The Ghost Photographer

by Julie Rieger

  This grounding technique is like having an emotional anchor that aligns body and spirit while connecting you squarely to a deep, steady energy at the earth’s core. This not only protects and helps you stay responsive versus reactive in life, you also become more thoughtful, measured, and intentional, while having a keener sense of trust in your intuition, or higher self.

  Ima quickly became part of my spiritual posse along with Patricia and Brenda, and the Crystal Matrix my official Weekend Witch Camp. I went from giving away writing utensils at the office to giving away pieces of quartz and black tourmaline. I wore crystals in my bra (blue lace agate, if you must know) to open up my fifth chakra, which is all about communication—so difficult for women in the male-dominated corporate world. Every week the crystals in my office got bigger and more badass. Coworkers would come to complain about physical or emotional struggles, and I’d dole out crystals like candy. Even one of our data scientists who has a PhD in mathematics got psyched when I gave him a big, honking crystal for his desk.

  I also used pendulums at work and at cocktail parties and did tarot on bar counters and airplane tray tables. I talked to everyone and anyone about what I was learning. I was a total fucking zealot, an evangelical spirit junkie. I was a little like someone who was color-blind their whole life, then got special glasses that allowed them to see color for the first time. There are videos online that show stupefied people moved to tears when they see the world in full color for the first time. The world in black and white was their absolute truth; now they suddenly saw the world in colors they couldn’t even articulate. They had to understand things like ultraviolet light, infrared, and X-rays, and even learn things about their own vision. Everything they knew to be true was abruptly, radically changed.

  Well, folks, that was me. And pretty soon weird shit started to happen that would blow my metaphysical house down once and for all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mother Always Knows Best

  A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.

  —AGATHA CHRISTIE

  One day I’m at the gym on the elliptical machine reading e-mail. (Clearly, I’m not totally engaged in my workout.) As I scan the “sender” list, I see a message from “Chief Warrant Officer Lisa Bryan.” Funny enough, Lisa Bryan, or Lisa Vela as I knew her from our Oklahoma days, was one of my babysitters. She’s my brother’s age, three years older than me. I had just recently found out that she had had a crush on my brother in high school. How cute is that? She could have become Lisa Rieger. I don’t think my brother ever knew she had a crush on him, though.

  Lisa became very close to my mom while we were growing up in Oklahoma. They would shop together and talk for hours about life. I remember when Lisa came over to talk to Mom about joining the army. It was a very intense conversation. I’m pretty sure they exchanged I love yous when they hugged good-bye. Lisa was like family and one of the kindest people you could ever meet, so you can understand my desperation when I read that she’d been diagnosed with uterine cancer. Fucking uterine cancer. Not her, I say to myself. Please not her.

  As my heart breaks my disingenuous workout ends. I just stop moving. I make my way over to the bench press to sit and think about what to do or say to Lisa to help her in this moment of crisis. I have a spiritual “duh” moment: Of course, I think, I’ll ask my mom.

  When I started studying with Brenda, she explained how I could communicate with my mother. “Close your eyes and ask your mom to come to you,” she said. “She’ll show up how she wants you to see her.” That’s what spooks do, she explained. They show us how they want to be seen, which is not the way we necessarily remember them. This is to make it clear that our minds aren’t playing tricks on us. “Start with basic yes and no questions,” Brenda added, “and allow her to respond to you.” This simplicity is apparently important when you’re summoning Spirit. You don’t want to start with too many options; it can get confusing. It’s like giving a Cheesecake Factory menu to a kid. Don’t do it—trust me on this. Just ask: hamburger or hot dog? (Or if you’re in LA: vegan dog or tofu chicken?)

  For some reason, I haven’t actually summoned my mom before, but now in the middle of the noisy, sweaty gym with people in loud Lycra shorts I decide it’s time. I feel a little bit like what an electrician must feel like after he’s rewired a house and is about to flip the circuit breaker for the first time.

