Tough Love

Being a psychic—or as my mother preferred to be called, a parapsychologist—involves developing a visual and sensual "vocabulary" to assist you with clients. It isn't easy, because all of us have our own reference points, drawn from our own lives and experiences. Red may represent anger to one person and romance to another; fat may mean 150 lbs. to you and 250 lbs. to me! You can use your own experiences to convey what you're seeing: "It reminds me of the time I lost my grandmother's bracelet—does that make sense?" or "Your relationship with this guy is kind of like eating Chinese food; you feel great for a little while, then you're starving again!"

Try describing a person to someone, and nine times out of ten, you won’t both see the same face; it’s even harder when describing emotions or circumstances, and most difficult of all when you’re trying to envision things for those whom you love best.

Mother would give me detailed information on a boyfriend I was going to meet—mainly because I badgered her constantly on the subject—but when I met him, he didn’t look the way I expected. He’d fit her description, but he wouldn’t appear the way I’d imagined. He’d end up having hazel eyes, blondish hair and a great build—but I’d have envisioned someone Patrick Swayze-ish and she’d have seen someone Robert Redford-ish. (Not that I can recall ever dating someone who looked like either of them!)

It's hard to push aside your personal desires and ambitions for a loved one—especially hard for the type-A control freak my mom was—and reach some kind of Master Shifu "inner peace" clarity that is willing to give you the bad news as well as the good. You want your children and your friends to be happy. So you end up being close but just off a bit. Or getting splinters of info that are correct but not the bigger picture (which nullifies the splinters).

She once described my wedding to me, down to the shape and size of the diamond ring, the pearl necklace I’d receive, and the family heirloom my mother-in-law would give me. She saw all the colors and flowers and people. She told me the time of year. And it came true, every single bit of it. But not for me. It was my best friend Kathy’s wedding, down to the peach-colored roses. She got married just three months before I did, and I was her maid of honor. (She was also mine.)

Of course, sometimes there’s no room for equivocation. . .

One summer, when I was eighteen, a fraternity came into town for the weekend. They ran an ad in the local paper asking for girls to act as blind dates for a formal dinner dance at a swank hotel. Since I was uninvolved at the time, I responded. In those days, I was an incurable movie-soaked romantic and life seemed one long search for the man of my dreams. I was approaching marriageable age, and I was all for it. My friends and I didn’t waffle over careers and professional fulfillment back then. Besides, I had seen my mother raise four kids, move a dozen times, throw hundreds of dinner parties, and run fashion shows for the officers’ wives clubs; I was under no illusion that being married was anything but a full-time job. (She did a lot of other things, too, but she always had more energy than I could ever muster!)

Anyway....The fraternity coordinator paired me up with a guy named Dave for the dinner dance, to take place on the following Saturday. Great. On Wednesday, Dave’s roommate Bob called and asked to go out with me Friday night. Even better! Things were looking up, romance was in the air, I had a new red cocktail dress. . .

I rushed eagerly into my mother’s room and asked her if Bob wasn’t going to be the most handsome, intelligent, sensitive, romantic, wealthy man I would ever go out on a blind date with and eventually marry?

“Uh, well. . .” was her reply.

This was not good.

“He’s sort of stocky, and built like a football player," she said.

Oh. I lusted after tall, willowy, poetic types back then. Musicians. Artists.

"His face is kind of round..."

I imagined Charlie Brown.

"And I don’t think he has a lot of hair on the top of his head. . .”

Well, shit. So no mop of thick dark hair falling over his collar. "You are looking at the right guy, aren't you?" I asked, breathless. "I mean, Mom—a bald college student? Really?"

Seeing my crestfallen face, she added, “He’s very nice, though, honey. And he’ll think you’re wonderful!”

"Okay. Thanks." All of a sudden, I did NOT want to know what Dave was going to be like!

I awaited Friday with all the enthusiasm of a hanging. Although, incurable as I was, I held out hope that Dave would be better than Bob, and that if all else failed, my perfect mate would be among the crowd somewhere, just waiting to meet my eyes across the dance floor—like in West Side Story.

