by Karen Quinn
We looked at each other and shrugged.
“I’m definitely over here,” he said, indicating with his hands the area around where we were seated.
“He’s telling me that he paid a visit to this person after he passed and the person saw him. He wants this person to know that it was him; they weren’t hallucinating,” John added. My eyes widened, but I didn’t raise my hand. Surely it can’t be . . .
“He’s making me feel like I need to bring up Sesame Street. He’s showing me Big Bird from Sesame Street. Is ‘Big Bird’ or ‘Bird’ significant to anyone?”
My stomach did a triple flip off the high dive. Slowly I raised my hand.
“Does this make sense to you?” John asked.
“Yes, it does,” I said.
“I’m definitely with you,” John stated.
Even in death, Drayton Bird was torturing me. What is it with him, I wondered. We detested each other in life. If Faith arranged this as a joke, I’m gonna kill her.
“This man passed from a drowning. But he’s making me feel like there was more to it. I’m seeing blood. Does this make sense?”
“Yes,” I said. To my surprise, tears began to pour down my face. Faith shoved a Kleenex into my hand.
“He says you think his passing was painful, but it wasn’t. It happened quickly,” John said. “He’s telling me that the two of you didn’t get along in life and he wants to acknowledge that it was his fault.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head, still weeping.
“Oh, really, I see, wow, whoa.” John was looking at someone right over me who wasn’t actually there. Apparently, they were having a psychic conversation.
“I’m not sure if I understand this, but let me repeat what he said,” John remarked, looking at me again. “He’s saying he betrayed you in life, but you should thank him, because his betrayal saved your life? Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” I said, putting my head in my hands and bawling like an inconsolable child. Isn’t it just my luck to appear on TV having a big fat cry?
“He says that the two of you had a major, and I mean a MAJOR karmic connection. According to him, you died to save him in a past life, and his mission, or purpose if you will, in this lifetime was to return the favor. Now that divine balance has been achieved, he can move on.”
I looked up at John. “Do you mean to tell me that that double-crossing, sanctimonious, lying, insincere, hypocritical traitor was really my cosmic friend? He picked a fine way of showing it.”
Oh, dear God. Did I just say that out loud?
John and the audience were laughing. “Did I ask you for an opinion?” John said. “But thank you for sharing.”
I had this horrible vision of Sassy and her children flipping through the channels and stopping on this show just as I said those terrible things about Drayton.
John switched gears. “He says there’s someone with a ‘B’ connected to him. ‘Bee Bee,’ ‘Beatrice . . .’ ”
“Bea, that’s his daughter.”
“Who’s the ‘S’ name?” John asked.
“That would be Sassy, his wife.”
“He wants you to let Sassy know he’s okay. He says it’s important that you tell her about his visit today. He’s asking if you’ll keep an eye on her and help her because she doesn’t have your strength.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding.
“He’s laughing about the last time you saw him. He says he overheard you reveal a secret that he wasn’t supposed to know. He’s razzing you from the other side,” John teased with a smile.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “He knew?”
“Do you care to enlighten the rest of us?” John asked.
“No, not on national TV,” I said. Everyone laughed.
“He’s saying that he’s not the person you wanted to hear from today and he hopes you won’t hate him for grabbing the spotlight and stealing time that was meant for someone else,” John added. “He’s saying that by telling you this, you’ll have confirmation it’s really him because that’s the kind of man he was in life.”
Yes, he often took what didn’t belong to him, the jerk, I thought but didn’t say. Then I apologized profusely in my mind to him for thinking such a mean thing. He was, after all, dead.
15. What About Me-ee?
My business phone rang. It was that mini-mogul, Stu Needleman. Ever since he learned I was Steven Lord’s friend, he’d become nice to me in that phony you’re-friends-with-someone-important kind of way. Now, he only threatened to ruin me about half as often as he used to. Stu calls at least three times a day to obsess over some aspect of his school search, sometimes more. I just tune him out, say uh-huh a lot, and ponder universal questions like electrolysis vs. waxing, Japanese hair-straightening vs. orange-juice cans, that sort of thing.
“Ivy, I’ve just heard something very disturbing,” he said ominously.
“What did you hear, Stu?”
“I can’t believe it’s true,” he added, clearly saddened by the news. I thought he might cry.
“What? Tell me,” I asked again. I couldn’t imagine what this was about.
“I heard that you, my private-school-admissions adviser, send your own children to public school. Is it true?” he demanded.
“Mommy, Mommy, Kate won’t get out of the bathroom and I need to use it,” Skyler said, interrupting my conversation.
“Not now,” I said firmly to Skyler.
“Oh, they aren’t there now?” Stu said.
“No, they are,” I said to Stu.
“But Mommy, it’s an emergency. I got my period,” Skyler insisted.
I held my hand up to shush her.
“How can you advise me on private schools when you’ve chosen public? And why in God’s name would you send your children to public school?”
Did Skyler just say she got her period? “Stu, I made a different decision for my own daughters. That doesn’t mean I’m not qualified to help you.”
“But why?” he asked, in a state of profound disbelief that anyone he knew other than his maid or garbageman would willingly send her children to public school.