  I put my head in my hands, close my eyes, and start to use the grounding technique that Ima taught me. I slowly lose awareness of my surroundings: There’s no more loud music playing or shiny annoying gym equipment pumping. I enter a solid, serene space with measured intention. Then I simply say inwardly: “Hi, Mom.”

  I wait.

  Within seconds, Mom appears in my mind’s eye, almost as if she is superimposed on the ordinary visual world I inhabit. She’s beautiful and has long hair. This is weird to me because I never knew her with long hair, but what the hell, her looks are up to her. This reminds me of what Brenda told me about ghosts showing up the way they want to be seen. All that said, my mom is wearing the pricey Charlotte Ford jeans she used to wear all the time.

  I’m beside myself with joy at the extraordinary sight of my “ordinary” mother, and overcome with a mix of awe and relief. She is no longer on this earthly plane, but I can feel and “see” her now almost as clear as day.

  “Mom,” I continue, “you may have heard that Lisa is in trouble. Is she gonna survive this?”

  I see my mom nod yes.

  “Okay then. Sweet. Should I go see her?”

  Mom shakes her head no.

  “Really? Wouldn’t she want to see me after surgery?”

  Mom shakes her head no.

  “Oh, come on. Well. Okay. Will she have a tough surgery?”

  Mom answers no.

  “An easy one?”

  Again, no.

  At this point I start to wonder what I’m doing wrong. Based on what I ask so far, Lisa doesn’t want me around, and her surgery is going to be neither good nor bad. Maybe I’m no good at this. After all, this is my first time communicating with Mom. Am I fooling myself? I try to keep doubt at bay, but it’s not easy.

  “Mom,” I ask now, a tad awkwardly, “is there something else going on?”

  Mom nods yes.

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What do I need to ask you, Mom? What am I missing? Oh, I know: Are they going to postpone her surgery?”

  Mom shakes her head no.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Clearly I’m not there yet, but I do feel like I’m getting warmer.

  “Okay, Mom. Is there something going on with her diagnosis? Does she have something else?”

  Mom doesn’t respond at all.

  “Is there something wrong with her diagnosis?” (I figure two questions at once is a stretch for us at this point.)

  Mom nods yes.

  “Oh, Mom. The doctors are wrong, aren’t they?”

  She replies yes.

  “Thank you, Mom. I love you.”

  She nods yes.

  Now what do I do? Do I call Lisa? Hey, Lisa, it’s Julie. Got your e-mail. So I decided to consult my dead mother on your diagnosis. She said you’re fine for now. Tell the doctor to call Margaret if he doesn’t believe you. Oh hell no, I’m not going to call her with that information. I’ll go the chickenshit route and text instead.

  “Hi, Lisa. I got your e-mail,” I text. “I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this. I know this may sound crazy, but I tapped into Mom and asked her about you. She said you will be okay. You may want to check with your doctor about the diagnosis. I love you. Your old babysittee.”

  What a strange thing I just did. My only solace is that Lisa is of Native American heritage, and I’m banking that her beliefs expand beyond the physical world. Or not. It is a gamble, let’s be honest.

  A few days later my cell phone rings. The incoming
call reads: “Chief Warrant Officer Lisa Bryan.” What in the world is she going to say? Naturally, because I am human after all, everything that runs through my head is all bad, all negative. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Ugh.

  “Julie, it’s Lisa,” she says in her soft, sweet voice.

  “Hi, Lisa. What’s goin’ on?” I say like an idiot. I know exactly what’s going on.

  “Well. I got your text.”

  Oh boy, here we go. “Yeah, well—” I fumble.

  Lisa interrupts. “Julie, you know how much I love your mother. And I want to call and tell you that she was right.”

  “Wait. What? She was?” I say gleefully, both because Lisa doesn’t have to go through that horror and, of course, because my mom rocks.

