Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 19

My journey of a thousand miles began that fateful night with guardian angel John Reid at my side acting as a navigator. I must admit it took some time before I could really feel confident that he wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. For a little while I still worried that I was having some kind of breakdown, but I dismissed that notion as I recognized that my life was slowly and steadily improving just as he said it would.

Initially, I was hesitant to depend on him too much, out of fear that he would vanish as abruptly as he first appeared. But true to his word, he remained faithfully by my side. In fact, he accompanied me everywhere I went. John Reid progressively earned my trust and respect, and our relationship became very natural to me, as it had when I was a child. However, because I was the only one who could see him, I was often embarrassed at work or in public places when I’d forget myself and respond out loud to something that he’d said or done. I was quickly labeled an eccentric due to launching into animated conversations with thin air, or worse, suddenly laughing hilariously at nothing at all.

I’m naturally a very pragmatic, skeptical person, so I was always asking John for proof of the intuitive process. Still fearing I was far too anal retentive to leap headlong into the process, he slowly began to reveal intuitive information to me by sharing simple predictions about the weather, the outcome of the presidential election that was taking place at the time, and what was going to occur within the advertising agency on a day-to-day basis.

As I opened up to the process of angelic communication and began to develop faith in what I was hearing from John, he started to provide intuitive information about other people. That was fascinating! I became much more discriminating with the prospective clients I was pitching because he would warn me about folks who didn’t pay their bills on time. He also saved me from several potential car accidents by saying “Wait!” to prevent me from driving into the path of a vehicle speeding through a red light. John even shared information about present and future health concerns for my family and me.

What’s more, I began to receive intuitive messages about strangers standing next to me at the grocers, dry cleaners, and the neighborhood video store. This information included specifics about their health, physical safety, love life, career, finances, and past life experiences. Just as he had promised, a whole new world was opening up to me.

However, in spite of the fact that I was receiving consistent psychic information about other people, I had no real way of validating the accuracy of what I was picking up. So, once again, I found myself asking John for tangible proof.

John told me that he would be delighted to provide the proof I had been asking for. The next day while I was getting ready to leave for work, he disclosed that he had some intuitive information about a doorman who worked in the apartment building I lived in, and he requested that I pass along an important psychic message to him.

“What? Me? I can’t do that!”

“Why not? When you present the information to him, he’ll provide the proof that you’ve been asking for.”

“I don’t even know him! He’ll think I’m crazy!”

“And your point is . . . ?”

“I don’t want to make a fool of myself!”

“You’d better get used to that, Kim. I’m amazed that you care so much about what other people think. You have to let go of needing other peoples’ approval. Your life will be so much easier when—”

“Of course I care about what other people think! Unlike you, I live on the earthly plane with them. I’m not going to do it, John. I can’t.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “I just wanted you to tell him that his sister is ill and needs to go to a doctor.”

“Doesn’t the sister know that already?”

“No, she doesn’t. Some illnesses do not have classic, telltale symptoms.”

“Like what kind of illness?”

“Cancer.”

“Oh . . . ” I answered in a small voice. My aunt had recently died of the disease, and her passing was horrific. At first, she complained of a chest cold and a cough that wouldn’t go away, but she never connected those symptoms with cancer. She finally went to the doctor, who diagnosed bronchitis and sent her home with a prescription for an antibiotic. The disease quickly spread throughout her body like wildfire, finally reaching her brain. The woman who had been so vibrant and beautiful was left incapacitated and bedridden, and she spent the last weeks of her life muttering to herself incoherently. Aunt Patsy died in a world all her own, having lost the capacity to recognize any of the loved ones who hovered around her bedside.

“What would I have to do?” I asked in a resigned tone.

“Just pass along exactly what you hear from me.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.”

“Okay, let’s just get this over with before I come to my senses. Maybe the doorman won’t be here today? Maybe I won’t be able to find him? You know I have to get to work, so I can’t wait around.”

