Too Far Under (2 page)

I squirmed in my chair. What did she mean
they would do everything possible to assist us? Do these corporate
executives go to a special class where they learn to sugarcoat
horrible news and lie easily to suit their purposes? I wanted to
scream at her, “Doesn’t this corporation have a slogan that says,
‘Caring for you is what we do’?”

Listening to her, it sounded to me like what
they do is go for the big bucks. Tears welled up in my eyes. How
could they care more about their bottom line than they did about
people like my Gramma who couldn’t speak out for themselves and
were dependent on all of us for their care?

Boulderites tend to be assertive, especially
when it comes to issues of human rights vs. big business. Hands
shot up all around me and a man in front plowed right in without
waiting to be called on. “It took my mother a year to adjust to
this place and now you’re saying she has to move? It sounds like
our family members are just dollars to you and if they don’t bring
in enough, they have to go.” His anger and disgust were front and
center.

“I assure you that this is not personal. It’s
just business.” Cruella spoke evenly, not matching his furious
tone. “We understand that this is an unsettling and difficult time
for you and your loved ones and we will do all we can to make it go
as smoothly as—”

“I assure you that it is very personal to me
and to my mother,” the man interrupted. “And it’s not going to go
smoothly for you because I’m going to do all I can to stop you,
starting right now with a call to the newspaper.”

A woman on the other side of the room, tired
of waiting for her raised hand to be noticed, jumped up and joined
in. “Isn’t there something we can do to save Shady Terrace? It took
me forever to find this place and now that Mom is doing well, I
don’t want to move her.”

“We understand that this is difficult, but
after exploring all the possibilities, we determined that closing
is the best option,” Cruella continued in her condescending
I’m-being-patient-with-you tone. “Now I need to catch a plane, but
the Shady Terrace staff and your local long-term-care ombudsman are
here to help you get started on making new arrangements.” With
that, she picked up her briefcase and ducked out the front
door.

I needed to get out of there myself if I was
going to get to my class on time, but Mary Ellen, the Director of
Nursing, and Betsy from Social Services were walking up to the
front and I wanted to hear what they had to say. The both looked
like they’d been crying. “We’re checking on openings in other
nursing homes and we’re going to help you all look for places,”
Mary Ellen said. “And Tim, a volunteer ombudsman from the county,
has offered to help you with information about other facilities.”
She beckoned to a tall thin bald man in the second row, who stood
up to join them in front.

My eyes nearly popped out of my head! Tim
Grosso, Ph.D., the Chair of the university Psychology
Department—the very Tim Grosso who had reluctantly hired me to
teach a class—was a volunteer ombudsman? I hated to miss his
comments, but I knew the students wouldn’t wait for me if I was
late for class, so I slipped out.

As I drove up to the university, I agonized
over Gramma’s plight. This was one more in a long line of
indignities she’d faced over the last twelve years. Before
Alzheimer’s eroded her mind, she was a top-ranked Boulder artist,
whose colorful oil paintings commanded high prices and won national
awards. And she was the sweetest, most patient teacher, whose
students—including me—learned to paint better than we ever thought
we could.

She and my Grampa, who taught philosophy at
the university, had a storybook marriage for more than fifty years
before she began showing signs of Alzheimer’s at age seventy-five.
At first, it was forgetfulness and confusion. But she kept getting
worse, being argumentative and accusing us of hiding her things.
She began wandering out at night in her nightgown—probably to go to
her studio in the backyard. She had always been a night person. If
Grampa locked the door, she would wake him up to let her out. If he
refused, she sobbed and screamed. If he left her alone in the
studio, she often fell and hurt herself.

It was horrible for all of us. Gramma because
she couldn’t make sense out of the world any more, and Grampa and
me because we were losing her at the same time that she was still
here needing us to take care of her. Grampa tried hiring people to
be with her, but she hated having them around and didn’t want them
in her studio. He wasn’t getting any sleep at night and he couldn’t
deal with her constant arguments or keep her safe at home anymore,
so after four years of that he finally decided to move her into
Shady Terrace. He picked it because he thought it was the best
place. The whole thing was terribly hard on him. He visited her
every day, even though it was painful when she kept begging him to
take her home.

