Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  Day 67

  Anna Maria’s driving is shocking. She pulls out in front of an articulated truck and swears at the driver animatedly, as if it’s his fault. He gives her the finger and she honks her horn.

  “Fucker!” she cries.

  “Jesus, Anna Maria,” I say. “You nearly killed us!” I realize I must be determined to live because being bumped off by a lorry is a swifter solution and yet I’d still rather not.

  “Nah,” she says. “I’m going to live till I’m ninety-five. It’s written in my birth chart. I wish you’d have done one. You might have been better prepared. You might have been able to shift your destiny.” I’ve told Anna Maria my news.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say. “But you might want to get a second opinion.”

  She groans like I’m being ridiculous. “So might you,” she says. “I mean, doctors aren’t always right, you know.”

  I laugh, wistfully. “And that’s why we’re going to see Rita.”

  “To Rita!” she says, like a celebratory toast.

  Anna Maria is not the least bit perturbed by my news, which in one way is refreshing and yet somehow, oddly irritating. She says everything is curable with the right healer. She refuses to accept there is anything that can’t be fixed by energetic help. The first thing I have to do is drop my negative thinking, she says, and have an open mind.

  I tell her my mind is totally open. “Could have fooled me,” she says.

  Somehow, we make it to Neasden without incident. We draw up outside an ordinary row of terraced houses with net curtains and rusting wrought-iron gates.

  Anna Maria tries to park her car. She drives, front first, into a massive space then stops, like she’s had quite enough of the hassle. “We’re here,” she announces, turning off the engine. The car’s boot is sticking out into the road like a Kardashian’s. She pushes in her wing mirrors, as though that makes all the difference.

  I follow her down a little path, with crazy paving, and instinctively avoid all the cracks. At the yellow front door there’s a rainbow-colored picture propped up against the window. “Love Lives Here” it reads. “And so does Rita.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Rita has a sense of humor.

  “You nervous?” Anna Maria says.

  “Why? Do I look it?”

  “Oh, dude,” she says. “This is going to do you a world of good. Rita has been known to cure cancer. If she can do that, she can cure anything.”

  A tiny woman with gray hair opens the door and the smell of incense hits me.

  “Hello, my dears,” she smiles and she gives a little bow, her hands pressed together. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” says Anna Maria, returning the bow. I mutter the word under my breath and do a kind of bob.

  “Rita!” says Anna Maria, reverentially. “Thanks so much for seeing us on such short notice.”

  I smile. “Yes, thank you, Rita.” Another bob.

  She is wearing a patterned pink caftan and a row of purple beads. Her face is naked of makeup, nothing to mask the lines and wrinkles, as if she’s saying, What’s to hide? She has bare feet. I clock her toes, crooked and misshapen with yellowing nails. Perhaps there are some things worth hiding.

  Anna Maria starts to remove her trainers and I start to do the same. I guess it’s what you do. I hope I’m wearing decent socks. Who am I to judge Rita? Anna Maria removes her socks and reveals a beautiful pedicure. I leave mine on. I realize in that weird moment I will no longer need pedicures, or manicures or facials, and it saddens me even though I hardly did them anyway. Funny those silly, little inconsequential things that suddenly seem to matter so hugely.

  Rita leads us down a dark hallway. The smell is quite overpowering. An incense stick, tip aglow, sits on a little ormolu and gilt side table. Surprising what one little twig can muster. Alongside sits an olive green trim phone with an old-fashioned dial. I haven’t seen one of those phones in years. I imagine upstairs is an avocado bathroom suite with pink tiles. This house is frozen in time. Nineteen seventies aficionados would pay good money to come here. And not for the reiki.

  We follow her into a small lounge. The walls are covered with brightly colored pictures of Indian gods. There is another incense stick puffing away. It makes me feel slightly sick.

  “Can I offer you some chai?” she says.

  “Yes, please,” says Anna Maria. She looks across at me. “You’ll love Rita’s chai. You’ve never tasted anything like it. She refuses to give me the recipe, don’t you, Rita? She shares her powers but never her potions.”

