He speaks again: “I know you because you called, and of course because of who you are.”
Suddenly, I feel I made a big mistake. The man has got to be insane. Where’s the door? I turn to look for it, but—silly me—the door is gone.
Chapter 4
Tender
I whirl around, thinking maybe I’m really the one who’s insane, or else someone slipped me a roofie at the restaurant—or maybe the milk candy I secretly slipped in my mouth from Hong Kong Heaven was tainted with melamine, and karma is getting me back.
“Have some tea. It will calm your nerves,” says the man while fiddling with a teapot and cups. “Don’t fight it.”
“It’s probably drugged,” I say, and at once I feel ashamed as he smiles his warm smile again. I hold out my hand, accepting the cup of tea he is suddenly holding before me, and I bow, something I do uncontrollably for some reason in the presence of elderly Asian people.
“You should sit while you drink your tea,” says the man.
Behind me, a soft, comfy-looking armchair seems to hold out its arms for me, inviting me in. I hadn’t noticed the chair there before, but now I sit. I drink. I savor the wondrous aroma and sweetness of the tea in my cup. It’s like honey, roses, and crème brûlée all in one. At this point, I’d sit here for a week if he asked, if only I could drink more of this intoxicating elixir.
He drinks from a cup as well. Between sips, he says, “Did you get my message? You were bound to find it at some point.”
The newspaper ad suddenly appears in my head:
ROOKES and pawns.
My eyes widen in surprise. “If you mean the scary ad in the personals, yes,” I say. “And if you even tell me you killed that store owner on the news, or had something to do with it, I’m going to get very scary in this room with no door.” I mean it, too. After all, I recently learned some highly effective protective moves in self-defense class and I did take those three Tae Kwon Do classes ten years ago.
His eyes never leave mine. “I don’t like to lie, so indirectly I may be related to it,” he hints. At this point, my face gets very warm—and yet I feel no need for fight or flight. “Kailey,” he says, “there are big things in the works, and I have to explain so you understand your involvement.”
“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” I say, “I don’t get involved in big things, and I’ve been out of commission for the past few months, anyway.” I want him to get up and lead me outside, apologizing for the huge mistake he’s made.
“Someone else named Kailey? You know, I do not.”
Damn.
“I needed to get you here as soon as possible,” he says. “You acted much slower than anticipated.”
I laugh to myself, wondering why I dragged Amber out tonight and didn’t stay home and veg on the couch like she suggested. Why do I attract all the crazies?
“What is your religion, Kailey?”
“I’m Catholic.”
“Are you practicing?”
“Uh, if you count praying the 151 Sheridan will stay at the corner long enough so I can catch it, or that nobody picks up the medium-sized sweater I hid among the extra-smalls on the sale rack, then yes,” I say.
He turns toward the window and speaks: “Do you believe in a higher power?”
My willingness to answer his questions suddenly starts diminishing. “I really think that maybe I need to go. Um, thank you for the tea.” I stand up and place my tea cup on the small table.
“Kailey, sit, please,” he says. “We need to have this conversation without interruptions.”
I sit right back down and as I do, my ring falls out of my pocket, unbeknownst to me. The man initially moves to pick it up, but then stops and simply informs me that I dropped it. As I pick it up, I look into his face and his brow softens while a warm sense of sympathy from him washes over me, like a heavy cloud above me just released its load.
“Thanks,” I sigh, as I shove the ring into my purse, and figuring I should answer his question. “I believe that all religions are praying to the same higher power, so yes.”
“Do you believe in spirits or ghosts, and that they wander the earth, connected to individuals, here?”
“Yeah, maybe a bit,” I say.
He gets up and walks to another piece of furniture I didn’t notice: a beautiful, golden, three-drawer chest on a small, mahogany table. He pulls out some kind of pointed stone pendant on a half-foot-long chain. He puts the milky white and tan stone in my hands.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.
“Think of it as speaking to your spirit guides.”
“What drugs are you on?”
He laughs, and again, I feel that creeping warmness, like a soft kitten in my insides.
