The Nostalgia Effect

by EJ Valson

  Suddenly, I recall a flyer I found on my car windshield after grocery shopping one day before Joe and I were married. It was an advertisement for a free reading with a local psychic. I remember calling the number on the ad just for fun. The woman I spoke with started off the conversation by telling me that I needed to decide if the relationship I was in was right for me. I laughed it off and said nothing in response to her unwarranted comment. After hanging up from the very brief conversation, I realized that I'd never told her I was in a relationship.

  I quickly go to the online telephone directory and search for psychics in the area. Only one name comes up. This could be her. I dial and wait to hear the click of the line picking up.

  "Hello?"

  CHAPTER 11

  I ease the car onto a dirt driveway leading to a partially rundown house that sits just off the highway. I've passed this house what seems like a million times in my other life. But later it will be renovated and charming. For now it looks a little dilapidated-enough to ordinarily make me a little nervous-but the small sign out front tells me I'm in the right place.

  My heart is racing. I feel like I'm about to enter somewhere I don't belong. I've never been to a psychic or card reader, though I have always been fascinated by the craft. The anticipation of this new experience has me both excited and a little frightened. I suddenly feel vulnerable and naked, after I park the car and step out into the front yard. The late morning summer heat bears down on my exposed legs. I hurry to the door before anyone can see me, though at the same time I question if I'd really care if anyone did.

  Wind chimes drift a muted tune out into the slight breeze. Cars whizz by on both sides of the house, which rests in a field between the two lanes of the highway. As I approach the front door, I'm smelling some type of sweet fragrance. Above the doorbell a small sign reads, "The door is open. Are you?" I relax a bit. I need to be ready and willing to accept whatever may come of this. I have no expectations, but I have hope.

  Just as I reach for the knob, the door opens unexpectedly, startling me. "Hello, Jennifer," the female says in a soft warm tone. "I'm Astrid."

  The fifty-something-year-old woman stands before me, her face awash with a welcoming smile. She is draped in a long, flowing maroon-colored dress. Her abundant gray hair cascades down her back. Her hazel eyes pierce into mine. But they aren't threatening at all-they are almost inquisitive, as if she is reading into my soul. I want to stare back, but I oddly fear that I'll expose too much.

  I shyly nod my hello as she opens the door wider and extends her arm out to show me the way in. I try to conceal my fascination and curiosity about her living space. The living room is cluttered with bookshelves, candles, plants and tapestries that feature vibrant colors and shapes of moons and stars. Her home is busy, yet inviting. Not my preference for a living environment, but I immediately feel a sense of comfort here.

  "Would you like some tea or water?" Astrid asks kindly.

  "No thank you," I reply with a nervous smile.

  "OK, then let's get started," she says, and enthusiastically clasps her ring-covered fingers together. She places her hand on the small of my back and guides me into a room down the hall that's concealed by a beaded curtain. I smile to myself. The room looks very clich? for a psychic. I wonder where the crystal ball is. There's a small round table in the middle of the room, flanked by two red velvet-covered chairs.

  "Please sit," she invites, as she pulls out a chair for me and sits down in the other one across from mine. She gazes at me for a moment. I'm uncomfortable with the silence and her staring.

  "So," she begins with a smile, "You are looking for something, I take it?"

  Without thinking, I blurt out, "Yes. My life."

  Astrid gives me an inquisitive look, then continues with her preparations. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. A moment later, she opens her eyes and stares square at me with a calm look upon her face.

  "OK, so I'm just going to concentrate a bit and bring up things as I see them in my mind. Please don't respond to my statements unless I request more information," she instructs.

  I nod in agreement and wait nervously. She's now deep in thought across from me, lightly rubbing her hands together and looking down at nothing while she concentrates. Several awkwardly silent minutes pass by before she looks up again.

  "Hmmm, OK. I see there is a male with the initial 'M'," she states, her eyes slightly looking towards the side of me.

  I perk up and start to feel excited at the tidbit of very accurate information, but I try to conceal my emotions.

  "There is also the male with initials 'H'?.or 'J' and 'H'?" she asks, now looking at me curiously. I feel a lump in my throat. How is she picking this up?

  "That is my?.he is currently my husband," I cautiously reply.

  She frowns a bit. I can tell she is perplexed. "Who is the first male I mentioned?" she asks.

  I clear my throat so I can speak. "He?.he is also my husband," I say, preparing for her to think I'm crazy.

  She sits in silence for a moment, trying to read my face. "I don't see that you are married to both of these people at the same time, so is one your ex-husband?" she asks.

  "Yes and no," I respond.

  Now I believe I've confused her even more.

  "OK, my dear. I see these two men, both are showing me my symbol for spouse. But it's as if they keep morphing into one body and I can't separate the two or get an indication of a timeline," she explains.

  My heart is now racing inside my chest. I swallow hard and prepare to give her answers that she may not believe.