  Rita smiles. “I have to keep something for myself.”

  We sit in silence waiting for Rita to return. Anna Maria has closed her eyes, and her hands are held out, thumb and fingertip touching. I think she’s meditating.

  “Should I tell her what’s wrong with me?” I whisper.

  “You don’t need to tell Rita anything,” she says, eyes still tightly shut. “She probably already knows. She’s that good.”

  “Wow!” I say. I’m starting to get into this.

  Rita comes back with a small gold tray and two cups of chai. She sits very straight backed, breathing deeply as she watches us sip. There is a crack in the rim of my cup and I try to avoid it. Anna Maria is humming with appreciation.

  “This is lovely,” I say to Rita, like I’m attempting to gain favor.

  She waits for us to finish. The little dregs at the end are unpalatable but I swallow them, convincing myself they are delicious.

  “Who wants to go first?” she says.

  “Let Jennifer go first,” says Anna Maria. “She’s the important one. If you run over the hour, just carry on. I don’t mind having a quicker session.”

  I throw Anna Maria an appreciative smile, still trying to consume the sandy residue. Bless you, I mouth. Suddenly I’m all spiritual.

  “Follow me then, dear,” says Rita.

  We go upstairs to a back bedroom and there’s a large massage table, which practically fills the room. It has a white towel neatly draped across it. The room is cozy and warm with the mandatory incense stick puffing trails of gray smoke. There’s a tiny sink in the corner. She turns down the lights. I really need to lie down. Now.

  “Have you had reiki before, dear?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Okay. Lie down on the table and we’ll get you comfortable, then I’ll explain.”

  “Do I have to take anything off?” I ask.

  “It’s entirely up to you, my dear,” she says. “This is not a massage. I hold my hands above your body and move around your aura. I work on your spiritual self not your physical self. I will only touch the back of your head. You might want to take off your cardigan in case you get too warm.”

  I take off my cardigan and throw it over the chair and then I climb on to the massage table and lie back.

  “You’re tense, dear,” she says. I wonder if she’s reading my face or my mind. If she really is that good. “Try to relax. If you get uncomfortable, I can stop.”

  She squeezes past the bed and washes her hands in the sink. Then she squeezes back.

  “Now dear, take a deeeeep . . . lonnnng breath in . . . and out. In . . . and out.”

  I do exactly as she says. It’s strangely calming, as is the timbre of her voice.

  “You’re going to enjoy this,” she says. “I’ve never had anyone leave after their first experience and not feel that something remarkable has happened.” Her voice sends tingles down my arms and I find myself letting go of my fears, unwinding into her care.

  I close my eyes. I hear the flick of a switch and the sound of something akin to whale music whirs into the room. It’s eerie yet soothing. Rita is standing over me. I hear her whispering and open one eye in case she’s speaking to me. She has her hands clasped together in prayer, her eyes tightly shut. I quickly shut my sneaky eye.

  She moves b
ehind me and places her hands below my chin, close enough for me to feel their warmth. I can smell the herbal scent of her soap. “I want you to think of your intentions, dear,” she says. “I want you to ask for what you need.”

  I give it a moment’s consideration. “I think I’d—”

  “Not out loud, dear. Keep your thoughts in your head. You’re speaking to the energy.”

  I nod. I must be open-minded, I instruct myself. I must speak to the energy. Hello, energy, I think. Would you mind finding a cure for me? If at all possible? I hope I’m not being greedy, but I’d like to stay around a little bit longer. And if that’s too much to ask, then perhaps you could help me sleep without waking up at three in the morning. That would be a good start.

  Rita’s herbal hands move over my cheeks. They hover there for a few minutes. Then she moves them above my forehead. Eventually, she slips her hands under my head. She is touching me now as she said she would. She’s so gentle it feels gratifying. I’m starting to unwind.

