Claire Voyant (28 page)

I took a shot and rang the bell, but nothing. I banged on the window. Still nothing. I grabbed my cell and called the phone number on the door. No answer. Then, just as I was about to head back to the car and pray that I could remember where I'd parked, an older, heavyset woman spotted me.

“Closed.” She pointed to the sign.

“I know. It's okay. I don't want to eat, I just wanted…”

What? What did I want? To ask the owner if he remembered me? The girl with the good aura?

I must have looked pretty pathetic, because the woman opened the door. “We're closed, ma'am. We open again tomorrow at eleven.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I didn't actually want to order anything, I wanted to talk to the man who was here last time.”

“Who? Costa? My son?”

“Yes. Yes. That's his name. Costa. Is he here?”

“Not now, miss. His wife had a baby two days ago. A beautiful little girl.” She smiled.

“That's so nice. Congratulations.”

“Daphne Athena Christina Eugenia Amandes.”

“Oh, that's lovely.”
She'll be ten before she learns how to spell it.

“So what did you want to ask him? You have problems?”

“Not just big problems. Huge problems. I've never been so confused in my whole—”

“Come in, come in. I'm just mopping up. You'll give me a hand?”

“Sure. Absolutely. I'm a great little mopper.”
I used to vomit from the smell of ammonia, but that's another story.

“You got the job, honey,” she said after an hour of scrubbing, spraying, dusting, and sweeping.

“You do this every night?” I collapsed into one of the booths.

“For twenty-six years. Tonight I have no help because I send them all home to be with their families. The days are long, but it's a good life. Next month we're all going to Greece to visit my mother's family.”

“That's wonderful…. I'm sorry. I don't even know your name.”

“I'm Althea. And you are…?”

“Claire Greene. From New York.” We shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“So you come a very long way for us. Why didn't you say so?”

“Well, actually I've been here for a few weeks…very unexpectedly.”

“Uh-huh. You have good auras around you.”

“Oh my God. That's exactly what your son said. But what does it mean? Because if it's supposed to be bringing me good luck, someone didn't get the memo.”

“Oh my dear, you've had nothing but good luck. You've got great beauty and intelligence, passion and abilities, love and friendship, good health…. You're a very wealthy woman.”

“Really? I always thought rich girls had more than four hundred and seventy-seven dollars to their name.”

“Wealth is not only measured in dollars and cents, my dear.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell Mastercard.”

Althea smiled. “You have wonderful colors around you, which tells me not only have you been blessed, but that you are guided and protected. I think by a male spirit…maybe a grandfather?”

“Yes…it's my grandfather. He died on my lap, only I didn't know it at the time.”

“That he died?”

“No, that he was my grandfather.”

“Now, there's a story I've never heard,” Althea laughed. “One day you'll have to tell me all about it. But it's late. My family is waiting for me.”

“I know. And I'm sorry to keep you. But I did all that cleaning…and I have so many questions.”

“But you, my dear, have all the answers from within. The radiant purple around you tells me you have your own great psychic awareness.”

“No. Uh-uh. Can't be true. I never saw any of this coming, 'cause believe me, if I had, I would have stayed away from shower stalls.”

“What answers do you need? Should you marry him? Yes. Should you talk to your mother? Most definitely. Should you put your inheritance away for a rainy day? It never hurts. Anything else?”

“Yes…. Wait. How did you know all that? Where do you get your information?”

“The same place as you, dear. I just listen to the voices from the other side.”

“But it's not just voices. I hear music. I feel energy around me. I see the image of my grandfather in front of me. I know things I have no way of knowing.”

“It's just like your name, which is so perfect for you. You are Claire. For clairvoyant.”

“Clairvoyant? Me? Are you sure?”

“I am most certain. When you walked through the door, I felt the great power of your spirit guides enter with you. It's the sign that you often return to the other side for answers.”

“Return to the other side? You mean actually come and go? Like astral travel?”

