We'll Always Have Paris (22 page)

“Grandma Aggie?” I asked.

Kathy confirmed.

“A thumbs up?” Aggie was a hefty Italian woman who wore rayon floral pattern dresses with a Kleenex tucked into her sleeve. She wore a bra that could only be described as bulletproof and thought the television show
The
Flying
Nun
was disrespectful to the church. I couldn’t imagine she had transformed into the Fonz in heaven.

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Well it was,” Kathy assured me. “She gave me details that she couldn’t possibly have known.” Then she told me the lengthy but vague message her father-in-law asked my cousin to relay to her husband.

When I told William about Lana, he warned me not to get my hopes up. “What is it you want to hear from this medium anyway?” He tapped away at his computer as I unloaded the dishwasher.

“I’ll know she’s legitimate if my father says, ‘JJ, are you
crazed
? Of course I forgive you. Everyone was doing the best they could at the time, and I made mistakes too. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’ I need him to use the word crazed because he always said that instead of crazy. That’s how I’ll know it’s really him.”

My husband walked over to the sink, turned off the running water, and sat me down. “Jennifer,” he said, “I guarantee you that your father was not mad at you. The forgiveness needs to come from you.” He shifted uncomfortably, clearly editing himself.

“Go on, say it,” I encouraged.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he said softly. “There is no afterlife, so your father can’t absolve you of your transgressions, perceived or otherwise. Only you can do that, and I don’t want to see some charlatan break your heart.”

I bit my lip hard, hating what he was saying, but loving his protective instinct. “So you know with absolute certainty that there is no afterlife?” I asked.

“As sure as anyone can be,” William said. “But I
am
certain there are scam artists who exploit people who desperately want to believe there’s something more out there.”

“But you admit there is a
possibility
of a life beyond what we know?” I asked.

“It’s highly improbable.”

“But possible?”

“I suppose anything is possible, but it’s—”

I interrupted. “I know, highly improbable. But I’m going to give it a shot. What if all these years he’s wanted to get in touch, but I haven’t known how to answer the call?”

“How much does she charge?” William asked.

“It’s free,” I returned quickly.

“The price is right.”

“But she accepts donations,” I said, sheepish.

“Do what you need to do, Jen, but don’t get your heart set on this.”

But it was too late for such advice. As much as I knew William made sense, I wasn’t able to curb my intense desire to phone in to heaven and hear that my father was not disappointed in me.

***

On the appointed day, I called Lana for our phone session, which began with Lana telling the story of how she discovered her gift. “I was born with a rare congenital disorder,” she began. I breathed deeply, practicing patience. Maybe she thought her bio would give me a broader understanding of the process.

Two and a half hours later, my face was buried in my hands as I silently begged her to stop talking about herself and connect with the other side.

“Are you ready to begin, Jennifer?”

Finally!

“I see a ballerina twirling around,” she said. “Is that you, Jennifer? Did you take ballet lessons when you were a little girl?”

I did, in fact, take ballet lessons at the Joffrey, but much to my mother’s disappointment, never showed a teaspoon of talent or interest in dance. I was more of the class clown, something the elegant swans at the ballet school did not appreciate. What I hated even more than the boredom of class was the clear disdain the teachers showed for my clunky form and absence of coordination. I begged to quit, from my first lesson all the way to my final class two years later.

“You were so happy then, Jennifer,” Lana said lightly, as if she were seeing a vision of me as a child. “You were so carefree and joyful when you were dancing.”

She paused dramatically. “Oh, something very strong is coming through now.”

My heart leapt.

“Your father is before me now and he’s in a uniform. Was he in the military?”

“Um, very briefly,” I replied.

My father was in the U.S. Army only a few days, but never did well with discipline, the cornerstone of success in the military. After an incident in which my father and his friends got high and wandered off base to a strip joint, the Army politely told him and the other hippies that they were released from duty. There was no war, nor was there any other urgent need for soldiers, his sergeant explained before removing their dog tags and sending them home.