  She stands there for what seems an age then shuffles back to my side and I’m aware of a strange, magical warmth over my stomach. Even though she’s no longer touching me, I feel each movement; I relax under the heat of her palms.

  The next thing I know, she is gently shaking my shoulders.

  “Wake up, dear,” she says.

  The whales have stopped singing. Rita places a cup of chai on the side table next to me. And a glass of water.

  “You were in a deep sleep,” she says. “I’ll let you recover and then we can talk. I’ll tell you what I felt. I’ll leave you for a few moments. Please drink.”

  I feel woozy. I breathe slowly and deeply, feeling myself coming back into my body. It’s the strangest sensation. “Thank you,” I say out loud to the empty room. “Thank you, energy.”

  I sit up and look around. I have completely lost myself here. Let go of fear. It’s amazing. I drink as I’m told. I’m sipping the tea, which tastes delicious without my needing to convince myself it does. Everything feels right. Rita comes back in. She slowly turns up the light with the dimmer switch and my eyes adjust. I’m keen to hear her findings.

  She passes me my cardigan. “Put this on, dear,” she says. “Your body temperature will drop now. You might get cold.” She sits down in the chair, close to my side.

  “You have not been well, my dear,” she says. “I feel you have been very tired.”

  “Oh, Rita. That’s amazing,” I say. “That’s very true.”

  Her eyelids flutter, as if to tell me she knows this and I shouldn’t interrupt. “But you are a strong person,” she continues. “People will always suck your energy. Weak people are like vampires,” she says. “They suck the energy of the strong. Someone has been sucking your energy. Who is it?” she says.

  I’m dumbfounded. I’m not quite sure. I wait to see if she’s going to tell me. She just stares.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Think!” she says firmly. “There is one person. A relationship. It has made you sad.”

  “Well, there’s Harry—”

  “Yes,” she says, her hands going up in a Hallelujah! “That’s him! Harry. That is the name that came through.”

  I feel a bit freaked. “But I don’t think Harry has got anything to do with how I feel now. I mean, timewise—”

  “Energy does not understand time,” she says. “You are suffering because of this man. He has been a negative force. Your body is acknowledging it. It is in shock. Trauma.”

  “Yes,” I say. “You’re right.” She nods at my acknowledgment. “Though I still don’t think it’s because of him.” I kind of mumble that as a stubborn aside.

  Her expression darkens. “It is because of him!” she shouts. “Harry! That man has sucked your energy. It is obvious to me. But he is DEAD now!”

  I scream from the depths of my soul. Rita puts her hands over her ears.

  “NO!” I howl. “But I saw him. Friday!”

  “He is dead to YOU, dear,” she scolds. “You must not think of him anymore. I have shifted the damage he has done. He is a vampire. He has been sucking you dry. He is dead to YOU.”

  I’m shaking. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Rita.”

  She tuts. “I am not here to tell you nice fairy stories, Jane.”

  “Jennifer.”

  “I have a job to do.”

  “But still.”

  Rita stands up abruptly. Her knees brush my toes and I recoil.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to hear the truth,” she says, pushing back the chair.

  Oh, don’t you just know that, I think.

  I’m finding her quite scary. I’d like to leave, but I’m rooted to the table.

  She draws in a deep breath, then releases it slowly. “You will probably feel bad tonight.” Her tone is mellow again, as though she’s turned a page and this is a new chapter in our story. “You will have a bad headache. The bad energy will be escaping. You must drink lots of water. In two days you will feel like a new woman.” She whisks the cup away from me as though I have lost the right to drink her celebrated chai, let alone have the recipe. I have the distinct feeling Rita is someone who doesn’t like to be contradicted.

  The smell of the incense is making me feel nauseated. The chai is making me feel nauseated. All the good feelings I had only a moment ago are making me feel nauseated. “Should I get Anna Maria?” I say, shivering.

  “Take the time to consider what I have said. I have cleansed your aura, but some resistant energies can hang on. If they do, then you must come back so that I can remove them. Now relax here for a moment until you feel steady. I’ll wait for you downstairs. With Marianna.”