I visited a lot too and I still do. It was
easier for me when Grampa was still alive because we could share
the sadness. But he died of a heart attack a year after Gramma
moved to Shady Terrace and I’ve been in charge ever since. My
grandparents practically raised me and I want to do as much for
them as they did for me. They were never close to my mother—their
only child—so Grampa set things up for me to be Gramma’s guardian
after he died. I miss him more than I can even begin to describe
and I do everything I can to live up to his trust. But today I felt
scared and overwhelmed. Even though it wasn’t my fault that Gramma
would have to move, I had a sinking feeling that I was letting
Grampa down.

I raced along the sidewalk to my class,
feeling unprepared because I hadn’t had time to review my notes,
and my focus was on Gramma instead of on my upcoming lecture. The
campus is a treat in the fall when the turning leaves match the
buildings’ red roofs, but I was too rushed and distracted to enjoy
the scenery. Because I’m a temporary university employee, the
parking permit I’m allowed to buy isn’t valid in the best lots, and
I had a ways to walk in a hurry to get to class on time.

I was thrilled when the Psychology Department
hired me to teach this class in paranormal psychology as part of
their new initiative reaching out to nontraditional students. Every
stamp of respectability I can get for my work is important to me. I
have a doctorate in psychology and I’m a certified grief therapist,
but my practice has recently taken a somewhat unusual turn. I’ve
found a way to help people see and actually talk with dead family
members or friends to resolve incomplete issues.

I know it sounds like one more flaky new-age
Boulder fad, but it’s actually based in scientific exploration. I
use a process developed by a medical doctor who spent years
studying the experiences of people who had seen and interacted with
apparitions of the dead. His method is based on ancient reports of
deceased persons spontaneously appearing in a mirror or other
reflective surface usually in dim light. Based on these accounts,
he created an apparition chamber in which some people were able to
contact spirits.

My homemade apparition chamber emulates his.
It’s a four-foot square mirror on the wall, surrounded by a black
velvet curtain that creates a small booth with an easy chair
inclined backward so the sitter can gaze into the mirror and see
only darkness. I prepare people and set them up in the apparition
chamber. Then I leave them in there alone to relax and focus on the
person they are trying to contact. If the process is working for
them an apparition appears as they gaze into the mirror’s shiny
surface. At that point they can talk directly to the departed and
also make their own assessments of the reality of the experience.
Those who are able to contact a deceased loved one often go through
a breakthrough healing experience that resolves much of their
grief.

After some of my grief-therapy clients found
that this process helped them, they encouraged me to offer it to
more grieving people. So I created the Contact Project, funded by
an endowment from a local dot-com multimillionaire who was able to
contact a family member and wanted to help other people do the
same. I’m very selective about who I accept into the Contact
Project and I insist that participants also be involved in
traditional grief therapy.

As it turned out, my ruminating about the
Contact Project right before I ran into Lacey Townes was an omen.
But I had no clue what was coming as I screeched to a stop in front
of the petite young woman with long dark hair standing in the
doorway to my classroom. I recognized Lacey, the girl blocking my
way into the room, as one of my students who usually sat near the
front of the class and actively participated in class discussions.
Lacey didn’t move to let me in—just stood firm in a graceful
dancer-like stance and stared at me with probing deep blue eyes.
“Dr. Sims,” she said in a breathless voice, “I desperately need to
talk to you right away.”

I tried not to sound impatient. “Lacey, I’m
already late for class. I can’t talk now. Maybe after class.” What
was going through her mind thinking I’d keep the whole class
waiting while I talked about whatever was bothering her?