  “Yeah, it was weird,” she continues. “I was in the operating room, getting prepped. All the nurses were there organizing the surgical tools and everything. Then the phone rang. I heard the nurse say, ‘Uh-huh, okay, I understand.’ After she hung up, she began to put things away while instructing the other nurses to do the same. I asked what was going on. She told me the doctor will be down soon, there was an error with my diagnosis.” The relief in Lisa’s voice is thick with emotion.

  I’m just a wee bit flabbergasted. “You know how much Mom loved you, Lisa. She’s still looking after you.” I pause for a minute, then admit: “I was scared to death you’d think I was a nut by sending that text.”

  “Julie, I love that you sent the text. You’re a nut with or without texting me.”

  We both laugh and say “I love you” almost at the same time. I’m reminded how much my mom loved both Lisa and me. Her presence is a reminder that the dead want us to celebrate life. Being human is a sacred experience, even with all the pain. In fact, pain itself is a privilege, too. Because yeah, we all know about love: Love makes the world go round. It really, truly does. And that’s why the absence of it is usually the primary source of pain in the human experience.

  I’m reminded of this when Lisa and I say our final good-byes and hang up. I’m overjoyed for Lisa’s well-being and the incredible access to my mom that came so simply, and yet with such grace and power.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Witch and an Elf Step into a Bar

  Witnessing is the alchemy of enlightenment. It can transform mud into gold.

  —AMIT RAY

  Picture this: It’s Halloween night in New York City, and I extend a business trip there to spend more time with Brenda, my psychic teacher from Cincinnati (whom I now call the “Good Witch”). Brenda is in Manhattan to do live, in-person group-spirit readings for a gathering of around eighty people à la the Long Island Medium. These people are New Yorkers, so they take no bullshit. At least half of them will get a direct message from the Other Side. If they’re paying attention, the other half will realize that these messages also have meaning for them.

  “You may not get a message tonight,” Brenda tells the crowd, “but every message is for you.” In other words, pay attention and you’ll find personal meaning in whatever Spirit brings forth.

  The event takes place in a spacious yoga studio that’s clearly made for large practices. (Not that I’d know; I don’t practice yoga. My idea of a sun salutation is lying in a lounge chair in cutoff shorts, preferably with a tequila shot.) The event is riveting: People are moved to tears, and astonishment has a vise grip on the crowd as spirits communicate specific information through Brenda in much the same way she conveyed information to me from my parents. The experience never ceases to amaze and move me.

  At one point after a break midway through the event, Brenda approaches me and looks right at me as if no one else is in the crowd. “The M Squad came to see me during the break,” she says. “They say that if you run into difficult times, remember who you are; keep doing what you’re doing.”

  The M Squad consists of Mona; my mom, Margaret; and my aunt Marlene. Marlene was my beloved godmother, by the way. She had a tiny body, giant boobs (I always wondered how she didn’t tip over while standing up), and fiery red hair. About a year after my mom died, Aunt Marlene got sick. Shortly thereafter, when I was in the tub one night, she appeared in front of me in a sort of vision. She showed me her two kids, then started to fly around and through them. Brenda said this was a sign that Aunt Marlene was ready to pass to the Other Side; sure enough, the next morning she left our good Earth. Ever since then, however, she occasionally pops by for a visit, hence her participation what Brenda refers to as my M Squad.

  All the emotion of that evening in New York—the spirits bringing their messages, the humans overcome with feeling—goes right to my stomach. “I’m starving,” I say to Brenda after the event. “Let’s go grab a bite.”

  We walk around Lower Manhattan looking for a good chow house and laughing at New Yorkers in their Halloween costumes along the way. We finally stumble into a small quaint café and we’re in luck: There’s an empty table for two just calling our name. By now it’s almost 11:00 p.m. in the city that never sleeps. Brenda and I claim our seats, hers facing out to the center of the café, mine facing the street. As we recount the event that night, I turn to rest my coat on the back of my chair. When I turn back around, I hear a loud thump.

  I look across the table and Brenda is gone. Where the hell did she go?