  "It's a long story," I say.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the hour that I sit with Astrid, I let my guard down and explain everything. I tell her about waking up next to my ex-husband eight years into my past. I tell her that I believe I'm supposed to be in 2013 with my new husband and both of my daughters. I tell her that I think I might have had a stroke or am suffering from medication withdrawal or amnesia. And throughout the entire relaying of my story she sits and listens intently, not making any type of expression that makes me feel like I'm crazy or being judged. I finally feel free and safe.

  "So this has led me to you," I finish. "You are the only hope I have."

  I take a deep breath and realize that I've just made the novice mistake of telling a supposed psychic everything she needs to know about me to take my money, tell me a few obvious answers and send me home with a magic cleansing potion. I'm an idiot!

  But at the same time it doesn't matter to me. I don't care. If she is taking my money and scamming me, at least I've finally been able to spill my guts and be free of the stifled feelings I've been carrying around with me. This was the therapy I really needed.

  "Jennifer, this is all so fascinating," she says, again using my formal name. Call it what she wants, it's a freaking nightmare for me!

  She gets up from her chair, walks over to a bookshelf and pulls out a navy-colored leather-bound book. There's faint gold writing on the front, but no image or intricate illustration. She moistens her fingertip with her tongue before opening the book to prevent the pages from sticking together, then flips through to the middle.

  "Have you heard of past life regression?" she asks.

  I nod and respond, "You mean like when people find out if they were famous or married to the same person before?"

  She chuckles. "Well, yes, but I would not consider it for that purpose." She puts the book on the table and sits back down.

  "You see, time is just a way for humans to measure and mark our whereabouts. To help us feel like we are progressing through life," she explains. "But some....well...me, believe life can be a loop or like a busy road with many intersections. I believe that sometimes there are parallel parts in our life that can cross or intertwine."

  I sit for a minute, absorbing the information but still not quite sure what she means. She apparently see's my confused and lets out a soft chuckle.

  "Past life regression
is what people may be more familiar with. However, some people in the psychic community are starting to experiment with future life PROgression," she explains. "I am not an expert in it, though, and have only done a little research. But some say that it's not about reading one's future, or lifelines, or what have you. It's about seeing your actual life, but in the future."

  I try to digest what she has told me. It makes sense....sort of. But I don't understand exactly how it helps me now.

  "So, are you saying that maybe I'm imagining my future life? That I'm not really from my future and thrown back into my past, but that my memory of Michael and my kids is just me seeing my future?" I ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders. "It could very well be, my sweet, but I'm not certain. You give so much detail, that this life you speak of seems very tangible," she says.

  I deflate. The controlling part of me that craves a solid answer needs to know the truth for my own sanity. If I know the truth, then I can deal with it. I don't know how I will survive living in a?"maybe" state.

  "Jennifer," she says sympathetically, "I can tell this is troubling you deeply. I'm a psychic and I have the ability to sense and sometimes see the truth in the present, past and future. But to be honest, yours is very....cloudy. These two men both play a substantial role in your life, but I'm not sure which one is supposed to be with you?or when."

  I meet her gaze and her eyes soften with empathy.

  "I want you to take this book. I know it may not give you all the answers, but it might help you cope with what is going on." She moves closer and kneels down beside me with her hand on my shoulder. She is trying to console me.

  "I have never met anyone with your type of situation and I have to say I'm fascinated. I want to help, but I have to reach out to a few others to see if they have heard of this."

  I look up at her and smile. I reach into my purse and take out my wallet. She quickly puts her hand over mine to prevent me from opening it and shakes her head.

  "I haven't helped you in the way you need, so therefore I want nothing in return," she states.

  Surprised by her sincerity, I instinctively lean in to hug her. As she recipricates my gesture I feel an embrace like you would get from a true friend, or a mother?. a healer.

  "Thank you," I say, as grateful tears fall from my eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  I hurry home to shower and change so that I can leave again and still return around the time I would typically get home from work. I don't want Joe to know I played hooky. He never was the least bit sympathetic to the slightest sickness. Even though it would be fun to not have to do anything around the house for a day, he's not the kind of guy to pick up the household slack and cook dinner or clean up. Well, at least from what I recall.

  I quickly check my work email on the home computer-not that I really care, as this job and this life are hopefully temporary-and respond to the few requests Ruth has sent. I grab a sandwich, my purse, my phone and get back in the car. I have about two hours until Joe gets home with Olivia, so I decide to go and rediscover my past.

  I make a left turn out of the neighborhood and head north toward the only major shopping center that exists at this time. I pass the manufactured home park my dad lives in, the fairgrounds that aren't yet updated, and the little rural market. As I approach the main shopping center I realize there is no major department store there yet. Bummer.

  I decide to head east towards the main thoroughfare and then turn south. A drive that in the future would normally take about fifteen minutes, now only takes ten. Buildings are more spaced apart and the new "big box" stores and restaurants that will later appear are just empty fields or old business buildings that will one day be torn down.

