The Perfect Fraud Page 4

  “Really shitty. Damn doctor doesn’t want to release her, but also has no clue what’s wrong with her.” I could feel the stupid tears starting again.

  “Geez, poor little thing,” Stan says, shaking his head. “And you too—this is really rough on you, I know.”

  I take a napkin from a pile on the counter. I blow my nose and wipe at my eyes and say, “But no way am I keeping her there. And after, when I get her out, I know I have to build her strength back up.”

  “Stomach still the issue?”

  “Definitely. Always in horrible pain.”

  “You tried the peppermint tea I suggested?”

  “Yeah, but not since she was admitted. It helped her a lot, but you know how in the hospital they won’t give her anything but those synthetic crap chemicals.”

  “True.” Stroking his beard, he slides off the stool, saying, “I have something that recently came in you might try once you have her home.” He walks over to a narrow shelf along the wall and moves around some dark bottles with black rubber stoppers. He pulls out one labeled TENDER TUMMY. I check the ingredients: lemon balm, chamomile, spearmint, fennel, and catnip.

  “You need to shake it,” he says. “Use five to ten drops on her tongue, up to three times a day. I had someone else in here last week who said it helped her son a lot.”

  “Great, I’ll give it a try.”

  “As far as building back her strength, you pretty much know the drill. Fruit, vegetables, whole grains—all organic. Lots of sleep and, especially, fresh air, since she’s been basically on recycled stuff for a long time. Make sure she keeps up with those probiotic supplements I gave you. And absolutely no sugar—that junk’ll kill you.”

  I reach into my wallet, but he says, “On the house. Just bring her in to see me when she’s up to it.”

  “Sure.”

  Helping me off the stool, Stan squeezes my shoulder and says, “There should be more moms like you, as interested in what goes in their kids as the sports they play or the grades they make.”

  “Thanks, but sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy.”

  “I bet. Just keep doing what you’re doing though. I don’t know, but I still think it might be allergies? Maybe something she’ll grow out of. That’s at least half of what people come in here for. And you know what? Most of the time, the allergies are from toxins in the foods they’re feeding their kids. They need to get to the source. Like what you’re doing.”

  We walk to the door.

  “I’ll let you know how this works out.” I hold up the bag.

  Opening the screen door for me, he says, “I really miss seeing her, Rena.”

  Yeah, I’ve noticed how Stan looks at her, especially her eyes, the color and the long dark lashes, like his. Maybe he’s calculating her age and counting backward to the dates we screwed around. Is she his kid? Honestly, his guess is as good as mine. What it came down to was medical coverage for me and my baby. Stan didn’t have that; Gary did.

  Hugging Stan, I say, “We’ll visit as soon as she’s stronger. Promise.”

  An old man with a limp comes up the steps and I wave goodbye. I get in my car and head to Whole Foods, thinking about everything I need to buy for my daughter.

  5

  Claire

  It didn’t start out this way.

  I never intended to con my clients. I never doubted their sincerity, their abject neediness: Should I sell my house to pay off my sister’s gambling debts? Could my brother’s cancer be cured? When will my husband get home from overseas? Can I get pregnant? Will I ever find true love? Will my dog come home?

  I have this recurring dream. Clients are in straight lines, eight across and eight down, all on their knees, moving toward me from miles away. Supplicants in pilgrimage. They progress slowly, and it’s obvious they’re in pain. Finally, they halt before me, kneeling in formation, their heads bent as if in prayer, each with a gaping hole in their chest where the heart should be. I am the only one who can help. I wake up, choking and sucking for air.

  It all started out so promising.

  My parents swore that at birth I had “the gift,” a particular look in my eyes projecting, according to them, a sense I was gazing not only outward but inward as well. As evidence, they said I would never cry but would just lie on my back as an infant in the crib, or sit upright, when that skill became available to me—and patiently wait for one of them to come into my room. They said it was as if I knew they would be there shortly and found no compelling reason to fuss. When my mother was breast-feeding, they’ve also told me, many times I would whip my mouth away from her to stare at the phone, which would then ring. Frankly, I think I was just the winning ticket in the baby lottery: a serene, nonwailing infant. What more could you ask for?