“Yes, I see him very clearly saluting,” the medium said. “Was he killed in the war?”

“No.”

“No, but he was proud. I see him and he is very proud to wear the uniform. He earned a medal, didn’t he?”

“Nope, there were no medals,” I said, beginning to deflate.

“Oh yes, I see now. That’s a dog tag. He’s wearing a dog tag under his shirt.”

My eyes stung with tears forming in my eyes. Still, I clung onto hope. “Does he have anything he wants to tell me?”

“Did he like lemons?” She heard a sniffle escape from me. “It’s okay, dear, he says it’s okay to cry.”

I said nothing, trying to stifle tears. “He loved his lemons, didn’t he?” Lana asked.

“I never saw him eat lemons,” I said. “I mean, I guess on fish or whatever, but lemons weren’t a favorite or anything.”

Why
did
this
medium
always
mention
lemons? Why not a sure bet like pizza or ice cream?

“Lemon pie? Lemonade?” the medium proposed.

I fell onto my bed with the weight of someone who had just caught a boulder. My father is really truly dead, I realized. There is no great beyond. My father is not on a cloud doing bong hits with Jimi Hendrix. Somehow I had to make it through the final minutes of this phone call.

“Well, everyone likes lemon pie,” I said. “And who hasn’t had lemonade?”

“I see him eating fish.”

Maybe
because
I
just
said
it.

“And he worked with his hands,” Lana said with a spark.

Yes! Oh my God, it’s true, he did work with his hands. Just like most everyone else in the world—who has hands! Like computer programmers, musicians, ditch diggers, and doctors.

I looked at the clock and realized I had ten minutes left. Lana continued. “He wants you to know that he is safe and happy and that he is very proud of you.”

“Anything else?”

“Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter, Katie.”

“Only one?” Lana asked. “He says he wishes he was there to spend more time with Katie, but that he is her guardian angel.”

More
time
with
Katie? How about
any
time
. I found myself feeling angry at both Lana and my father. At Lana, because she was playing a cruel game; my father, because he hadn’t been around to meet William, much less Katie. I understand that people with addictions don’t sit down with a pad of paper and carefully weigh the risks and benefits of their indulgences. They are not big on long-range planning—like meeting their grandchildren. Still, there was a part of me that felt marginalized knowing that, on some level, he chose getting high over sticking around.

“Your father has another message for you,” Lana said. “You will soon become pregnant again so Katie will have a little playmate.”

This really was amazing news. I’d had a hysterectomy a year earlier so I wasn’t sure where this pregnancy would be housed. And Katie would be leaving for college right around the time my conjured baby was entering kindergarten, so it was hard to imagine them as playmates.

“Okay, thank you for the reading,” I was able to muster.

“Your father says he loves you very much and it’s okay to let him go.”

I gulped and hung up the phone. Immediately, I called William, sobbing. “My father is dead,” I said when he answered. “You were right, the medium was a fraud. I feel so gullible for even thinking this could happen.”

“Why?” William said. “You didn’t believe her; you weren’t at all gullible.”

“But I wanted to so badly,” I said, gasping for breath. “I went in completely wanting to believe this woman—this ridiculous woman who told me my father liked lemonade and that he had hands.”

“Sweetheart, I love that you are open to things,” William said. “I know this was a disappointment, but look at all of the things you try that work out well. Sometimes you’re open to things that don’t pan out, but that’s part of the package.”

“I hate myself right now.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I think all of this magical thinking is a bunch of horseshit, but just because this woman was a fake doesn’t completely rule out the possibility of an afterlife. It just means she is a really bad medium.”

“You think I should try a different medium?” I asked.

“No, I think you should try a good therapist who can help you work through some of these issues with your father,” William suggested. “I think you need to stop looking toward the great beyond and explore the great within.”

