chocolat and stunning French baguettes. A tear appears in the corner of my eye. I realize what I’m feeling might be labeled as joy. Wow. All it took was an 11 hour flight to France.

I reach my hotel and my room is quite small and cramped for American standards. But it is okay, it’s just me staying here. It will only ever be just me. But, then again, I can do whatever I want. I waltz down the streets of the third arrondissement until I find a sweet little cafe with bikes parked outside. I order a sandwich au jambon and a verre de vin and open a pack of Lucky Strikes because it is 11am and there is an ashtray at my table and that is perfectly acceptable in Paris.

I love Paris instantly. More than I’ve ever loved a place. There are jardins everywhere and the Eiffel Tower is actually cool, unlike every other tourist attraction in the world. The food is divine and cheaper than I thought. On every corner there are chocolates or macarons to be had. The streets are charming, romantic. The architecture is even more spectacular. The museums are mind blowing. The metro is confusing, but so is the metro everywhere else. The Parisiens are rude, yes, but so are Americans. I don’t care about winning over the Parisiens, so it doesn’t really bother me.

At night I go to a wine bar, of course. It feels oddly like some of the wine bars I’ve been to in LA. Except the wine is better and people actually talk to each other. They don’t just huddle in corners and gossip with their friends about their other friends that aren’t currently present. I show up to the wine bar alone. I’m getting more used to doing things alone. I sit by myself outside and pull out my pack of Lucky Strikes, despite not wanting to actually smoke them.

“A beautiful woman should never light her own cigarette,” a man with a gruff accented voice says.

I look up and a handsome man with tan skin and tight curls is peering down at me. He wears a thin camel colored crew neck, well-fitting olive pants and a silver chain hangs around his neck. Very Euro.

“Light me up,” I reply as I pop the Lucky Strike into my mouth.

“May I sit with you?” He asks. He meets the flame to the end of my cigarette.

“Sure,” I answer as I exhale a plume.

“What is your name? You’re Americana?”

“Yes, I am Americana. You can call me Shirley.” Shirley is not my real name, but I don’t feel like telling him anything about myself. I am a mysterious woman in Paris and that is all.

“Shirley. I am Marco. I was captured by your beauty.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He takes out his own pack of cigarettes and lights one. He smiles at me and I see the yellow in his teeth. I don’t mind it. Seems he’s living his life.

“Where are you from, Marco?” I ask.

“Madrid. Have you ever been?”

“No, sadly. Maybe one day.” I lie. I doubt I’ll ever make it there.

“You must come. It is a beautiful city, rich in culture.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“What are you doing in Paris?”

“It’s cliché, but I just wanted to escape.” I tap the ash off of my cigarette. “Why are you in Paris?”

“I come here every few weeks. I also like to escape.” He smiles and leans closer to me. I can smell his too-strong cologne mixed with tobacco stink. I don’t mind it. “Can I show you the best view in Paris?”

“Can I finish my wine first?” I ask.

“Of course, mi amor.”

Oh, God. Here we go.

Marco takes me for a ride on his Vespa. I’m not surprised in the slightest that he has a Vespa in a city he does not live in. I don’t take even a moment to question it. He takes me down a lovely cobbled street and parks outside a massive wooden door. It looks like it could be a church, but apparently it is just apartments. Everywhere in Paris is a fairytale. We scale several flights of thick stone stairs and I become slightly dizzy. From the bit of wine and nicotine and not eating enough. Really I’ve only been ingesting bread and butter.

We reach the top floor and he pulls a ladder down. He climbs up and unlatches the skylight. It opens and he crawls out. I follow. Once on the roof, I see the entire city sparkling below me. My breath catches and my eyes tear up again as I’m faced with so much beauty.

“Wow,” I whisper.

Marco wraps his arm around my waist. We stand there for a moment before he turns me to him and kisses me. He uses his tongue forcefully and I feel like I don’t know how to kiss anymore. Like maybe I’ve never known how to kiss. I leave my body momentarily. And then I remember. I’ve been here before. On a rooftop with a stranger. My heart pounds and I push Marco away.

“What’s wrong?” He pulls me back in.

“I don’t feel well.”

“Oh, amor, it’s okay. You are with me, you are safe.”

Only I’m not safe. I don’t know him. He is a stranger. I realize I don’t know where I am or how to get back to my hotel. I could be trapped.

“I need to go. Can you take me back to the bar?”

“Of course, amor.”

I wish he would stop calling me that.

I dismount the Vespa in front of the bar and wave a quick goodbye to Marco. I run straight for the toilet and vomit. I’m not sure why I’m vomiting, if it’s the food, the wine, the constant smoke inhalation, or the traumatic event I experienced encircling my mind. Probably the latter. Once I have excavated my insides, I raise my head and find more tears in my eyes. I wipe them carefully with the razor sharp toilet paper. When I emerge from the bathroom, Marco is gone. I am quite relieved. I walk back to my hotel and think a little more about death.

At my hotel, I sit down and write. Another thing I’ve been neglecting as I thought it didn’t matter. Something inside of me needs to come out. I write and I cry and I write and I cry until the sun peeks out above the clouds and I have no tears left. I sit in the emptiness in my hotel room. I look out the window at the beautiful city of Paris and I feel nothing. The novelty has worn off. It’s time to go home.

On the plane ride home, I take a Xanax but it only allows me three hours of sleep. I wake up and begin editing what I had written in the little hotel room. I have a layover at Newark airport and I continue editing over a styrofoam container of Singapore street noodles. The last leg of the trip I finish editing, my body feeling both wrecked and somehow at ease. I send it to Nellie and she has somehow just met an editor. This editor gets my piece published.

***

To this day I am asked about that story. And I think about how if I had never gone to see Myrna I wouldn’t have spiraled into a manic state, quit my job and gone to Paris. And I wouldn’t have written that story. And I wouldn’t be writing this today.

She was right. I did sell many books. It did take a long time. And it is the best thing.

I understand now why the spirits went quiet. I was asking the wrong question.