“Don't let the name scare you, dear. It is all quite natural. But I do sense that you have visited very recently. Perhaps, if you try, you will be able to remember the journey.”

W
HEN
I
WAS A KID,
I
USED TO CRINGE EVERY TIME MY FATHER THREW
up his hands and asked, “How can I make plans if God just laughs?” Or when my mother would iron his shirts to the tune of “Que sera, sera, whatever will be will be.” As an already anxious nine-year-old, it was disconcerting to think my parents, my God-assigned protectors, were walking through life with an undertow of dread that at any moment the Almighty One could capsize their comfortable four-bedroom, split-level boat.

By the time I reached high school, I was so sick of their we-control-nothing attitude, I purposely dated a geek named Stephen Wishnick who believed in free will. It was so liberating to subscribe to his more enlightened ideology that we were here to program our own destinies, much like getting to decide which TV shows we wanted to tape on this new thing called a VCR.

Naturally I shared this with my father in the hopes of setting him straight. Why let the poor guy spend his golden years in an ignorant, misguided state?

“Free will, my ass.” He twirled a Salem in an ashtray. “There's no such thing. It's all decided before we get here. Like Rabbi Rubin says every Yom Kippur. Who shall live and who shall die. Who by trial and who by fire.”

After leaving Althea's House of Predictions, it hit me that he'd probably been right. Free will was a crock. A concept we embraced
to convince ourselves that we were independent operators, entitled to make decisions and choose actions as we saw fit.

So after all these years, why had I suddenly changed my mind? Because a total stranger had just zoned in on my most pressing issues: men, marriage, money, and mothers. Of course, a cynic—me, for instance—could say that those were the most universal of dilemmas, and the woman just got lucky.

But something about the way Althea hit all those bull's-eyes led me to believe that she wasn't just a good guesser. She knew what was causing me to lose sleep because she was the universe's answer to a diligent studio executive. She had read the script, screened the dailies, and knew how the story ended. Which really pissed me off. I hated the idea that the paths I chose, and the outcome of those choices, were all in the script. The script written, executive-produced, and directed by God, with maybe a bunch of cutthroat associate-producer angels trying to exert their limited powers in order to satisfy their own agendas.

As an actress, one would think I would love the notion of our lives being preordained. Our destinies a wrap. But I knew better than anyone that a great life was about as rare as a great script. And all too often, we didn't even realize when we were holding one in our hands.

 

In general, it's not a good idea to be behind the wheel of a borrowed Porsche when you are DWU: Driving while unhinged. Particularly if you don't know the area and, therefore, the best exit to your destination. If only I'd remembered that while trying to find my way back to the Fabrikant estate.

You know the scene. You take your eyes off the road to read the signs for one split second, and boom. You're exchanging phone numbers with a guy who is not likely to take you to dinner after the tow truck pulls away.

I was shaking when I dialed Drew to tell him, fully expecting to hear this otherwise genteel man flip out.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Drew asked for like the tenth time.

“I'm fine. I'm just so so sorry. I should have listened to you and let
you drive. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“As long as you're okay,” he insisted. “It's only metal and money.”

Yeah. A
lot
of metal and money.
“I'll pay you back, I swear. Whatever your out-of-pocket-costs are. This was entirely my fault.”

“Claire, relax. It's okay. We're like a twelve-car family. I have other things to drive.”

“Yes, but it's a Porsche. It's seven years' bad luck to wreck one.”

“Not for the body shop.”

“Are you always this understanding after your car's been towed?”

“Are you kidding? You know how many times I cracked up my car and had to call my dad to come get me? He was never happy, but as long as I made the call, it meant I was okay, and he just taught me to deal with it.”

“A great attitude.” I coughed. “Now let's see how you handle the really bad news.”

“What?”

“You know the guy I hit?” I closed my eyes. “Seems it's a very small world.”

“Oh no. How small?”