  “Thank you, Ria,” I say, with intention.

  “Rita,” she corrects.

  I wait for her to leave, ease myself off the table, and pace the tiny space between the table and the wall, hugging my sides, trying to calm down, to warm up, until I think I’ve paced for long enough.

  I want to make a run for it. I can’t sit for one more second in that funny little front room with its sickly smells, its cheap prints staring down at me like they know I’m a nonbeliever.

  I quickly descend the stairs, walk back into the room, and the two of them stare at me, Anna Maria all bright and cheery, enthusiastically nodding at me like she wants me to tip her the wink that I feel a bit better, Rita serious and calm. I fumble in my handbag, then give Rita my £40. “Thanks so much, Rita. I’ll definitely be back.” I ask Anna Maria for the car keys. “I need to go for a walk. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  She flashes me a curious look. “Did you scream?” she whispers.

  “With delight.” I smile.

  Anna Maria is grinning wildly, secure in the knowledge this has been a success. She gives me a knowing nod then follows Rita.

  I walk out into the cold autumnal air and draw it deeply into my lungs. The world seems to spin, making me grab onto a tree before throwing up over the curb. I sit down on a low garden wall. The cloying smell of incense is still filling my nostrils. The taste of chai sticks to the back of my throat. I will never be able to go near a health food shop again.

  I return to the car and get my bottle of water. My clothes stink. My hair stinks. The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is have a bath.

  I lie back in the car, retching and shivering, until eventually Anna Maria opens the driver’s door and jumps in behind the wheel.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?” she says.

  “Amazing,” I say.

  “It’s quite draining though, isn’t it?” she says cheerfully, putting the key in the ignition. “You might feel odd for a day or two. It’s your first time. It’s like a drug hit. The first is always the strongest.”

  “Yeah,” I say, even though I’ve never taken a drug stronger than ibuprofen in my life. Anna Maria’s w
ackiness suits her, but I don’t think it suits me.

  She barely glances over her shoulder as she reverses out of the space, then straightens up and drives straight ahead, her wing mirrors still turned in.

  “Your wing mirrors, Anna Maria,” I say. It’s an old car, some kind of Morris Minor, not one where you can adjust the mirrors from inside.

  “Shit,” she says. “I always do that.” She bangs on the brakes, stops the car dead in the middle of the road, jumps out, and flips her wing mirrors. “Thanks,” she says, climbing back in. “I’d have driven all the way home without even realizing.”

  “Good to know,” I say, resolving never to allow Anna Maria to drive me anywhere ever again. She might live to be ninety-five, but I’m not sure she’ll be in one piece.

  Anna Maria raves about Rita the whole of our torturous car journey home.

  “You’re going to feel better, Jennifer,” she says. “I feel it. You look better already.”

  I check myself in the wonky mirror on the sun visor. She’s either lying or she’s blind, which is possible judging from her road sense.

  “Did you tell her what was wrong with me?” I ask.

  Her face becomes thoughtful. “I didn’t know what was wrong with you, did I? Not until today.” She turns her head toward me, her eyes now wide with excitement.

  “Watch the road, please,” I say.

  She instantly obeys, but her eyes are still squeezing sideways at me.

  “Did she get it right then?” she says. She doesn’t wait for my response. “She did, didn’t she!!! That’s why you screamed! She’s so amazing, isn’t she? I can’t believe that woman.” She thumps the steering wheel. “She has x-ray vision.”

  “She was pretty unbelievable,” I say.

  We’re back on the main road now, which is fairly straight. A relief. I don’t want to distract her from driving, but I have to ask her. “So what did you tell her about me then, when you booked?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” I say.

  She hums. “Well . . . I might have told her you had some negative energy around you. Like you told me.” She trumpet blows her cheeks and looks in her rearview mirror, which I think is a first. “And I think I might have mentioned you’d had a toxic boyfriend. You know. Harry. Ugh. But that was all.”