Psychic Junkie (30 page)

I’d buy curtains, I decided. I’d find the money; I’d make it happen. I was debating over color—sage green would be soothing, white would be versatile—when the phone rang. Oh, right. I’m a psychic.

I shuffled the cards and concentrated. Angelique wanted to know about work, not love, as apparently she wasn’t happy at her job. That right there blew my mind. Her job was
testing psychics and getting free readings all day long.
Um, hello? How can I get your job? Immediately I decided that she was unappreciative and undeserving—though it did occur to me that testing psychics most likely involved getting readings from bad psychics, and I knew that even if a psychic was proven inaccurate, it was very difficult to forget their words. Poor Angelique. Within her brain must have been swarms and swarms of conflicting readings, all driving her batty. Then again, I had those swarms too, and yet I’d paid for mine. Yeah, no more feeling bad for Angelique.

I tried not to worry about what I was saying. I simply told the story of the cards and whatever else popped into my mind. I talked and talked, and when finally I was done, there was silence. I waited, nervously. For all I knew she’d set the phone on her kitchen counter ages ago, and was off doing laundry or polishing silver. Had I just wasted thirty minutes of my life?

“Wow,” she finally said, her voice a bit wobbly. “That was amazing. You were right on. I definitely want you on board. Can you start today?”

Thirty minutes later my e-mail in-box was flooded with forms, and I was horrified at how easy it had been to get a job as a psychic. Granted, there’s no Psychic University from which to graduate, or psychic internships to be had, but getting this job had been as easy as when I’d gotten my first job at Baskin-Robbins. No experience? Great, we’ll take you.

At any rate, I printed what they sent me, including a confidentiality agreement (hence I will be referring to said nameless psychic hotline as “Said Nameless Psychic Hotline”) and pages and pages and pages of a code of conduct. I’d stumbled upon a self-proclaimed “moral” psychic hotline. Endlessly they rambled on with their claim that the goal was not to keep the caller on the line longer than necessary, yet then, hidden as a footnote, was the information that our average call length determined our pay schedule. Huh. I assumed it worked like this for most hotlines, and flashed back to the many times I’d called psychics only to encounter an inordinate amount of shuffling or excessively long prayers to guides and the universe. The bastards.

I was no longer Sarah; I was Mirabel.
Yep,
I thought as I leaned back on my bed and flipped through a J.Crew catalog,
I’m Mirabel. Mirabel the Psychic. That’s me.
Now, for my first prediction as Mirabel: An actress, who still hasn’t gotten paid a dime for the movie she’s filming in a month, will spend an unreasonable amount of money on a pink cashmere sweater with sparkly rhinestone buttons, and will then tack on a pair of chocolate-brown high leather—

The phone rang.

I sat up. Shit. People really believed I was a psychic? I took a deep breath and plastered a perma-grin on my face. Not that anyone could see me, but I wanted them to
hear
me smiling, and perma-grins somehow come with sound effects.

“Hi! And welcome to Said Nameless Psychic Hotline! My name is Mirabel. Who’s this and what’s on your mind today?”

“Hi, this is Tisha. I want to ask about John. How’s he feeling about me?”

Without wasting time (money), I pulled the cards, my fingers flying. “I see that he’s very attracted to you, but he’s struggling with something. He’s feeling a lot of anxiety, like he’s torn in two. Does that make sense?”

“Uh-huh,” Tisha said, sounding bored. “He’s married. So, will he leave his wife?”

More than anything I longed to scream, “No! And damn you for even hoping for that, you evil husband stealer!” But alas, I’d been instructed not to judge the callers. Tisha, I’m sure, wanted to hear “Yes, he’ll leave her and you’ll be together, and now let’s do a reading on your big bright future with him.” Truthfully, that’s what most psychics would say because that’s what would keep her on the phone. Then, convinced John would leave his wife, she’d wait for that to happen. Then she’d wait some more, and call another psychic, wait, and call many more psychics.

Tisha’s emotional well-being was in my hands. Essentially, I was responsible for the next few years of her life.

“Well, Tisha, to be honest with you I don’t know if he’ll leave his wife. But maybe it’s time to ask what
your instincts
are telling you. And maybe it’s also time to ask yourself if you deserve to be with a man who’s available. Don’t you deserve that?”

And in response to this, in response to my attempt to spare her pain, to divert her from a psychic noose and to lead her down a much healthier, rewarding path, the little hussy hung up on me. Fine, don’t face reality. Whatever.