I was upstairs putting on my makeup when the doorbell rang Friday night. Seconds later, my brother Chris (who has always possessed the tongue of an adder) gleefully stuck his head into the bathroom door.

“Your date’s here.”

I stopped brushing on mascara. “Well?”

Chris put two fingers up his nose and lifted, displaying large, round nostrils.

“Mom was right — he looks just like a pig!”

I groaned.

“Anything else?”

“He’s bald on top.”

“Please, stop. Go away.” Cackling, my brother did just that.

As it turned out, Bob was an awfully nice guy. Boring, but nice. I slapped on my best southern belle manner and told myself it was only for a night. Things improved when I met his roommate, Dave—a lean, green-eyed Georgia boy with a chiseled chin. Saturday would be worth the wait, then, I told myself.

Bob and I danced, sort of, and talked, kind of, and time passed as it always does. On the ride home I debated over whether or not to kiss him goodnight on the lips. Generosity was winning over rudeness when he turned to me and said, “I had such a good time with you tonight, I asked Dave if he’d mind swapping for the dinner dance. So we’ll get to go out again tomorrow night, isn’t that great?”

Generosity took a quick trip north and disappeared right out the top of my head, which was lifting off in outrage. (I was raised by a redhead, remember?)

“You did WHAT?”

My face must have changed radically, because he stared at it as if he’d never seen me before. My southern belle facade was replaced by the slit-eyed, hard-lipped expression of a sod-busting Oklahoma farmer’s wife with a bead on the first squirrel she’d seen in months.

“What gave you the right to do that without asking ME first?”

Bob did not get a kiss goodnight. Not then, not even later, when he called from the hospital to say he’d driven his car down the wrong side of a four-lane boulevard and crashed into a pole, as a result of his agitation at my anger. My date for the dinner dance was dressed in a white silk Nehru jacket, a gold chain and medallion, and a black eye. He had stitches on his head (fortunately, they hadn’t had to shave his hair) where he’d hit the windshield. He limped, so we couldn't dance. We spent the evening sitting down, with him looking as sad as a blond, balding pit bull who'd gotten the worst of a dog fight.

I hope—though I don't really remember—that I was at least courteous to that unfortunate young man. It wasn't his fault that he wasn't tall, dark, and poetic. Or that I was a romantic idiot.

As for Dave, if he'd been that keen about our date, he wouldn't have swapped me in the first place.

At least, in this case, Mom had been accurate about my future romantic prospects. It wasn't always so. She  once described my wedding to me, down to the shape and size of the diamond ring, the pearl necklace I’d receive, and the family heirloom my mother-in-law would give me. She saw all the colors and flowers and people. She told me the time of year. And it came true, every single bit of it. But not for me. It was my best friend Kathy’s wedding, down to the peach-colored roses. She got married just three months before I did, and I was her maid of honor. (She was also mine.)

When my husband did eventually come along, Mom and I both wanted that romance to work out SO much that, even if she had misgivings (I did, and it didn’t stop me), they were undoubtedly overthrown by the happiness of the present moment and her wish to see me fulfilling my dreams.

Years later, when she had developed her intuition more fully and had tools to work with, Mom would use a chakra chart to illustrate to clients where they and their potential mates did and didn’t match up. Maybe if she'd had that tool when I met my mate, I could have avoided a tumultuous marriage and horribly painful divorce.

On the other hand, maybe not. Mom and I both adhered to the philosophy that life is full of lessons and choices, and we all make ours for a reason; even the relationships that don’t work out give us many vital things. I was given my son and he has been the light in my life. I wouldn't go back and change that marriage for the world, because we brought him into this world. And he, in turn, brought to us a lovely wife and wonderful grandchildren.

So even if my mother had told me the marriage was not going to succeed, I probably would have gone ahead, because it was what I WANTED at the time. We all have to pay the price for our desires. We all have to act out our parts and live a life. So I married R. and moved to England, just as psychic Bartie said I would. And if I remembered the rest of her prophecy—that I would remarry—I refused to let that daunt me. I still think maybe that’s the best way, the only way, to endure such knowledge.