  I head downtown to the waterfront. The distance through which you can drive in this area now is about one third of the length it will be. Construction is starting on some of my future favorite hangouts and the fountains are almost finished. How is it that I can see all of it so clearly?

  I feel a beam of hope surge through my body. I'm grateful to Astrid. I even find comfort in her name, which coincidently is Scandinavian. She left me with a feeling of peace and connection, something I deeply need as I float around in this state of limbo.

  After orienting myself with my past again in terms of my physical surroundings, I head back home. Again the drive takes almost no time at all due to the lack of congestion, students and traffic lights. I still have an hour to kill, so I decide to head to the manufactured home park to see if my dad is still living there in the double-wide he and my stepmom bought. Well...at one time they did...or maybe they didn't?

  The community is still clean and quiet-mostly older folks living in their fifth wheels for extended stays. Everyone here is friendly and they take care of their little gardens with pride. In later years, the stereotypical trailer park tenants will inhabit it, but my dad will have moved out just in time, before the druggies and ex-convicts moved in.

  I pull in front of his mobile home and turn off the engine. The house appears exactly the same. The garden is full of roses and other plants I couldn't begin to name. I hesitantly get out of the car, wondering if I'll run into anyone from the old neighborhood.

  I hear pots banging on the stove from inside through the screen door. I quietly walk up the steps to the sliding door, just enough to peek in without being seen. The same woman who was in my dad's car has her back to me, washing something in the sink. I find a quick comfort in knowing this is still my dad's home, but I'm saddened that it's not my stepmom in the kitchen. What happened to Nancy?

  "Hey!" a voice shouts at me from behind. Startled, I almost fall off the step. I turn around to see my dad doubling over with laughter.

  "Dad, you scared the hell out of me!" I say, my heart pounding and hands shaking. His humor hasn't changed. He still finds this type of thing funny, and at this moment I oddly appreciate it when ordinarily it would irritate me.

  He composes himself, then puts his arm around me. "Sorry. What are you up to, kid?" he asks, ushering me into the house.

  "Not much," I reply. "Just wanted to stop by."

  "No work today?" he inquires.

  Crap! I forgot about playing hooky. "I got off early," I quickly cover.

  Mary turns around from the sink and smiles big when she sees me. "Hi, sweetie," she says, coming over to hug me. She smells nice, and her embrace is warm and comforting. I've never seen this woman in the life I remember, but she feels familiar. "You hungry, or thirsty?" she asks.

  "No thanks," I say. She is so kind, just like Nancy. I wonder if they know each other and how my dad met her.

  The decor inside is more formal than I recall Nancy and my dad having in their home. Mary apparently likes the color red and she has antique lamps and furniture displayed throughout the small space. I notice a collection of figurines enclosed in a glass cabinet.

  "So, kiddo, have a seat, take a load off," Dad says, as he plops into his recliner and puts his feet up. I take a seat at the couch nearest his chair. Mary goes back to her kitchen duties. Dad and I make conversation about the heat and the garden and other minor topics. I listen and just enjoy his presence. He is thinner now than in the future. He looks like he is more active. I wonder what changed.

  I glance around the living room. The walls are full of picture frames of family and friends. Some I recognize, others I don't. They must be on Mary's side. My eye quickly moves back to a framed picture on the bottom shelf of the TV stand. It's displayed in a beautiful glass frame with wings etched into the pattern. It is a picture of Nancy.

  I stop listening to my dad, get up from the couch and I move closer to the picture for inspection. Why would they have a picture of his former wife in their house? I bend down on my knees and pick up the frame. I know this picture. It was taken on Joe's and my wedding day. She's laughing with her head tipped back, her beautiful sparkling blue eyes shining with delight.

  I notice a small silver plaque on the bottom. It is engraved, "Nancy Vasquez, 1954-2
003. Heaven has another angel." My heart sinks. I slump my head in my hands and I begin to cry without a sound. Nancy is dead?

  "Jen...Jen... Oh, hey, don't cry," my dad says from his chair, trying to comfort me, though he doesn't get up. He has never been sure how to deal with me when I'm emotional.

  Mary comes around from the kitchen, curious as to what's going on. "Oh, Jenni, what happened?" she asks concerned and kneels beside me, stroking my hair. I let her. I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it right now. She rubs my back as I try to collect myself. I hate crying in front of people.

  "Oh, sweetie, don't cry," she softly consoles.

  Dad finally sits upright. "It's OK, Jen. She's not suffering anymore. She's at peace," he assures me?and maybe himself.

  "At peace from what?" I ask abruptly.

  They look at each other. They're obviously perplexed by my question. Mary stands up and extends her hands down to help me up off the floor. She leads me to the couch and puts an arm around me. I can't look at them right now. I'm too embarrassed and mixed up.

  "Well?..her car accident, honey," Mary says carefully.