The phone rang again, and then again, and then again. Angelique had warned me this would happen, that everyone rushes to test out the new psychic. Whereas other readers might capitalize on this, I used the opportunity to spread my trust-your-own-

instincts mantra, a mantra, I might mention, that wasn’t so well received.

Soon my brain was fried and I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. I felt as if I’d taken on the weight of all the callers’ problems, and I literally ached from the strain.

The phone rang again.

“Hi. And welcome to Said Nameless Psychic Hotline. My name is Mirabel. Who’s this and what’s on your mind today.”

“Uh, yeah, this is Gina, and I’m wondering what Mirabel did to my friend Sarah?”

“You’re tying up my line. I’m a psychic.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m Mirabel the Psychic and for the last two hours people have been telling me their problems and then hanging up on me.”

“What an awesome job.”

“I have to do it. I’m on a covert mission.”

“Ah. Mirabel the
Undercover
Psychic?”

“Yes, but no one wants to hear that they should stop calling and just listen to themselves. I’m making
no progress
and am totally exhausted from trying to be nonjudgmental, sympathetic, and rational, and at the same time save these people from themselves.”

“So this means you don’t want to go bowling tonight?”

“What is it with you and bowling?”

“What is it with you and your
unacceptance
of bowling?”

“I gotta go. I’m taking one more call and then a three-hour bath.”

I hung up and stared at the phone. One more, just one more.
In fact,
I thought,
I’ll start running the bathwater now, and then, with my pathetic water pressure, the tub might be full in forty-five minutes.

Right as I cranked the hot water, I heard the dreaded ring.

Drying my hands on my bedspread—starting
tomorrow
I was going to care about my apartment—I did my hello and welcome bit and prayed for a call that wouldn’t be serious. I might even be able to handle a “Did my sister sleep with my boyfriend” call, as long as there was no crying. But really what I wanted was a simple call like “What colors should I have at my wedding” (something Gina had been tormented over since the engagement), or “Will I be forced to wear an ugly bridesmaid dress” (something I’d become tormented over once I’d realized that Gina saw her wedding as a chance to decorate, and couldn’t have cared less about fashion).

Unfortunately, I was to have no such luck in the simple call department. Joanie, from Virginia, started off with the not-so-encouraging-yet-not-so-awful question of “Will things improve between me and my daughter?” I figured I could handle this, until Joanie then continued with, “She’s going out with a
woman
, which is just wrong and a sin, and I can’t have that in my house. She asked if she could bring home this woman from college for the weekend, and I said no. No way was I gonna let that happen. Now we haven’t spoken since. Been about eight months.”

I heard my bathwater running. I envisioned my stress-relief bath soak.
Just get through this call,
I thought.
Just this one call.
And though I wanted to yell at Joanie for being homophobic and then inform her she was a horrible mother, I couldn’t do that. That wouldn’t help anything. Basically, I had only minutes to completely change this woman’s attitude and salvage her relationship with her daughter. What a way to end a day.

“Joanie, how old is your daughter?”

“She’ll be twenty-two next month.”

I was racking my brain for clever approaches. “Okay, so she’s young. She’s not going to settle down with anyone—man or woman—for a long time. And, actually, I feel that she
may
have a relationship with a man next, but if you don’t accept her for who she is now, she’ll never forgive you and the damage to your relationship will be permanent, which I see leading to years of unhappiness for you both. So tell me, why are you
really
upset that she’s with a woman? Because I do see pain around you, but it’s temporary pain, pain that can be worked through. Tell me how this hurts you.”

“I don’t know. It’s just
wrong
. It’s a sin, and I can’t wrap my brain around it.” Joanie gave a slight huff, and I swear I practically heard her shaking her head with scorn as she stared out the window of her double-wide.

Changing her views on morality was unlikely, not in ten minutes and not by a perfect stranger on whom she could just hang up. I had to be innovative. I had to find a way to basically sneak acceptance into her, perhaps by playing on her (well-hidden) mothering side. “Well,” I started with, “let’s look at the benefits of her being with a woman, shall we? She won’t get pregnant before she’s ready.”

“That’s true,” Joanie said reluctantly. “She needs to finish college. I’ve been telling her that since day one.”

“Right. So she’ll be able to finish school and won’t get
pregnant
.” “Pregnant” I verbally underscored as if it were the same as possession by the devil, which, in Joanie’s mind, it may have been. “Oh, and another big positive is you won’t have to worry as much about AIDS.”

