Psychic Junkie (13 page)

I was silent when he said this, as it was certainly not what I’d wanted to hear. But what could I do? It was just proof that my instincts had been right and that this relationship had no future.
Play toy,
I repeated in my mind, though now a bit less firmly, and with a bit of sadness. After all, if Wilhelm was my play toy, I’d essentially been living at Toys “R” Us for the past few weeks and had been quite happy there.

But then, just a week later, things really got complicated, because he started to pepper our conversation with talk of marriage…of
our
marriage.
What the hell? He’s testing me,
I thought, and I knew that if I admitted I would one day like to marry, he’d claim his theory had been right and he’d run for the hills.
Be strong! He means nothing to you! Play toy!

One afternoon, while we were on the phone, he threw in yet another mention of marriage, and I became irate. He was so obviously trying to trick me into revealing my true intentions that I did what any normal girl would do and lied my ass off.

“I never want to get married,” I said. “And I never will.”

There was silence. At last, I figured, I’d put an end to this hurtful topic and we could move on, as would any normal couple with no future. But then he spoke again.

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“What?”
I was angry and confused and now burning a hole in my living room floor with my furious pacing.

“Because,” he whispered, “my intention is to marry you.”

I froze. My heart literally stopped beating. And then it started beating very fast. Too fast. What was going on? Had the man I supposed was indeed my boyfriend just told me he wanted to marry me? I think he had! And to this, to this sweet utterance, my reaction was to scream, “Fuck you! How
dare
you say that to a thirty-year-old woman!”

“But I mean it.”

“No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do,” he insisted, and went on to promise to prove it.

Sure, it all sounded good, but I wasn’t buying. As soon as we hung up the phone, I called Erlin. “Is Wilhelm being honest?” I asked, still furious. I mean, really, no one should mess with a thirty-year-old about marriage. It’s just cruel. There should be a jail for that kind of thing, for leading on someone’s skeptical and aging heart.

“Yes,” Erlin said. “Trust him. There’s an engagement soon, in August. I see marriage in a year to a year and a half.”

Huh. Erlin seemed pretty sure, so I hung up the phone and started shopping for a ring.

Yes, I was still a touch doubtful, but Erlin’s psychic seal of approval allowed me to let go of my fears and apprehensions enough to enjoy the idea…and it was an idea I loved, as Wilhelm was quite possibly everything I’d ever wanted. He spoke foreign languages; was well traveled, an amazing cook, gorgeous, polite, intelligent; and had fabulously full lips. Could I see us getting married? Absolutely! And, I realized with an almost frightened thrill, Drew, the drag-queen-on-helium psychic, had said the man
after
Jonas was the one I’d be with forever.
That’s Wilhelm!
With both Drew and Erlin having seen it, I suddenly felt free to relish in the warm sunny thoughts of our everlasting love, and thus spent hours at diamond Web sites, building and constructing my ring. Did I want radiant or princess, round or oval? There were so many cuts and shapes. Where to begin?

It didn’t stop there. Wilhelm continued to toss about little hints of marriage like colorful sparkling confetti. “I need to have a conversation with your father,” he’d say, or “Have you found your dress yet?” To that last question I laughed and shook my head, because no, of course I hadn’t found my dress yet! Geez. Who did he think I was? I was utterly confused about my dress! Completely torn over ivory silk charmeuse, or white satin organza; a ball gown or an A-line silhouette. Had I found my dress yet?
Please.

To keep myself assured that all was true and I should be as happy as I was, I periodically checked in with psychics. Since I’d first called Erlin, I’d also ventured out and called others, and began keeping a log of their names and readings in an effort to find one who was cheaper than Erlin and yet just as accurate. As much as I loved Erlin, each call escalated the balance on my credit cards in a rather alarming manner, and the way I saw it, if one psychic insisted we’d be engaged in August, I was tempted to believe, but if a dozen all agreed, it must be true. And amazingly, most did agree. Of course there were a few psychics who insisted on a different outcome, who’d say horrible things such as “I see a breakup, and it’s going to be a bad one.” Upon hearing those bitter and cruel words, I’d simply hang up the phone and make a note in my log to never ever call that “psychic” again. And then I’d leave really negative, scathing feedback. There. Problem solved. Bad psychic. Bad.

Each day, we fell deeper for each other, though he—with the innocence of one who’d never before had a broken heart—tended to express his feelings, while I stubbornly fought to reign mine in. With tears in his eyes he’d profess he’d never been this happy before, and I’d smile and nod and make a note of the exact words so I could later mentally replay them over and over, savoring a private elation that would keep me awake and planning our honeymoon or naming our future children till the sun sliced through the curtains.

Everything was just about ideal. He talked of us moving in together, we walked hand in hand, he called me “darling.” And, being the true metrosexual he was, fashion was a prime concern and hobby of his. Now
this
was an interest I could share. Proving to be the supportive girlfriend by accompanying my boyfriend in his lengthy shopping excursions was definitely something I could handle, and my role was one I took on with vigor.

What I quickly learned, however, was that though he shopped for hours, he never actually bought anything. Instead, on just about each and every one of his precious days off, he went
window-shopping
…at discount stores. For an entire afternoon he’d wander through the crowded and chaotic aisles of Ross and Big Lots, then cap off the day with a tour of T.J. Maxx. Loehmann’s, a discount store in Beverly Hills, was reserved for special occasions. Loehmann’s was his treat.

This never ceased to confuse me. I mean, if you’re going to window-shop, why not meander through the clean and tasteful floors of Barneys, Saks, or Neiman’s? Window-shopping at Ross was simply some strange form of self-deprivation, not an act of fantasy. Still, who was I to judge? I was Miss Live Beyond My Means, an unemployed actress with tens of thousands of dollars of debt (a number that was growing exponentially), and still I could justify charging a very pricey pair of pink Chanel sunglasses. But you know, I had to have those sunglasses. It’s L.A. It’s sunny.