  But it’s what happened on my third birthday that, according to my parents, provided solid evidence of my future psychic acumen.

  It was a small party: only family and two kids and their parents from the neighborhood. My mother asked everyone to sit in a circle and plunked me in the center while she handed me presents to open. She selected a package from the small pile and held it out to me, but before I’d even touched it, I clapped my hands and shouted, “A Mickey Mouse ball.”

  True, this wasn’t overly impressive. Although the red foil paper adequately disguised it, the gift was clearly round. A few chuckles from the group and some passing questions on how I could have guessed the ball had Mickey on it. Then, as my mother was passing me a square box wrapped in purple striped paper with a gold bow, I shouted, “Baby-doll clothes.” I opened it and the adults exchanged perplexed looks. This too could have been discounted as I had for weeks been pleading for new dolly outfits. Everyone started commenting about apples not falling far from trees.

  Even at three, I felt I owed my audience a grand finale, which I delivered with a flourish. My mother grasped the last present—a standard nine-by-eleven gift box, wrapped, as she’s told me, in Strawberry Shortcake paper—and brandished it above her head. A hush fell over the assembled and, in the lull, a picture of the package’s contents slid smoothly into my brain, encompassing the space behind my eyes. Springing to my feet, I twirled twice and shouted, “Ballerina pajamas!” I ripped open the box and held up the pink pajamas with the ballerina in a tutu on the front. Shrieks of amazement and furious clapping ensued.

  With that, my stellar prescience abilities were solidly confirmed, and a lifetime of unfulfilled promise opened before me.

  Because, after that day, as far as I remember, I was never able to fully recapture the skills or the magic or whatever it was that had produced such adulation. Yes, occasionally, I would still point to the phone a full minute before it rang and one time, when I was about seven, my mom and I were in the mall, and I was behind a woman at the pizza place in the food court and told her that her father was truly sorry he took her allowance to buy drugs when she was a kid. The woman turned around so quickly she spilled her soda on my shoes. She then shook my mother’s arms, screaming and pointing at me, “How does she know? That bastard’s been dead twenty-two years. How could she know?” It took a security guard to pull her away.

  Even though my mother worked with me daily—in ten-minute blocks when I was a toddler with a limited attention span, and longer as I matured—I couldn’t correctly identify whether it was a picture of a cow or a pig, or whether it was the number nine or the letter C on the back of the blank cards she’d hold before my face. At least not with any accuracy greater than what would be statistically anticipated in the general population. Sometimes, though, I did guess right, and my mom would whoop and press an animal cracker—and later, a quarter—into my palm. Her pleasure at what I saw as my “trick” was the greater reward.

  Since I became an adult, I’ve never wanted to diminish her joy by telling her that I’m actually a fake.

  My father was an amateur photographer and had a full darkroom in our basement. Spending hours on weekend afternoons, he’d take black-and-white shots, which he thou
ght were going to be amazing pictures of the herbs and flowers in my mother’s garden. He’d rush to the basement to develop them. Many times, he’d be disappointed when, as he pulled the paper from the final bath, the photographs weren’t nearly as brilliant or as unusual as he’d expected.

  I felt like that: a photo taken that didn’t develop into the anticipated masterpiece.

  Even so, surprisingly, over the years, I’ve actually been moderately successful in my readings. Like the return client who hugged me and whispered, “How did you know our daughter was using cocaine?” Since, in her first visit, she’d told me her kid was acting paranoid and had recurrent nosebleeds, advising her to check her daughter’s room for small bags of white powder was less paranormal than predictive of what could be considered normal—although stupid—behavior for some sixteen-year-olds. Another time, I flipped over the Nine of Swords in a tarot reading and told the guy he was carrying around a lot of guilt and shame. He jumped up, backed away from me, and ran out the door, screaming, “I didn’t mean to do it.” After he left, when I looked back at the card, I realized that, as it was upside down—giving it a whole different meaning—what I should have told him was something like, “You’ve been losing sight of the situation you’re in and worrying unnecessarily.”

