Psychic Junkie (4 page)

I was in heaven.

But then, as tends to happen to me, I was plucked from the soft nest of my life and dropped into some thorny scorching lobby of hell.

Enter the man. There he was—my “Danger, danger!” radar homed in on him the second I arrived on-set—an actor. The not-too-tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed actor Gina had predicted. The second I saw him I knew I was toast. For fun, let’s just call him That Dickhead Actor.

The weeks progressed and I fell into a rather shocked state of bliss. I couldn’t believe it: He was into me. Really into me. He was dangerously handsome with long dark lashes and warm mahogany eyes that somehow always looked as though they’d found a crack into my soul that all others before had ignored. All his professing and flattering and soulful gazes made me feel as though something inside me had come unhinged and was swinging wildly in the gust of his affection. So, naturally, I dove straight in and did my usual swim in the Denial River.
He’s different. He’s a working actor and in no way, shape, or form a waiter.
(As if in the past the waiter part had been the problem.)

That Dickhead Actor was promising, and thus my days were threaded with visions of our future life together. He was from New York, and in my free time, when he was working, I soaked in my tub and decorated our future brownstone. The interior, I decided, would be all dark wood and red velvet, and we’d have a big four-poster bed in which to eat chocolate-covered strawberries while lost in a tangle of our twelve-thousand-thread-count (I tend to aim high) ivory sheets. The decision, by the way, to have ivory sheets rather than white was difficult and time-consuming and did slightly interfere with my memorizing my lines—but how could I picture
us
in bed if I couldn’t properly see the bed?

So impressed and convinced was I, that I actually braced myself for the scolding of the century and called Gina to share my joy. (“Why would you do that?” she wailed. “Why?!”) I tried telling her he was the man she’d predicted—she should be proud!—but she didn’t care. She informed me I was demented and begged me to date the grip, the gaffer, anyone but the actor.

Then one day That Dickhead Actor simply changed his mind about me. Just like that he changed his mind—as if I were a dinner he’d ordered and sent back just to piss off the chef. I was so confused by the complete turnaround that for a second I actually doubted myself. Had I made up an entire romance in my head? Maybe he was ignoring me because
nothing had ever happened
? He’s probably scared because I keep planting myself around each corner so he can run into me! I’m a freak!

But no. It was real. It had happened. I was once again brokenhearted—and, sadly, that made perfect sense. To add to the fun, the ex-Brat-Packer and I had a blowout, an argument ill-timed, as it was during a scene where I was gagged, hysterically crying, and tied to a bed while she threatened to kill me with a knife. When she stormed off the set, everyone went after her, forgetting all about me as I continued to bawl and writhe in my ropes. After that, things between us were never the same.

I was miserable. My driver Karen saw it all unfold and tried to help. Knowing I had several days off with nothing to do but hide in my hotel room—curled into a fetal position and weeping—she’d made plans to introduce me to her friend Aurelia.

“You have nothing else to do.”

My head was against the window. Everywhere I went I perfected a posture of defeat. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re not spending three days crying.”

“I like crying.”

“But you’ll have
fun
with Aurelia. And guess what?” She smiled. “She’s a psychic.”

The way she said the word “psychic” was the way an adult says “ice cream” to a child who’s about to have her tonsils ripped out. And it worked. I lifted my head from the window. Never before had I been to a real psychic. “She’s a psychic?” I asked.

Like I said, it was the beginning of the end.

Frankly, I was disappointed when I met Aurelia. Karen had told me Aurelia was Hungarian, and I just knew she’d be my gypsy psychic; would open the door in a swirl of exotic smoke, jasmine, and patchouli; dressed in bright colors and flowing scarves and mystery; her voice deep and thick with an accent that would scare children. Instead, not only did she not have an accent, but she also had one of the smoothest, silkiest voices I’d ever heard. The girl could’ve made a fortune in radio. And scarves? Mystery? Nope. What she had was jeans, a sweatshirt from the Gap, and long blond hair swept up in a tight ponytail. For all intents and purposes she looked as though she’d just escaped from a local sorority.
This
was my gypsy psychic?

