The Grief Business, Part Deux: On the plane home
“Are you okay?” says my seatmate at the window. I am on the aisle, and the seat between us is not empty, but rather, it is occupied by the purse that ate Tokyo, a purse that required 2 general announcements over the P.A., and then 2 personal reminders by the flight attendant to get it under the seat in front of her. A barely conscious glance at the open purse discovers that she’d brought bottled water on, which is strictly against the rules announced no less than a dozen times by various gate agents as we waited to board.
“No,” says I.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t really talk right now,” I mumble through tears, as I am sitting there with hanky alternately in hand and in use, my cheeks streaked and wet, A’s picture in my other hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“I said I can’t talk right now.”
“I’m a psychic,” she says, as if that explains everything, including her rudeness.
Not much of one, I think. Even in the depths of despair, sarcasm is not beyond me. Helen Keller could’ve figured out I wasn’t okay. What am I thinking right now? Leave me the hell alone.
She wouldn’t quit, so I say “My sweetheart passed away,” figuring she’d leave me be then, which was an entirely foolish thought, given her behavior to that point.
“I’m so sorry. Is that him?” she says, pointing to the picture.
“Yes.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“He was young.”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
Yeah, you’re some kind of excellent psychic.
“Heart.”
“He’s with you, watching over you.”
“I know.”
“What was his name?”
“A.”
“I feel his energy all around you. He loved you very much.”
“Yes, he did.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a cabinetmaker.”
“He’s beautiful. What do you do?”
I mumble “I’m in tech,” and apparently she doesn’t hear me, so she asks again.
“I’m in tech.”
“Can I give you my card?”
“Sure,” I say, figuring it’d shut her up. I’m still crying, and not looking at her as she hands it over. I look at it, and it’s all about angels. She made two phone calls to people prior to the cabin doors shutting for take-off, and said to both people as she signed off, “I love you, angel,” and I make the mental connection between the earlier overheard remarks and the card. She knows she’s been dismissed, and there’s a period of silence, but she’s undaunted.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you give me your number so I can call you?”
“I’ll call you if I’m ready for that.”
“Because I have something very good to tell you.”
I don’t respond right away. I’m totally open to the idea that there are people who have extraordinary capabilities, and can communicate with more directly with the Mystery than I can. But I am also totally aware from the first question that she is unlikely to be one of them. So after a long pause, I decide I’m going to call her bluff.
I look over at her. “You can’t tell me now?”
“You want to do it now? Or when we land? I can do it for you now for $40.”
I don’t know if my face smirked, but my brain did. I’m distraught, not stupid.
“I’ll make an appointment.”
“Oh, do you get up to Frisco much?”
“No.”
Can you predict the likelihood of us having that appointment, Karnak?
“Why were you in San Francisco.”
“I wasn’t, I was in SJ.”
“Doing what?”
“Visiting his family.”
At this point I make it abundantly clear by my body language that I am well and truly done.
She apparently is not, however, because a minute or so later she says “He didn’t want to go.”
“I know.”
Now, there are no coincidences, and I believe that at a time when I’m doing a significant amount of reading on spirituality, survival of consciousness, afterlife, and other related topics, that I should end up seated next to a self-proclaimed psychic, was most definitely a sign. It was a sign that there are charlatans galore out there, and that I should trust my own instincts.
It didn’t help her already pathetic case that, apparently, the flight attendant was psychic as well. She had seen me crying and journaling when she came around to get beverage orders, and said “Are you all right?”
I half-smiled through my tears, shrugged, and shook my head no, and she made sad, comforting noises, and patted me on the shoulder before she had to move on. By the time she came back with the drinks themselves, I was still crying and had given up on the journaling, but managed to ask for extra napkins, as my nose was running. When she came back by she stopped to check on me again, and I had A’s picture out.
“Did you lose someone, honey?” She was Texan. I accept “honey” as a kindness from all Southerners and elderly folks.
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She looks at the picture in my hand and says, “Who was it?”
“My sweetie.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, and rubbed my back in sympathy and then went back to work.
And she did it for free.
I thanked her for her kindness as I stepped off the plane. I have been amazed at where comfort has, and has not, come from in the last two months. People I thought I could lean on have not turned out to be available when the smoke cleared. Others I wasn’t expecting at all have stepped up and shown me true friendship and caring. I’ve received immense comfort from words and poems people sent to me by people who “didn’t know what to say.” And I’ve received kindness from strangers, like this flight attendant, and from A’s best friend and his wife, who didn’t know me from Eve, and yet have consistently reached out to me from the first. I have found faith, in people, in something beyond all this, at a time when I felt like I’d lost faith in absolutely everything.