So in truth I respected his thrifty approach. I figured we’d balance each other as a married couple. He’d keep us from dangling into the jaws of bankruptcy while I’d bestow upon him the joy of throwing caution to the wind, and the unbridled bliss of designer accessories.

Soon our custom was to end a long day of discount-store window-shopping by unwinding in Wilhelm’s apartment building’s hot tub. This involved Wilhelm in his spot—across from me, on the top step, water only halfway up his calves, an ashtray by his side, a cigarette perched in his lips, and a beer in his hand—and me practically lost in bubbles as I stared at him in frustration. At first his little routine, his position from which he would not budge, amused me. He’d take his spot and I’d laugh at how predictable he was, how settled into his habit. But then…then I’d start to look at other couples with longing, couples who sat in the hot tub side by side as, you know, a couple. I’d try to comfort myself by making up excuses, like he must not like hot water (though, him being the one to suggest we go to the hot tub, a place pretty much known for hot water, tended to challenge that theory), or that maybe he just didn’t like getting wet. Maybe he was worried about his hair?

Ultimately, the excuses proved little comfort. With jealousy I’d watch other couples, like the flighty big-chested redhead and her sexy surfer boyfriend who lived in the corner unit, both constantly in the hot tub and practically sitting on top of each other—until, that is, with almost ritualistic certainty he’d start tickling her, and she’d squeal and pretend to get away, and they’d grab their towels and run off, giggling. My heart would clench and I’d look away, consoling myself with the knowledge that
she
wasn’t about to go upstairs and be served a homemade gourmet three-course meal with the appropriate accompanying wine. No, that was me! I was getting the three-course meal! I was about to go upstairs and start the evening with a sweet chenin wine and foie gras!

Of course what I didn’t like to dwell on was that while Wilhelm arranged garnishes on a plate or decanted a bottle of wine, that redhead and her hot surfer boyfriend were most likely getting it on. They weren’t consumed with food, or the meticulous presentation of food; they were consumed with each other. This was something that had begun to concern me about Wilhelm. I was coming to terms with the idea that perhaps it wasn’t just the long hours and stress he was under that rendered him too tired…. It was that he had very little interest in sex.

I’d
never
encountered this problem before. After some lengthy debates with Gina—who herself had gone through a bout of dating gay men—we decided he wasn’t gay; he simply had a low sex drive. I did hours of research on the Internet and learned that many men had low sex drives, though the discovery was little comfort. Being with someone who has a low sex drive is like continually heating an empty teakettle, as no matter what you do, you ain’t gettin’ tea, and after a while you get tired of standing at the stove.

Naturally the psychological fun and games kicked in. As I was essentially being told he was off limits, I thought about him constantly, always trying to conjure new ways to seduce him or at least get his attention. The one time he actually truly noticed me, and initiated things, was when I decided to cook
him
a three-course meal…topless. Of course, I’d interpreted “three-course” in a slightly different way, and what I prepared was actually one main dish and two sides, but I figured that equaled three, and I was quite impressed with myself. Though even then, standing at the counter, his lips light on my neck, I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t so much a sexual drive that had brought him to me, but rather a commanding need to get a close-up view of my culinary effort. If I had to wager, I’d say that as we kissed, his eyes were open and he was studying, with alarm, my overzealous attempt at mincing mint—practically a green puree—on the chopping board.

And then, one evening in the hot tub, I was studying him for any signs of amorous intent, when he said something that killed any and all of my ardent thoughts: One of their partner hotels in Johannesburg was looking for a chef.

“As in
South Africa
?” I sputtered, then recovered. I had to be cool. No panicking. I sat up straight so my ears were above water. I had to pay attention.

“Yes, that Johannesburg.”

“You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”

And to this, to my masked plea of, “Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!” he simply shrugged. As casually as I possibly could, I asked what would happen to us if he took that job, and to my horror he looked surprised, as if he’d just now been told I was his girlfriend and not merely an accessory that came with the hot tub.

“If I took the job?” he said, still looking confused. “Well, you’d come with me, of course.”

Of course. I would go with him.

Despite everything, despite Erlin and all the psychics’ promises, and despite anything Wilhelm had said in the past,
that moment
was the cannonball to the walls I’d built around me. Whereas before I’d indulged in happy optimistic thoughts and designed rings and shopped for dresses, it was all different now. Suddenly the knowledge I had came from deep within; it was a feeling of conviction, of certainty, of confidence. Just like that, I believed. And just like that, I let myself go.

Our future life together. Fiery sunsets in South Africa; hills of fig and almond trees in Portugal; the crisp, whitewashed, mythic beauty of Greece. We would go everywhere. Sand in our shoes, the sun on our shoulders, our passports filled and worn. And of course we’d stay in all the luxury hotels, places with mini sewing kits and fluffy white robes. Granted, Wilhelm would be
working
in these hotels, but whatever. I wasn’t about to let his employment mar my fantasies.

Then arose the issue of what
I
would do. I never wanted to give up acting, but without knowing, let’s say,
Thai
, I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to strike up a career as a starlet in Phuket. And although I don’t know where the idea came from, I started picturing myself as a lounge singer…and I dug it. I’d be a dark-haired version of Michelle Pfeiffer in
The Fabulous Baker Boys
, wearing a sexy red dress and slithering about on a piano, my sultry voice stopping busboys in their tracks, my glamour making wives eye their husbands. And then later, after my show, once he was off work, Wilhelm and I would meet in our dark room atop an impossibly high building, below us a light-streaked ruby-and-sapphire city.