Because my husband had an affair and we broke up. Because I lost my job and had to eliminate every luxury in my life except rent and food. Because by starting a business to help parents get their children into private schools, I no longer make enough money to afford it for my own kids. There, are you satisfied?
What I really said was, “I chose public because it was the right decision for my children and my family. Just like I’m going to help you find the right place for Veronica.”
“Mooo-ooom!” Skyler yelled. “I need you no-o-ow.”
“I hope you’re not going to suggest public school to me, Ivy,” he said, “because if you did, I would fire you on the spot, you know that?”
“Stu, how many times have you fired me already? Three? Four? This was the right choice for me. I know it’s not the right choice for you.”
“Fine,” he said. “As long as we’ve got that straight.” As usual he hung up without saying goodbye.
I sat for a moment, eyes closed, massaging my neck, listening to Skyler pound on the bathroom door where Kate had locked herself in. “Kate, let me in right now, you monkey turd,” Skyler screamed.
“I know you are, but what am I?” the little voice behind the door answered.
“I mean it, you twerp,” Skyler yelled.
“I know you are, but what am I?” the voice replied.
A suspicious silence followed. I opened my eyes and peeked around the corner. Skyler was outside the bathroom door holding Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix over her head in clobber position. “Oh, Ka-ate, come ou-out. I have a sur-PRISE for you.”
“ARE YOU CRAZY!” I leapt from my chair like my ass was on fire and grabbed the makeshift weapon. “What were you thinking? Don’t ever do that again. Have I made myself clear?” Skyler nodded her head and stormed into the living room. People say that fighting between siblings is nor
mal, but sometimes I wonder. Hitting, biting, scratching, kicking, and screaming seem normal. Whacking your sister on the head with an 870-page hardcover book seems excessive. Or is it just me?
I followed Skyler into the living room. She was sitting on the couch next to Sir Elton, flipping angrily through Teen People. “Did you really get your period?”
“Like you care, Mom.”
“Well, did you?”
“No, but I wanted to talk to you and I knew that wasn’t enough to get your attention.”
“Skyler, how many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me when I’m on the phone with a client?”
“Mommy, you care more about your clients than you do about us. You only pay attention to them.”
I pushed Sir Elton off the couch and sat down next to her. “You’ve got that wrong, sweetheart. Come here,” I said, pulling Skyler into my lap. “I care more about you and Kate than anyone else in the world. It’s just that I have to work for my clients when they need me. Don’t ever think I don’t care about you, baby. Tell me what you wanted to talk about.”
“Puberty.”
“Puberty? What about it?”
“Mommy, I don’t want to grow hair in places I can’t even mention.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s a pain, but it happens to everyone,” I said.
“Do you think I’ll grow a mustache?”
“I doubt it. Tell you what, this weekend we’ll go to the bookstore and get you a book about puberty. We’ll read it together and talk about what to expect.”
“Eeeuw. I can’t read a book like that with you. You’re my mother. I’ll read it myself and ask you questions if I have any, which I probably won’t.”
“That sounds like a plan,” I said, hugging my girl.
16. Don’t Spit on the Nice Lady
As I walked by the girls’ bedroom, I wondered about Skyler’s accusations. How could she think I cared more about my clients than about my own children? Maybe I should carve out an hour a day of alone time with each child. That would help. But do I have a full hour to give to each girl? I’ll just have to cut back on my workouts. Wait, no. Those are for the family. I have to look good to attract a new stepfather for the girls. Okay, thirty minutes. Yes, that’s realistic. From this day forward, Kate and Skyler will each get a half hour alone with me every night. No excuses. Then the phone rang. Omar, my favorite mobster, was calling to report a situation. I immediately erased Kate and Skyler from my mind. Sorry, girls, I’ll iron out the details tomorrow.
Omar and Maria had just interviewed at Hartley, one of the few schools that completed the entire admissions process in one visit. First, Maria and Omar toured with the director, who, I knew, would have been secretly judging the way father and daughter interacted while they meandered through the building.
As they entered one of the kindergarten classrooms for a look, Maria was immediately attracted to a cage with a rabbit inside. She went over to it, put her fingers in and pulled out a half-eaten piece of spoiled lettuce that the critter had been salivating, peeing, and pooping on for days. Turning to her father, she held up the lettuce and asked if she could eat it. Omar said no, of course, at which Maria folded her arms, turned her back, screwed up her face, and . . . he knew what was coming next. “Fine,” he said, “eat the damn thing. But if you get salmonella, don’t come running to me.” Satisfied, Maria munched on the disease-ridden greens. The mortified director witnessed the entire episode.
Continuing their tour, the director asked Maria what she wanted to be when she grew up. “An assassin,” Maria answered. This was something she had probably picked up watching the Power Puff Girls, but coming from Omar Kutcher’s daughter, it wasn’t deemed remotely cute.
Finally, while the director interviewed Omar in her glass-enclosed office, a teacher assessed Maria in the mini-classroom located right outside the door.
Omar thought they might have blown the interview. While the director grilled him, he could see through her glass walls that something was going awry between Maria and the teacher.
