sick?”
“You don’t have to be ‘sick’ to undergo a healing,” I told Lars. “You just have to be open to a life-source of positive energy.”
“It’s big, it’s hot, it’s back!” Richard shrieked.
Lars threaded his way through the apartment, collecting dirty plates and crumpled-up napkins.
“Shut up!” I hurled an empty tuna can at Richard. It missed widely, but the way he carried on, you would have thought I punctured his crop, and Lars, who never threw anything at Richard, looked ready to reprimand me. Instead he turned around, picked up the can and tossed it into the garbage.
“Stupid bird!” I said as the parrot pecked his dirty feathers.
Lars gave a sort of sigh.
“Idiotic non-stop-talking feather duster!”
“Did you notice he’s not talking? You scared him.”
I found this information hard to digest—and weirdly exciting, too. I had spent so much time being afraid of Richard. All these weeks he had seemed stolid and indifferent—capable of antagonizing me, but not capable of being hurt. Was it possible the tables were beginning to turn and he, in fact, was cowed by me? If a bird can be cowed, I mean.
“Who knows?” Lars said. “Why don’t you run it by the healer?”
I might have—despite his sarcasm, I truly might have—but the next time I saw Bev Flowers she didn’t want to chat.
“Lie down on the table,” Bev said. “I want to check your energy fields right away.”
Fieldwork promised great things. I’d been told how another client smelled burnt tapioca all over the room when Bev checked her energy fields; another woman gasped as an umber aura shuddered down her torso; a third client swore she heard frogs. I hadn’t sensed anything yet, but today might be different, I thought as I closed my eyes; given Bev’s urgency, today might be the day I . . .
I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the rice paper screen had been moved and Bev was arranging a tea tray. She gestured for me to join her and folded her hands in her lap.
“How am I?” I asked after a moment.
“Your anchor has been dropped,” Bev said. “The boat is going nowhere. I realigned your energy fields but I’m concerned you’re not progressing.” She poured the tea, which was deep yellow and smelled of grass. “The book,” she began.
Bev had a strong streak of renunciation. The last session she had pressed me to give up coffee, sugar, and wheat. I pushed back my chair.
“I won’t give it up.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to. I just want you to imagine that you’re obsessed, not with a book—but with a man. You wouldn’t tense to enjoy him; you would soften.” Bev tipped her head back and offered her neck to an imaginary lover. It was disturbing since I’d never seen her in any remotely sexual posture. Usually we talked about the spirit in nautical terms.
“A man? Oh, no. No, no . . . ”
“I once read
Treasure Island
. This didn’t seem relevant to your healing when you first came in. In fact, it was years ago, I was reading it to my son. Well, there are many things about me . . . ” She waved her hand, as if to disperse information she had momentarily thought of sharing. “Back then he was a boy, and like you, very interested in pirates.”
I suppressed a flicker of irritation.
“Did he like it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And you liked it?”
“Yes.”
I pulled my chair closer in.
“But I don’t remember the Johns Hopkins you focus on in your meditations.”
“Jim Hawkins.”
“I don’t remember a bold, resolute, independent boy.”
“ HORN-BLOWING. I wrote this down for you. The fourth one is HORN-BLOWING .”
“Who is the charismatic sea cook, the great betrayer, the guy with a wooden leg?”
I spoke dully: “Long John Silver?”
“Yes! Now there’s the center of your novel. Charismatic personality, repellent morally speaking, and it’s amazing how he gets around on that one leg. Remember? Jim knows he should be wary of Silver, but he’s drawn to him for good
“You don’t have to be ‘sick’ to undergo a healing,” I told Lars. “You just have to be open to a life-source of positive energy.”
“It’s big, it’s hot, it’s back!” Richard shrieked.
Lars threaded his way through the apartment, collecting dirty plates and crumpled-up napkins.
“Shut up!” I hurled an empty tuna can at Richard. It missed widely, but the way he carried on, you would have thought I punctured his crop, and Lars, who never threw anything at Richard, looked ready to reprimand me. Instead he turned around, picked up the can and tossed it into the garbage.
“Stupid bird!” I said as the parrot pecked his dirty feathers.
Lars gave a sort of sigh.
“Idiotic non-stop-talking feather duster!”
“Did you notice he’s not talking? You scared him.”
I found this information hard to digest—and weirdly exciting, too. I had spent so much time being afraid of Richard. All these weeks he had seemed stolid and indifferent—capable of antagonizing me, but not capable of being hurt. Was it possible the tables were beginning to turn and he, in fact, was cowed by me? If a bird can be cowed, I mean.
“Who knows?” Lars said. “Why don’t you run it by the healer?”
I might have—despite his sarcasm, I truly might have—but the next time I saw Bev Flowers she didn’t want to chat.
“Lie down on the table,” Bev said. “I want to check your energy fields right away.”
Fieldwork promised great things. I’d been told how another client smelled burnt tapioca all over the room when Bev checked her energy fields; another woman gasped as an umber aura shuddered down her torso; a third client swore she heard frogs. I hadn’t sensed anything yet, but today might be different, I thought as I closed my eyes; given Bev’s urgency, today might be the day I . . .
I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the rice paper screen had been moved and Bev was arranging a tea tray. She gestured for me to join her and folded her hands in her lap.
“How am I?” I asked after a moment.
“Your anchor has been dropped,” Bev said. “The boat is going nowhere. I realigned your energy fields but I’m concerned you’re not progressing.” She poured the tea, which was deep yellow and smelled of grass. “The book,” she began.
Bev had a strong streak of renunciation. The last session she had pressed me to give up coffee, sugar, and wheat. I pushed back my chair.
“I won’t give it up.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to. I just want you to imagine that you’re obsessed, not with a book—but with a man. You wouldn’t tense to enjoy him; you would soften.” Bev tipped her head back and offered her neck to an imaginary lover. It was disturbing since I’d never seen her in any remotely sexual posture. Usually we talked about the spirit in nautical terms.
“A man? Oh, no. No, no . . . ”
“I once read
Treasure Island
. This didn’t seem relevant to your healing when you first came in. In fact, it was years ago, I was reading it to my son. Well, there are many things about me . . . ” She waved her hand, as if to disperse information she had momentarily thought of sharing. “Back then he was a boy, and like you, very interested in pirates.”
I suppressed a flicker of irritation.
“Did he like it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And you liked it?”
“Yes.”
I pulled my chair closer in.
“But I don’t remember the Johns Hopkins you focus on in your meditations.”
“Jim Hawkins.”
“I don’t remember a bold, resolute, independent boy.”
“ HORN-BLOWING. I wrote this down for you. The fourth one is HORN-BLOWING .”
“Who is the charismatic sea cook, the great betrayer, the guy with a wooden leg?”
I spoke dully: “Long John Silver?”
“Yes! Now there’s the center of your novel. Charismatic personality, repellent morally speaking, and it’s amazing how he gets around on that one leg. Remember? Jim knows he should be wary of Silver, but he’s drawn to him for good
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