“Humor me,” he says.
“Fine. What do I do?” I say.
“Hold the pendulum slightly above your palm, like this.” He shows me what to do. “Now ask it, ‘What is no?’”
I clench my teeth, asking myself why the hell I’m still playing along with this man and cannot come up with a logical answer. I figure it best to continue. I know through experience what irrational things strangers are capable of.
I do as he suggests and the pendulum starts swinging back and forth. I check to make sure he is not blowing on it.
“Now ask it, ‘What is yes?’”
I do, and it starts swinging around in a circle. “Is there like a magnet or something inside of this? Are you playing magician with me?” I question, examining the pendulum closely.
He shakes his head no, and I feel he means it, for there doesn’t exist the wavering feelings I usually sense from outright liars—like the simple dressed, ballet shoe-wearing pythons that often waited outside my mom’s front doors after my assault, offering their help for nothing in exchange, except maybe just a quick, harmless interview.
“Ask a question, any question,” he coaxes. “Try something simple.” He is turned toward the window again and not at me, so he doesn’t see my very furrowed brow.
“Are my shoes black?” I ask. I wait, and then, suddenly, the pendulum starts moving in a circular motion. But I must be shaking it. My concentration wills my heart to slow down and my head to clear. “Did I eat chicken tonight?” I think about that question and realize I really don’t want the answer. “No, nevermind,” I add rather quickly and shake the pendulum. The man laughs to himself. “Do I work at Helping Hands?” Again, the circular movement. “Will I win the lotto?” It swings back and forth. “I had to try.”
“Ask it something more meaningful now,” the man suggests, eagerly.
I think for a bit, and suddenly, “Is Amber okay right now?” The moment I say it, I can’t believe I’d forgotten about her this whole time—I’m always concerned about Amber. I wait for the pendulum to do the whole circle thing, but to my surprise it doesn’t move. And then, slowly, it starts swinging back and forth. I widen my eyes, and fear surfaces.
“Kailey,” the man says quickly, “You must be more specific—in fact, very specific. Think about your question and what you really asked.”
He’s right. That question could mean anything. What is “okay,” really? Any head-shrink would tell you there’s no “okay” diagnosis. So the girl has some issue—don’t we all? So I ask another question: “Is Amber safe at this particular moment?” Circular motion. Thank God.
The man moves to stand near me, and I let him. He locks his eyes with mine and delves deep, asking me to ask one more question.
I think for a short moment. “Am I safe?” The pendulum starts to move, and I cannot tell what it wants to do. Then, the motion begins—back and forth slowly, then more quickly, until it feels five pounds heavier. Suddenly, it feels like someone is pulling the chain from my hand. I let go, and it falls to the ground. My eyes move toward it as the old man quickly picks it up, then places it back in my hand.
His eyes meet mine, and I’m compelled to listen to him very carefully. “Some say it’s spirit guides tha
t make it move, while others say that pendulums like these are really only extensions of ourselves, and that we are in fact all-knowing creatures,” he says. “The pendulum just helps us focus on the truth and reveals it in a specific form. Omniscience is something I would love to believe in, but I don’t know these days. You go home with this and return it to me in three days, before the full moon.” He smiles again, but his expression emanates fatigue.
I feel like he looks. It’s been a long day and I’m so ready to go home. I’ve decided Amber is definitely spending the night with me, whether she likes it or not. The strangeness of the evening, and my being frazzled beyond belief is enough of an excuse. The gentleman escorts me out the door, which is somehow there again.
After a few turns, we eventually reach the door to the bar, and I turn to the man. “Do you have a name?” I ask.
“My name is Gunthreon,” he says, warmly, “and it’s been a pleasure.” He extends his hand and I shake it. A feeling of hurriedness and silent fear suddenly rushes over me and I pull my hand back, quickly, and rub it as he stares complacently at me, not making any movement or facial gesture to indicate my reaction.
“Come back in three days, Kailey,” he says. “Come well-rested, because our next meeting may leave you exhausted, too.” It feels like that soft kitten is now turning somersaults in my lower intestines. I wave goodbye and return to the bar.