“Pretty small, apparently. I'm not a hundred percent, but he may be Marly's Uncle Alvin?”

“Oh shit. Not Alvin Becker. Claire, you idiot! The guy is a lunatic!”

As I listened to Drew carry on that I was an irresponsible, stubborn jerk, it didn't faze me one bit. I guess I hated the idea of dating a man who only had one speed (Mr. Nice Guy). Imagine the pressure on me to follow suit. I'd have to spend at least one week a month biting my PMS tongue. At least now I had proof that he could go ballistic like the rest of us mere mortals.

“Thank you,” I sighed. “I feel so much better already.”

 

Can I tell you what saved my ass when I finally got back to the house? My ass is what saved my ass. Seems Drew had been planning an official welcome-to-my-room party, complete with scented candles and mood music. But after the stressful events of the night, he begged off.

Unfortunately, between the phone calls from Penny, the dinner kiss, the hour of scrubbing, the strange reading, and the accident, I was so wired myself, I really wanted Drew to stay. So when I saw that he was torn, I went with my instincts and locked the bedroom door. The music he had chosen turned out to be just right for a lap dance.

Funny how the scent of vanilla, and a little striptease can get a man to forget what ails him. By the time I was down to my tiny black Cosabella thong, Drew was no longer thinking about smashed fenders and broken headlights. But he wasn't the only one feeling pleasure.

To my delight, he had been a good little boy and paid close attention to instruction-happy Samantha on
Sex and the City.
(God bless HBO: Hot Breathing and Orgasms). And even though I knew I should stay focused on the moment, I found myself thinking about the call I would make to Sydney. We may not have had a special coffee shop like Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha, but we knew how to dish.

I couldn't wait to tell her that dating Drew was like having four of the best boyfriends on the show: He had a big, hard body like Smith, a big, wonderful heart like Steve, and big, deep pockets like Harry. But best of all, he was my Mr. Big. I just looked at him and I got weak. No doubt in my mind—I was not walking away from this guy after six seasons.

“I swear, you get more amazing by the day.” He stroked my hair.

“So you're not mad at me anymore?”

“I'm furious, but at least I found a way for you to repent.”

“If I had known being a sinner was this much fun…”

“Down, girl.” He kissed my hand. “As it is, I'm not going to be able to walk in the morning.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you'd be good for another three rounds.”

“Not tonight, coach…I'm out of practice.”

“Okay, that makes no sense. Didn't you and Marly—I'm sorry. It's none of my business.”

“Claire, we had sex…but not like this.”

“And you were going to marry her anyway?”

“Things were different with us. Basically, she was bisexual.”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah, as long as I'd buy things for her, she was sexual.”

“Oh…. You scared me,” I laughed. “But seriously, I don't get the relationship. I mean, I know what was in it for her. The big house, the fancy cars…”

“It's not what you think. Marly and I were great together…just not in bed.”

“And that was okay with you?”

“She took care of me in a lot of other ways. She didn't make any demands. She was a good listener…and we had an understanding.”

“An understanding.”

“Yeah. If we needed to shop elsewhere on occasion, it was okay.”

“You're joking, right? You actually gave each other permission to screw around?”

“Basically.”

“Oh my God. That's insane. Does the term
sexually transmitted disease
mean anything to you?”

“We were careful. But to be honest, it's how I grew up. I know it sounds strange, but my parents had the same arrangement.”

“With the operative word being
had
. Now they're getting a divorce.”

“For a lot of reasons.”

“Well, you would know better than me, and I'm no expert. But it seems to me that infidelity isn't exactly the cornerstone of a good, healthy relationship.”

“I'm not saying it works for everyone.”

“Okay, well, just so you're clear? It wouldn't work for me. And if we're going to be together, we would have to have an understanding, too. It's just us. I couldn't share you.”

“And I couldn't imagine ever needing anyone else but you.”