  I scan the restaurant and finally see her on her knees across the room with her hands lying on a man’s body. The guy has fallen backward off his bar stool and is passed out on the floor.

  I have no idea what to do until I see the unconscious guy’s friend struggling with Brenda. She tries to push him away from her while he tries to push her away from his unconscious buddy. So I get up, pull the friend off of Brenda, and proceed to act like a circus bear. I figure Brenda is doing some woo-woo stuff and needs her space, so I tell the friend: “Dude. Don’t worry, she’s a professional and knows what she’s doing.” I say this with total conviction even though I have no idea what’s going on.

  “Yeah, she’s a doctor,” I add. I’m going to hell for lying. “He’ll be fine.” Another ticket to hell. “Oh yeah, she’s done this before.” Front-of-the-line pass to hell.

  The whole time I’m standing like a bouncer between the guy and Brenda. He keeps pressuring me just to let him get his friend and go. Clearly he’s paranoid about something sketchy.

  The bartender calls the paramedics while a waitress comes over, squats, and talks to Brenda; then she pulls off her wristwatch and checks the guy’s pulse.

  The man is just beginning to open his eyes when the paramedics rush in with a stretcher and lots of equipment—and Brenda’s job is now done. Once the man is safely in the hands of the paramedics, we sit our asses back down at the table. Nothing like a little midnight Manhattan magic.

  “Soooooo . . .” I say. “What the fuck happened?”

  “I saw the guy fall backward and hit the floor,” Brenda explains. “Then I saw his spirit begin to leave his body.”

  “Wait . . . you what?”

  “Well, yeah; I can see spirits, remember?”

  “Right, right.” Of course, what was I not thinking? “Thank you for the reminder,” I say.

  “So I had to go over to him,” she continues. “Normally I ask the spirit if it wants to stay or go. I must honor its wishes.”

  Sure, why not?

  “His spirit was as messed up and confused as his body, so he couldn’t really make the call to stay or go. But his spirit was still attached to him, and when that’s the case, spirits generally opt to stay in their human bodies. So when I offered the energetic support, that’s what happened.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I waited for you, my elf. Where the hell were you? I needed help.”

  “Okay, fine. Fair enough, I was a little slow on the uptake. It was my first time being an assistant to a medium. Come on, cut this elf some damn slack.”

  “Then the waitress came over and asked if I was a doctor,” Brenda continues. “I told her that I was more
of a healer; she understood and asked what she could do to help, so I asked her to keep an eye on his pulse. And thank you, by the way, my elf. I was ready to throw down his friend.”

  “You’re welcome, my witchy-poo.”

  “I was relieved when the paramedics arrived; he was already coming back.”

  Once Brenda finishes her story, I want to ask more questions, but I’m interrupted by a few drunk girls sitting next to us, thanking Brenda for bringing in the hot guys in uniform. (Paramedics and firemen do it every time.) “So how the hell did you move so fast and know what to do?”

  “I’m here to serve. I’m here to help. In my mind, there is never a choice.”

  Oh jeez, how could you not love this woman? Next question: “Brenda, did you ever wonder what the people in the restaurant were thinking?”

  “No, I never thought about it. Why?”

  “Well, we’ve all seen ER and Grey’s Anatomy. We mere mortals think that when someone runs to rescue another, they should be giving them CPR or pounding their chest or doing something that TV doctors do. But not you. You’re the lady who ran to his side and placed your hands on him and didn’t move—not once. How fucked up is that if you’re a normal person, sippin’ on a mojito, and bam—crisis averted by the lady who didn’t move?”

  “Shit,” she says, shaking her head and laughing.

  I love this woman. She makes the world better. She makes me better. It was an honor that night to be her elf. I witnessed spiritual healing in action. While trick-or-treaters were waltzing all over Manhattan that night, real spirits were moving in and out of human bodies. The drama of life and death, that delicate dance, was playing out like it does a million times a day all over the world. In becoming part of this alchemy in action, I, too, was joining the dance in a curious way.