“Maria kept shaking her head. At one point, she turned the box of crayons over on the floor and refused to help the teacher clean it up. How am I supposed to concentrate on my interview with that going on outside? Then it got worse. Maria stood up and turned her back on the teacher and started screaming, you know the way she does? She’s such a pistol, that kid. That’s when the teacher pulled me out of my interview. Maria was hysterical. She started yelling at me, saying ‘I know why you’re doing this. It’s because you hate me, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’ Miss Ice Queen said our interview was over. It lasted five minutes,” he explained. “Did we blow it?”
“Yes, you blew it,” I confirmed. “We can write that school off.”
“I feel like killing that frigid bitch,” he said. He was not kidding.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Omar. This wasn’t one of the best schools, anyway. Even if they’d taken Maria, we would have turned them down.” Truthfully, if Maria was going to blow an interview, this was the one to blow. Hartley was a third-tier school, everyone’s safety choice. People automatically assume that any boy or girl who goes there is a loser.
Omar sounded distressed. “Ivy, I’m a powerful man. I don’t know if you know that.” Uh, yeah, I’m aware.
“Everyone respects me. Everyone. Anyone who doesn’t pays the price. But my daughter, my own flesh and blood, I don’t know how to reach her. She hates me.”
Gee, could the fact that you bumped off her mother have something to do with that?
“Omar,” I said. “There’s nothing harder than being a parent. You have to keep trying with Maria. Be patient. Be loving. I’m sure she’s just acting out because she lost her mother. Maybe she could use some play therapy.” I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t gone too far, not wanting a repeat of the Lilith incident.
“Can you recommend someone?”
Oh, my God. He’s taking my advice, I mentally squealed. “Not offhand, but I’ll do some research and find you the right person.”
He sounded relieved.
“Omar,” I said, reaching for my notebook that listed the trustees for each school, “I think we’re going to have to tap into some of that power of yours. Let me read you a list of board members for the schools you’re applying to. Tell me if you know any of them. Maybe we can find one or two who’d pull strings for Maria.”
“Okay,” he said. We reviewed the list together and identified two trustees at different schools who, as he put it, “would take a bullet for me.”
“Great,” I said. Now I can add colluding with the mob to my list of wrongdoings. I wonder what the penalties are for extortion in this state?
“Can you get in touch with these men next week?”
“Done,” he said. “It’s like that Bob Dylan song says.”
“Which song?”
“ ‘You Gotta Know Somebody.’ ”
“Right, it’s like that. Anyway, don’t stop going to interviews, and try to get Maria excited about her visits. What’s her favorite thing to do with you?”
“That would be going to The Little Shop of Plaster.”
“You take Maria to The Little Shop of Plaster? That’s so sweet,” I said, imagining this universally feared mob boss painting little plaster kittens with his daughter. “Why don’t you promise that if she does her best at each interview, you’ll take her there after every visit?”
“You mean bribe her?”
“Yeah, I can’t believe you didn’t think of it yourself, Omar.” Oops. Faux pas.
He laughed.
Completely out of left field, Omar got mushy on me. “Ivy, you’re a beautiful girl. You’re single. I’m single. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Oh yeah, let’s go out on a date, fall in love, and get married. Then I can be Maria’s new stepmother and you can kill me when you’re tired of me. I think not.
“Omar,” I teased. “You are so naughty. I can’t date you. You’re my client. I m
ake it a rule never to date clients. I need to stay objective.”
There was an unnaturally long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, he spoke. “Then how about we go out after Maria gets into one of these schools?” He didn’t sound happy. Omar “the Butcher” Kutcher is not used to hearing the word “no” from anyone but his little pistol.
“Absolutely. There’d be nothing standing in our way then,” I purred suggestively. Shit. Now I’ll need to join the witness protection program.
17. The Bitch in Burberry
On Sunday, Sassy and her brood were coming for a barbecue, weather permitting. I reached out to her, as I’d promised Drayton I would on national TV. It was a good thing because Sassy was deeply depressed. She had just put her new (my old) apartment on the market. Apparently, Drayton had left her without insurance, and she could no longer afford the place. At first she declined my invitation, but she finally agreed after I promised to tell her more about my experience with John Edward.
Without asking permission, Skyler and Kate knocked on our neighbors’ doors and invited Philip, Archie, and Michael. They all said yes. Damn. I haven’t seen Philip since our argument. And Michael acts like I don’t exist. What prompted them to accept?
At least the weather cooperated. We had one of those Indian-summer evenings, warm enough to eat outdoors if we wore sweaters. Sassy arrived wearing Burberry plaid jeans that made even her perfect ass look fat.
I wasn’t sure how she would respond to our downscale apartment and plebeian neighbors. I took her on a tour of the place, which she pronounced “cozy.” Then she asked how much it cost. The kids played in the yard while the grown-ups settled in at the picnic table. Sir Elton wouldn’t stop humping Sassy’s leg, which was inappropriate and he knew it. I banished the pug to my bedroom for the evening. Sassy acted cool but polite when I introduced her to Michael, Archie, and Philip. When she found out that Archie was the Naked Carpenter, she downgraded her demeanor to frosty.