I’d also—and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit, but it appears I’ve lost all pride—harbored a secret fantasy that she’d take one look at me and gasp at the bright future she immediately saw. Yes, I’d had visions of her opening the door and being overcome by images of my success in a way that normally never happened to her.

“This,” I imagined her gravelly voice saying as her kohl-lined eyes widened, “normally never happens to me. Usually I need to read cards to see the future, but with you I see it so clearly! It
exudes
from you! You will be a famous actress! Like Julia Roberts famous! People will give you free clothing and makeup. Success! I see it all! This is very exciting for me, that one day I can say I read your cards. Would you mind signing those napkins over there? I also see myself selling your autograph for a lot of money.”

I know it’s ridiculous, but I did hope for something like that when she opened the door. Just a fraction of it, maybe. So again, I was slightly disappointed when she simply introduced herself and asked me if I wanted a Coke. Though, actually, I did want a Coke.

As Aurelia fixed my drink, I took the opportunity to inspect her kitchen. It was a discerningly decorated room, save for the avocado-colored appliances, which immediately told me she was renting and the landlord was cheap. But other than the hideous green remnants of the 1970s, everything was cheerful and reassuring. White cotton curtains on the windows, colorful mixing bowls stacked on the counter, pot holders with smiling pigs, and something that must’ve been a pantry covered by a long red gingham curtain. Always into things I shouldn’t be, I was immediately drawn to the secret room.

“Oh!” Aurelia gasped as I pulled the curtain aside.

I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a, uh, it’s a uh, uh—”

“Altar.”

“Right, it’s an altar.”

Because, yes, it was an altar. I mean, at some point it had been a normal breakfast table crammed inside a pantry, but now that table was something on which no one would ever expect to find a plate of bacon and eggs. Adorned with a dark purple velvet cloth, it was covered with crystals, silver candles, and dried rose petals, then creatively set off with a cauldron on the left and a carved wood pentagram in the center. Perched innocently next to a ceramic chalice was a double-edged dagger. I stared. This was no sorority girl. Aurelia, I was learning, was all about incongruity, like a millionaire who clips coupons or a lawyer not a fan of confrontation. With her, nothing was as it seemed.

I leaned in, examining a little copper-colored bowl filled with a dark powdery substance. “What’s this?”

“My ex-boyfriend’s blood.”

“Oh, sure.”
Holy shit.

“I’m kidding. It’s merlot, or it was merlot. I’m Wiccan. Wine’s used to symbolize blood.” She smiled and handed me my Coke. “Do you want a straw? I have those fun curly ones.”

“No, thanks. So that’s cool, you’re a witch.” What does one say to this? I could think of a few spell requests, but after that I was stumped for witch conversation. And the funny thing was that Aurelia looked remarkably like an
angel
, a doll-like porcelain angel with clear fair skin, striking blue eyes, and golden hair. Looking at her, one would actually expect to find her in a long white dress with a white satin ribbon, stuck on a doll stand and placed in a curio cabinet for old ladies to coo over—and yet here she was, in her Gap sweatshirt and actually a witch.

She tightened her ponytail. “Think Glinda the Good Witch, not the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Okay,” I said, though my eyes flickered to her feet to check for striped socks.

We sat down at the table, and Aurelia lit a lavender-scented candle. Now, lavender is supposed to be relaxing, soothing, but my reaction was instead that of pure terror. There it was; the candle was lit. Soon I would know everything. What if she told me she didn’t see me acting at all, but saw me as a very successful receptionist? Or that she saw me as a very contented never-been-married older woman with a family of cats that piss in the tub? “This is great!” she’d say. “I see you as very happy and not at all upset that no one loves you!” I pushed the image from my mind, frantically breathed in the lavender, and commanded myself to relax.

She placed three decks of tarot cards on the table, closed her eyes briefly, and breathed in deeply. “I’d like you to pick one.”