  As the saying goes, even a blind squirrel will occasionally find a nut. And if that means a child can be saved from drug abuse or a guy may be prompted to unload an uncomfortable secret, then perhaps what I do isn’t entirely without redemption. This is what I tell myself anyway.

  Of course, I’ve been wrong more than right and, in those situations, have to dig around—cue the squirrel imagery again—until I get closer. It’s often simply a game of thrust and parry.

  ME: “I see a person who’s crossed over, a female, someone like a mother figure.”

  CLIENT: “Well, my mother’s still alive and kicking, so maybe it’s my aunt?”

  ME: “Someone with dark hair and a huge smile.”

  CLIENT: “Aunt Connie. Sounds like her, always joking.”

  ME: “Oh, I can see that. She’s dancing too.”

  CLIENT: “Dancing? That’s odd. She was in a wheelchair most of her life. Car accident.”

  ME: (Pausing to listen.) “Now, it makes sense. She would dream of dancing when she was in the wheelchair, and she wants you to know that she’s dancing now.”

  CLIENT: (Smiling.) “That’s so good to hear. She was a wonderful lady.”

  Of course, there have been many times when a client has left in disgust, even though I try to explain that sometimes the information doesn’t come through clearly enough for me to correctly interpret it. Translation: I am either too tired or too annoyed to dig. A few years ago, I decided to begin all my sessions with a caveat explaining the idiosyncrasies of spirit—that often the loved one the client really wants to hear from won’t “come through,” and that sometimes the information offered could be of the most banal type: “Your father says, ‘Don’t forget to check the air in the Chevy’s tires.’”

  Most clients, though, will find some way to link whatever information I tell them to something they feel is relevant to their lives. Give some people a room full of poop, and they’ll surely look to find the pony.

  The funk of patchouli incense engulfs me as I enter Mystical Haven. I know it’s to create ambiance, but no matter how often I spray room freshener at home or wash my clothes, that pungently cloying smell clings to and around me. I’d taken to wearing the same black T-shirt and leggings to the store and then washing them in hot water and putting them in a plastic bag in the closet until the next time I’m scheduled. It helps a little.

  I wave to Mindi, the owner, who’s manning the front desk. A petite woman with bovine brown eyes and a perky ponytail leafs through a binder splayed on the counter.

  “Boy, I can’t decide,” the woman says to Mindi.

  “I have something that might help,” responds Mindi, directing her to a display of crystal pendulums.

  In the cramped space behind the front desk, I lean against the wall to watch what I’m certain will be an interesting piece of up-selling.

  People off the street usually don’t know which psychic to choose. Mindi, or whoever is at the front, will show them the binder of plastic sleeves with our photos and résumés. My picture is an eight-by-ten glossy of me gazing in wonder—that was the goal anyway—at the magnificent sandstone spire on Cathedral Rock. If you look closely, you can almost see my lips forming the words Take the damn picture already. Cal was attempting to capture a sense of sight beyond sight-ness. I was trying to get to Taco Loco in time for happy hour.

  “Oh, heck, maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ll just see whoever you recommend,” says the woman, fiddling with her hair tie. “I’m only here for the weekend, and my husband went to the ice cream place across the street, and I thought, Well, why not, I’ll have a tarot reading.”

  “Selecting a psychic is an extremely personal decision,” says Mindi in her everything will be all right; I’ll help you through this voice. “It’s important to be matched correctly so you can get the most out of your session. Only you can make this decision.” She glides her fingers through the crystals dangling on long chains and asks, “Do any of these speak to you?”