Okay, I admit, I scrambled on that one. Though it seemed like transmission from woman to woman would be rare, I really wasn’t sure, and was pretty much banking on the strong hunch that Joanie had no clue about statistics, or science in general.

“AIDS’d be bad,” Joanie said. “That’s true. I don’t want her to get that. Maybe you are right. I never looked at it this way.”

“I am right. The
guides
,” I said, putting emphasis on “guides” because that word got people to pay attention, “are telling me very strongly that you need to accept your daughter’s relationship.”

Remarkably, we talked for another twenty minutes, and when we hung up, not only did Joanie have a new perspective, but my bath was also perfectly full and the ideal temperature—which, by the way, is a very tricky science.

Maybe it was easier for psychics who didn’t care as much about their callers, or psychics who didn’t take on the responsibility of their callers’ lives to the extent that I had, but this wasn’t something I could do every day. The mere thought of doing it even one more day made me want to cry from exhaustion and pressure. That last reading had been like the call that broke the psychic’s back, and though I barely had the energy to dump the entire jar of aromatherapy stress-relief bath salts into the water, there was practically a spring in my step as I went back to my room, grabbed the phone, and dialed Angelique’s number. I thanked her for the opportunity, said I just wasn’t cut out for the job, and quit. There. Done. No more.

Sinking into the tub, I couldn’t smell a thing, but honestly did feel stress relief like never before.

MAYBE BEING HAPPY IS THE NORM FOR OTHERS,
but for me happiness is a sign that something is different. An acting teacher once described me as “damp” and needing to find my “joie de vivre,” and though when he said this I was traumatized (and vowed to perfect the expressions of happiness and joy), years later I understood what he meant. Happiness is not my norm. Sadness is my norm, and being on the verge of tears and afflicted with constant worry is my natural state. Therefore, when it strikes me that I’m happy, it’s as shocking as if I’d discovered that overnight my brown eyes had turned blue.

Driving home from kung fu practice, two weeks after my short-lived career as an undercover psychic, I was in a rush to get home and get ready for a special screening of
Until the Night
, when I realized I was happy. Actually, initially I identified the sensation as “feeling strange,” and then I pinpointed that I
wasn’t worried about anything
. Then, once I went so far as to conclude I was in a good mood, it hit me: I was happy.

The last time I’d realized I was happy was long ago, on an exquisite day spent with Wilhelm discount-store window-shopping and then dining on lobster imperial, a day that had rendered me completely joyous. Yet the moment I’d identified my happiness, I’d fixated on the idea that it was only a matter of time before things went wrong, and I was immediately filled with an insurmountable sense of impending doom and disaster—at which point I promptly had an anxiety attack. But now? Now I was happy and wasn’t even
worried
about being happy. Was this a result of the endorphins from exercise? Was it the Zoloft? Or was it that I was two weeks away from filming, from being the star of a movie? Or, perhaps, it was the screening that night? Wow. It hit me I had a lot to be happy about. And I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d called a psychic. Maybe it was a few weeks back, but for me that was eons ago. Of course, thinking about how long it had been since I’d called made me crave a reading, but still, the point was I was improving.

To add to this strange feeling of pleasure, it occurred to me that it had been a year since I’d broken up with Wilhelm and, shockingly, I was over him. Not only was I over him, but I was
so
over him. Rarely did he sneak into my thoughts, and when he did, I no longer felt that top-of-the-roller-coaster leap in my chest. I no longer had sad flashes of my life as a lounge singer or wistfully reminisced about our days at Ross or T.J. Maxx. Even my future house was void of Wilhelm, and I realized that for a while he’d been nowhere near my infinity pool—nor had he been mixing a drink in the cabana or strolling along the bamboo perimeter. He was, officially, off the premises.

My good mood continued into the evening. Only once during the movie did I have a mild sense of panic, but I figured that was normal since it was sparked by viewing myself topless on a ninety-foot-wide screen. Let me just say, regardless of how self-assured you may think you are, that confidence hasn’t been truly tested till your nipples have been front and center—and about one foot in diameter—in front of an audience of everyone you know, all of them chomping on popcorn and getting an eyeful.

I simply took a deep breath, and then another one, and then before I knew it the movie was over and I was making my way to the lobby, basking in the glow of praise and good wishes and questions, to which I was able to joyfully respond, “Why, yes, funny you should ask. I
am
actually about to start shooting my next movie in two weeks. Oh, and what a coincidence, it’s the same director! Why, thank you, thank you, yes, he does have good taste.”