***

At the entry gate of the Alhambra, I purchased two audio tours for Katie and me and began walking in the direction the haughty voice instructed. The guide had the same upper crust accent as Thurston Howell III. We walked through a forest path to reach the impeccably manicured grounds where the Alhambra stood. We continued to a walled courtyard with a green pond in its center. Arabic prayers were chiseled in painfully intricate detail across every inch of sand-colored wall. The audio guide voice implored us, “Pause for a moment and imagine what it was like when I was here oh-so-many years ago with the king and queen and their royal court.”

“Who is this?” Katie asked.

I shrugged.

We continued following his lead through the grounds, gasping at the dramatic effect of blue skies framed by Moorish arched windows and sliced by the intricate ironwork.

The voice asked, “Is this splendor not a veritable feast for the senses?” Katie and I began laughing so hard we had to sit on a bench. People knit their brows, likely wondering what we found so amusing. How could they
not
be cracking up at this pretentious wanker? Perhaps they weren’t listening to the English language version.

“’Twas so many years ago, but I recall seeing the ladies of the court brushing their lovely hair as they prepared themselves for the royal feast. The flowing silk of their gowns made them look as though they were angels delivered to us from heaven. I do confess that I once caught a glimpse of the queen, her beauty so fair, it brought pleasure to my innermost senses.”

Katie’s eyes popped. She took her earpiece away and whispered, “Did this guy just say he…?”

“It kind of sounds that way, Katie, but maybe he just meant he thought she looked really pretty.”

Katie shook her head with disgust. “Who is this guy supposed to be, anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

We pressed the button to resume his commentary. “Oh, the ladies with their lovely gowns and quiet beauty,” he waxed on.

“This guy is gay,” Katie said. “Who goes on and on about ladies and their clothes and how much he loves them except a super-repressed gay guy?”

Snooty Pants continued. “I believe there is nothing that captures the loveliness of the natural setting of the Alhambra more than a room filled with the divine magnificence of the female form.”

Katie looked at me with one eyebrow arched. “We definitely have a case of the gentleman doth protest too much.”

The voice continued to guide us. “As I walked about the grounds, I swelled with inspiration as I viewed the stiff and bold tower penetrating the clouds above,” the voice said.

Katie’s head whipped toward mine with a swish. I held my hands over my mouth as we laughed. “See!” Katie said. “What straight guy carries on this way about how much he loves the ladies?”

“It is a bit much,” I conceded.

“And, you know what he’s talking about with those big hard towers, right?” Katie asked.

“I grew up in Greenwich Village, kid. I got it.”

“Who is this guy anyway? He keeps talking about himself like we should know who he is.”

As if on cue, the voice continued. “During my stay here, I penned
Tales
from
the
Alhambra
as I sat on the fallen tree trunk you see to your left.”

“Washington Irving!” we said in unison.

“He’s so…dramatic about everything, isn’t he?” Katie said. “Let’s say Washington Irving as our new way of describing someone when they’re being over-the-top.”

When we stopped to look at the endless fields of yellow flowers, we found ourselves surrounded by school children and other tour groups like Teen Tours and Roads Scholars. They set in like fog. But an hour into our tour, we mastered the game “dodge the tour group.” When we saw a group approaching, we’d cry, in our best Washington Irving accent, “Run, run like the wind!”

The gardens, with their explosive colors and scents and endless views, proved too distracting for us. Suddenly we were in the midst of a dozen elderly Koreans, taking photographs and making rough sketches of the Arabic arches of the Alhambra.

A four-and-a-half foot tall woman with a salt-and-pepper pixie haircut smiled and said hello in English. Katie said hello, then was quickly hypnotized by the view ahead of her.

“Hello,” I said to the Korean woman and her friend, who was about an inch taller. Never before had I felt so statuesque.

“Where is your home?” the woman asked in halting English.

Slowly, I answered, “We are from America. California.”

A man turned to join the conversation. “I wish they are all the California girls.”