I quickly scan the area and find Amber sitting at a table by herself. When she sees me, she doesn’t even seem worried. “Here, Russell bought you a key lime martini, with extra graham crackers.”
Yum. I love those.
“Did you miss me?” I twitter, waiting for some response from her, all the while giving her raised eyebrows.
“Geez, Kailey, I just wanted a few minutes of privacy with Russell,” she spouts, arrogantly. She sips her whiskey on the rocks, frowning at me behind her glass.
I find I want a kudos for being brave enough to be out on my own, but I see that my actions have gone unnoticed. “Amber, can we go home?” I say. “And please say you’ll spend the night.”
“Are you serious? We just got here! And I have so much more to talk to Russell about.” Leave it to Amber to blindly connect to some strange male.
“Yes, sorry. That kung pao I ate isn’t sitting so well.”
“Ugh! Let me find Russell and tell him,” whimpers Amber. “It would be rude if we just left.” The daggers I suddenly feel bombarding me make me look down at my body. Nothing. I look up and watch Amber locate Russell and head toward him, swaying her hips in her best Marilyn Monroe fashion. He spots her and strides to meet her, like one of those old-fashioned couples in some black-and-white film. I’m ready for him to grab her and passionately kiss her as they meet, with the wind blowing her hair and her hands firmly squeezing his arms. They don’t, but he does whisper something in her ear, then hands her a piece of paper. She waves a little goodbye to him, and he smiles at her, and then turns to me and waves a sincere goodbye. That was nice of him. I’m impressed. And Amber is glowing.
Her eyes scan the paper, and her glow intensifies. “Yum, I could gobble him up,” she drawls. “He is just dreamy.” Did she really just say that? She then realizes she’s not alone, but rather has her best friend sitting next to her. “Shut up. Let’s go, wimp.”
“Yeah, I love you, too.”
Finding a cab turns out to be difficult, but thanks to Amber’s ability to run in stilettos, we grab one turning the corner and tail-hike it home. I get ready for bed, leaving Amber to herself on my couch.
As I crawl under my covers, with Kioto lying next to my bed, I hear Amber attempting to whisper on her cell phone. I sit up and turn my ear in her direction, and hear, “Russell, I most certainly accept your invitation.” I bite my tongue and resist the urge to call her a slut across the apartment.
Time passes. I can’t seem to fall asleep, so I decide to rummage through my purse for my new pendulum. I find it so intriguing that I end up playing with it for hours. Eventually, I move on to writing things on paper and holding the pendulum above and asking questions about various people at work, like: “Who stole the infamous frozen Lean Cuisine entree at work,” or “Who is cheating on their spouse.”
Delirious three hours later from lack of sleep, I gather the nerve to ask who is “around” me, since Gunthreon did suggest I might be chatting with my spirit guides. I’ve always felt there was one spirit in particular that might be following me around.
My mom had a psychic party one September many years ago in which she invited over a few select family members, and everyone took turns sitting with the psychic. I was quite the skeptic, but decided I’d give it a shot anyway. After she gave me lots of facts I already knew, the psychic suddenly told me that my aunt had entered the room. Since my Aunt Vivian lived in California at the time, I knew it wasn’t her, and my father had no siblings. She could only have meant my mom’s twin sister, Debra Kay, who had died in a car accident when they were only sixteen years old.
“She’s telling me something, and I don’t know what this means,” the psychic said, “but she’s telling you to dress up as a kidney for Halloween.” This was quite the coincidence, as my mom was on the waiting list for a kidney transplant after being on dialysis for four years. I burst into tears, and I think the psychic felt bad, for she cleaned up her tarot cards immediately and lovingly placed her hand on my back. We both decided the reading was over and she suggested I go speak to my family. Sure enough, they all started laughing, telling me Aunt Debra Kay had always had quite a warped sense of humor, making my tears flow even harder.
So after asking my pendulum, I find out Debra Kay is in fact following me around. I ponder what kind of influence she may be having on my currently crazy life.