I squeezed past her through the door, tossed
my stuff on the table, apologized for my lateness and started right
in on my lecture. It was the sixth week of class. We’d been
gradually working our way through research that supports the
existence of paranormal phenomena as well as evidence that
discounts the validity of many psychics and mediums. That day’s
class focused on the work of the internationally famous
psychiatrist Ian Stevenson who, until his retirement, was the head
of the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of
Virginia. He spent decades traveling all over the world recording
and attempting to verify cases of children who claimed to recall
past lives. While he never was able to prove reincarnation, the
more than 2,500 cases he published raise interesting questions that
suggest that it is possible.

The students involved themselves in the topic
right away, raising provocative questions on both sides of the
issue. But I noticed that Lacey, sitting unexpectedly in the back
of the room, looked as distracted as I felt myself. I already had
to work to keep Gramma out of my mind and focus on the class, and
now I found myself preoccupied by Lacey as well. I shook off those
thoughts and pulled myself back to the discussion.

“If reincarnation is real, how come most
people don’t remember past lives?” asked Logan, one of my most
talkative students who loved to challenge.

“Maybe it’s hard to remember. Most of us
don’t remember what happened when we were babies, so why would we
remember past lives?” said Josie, a short fortyish woman, one of my
several older students.

“Maybe most people do remember but keep it to
themselves because they’re afraid people will laugh at them,” said
an intense woman named Aimee, who always sits in the front row.

This led to a discussion in which a woman
named Daphne told a fascinating story about being haunted by dreams
in which she lived in Taos, New Mexico in the early 1900s. “I
eventually did genealogical research and discovered that the woman
I was in my dreams had lived in Taos and died in childbirth in
1931,” she said. “Then last year I visited Taos for the first time
and it was amazing how familiar it all was and how much I felt at
home. I’m sure I lived there in another life.”

I made notes as she related her story and
students pummeled her with questions. The discussion was so
exhilarating at that point that I momentarily forgot about Gramma.
By the end of our two-hour class, I was rejuvenated, but Gramma’s
problems quickly rushed back to the front of my mind. I was ready
to get out of there, grab some lunch, and find out more about her
predicament.

But Lacey, looking more troubled than ever,
lingered behind as the students left class. She stood directly in
front of me blocking my way to the door once again. Very determined
young woman. “Dr. Sims, you absolutely have to help me. My mother
drowned in her hot tub last August. You probably heard about
it—Mirabel Townes? It was in all the papers.” Her voice rose as she
went on. “My life has been a huge mess ever since and it’s getting
worse every day.”

She did sound desperate, but right at that
moment I couldn’t summon the energy to listen to her concerns. I
was starving and I had a lot on my mind and I had issues about
taking on a student as a client. I looked her in the eyes with what
I hoped was a sympathetic look. “Lacey, I did hear about your
mother, and I’m so sorry. You must be going through a difficult
time. But I can’t do grief therapy with one of my students. I can
refer you to someone, though.”

“No, no that’s not it.” Lacey held her hands
out in front of my face to stop me. “I’m not looking for grief
therapy, although I could probably use some because when Mom died,
I hadn’t even gotten over my sister Kari dying of anorexia two
years ago. But I can’t worry about myself with what’s going on now.
Have you heard of Indigo children?”

Whew! She was all over the place. How to
respond? I dredged up what I knew about Indigoes, while trying to
edge toward the door. “They’re supposed to be psychologically and
spiritually gifted—sort of a more highly evolved new
generation—right?” I said as I maneuvered gingerly around to her
other side. This girl was persistent.

“Exactly,” Lacey nodded vigorously, while at
the same time moving to again block my way to the door. “And my
ten-year-old sister Angelica is one. She sees below the surface.
She’s been telling me that our mother didn’t die by accident.
Angelica knows that someone pushed Mom under and drowned her! But
she doesn’t know who did it. And we can’t get anyone to believe us
and investigate. We need your help to contact Mom and find out what
really happened.”