The pressure. In one of those decks would be my future. Well, I suppose my future would be in all of them, but I could already see that each would have its own unique method of delivery. The first seemed determined to announce the future with detailed disturbing and bleak drawings, images of people suffering, bent beneath the weight of stones, skewered by swords, tied up and blindfolded beneath gray and menacing skies. Even if that deck told me my future held happiness and love, I’d be scared. The second deck was less detailed but equally as frightening. But then there was the last one, and this deck immediately radiated a pleasing nonhostile feel; the cards were round, and the pictures were pretty and done in soft pastels. I tapped that deck, and Aurelia smiled. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who’d requested a pretty pastel future.

“Now for a quick prayer.” She closed her eyes. “I call upon the great spirit God/Goddess that is All to be here in conscious loving support. And I ask that all parts of you be present and open and relaxed. I also call upon the guides of Sarah to help me in giving the most truthful, empowering, and accurate reading possible.”

When she opened her eyes, I could’ve sworn their blue had become more intense, more penetrating. I admit it, I was a bit scared.

“What would you like to ask?”

All the important questions in life scrolled through my mind. Have I chosen the right career? Will I be happy acting the rest of my life? Will I have children? Will I find true love? There was so much to ask! What did I want to know? I wanted to know everything!

I took a deep breath. I’d just start with what was most important. “Will That Dickhead Actor suffer and regret the day he ditched me?”

Again she smiled rather knowingly, winked at me, and said, “Tell you what, let’s start with a life spread. We’ll see if he plays into it, but we’ll begin with you.”

After having me shuffle the cards, she laid them out one by one in the shape of a Celtic cross. With each card my breath lodged in my throat; every card had meaning, yet all I could gather was a vague sense or impression of the pictures, and not all the pictures were pleasant. Apparently just because the deck was round and painted in happy soft colors didn’t mean there wouldn’t be bad cards. Right off the bat I got the Death card, a lovely pastel-colored grim reaper.

The Death card, it turned out, was a rebirth—and evidently it was my acting career that was being reborn.

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing to fear from the Death card. People have such limited views of what death means, and they tend to put those feelings onto this card. Really what it is, is a symbol of what you’re going through now, essentially a rebirth process. Now this,” she said, pointing to a picture of three people holding their cups high, either delirious with happiness or sloppily drunk, “this is you in the immediate future.”

Great
, I thought. I get wasted to mask the pain.

“You and the other two leads,” she said softly. “You’re celebrating the success of the film.”

Celebrating the success of the film.
I tried to act nonchalant while images of me strolling down a red carpet streaked through my mind. Flashbulbs, screams, “Sarah! Sarah, this way; smile for me, Sarah!”

“Really? Yeah, that’d be nice.”

And it got better. By the time we got to the end of the reading, I’d completely forgotten about That Dickhead Actor and I wanted more than anything to spring from my seat and leap into my future. Then came the last card, and that card might as well have been a rope that pulled me from the earth and plopped me on a cloud. It was, as she called it, “the overall outcome card.” And it was the Star.

I was going to be a star.

Bless Aurelia’s soul, she had no idea what she was doing when she introduced me to those cards. The reading not only lifted me from the pit That Dickhead Actor had so callously thrown me into, but it gave me a hope and confidence I’d never really known. Whereas I’d always had faith in my abilities, I had never had much faith in others’ abilities to recognize my abilities. But now I knew the future! Someone
would
recognize me for the star I’d always known I should be! By the end of the year, life would be amazing.

I had to have my own deck. I wanted access to the cards at all times. I needed to be able to experience such happiness and reassurance whenever my pained little heart desired. So I called Aurelia and told her I wanted cards, and within the hour she’d whisked me off to a new-age store with dangling crystals and a haze of Nag Champa incense. It turns out, purchasing your own deck of cards is bad luck. So once I’d selected the happy round pastel deck, Aurelia took my money and paid a man with so many piercings that I pictured him taking a sip of water and turning into a human sprinkler. I’d had no idea they made people like that in Detroit.

The cards were mine. From that point on during the film’s shooting, I’d spend my free days either with Aurelia or alone on the floor of my huge suite, surrounded by cards and the instruction booklet, furiously studying spreads and meanings. Never, not even in college, had I been so determined to learn.