“Thank you, but this conversation just took a very scary turn. We grew up so differently. My parents fight like crazy. You've seen them. But I can't imagine either of them ever playing around…not that
anyone else would want them. And yet, no matter how loud they hollered and carried on, they still believed in the institution of marriage, in the holiness of the vows. And I do, too. But what if you can't accept those same values?”

“Claire, I was faithful to Marly.”

“But you just said that you had an understanding that you could shop elsewhere.”

“Yes, but I didn't. I accepted what we had, even though it wasn't perfect.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed to believe in love. I needed to know that if you cared that deeply for someone, you could get past just about anything.”

“Well, obviously she didn't feel that way. She's pregnant, and it might not be your chid.”

He didn't answer.

“How is that even possible? You make it sound like she wasn't even interested in sex, yet she cheated on you? Why?”

“She had her reasons. Can we talk about this later?”

“I'm sorry I'm prying…. It just seems so strange that she—”

“Had certain needs I couldn't give her. Okay? Can we please just leave it at that?”

“That's what a guy says when he's impotent. But you certainly aren't that…at least for me.”

“I'm begging you, Claire. I really don't want to talk about this right now.”

“But wait. I know she loves you. She practically covered your whole place with those pillows she made.
Marly and Drew together forever…And they lived happily ever after
…”

“Claire, stop it already. I can't do this. I can't be in a microwave relationship—press a button and zap, all your questions are answered in the time it takes to heat a cup of coffee. My life is complicated. There's a lot you don't know. And I'm not going to spill my guts just because you've turned into Curious George. Jeez! I can't tell you
how much I hate it when girls I go out with think they're entitled to know every goddamn thing I ever said or did. Then they have to sit there and analyze it, and discuss it, and worry about it, and call their girlfriends, and have them sit there and analyze and discuss it. I'm a guy, not a bug under your microscope.”

“Okay. I get the point. I'm sorry. I'll never ask you another personal question again.”

“Like hell!” He got up to put on his shirt.

“Wait? Where are you going? Don't leave. We were just having a little argument.”

“Yeah, well, it's not as little as you think.”

 

Have you ever been at a party where you were the only one not enjoying yourself? When you were counting the seconds until it was socially acceptable to bolt? That's how it was at the neurology consult. After being subjected to a litany of follow-up tests, the brain boys were positively ecstatic with the reports. One for the books, they called me. Miracle Girl. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Seems that in spite of their earlier fears about my recovery, they simply couldn't believe the speed at which I had resumed my normal brain functions. There were no residual effects from the fall. No language deficits. No more memory loss. No physical impairments. No visual problems.

Little do you know,
I thought as they babbled on. I was both blind and stupid because I didn't see that Drew had begged me not to pursue my line of questioning. I didn't understand that he had a right to his privacy. I just drove right over his emotional divide, then crashed, as I did with his car.

“You must be so relieved.” Shari hugged me. “It's even better news than we thought.”

“I know. It's amazing.”

“And it was so funny how baffled they were. Like patients can't ever recover unless it's a result of something they did. Doctors can be such arrogant putzs, can't they?”

So can nosy girlfriends
. “Definitely.”

“Why don't we call your folks now? I'm sure they're anxious to hear the great news.”

“Good idea…. Do you think you could you do it? I'd like to call Drew first.”

“You want me to call your parents, while you call my son? Isn't that a bit backwards?”

“Yes, but my parents don't hate me, and he does.” I started to cry. “Last night I did something so stupid….”

“Oh, I'm sure it will be all right, Claire. C'mon, don't fall apart now. It's been such a great day. You've got your health back. You're going to be fine.”

“I'm not going to be fine unless Drew forgives me.”

“What did you do?”

“I blew it, that's what I did. I opened my big mouth and tried to get him to talk about his relationship with Marly, and he got very angry…. I mean, I nearly totaled his car, and he was, eh, no big deal, I have others; but I wouldn't stop prying, and he went off on me. And now I'm afraid that it's over, and it never really even began.”