Everyone was extremely complimentary, though I admit I could’ve done without the strange little man who sidled up to me and murmured “Nice tits” before scurrying away. The only other blight on the evening was that, having had very little reason over the previous months to wear high heels, or shoes for that matter, my feet were no longer cut out for being social. Already I could isolate six spots where blisters were forming, and my back had started aching to the point where I no longer cared about the movie or crowd or acting or anything. I only cared about a chair. Right then, sitting down was all that mattered in life.

I spotted an oasis across the room: an empty chaise against the wall and a waiter with a tray of champagne. I beelined and had almost made it there when a woman with electrified curly blond hair stepped into my path.

“Sarah Lassez, right?”

Drat. Only two feet from my oasis. As I agreed that yes, I was Sarah Lassez, I shuffled around just slightly, backed up a bit, and dropped my purse on the chaise, claiming it as my own. Then I smiled politely, knowing relief was just inches behind me, and waited for something like “I loved the film,” or “Great job,” or “How come you don’t work more?”

Instead, the woman leaned in, as if about to kiss me, and whispered, “You worked at Said Nameless Psychic Hotline, right? Mirabel?”

To say I freaked out would be an understatement. It was as if two worlds I’d desperately wanted to keep separate had just collided, and somehow I’d been standing in the middle and gotten seriously plowed over. How did she know? Had word of this somehow gotten around? Were people now aware that Sarah Lassez was not really a steadily employed actress, but was actually working as a psychic? That she was actually a freak?

She must have seen the look of terror on my face. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mean to ambush you. I’m Gloria; I do the books there. I really didn’t mean to startle you with all this, but I recognized your name as the girl who worked for just one day.”

“One day
undercover
. For a role.” I don’t know what possessed me to say this, but I’d suddenly felt the urge to seem a bit cooler than I was appearing to be.

“Really? What role is this?”

Shit. I couldn’t exactly get into detail about a nonexistent role, so I proceeded along as if she’d never spoken, a strategy I’d always admired in others. “Have you heard of psychic addiction?”

Like before, Gloria quickly leaned in, though now, knowing she was an employee of the enemy, I was struck with a momentary fear that she was about to head butt me.

Of course she did no such thing. Instead she quickly glanced behind her, perhaps to make sure the entire crowd hadn’t snuck up behind her to listen in, and whispered, “My husband is a cameraman. He’s why we’re here, but
he’s
a psychic addict. I know all about psychic addicts. We’ve had customers at Said Nameless Psychic Hotline spend fifty thousand dollars on readings. Because of that? We have a policy that says you can only spend up to three thousand a month.”

For a few seconds I wondered how she’d grown taller, then it suddenly dawned on me that I was actually now sitting, and sitting on my purse, for that matter. Three thousand dollars in one month? And that’s a limit they had implemented because people spent
more
than that?

“I mean, we’re small and actually pretty new, but we make upwards of four hundred thousand dollars a month—so, yes, addicts I know
all
about. That’s actually mostly what I do, talk to addicts. Well, talk to people who’ve reached their limit and beg for one more reading.”

Somehow I managed to find my footing again, and stood, a bit wobbly, as she regaled me with a few quick and very alarming stories. When someone tapped me on the shoulder, I turned, so enrapt with the tales that I’d almost forgotten where I was and why.

“Sarah, right?” a man said. “It’s Ted! Ted from Sundance!”

I feigned recognition of this man, whom I’d evidently met years ago at a festival filled with thousands of people. Then I turned to introduce Ted to Gloria, but already she was across the room, her arm linked with that of a shorter man with sparse hair and a round face, a sweet-looking man whose life, I knew, was not so different from my own.

A week later Holly called. Knowing I hadn’t had any auditions lately, I heard her voice and immediately figured she’d been roped into being the bearer of bad news. Would they not be ready to film in a week? Had the director died? Had they decided I was all wrong for the part? Were they not happy with my kung fu?
Was I out of a job?

“There’s this big music mogul,” Holly said, “who’s throwing some shindig tonight. I thought you might want to go. Open bar, food’s supposed to be great. I think there’ll be some interesting people there, along with your typical producers, agents, et cetera. Do you already have plans?”

Do I already have plans?
That’s like asking a vegetarian if she’d planned on ordering the braised lamb or the delightfully tender veal. The answer is no, a big resounding
no
. I stopped the bathwater, put away my Mistral Linden Lettuce foam bath, my latest bubbly craze, and agreed to go.