  Mindi thoroughly believes in what she’s saying. She hears messages everywhere, primarily from inanimate objects. She’ll occasionally take on clients for readings, but mostly she runs the retail operation.

  “Speak to me about what?” The woman unties her ponytail, redoes it, and looks ready to bolt and join her husband for a root beer float.

  “Let your mind relax, and you will likely be drawn to one.”

  The woman closes and opens her eyes, inches closer to the display, and then points to a cone-shaped blue crystal hanging from a silver-link chain. On the opposite end of the chain is a dragonfly pendant.

  “Opalite. Great choice. Good for purifying the blood and kidneys and for building strong relationships. And the dragonfly symbolizes change.” The woman nods vigorously while Mindi extracts the pendulum from the tangle of chains around it.

  “You know what’s weird?” the woman asks. “I’m actually getting over a very bad urinary tract infection. Maybe that’s why I picked this one.” She giggles.

  “There’s less chance to these selections than you’d think,” Mindi says, nodding. “The next step is for you to determine your yes and no.”

  “Huh?”

  “How this works is that the crystal merges the person’s intuition with the universe’s energy. That’s how it can help you with any question that can be answered with a yes or no.”

  “Oh, I get it now.”

  “Hold the chain above the counter and say ‘Show me yes.’” The woman does, and the crystal swings slightly to the right. “Now,” Mindi instructs, “say ‘Show me no.’” She does and the crystal moves left.

  “There you go. For your crystal, yes is right, no is left. Now you’re ready to find your psychic.”

  They return to the binder, and when the woman suspends the pendulum aloft for the first seven pages, it shifts to the left. Finally, over Cynthia’s photo and résumé—“I’m a native Sedonian and believe the vibrations from the red rocks of our beautiful area have infused me with the ability to help others find their true balance of body and mind, which assists them on the road in their journey to inner peace. Specialties include: tarot, psychometry, and mediumship for beloved pets that have crossed the Rainbow Bridge”—the pendulum waves to the right.

  The woman draws a shaky breath and stares at Mindi. Her huge eyes dampen and she says, “Now, I know why.” She sniffs, and reaches for a tissue in her purse. “I know why this doohickey thing led me to Cynthia. I have a cat. I had a cat.” Tears plink on the counter and she blots them with her tissue. “He died last month. A twisted bowel. It was hor—(hiccup)—ri—(hiccup)—ble.”

  Mindi reaches over the counter and touches the woman’s elbow. “Like I said, less chance than you’d think. Let
me call Cynthia and tell her she’s got a client. Would you like to purchase the pendulum?”

  “Absolutely,” the woman says, palming the crystal. “I can see how this will be helpful in my everyday life. All kinds of little decisions. And, I bet, the big ones too.”

  Mindi turns to me. “Claire, would you mind ringing up the pendulum, please?”

  “Sure thing.” I step to the register. “With tax, that’ll be $34.78. You can pay for your visit after.”

  The woman probably could have chosen her psychic without the benefit of the all-knowing pendulum, and I don’t think Mindi realizes what she’s done is what any shrewd business owner should—capitalize on one sale with another related purchase. Or maybe she does, but feels guilty about it, and that’s why I’m the one collecting the money.

  After Cynthia greets and takes the woman upstairs to her cubicle, I check the schedule. I have two clients who want to be read together, but they’re not due for another fifteen minutes.

  “Mindi, I need to make a phone call, okay?”

  “Sure.” She’s dusting and rearranging Buddha figurines and humming something atonal and dirgy.

  Outside, a breeze tousles the Tibetan prayer flags draped along the fence surrounding the parking lot. The sun glares off the white stucco building across from us. It’s empty, and the windows are covered with white paper. It was a bakery, then a tae kwon do studio, and I hear the new renters are planning one of those paint-your-own-pottery places. I perch on the edge of the concrete planter by the side of our store, careful to avoid the cigarette butts snuffed around the cactus planted there.