A Psychic Comes Calling
When a psychic finds me in a coffee shop, she has a message from my dead husband.
The panini’s had been ordered, and I had just gotten up to grab my “Blue Velvet,” a tea latte. A woman sitting at a table next to ours, asked, “Did your boyfriend or husband die recently?”
Here we go again, I thought.
Not recently,” I said. “And it was my husband.”
She introduced herself as Lisa, and told me she didn’t usually do this sort of thing, but that she was a psychic and had a message from my husband.
“He described you perfectly, so I knew it was you right away,” she said. “I was just driving along, and he told me I had to go to Luna Café and meet you. He had a message for you. Honestly, this has never happened before. I am new to this. I won’t charge you if you are interested in hearing his message.”
My husband’s mother was at the next table with the kids. I knew she would not take to this at all. She would immediately call bull$**t. Perhaps she is more pragmatic than I am. Perhaps I am just gullible. Perhaps I just want to believe so much that my husband is out there somewhere, and not just gone in the blink of an eye.
Of course, I immediately sat down with this woman, much to the bewilderment of my family at the next table.
“Was Thanksgiving significant in some way?” she asked.
I thought of all the Canadian Thanksgivings my husband, Arron and I celebrated with friends, putting together mini-sets of Lego during dinner, which became our tradition. I remembered Arron in a turkey coma sprawled on the tiny couch we purchased when first arriving in the US from London when it took a month for our furniture to arrive. The couch was barely big enough for a doll, and yet we had sat on it together to watch TV, me six months pregnant.
We held his memorial service on Canadian Thanksgiving, Columbus Day in the US. That year, 2001, it held particular significance. Our friends and neighbors prepared an entire turkey dinner for everyone who returned to the…