After all, there are two things you don’t turn down: one, an open bar with great free food, and two, an invitation from your manager to hang out. And by “hang out” I mean go to a work-related function with business opportunities, which is the least work-related activity a manager or agent is capable of and so is, relatively speaking, their version of hanging out. I knew from past experience that being on Holly’s radar was like securing a spot at the top of Santa’s list, so I took this opportunity very seriously and within seconds was standing in my closet—well, not so much standing as
balancing
on top of all the junk I’d shoved in there. A music industry party. What does one wear? For some reason my brain reversed into the eighties, and I pictured everyone in black leather pants and shredded T-shirts. Surely that wouldn’t be the case; at least I hoped it wouldn’t be.

After twenty minutes I had on an outfit I was happy with, one I topped with my grandmother’s vintage leather Christian Dior coat with mink collar. I had a hunch I’d be the only one at the party wearing something that belonged to her grandmother, but still, I looked sophisticated and successful—or like I
should
be successful—and I
was
wearing leather in some form. Satisfied, I was out the door.

Now, I’ve never been one to drool over cars, but when I hopped out at the valet and spotted a midnight blue Audi TT Roadster pulling up behind me, I admit it; I stopped. I stared. I had no control over myself, because I wasn’t just looking at a car, I was looking at
my
future car. I wanted it, and when I want something, I fixate. I stood there and the world fell away, leaving just me and my car, though I decided I wouldn’t buy it in blue after all, maybe silver. I was trying to figure out if I’d keep the black leather interior or opt for something lighter, when all of a sudden the driver stepped out and turned in my direction.

Laser blue eyes. I
knew
those eyes. I didn’t even have to see the rest of the face to know who it was: Matthew, otherwise known as the Hot Successful Actor with Laser Blue Eyes. Approximately ten million years ago, we’d worked together. So as I watched him hand his keys to the valet, I figured he’d pass me by, another victim of Success Amnesia, a horrible disease that claims those who’ve risen to the top, by erasing all memories of the little people they once knew, and taking with those memories any and all understanding of the value of a dollar. A victim of Success Amnesia will often be overheard uttering the words “I’m only getting paid two hundred and fifty grand for this, so you
know
it’s not about the money,” and can be spotted walking like a horse donning blinders, ignoring the smiles and waves of some poor soul nearby who in truth might have no pull in the entertainment industry but who once shared his SpaghettiOs back when life was a bit rougher.

And then his eyes were upon me. I stood straight, trying to gather as much confidence as possible before it was destroyed by the unrecognizing and uncaring gaze of the blue laser beams. But then something shocking happened.

“Sarah!” His voice was loud enough that everyone in line for the restaurant turned, then, seeing who’d made the outcry, they all proceeded to seek out this Sarah creature, determined to locate the object of the Hot Successful Actor with Laser Blue Eyes’s delight.

Inside me was a little girl impressed by movie stars and popularity, a girl who was jumping up and down, screaming, “He remembers me! He remembers me!” The outside me, the adult me, was aware of being scrutinized by hundreds of eyes and thus had to struggle to silence her glee and don a look of casual delight, a look that said “Oh. Hey, yeah, movie stars are always excited to see me.” In fact, I was fighting to lessen my smile, when I was swooped off my feet and into a bear hug.

“You look
beautiful
,” he said when he set me down.

It was official. I loved him. And so much for lessening my smile, as I now had no choice but to grin like a fool. “Thank you. You’re going to this party?”

He glanced at the long line of impatient people, and at the bouncer who simply stared, not entertained, at a trio of guys in suits whose faces were splintered with desperation, their hands moving as they attempted to explain something. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “You too? Come on.”

And with that we sailed past the line and straight to the entrance. The bouncer, who’d spotted us coming, not only didn’t body slam us to the ground and toss our lifeless carcasses to the back of the line, he practically
leapt
from his stool to open the door for us.
So this is what it’s like,
I thought. For a second I allowed my imagination to pluck Matthew from beside me, to lift him from the equation and fling him aside so that
I
was the only one present, so all the fuss had been for
me
. God, what a wonderful—I stopped. The exhilaration, the joy,
the life
drained right out of me.

There, standing at the hostess station just twenty feet away, was the glaring, reflective, shining widow’s peak I knew all too well.

My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and told me to run.
Run! Fly back down the stairs and into Matthew’s car and race far, far away from the man who broke your heart.
And I think I might have done just that, except that I caught sight of Wilhelm leaning in and just slightly, just barely, brushing the hostess’s hand with his own. They were laughing. He was smiling. And this, I must say, completely altered my instinct. Now I was all fight.