As I sit alone in my room, whether from lack of sleep or my belief it could happen, I feel a pair of arms lovingly embrace me, and I begin crying. Eventually, I cry myself to sleep, the pendulum in my hand.
Chapter 5
Disillusioned
It’s 6 a.m. Monday, and the chiming of bells resonates throughout my head. I press the off button on my annoyingly cheerful alarm, but it continues to echo through my head anyway.
I get out of bed and start my routine: pee, throw on a coat and walk Kioto, eat a quick breakfast in bar form, dress in whatever I have clean, and then run like the wind to catch the bus. I take my shower before I go to bed each night. Otherwise, I just don’t get that wonderful, messy kind of beach look that actresses pay hundreds to acquire—and perhaps because I just don’t have enough damn time in the morning.
But I do make sure that before I leave, I give Kioto a big hug and kiss her forehead as I breathe in her dogness—that dingy, earthy smell that can only belong to a canine. She leans into me, and I enjoy our brief moment, knowing that no other animal could ever take her place. She’s the best. She warms my feet, kisses my wounds, and brings me her chew toys when I’m sad. What more can a mommy ask for?
Kioto sits at the door until I leave and watches me walk down the street from the front window—a dog’s gesture for making sure their owners are safe. Hopefully, she’ll soon find the pig ear treat I left by her food bowl, which should make her usually boring day a little brighter.
As I walk, I find myself watching a seedy group of gangbanger-looking teenagers—baggy pants, bandana-wrapped heads, heavy-chained necks—hanging out underneath the streetlight that I’m approaching. They’re busy with a rap—something melodic about dubs and large genitals, as their German Shepard evil-eyes the beagle across the street. My grip on my purse tightens and I begin walking a bit faster than normal—actually racing to get past them, undamaged. I look down as they each see me approaching and carefully slip my hand in my purse, feeling for my pepper spray.
They stop their conversation and I hear, “Yo, Bitch, get back here!” Bitch. Whore. Kailey. Tramp. They’re the only words I understand in his mumbled speech as his punches connect to my face, bloodying his knuckles from the blow to my forehead an
d mixing my blood with his. He hates me. Hates me for something, but I have no idea why. He’s never even met me before today, yet he knows my name. And I am not a whore.
One of the gangbangers suddenly darts from his position to run in my direction. I pull the pepper spray out and hold it in front of me as he runs past, shaking his head at the me, a crazy lady. My hand falls slowly, and I hear, “Yo, did you see that? She almost peppered Joe!” and a mixture of laughter and snide remarks follows. I turn to see Joe yelling for his escaped dog, Bitch. Then, I notice that I passed by my bus stop by a half block and on the wrong side of the street.
As I walk back, I hear a cat call in my direction from a passing car—a new, ivory Mercedes SUV. The car stops ahead of me, and I instantly stop walking—my heart can’t take any more. Deciding on becoming a moving target rather than a stationary one, I speed up, walking faster toward the bus stop and its regulars. If anyone jumps out of the car and grabs me they can be my witnesses.
The car door starts to open, and out steps a familiar leg: Amber’s.
“Hey, want a ride? Or do you want to ride a stinky bus with the Chicago crazies?” she yells.
I look at her and the tears start to flow from my eyes. I bring my hands to my face and she runs toward me. The sheer relief of seeing Amber, mixed with the adrenaline from the thought of bodily harm is too much and I can’t control my emotions.
“Oh, Kailey! It’s okay, hon.” I grip onto her as Russell scrambles from behind the wheel to help. Amber says, softly, “She’s fine Russell, thanks. We just need some privacy.” He turns and heads back to the car as she pulls the tear-drenched hair away from my face. “Kailey, you need to get ahold of yourself. I’m calling your mom.”
“No!” I suddenly snip.
Amber just stands with her hands on my arms. “Let us give you a ride to work.”
As I crawl into the car and cast a glance at those still waiting for the bus, I grasp the fact that I’ll most likely be an outcast, a deserted soul in that shelter, from now on—the crazy, emotional baggage girl, afraid of her own shadow.
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