was clearly overwrought, and he knew exactly why—and yet, he was casually launching into one of his old stories? If it wasn’t for the relationship with him and all of the psychic information he shared, I wouldn’t have traumatized another human being . . . and I wouldn’t have been humiliated in the process. I had never felt so discombobulated, and I was keen to separate myself from the source of my anxiety.
I listened as he described a night at the theater in times gone by—as if nothing was wrong. His dismissive, casual manner about my feelings and everything that had just happened reminded me of David, which ignited a firestorm of anger inside of me.
I had gotten along just fine until John came into the picture. I had been leading an independent and empowered life—a little stressful, maybe—but I was taking care of myself just fine. Who did he think he was? Incensed, I interrupted his monologue.
“John, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Leave me alone. I want you to go. I don’t want to see you any more—and I don’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re not going to tell me what to do ever again!”
“But I didn’t—”
“Don’t speak to me!”
“But—”
“NO! I want you to disappear. Just go back to the planet you came from.” I continued to cry, and my voice became shrill. I had become unhinged, and I furiously gestured with all the force I could muster while still holding my purse and briefcase. “I want my normal, anal life back. Leave me alone before everybody starts to think I’m completely crazy!” John vanished immediately.
“Good,” I shouted. “And don’t ever come back!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman and a little boy of about five standing by the bank of elevators. It was obvious from their expressions that they had witnessed the whole exchange. I realized that I had just made a terrible scene in the lobby of my apartment building. I had never been a person who created scenes—ever. Now I was really embarrassed. The mother placed herself between me and her young son in a protective gesture that was not lost on me. She stood staring as if I were a space alien.
“MOM!” The little boy urgently tugged at his mother’s sleeve.
His mother shushed him without taking her eyes off me.
“But . . . MOM!” More tugging.
She shushed him again with a stern expression. The little boy peered at me from behind his mother, his eyes huge with amazement and curiosity.
I was at a complete loss for words. Managing a constipated smile, I said, “Sorry. PMS.”
A soft ding sounded, the elevator doors opened, and the woman shoved the little boy inside. He couldn’t restrain his excitement any longer.
“MOM! Did you see that guy just disappear in thin air? That was AWESOME!”
The mother was aggressively pushing buttons inside the elevator. “Lower your voice, Michael! And stop making things up, or you’re going to have another time-out.”
“Mom . . . what’s PMS?”
The elevator quickly closed. I stood looking at my tear-stained image in the mirrored doors, wondering what was becoming of me.
As the day unfolded, it went from bad to worse. Unfortunately, by the time I reached the office, my eyes were still red and swollen. It was apparent that I had been crying, and, because I wasn’t my usual perky self, my coworkers could easily detect something was very wrong. Although they had the sensitivity not to ask what was going on, they did inquire, in soft, subdued tones, if I needed some coffee or a chocolate fix. I remained in my office with the door closed. I didn’t want to be disturbed. I needed to think.
I kept seeing Sam’s face full of fear and anger, and I was really worried about him. I fervently wished I could go back in time and retrace my steps. I promised myself that I’d never again share psychic messages with anyone; nor would I be interested in receiving channeled information about my own life from John or any other spirit.
I was certain that, by now, the doorman had shared the freaky experience with everyone who lived and worked in the building. My vivid imagination was conjuring up nightmarish images of Sam calling an emergency meeting to warn people about me for their own protection, and turning them into an angry mob who would be waiting for me when I got home. I pictured all my neighbors, including the woman and the little boy, in the lobby of the building listening with rapt attention to the shocking tale he had to tell.
“There’s a weird woman who lives here in the building, and she’s dangerous and delusional. She thinks she can talk with spirits. Her name is Kim O’Neill!
“Our neighbor? The one in advertising? But she’s hardly ever home—and she always seems so quiet.”
“Those are the ones you have to watch out for.”
“What happened?”
“Just this morning, she told me that my sister has cancer—and that she is going to get a divorce.”
“Why would she say such a thing?”
“She said an angel told her.”
“An angel? Did you see the angel?”
“Of course not! She just made that up. Angels don’t talk to people.”
“How awful! Who would predict something so negative? So hateful? How did you escape?”
“I ran as fast as I could!”
I imagined an ugly mob forming. “She should be locked up. Let’s call the police! Or a hospital for the criminally insane.”
“We must avoid her at all costs—let’s unite and force her to leave. Light the torches—we’ll be ready to run her out of town if she has the audacity to show her face here again!”
I shuddered at what they all must be saying about me. I would be a laughingstock, at best. And I was convinced that everyone would believe that I was mentally disturbed. And was I?
My first foray into sharing psychic information had gone terribly wrong—in spite of the fact that I had faithfully repeated everything John had said. I couldn’t understand why he would have deliberately put me in such a compromising position. After all, wasn’t I doing everything he told me to do? Wasn’t I really trying to work through my issues? Wasn’t I a good person? Why would he encourage me to humiliate myself and purposely frighten another human being? I had asked him for proof—but did he really think that I would walk away from that experience confident and encouraged? Perhaps I was delusional. John could be nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Maybe I needed intensive therapy and I was just trying to avoid it by creating a spiritual pal who would assure me that I was mentally stable. But what kind of person seeks reassurance about mental and emotional health from a spirit? If John really was a guardian angel, then wouldn’t the information have been perfectly correct? I decided to call an acquaintance and ask for the name of her therapist. There was no time to lose.
What’s more, I’d have to find another place