“He’s here. Stop stalling.” And with that, I stepped out of the elevator and literally bumped into the man we had been discussing. I got the goose bumps sensation again—and I suddenly had the distinct impression that the universe somehow meant the two of us to have contact that very morning. I didn’t know if it was nerves or one of my characteristic blond moments, but I couldn’t recall his name in spite of the fact that I frequently said hello to him.

“Hello . . . Pete?” I stammered.

“I’m Sam,” he replied with a puzzled expression.

“Sam! Of course, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“You stressed out today? Anything I can do for you?” he asked kindly.

“Oh, no . . . I’m just on my way to the office! You know . . . where I work. I . . . I . . . think I’m late. Well . . . good bye, Pete!” I hurried through the door.

Go Back. Now! John insisted. I stopped in my tracks. You said you would do it. Aren’t you a person of your word?

Damn! Why, oh why, did I promise? I took a deep breath, turned around, and walked back to the unsuspecting doorman.

“Forget something?” Sam asked.

“Uhmmm, yes, actually . . . ” I stood woodenly, eyes darting this way and that, not knowing how to proceed. My heart started to pound, and my breathing sounded labored.

“Are you okay?” he inquired, now looking worried.

I simply nodded.

John started to speak. Just repeat after me . . .

“Just repeat after me,” I said to Sam, who furrowed his brow in confusion. John winced. I quickly surmised that I wasn’t supposed to repeat that. Too late now!

Your sister needs surgery, John said. Right away.

“Your sister needs surgery. Right away.” Sam looked extremely surprised. As virtual strangers, he had never discussed his personal life with me.

Not the one in New York—I’m referring to Karen, the sister in Florida.

As I repeated what John was saying telepathically, the doorman’s eyes widened. He stood rooted to the spot, oblivious to the other people coming and going.

“There is a hazardous growth developing in her left breast. The lump is pre-cancerous and has to be removed . . . now.”

With that, Sam took several steps away from me. He was clearly frightened.

“You must call her this afternoon,” I continued. “She’s depressed because of her marital problems, and she needs to hear from her big brother. You’ll make her laugh, like you always do. Then you need to tell her about the cancer. You’re going to save her life with that phone call.”

I proceeded to tell him that the psychic information he was receiving was courtesy of my guardian angel, John Reid. Poor Sam looked like someone who had just undergone electric shock treatments.

“But I don’t understand,” he replied, looking frightened, shocked, and suspicious. “How did you know I had a sister? And how did you know she was in Florida?” Then, raising his voice, he sputtered indignantly, “Karen doesn’t have cancer! And she doesn’t have marital problems, either! What’s wrong with you? Are you some kind of nut case?” And with that, the doorman turned and strode away from me.

I stood there staring dumbly, beet red with embarrassment, still clutching my purse and briefcase. I literally had no clue about what to do next. Should I chase after him and apologize? But that might scare him even more and make things worse—if that was possible. I would never deliberately hurt or scare anyone, and I felt miserable.

“Kim, good work! I’m proud of you,” John exclaimed happily.

“Why did you make me do that? Did you see how upset he was?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. It was your choice. And you did admirably—except for saying ‘repeat after me.’ That wasn’t the most auspicious beginning,” John chuckled with amusement.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me! Because of you and your cockamamie psychic predictions, I just scared the hell out of that man.”

“May I submit to you that if you had remained quiet and his sister had gotten malignant cancer, that would have scared the hell out of him.”

“You always have a glib answer for everything,” I hissed, tears flooding my eyes. I didn’t know why, but besides feeling humiliated, I felt incredibly emotional. The tears started to stream down my face, and I clumsily dug through my purse for a tissue.

John tried to reassure me. “If I know Sam, and I think I do, he’ll get over it pretty quickly. That’s why I picked him as a test subject for you.”

“So you look at human beings as nothing more than guinea pigs in the cosmic experiments you’re conducting?”

“You’re taking a rather melodramatic point of view. You asked for proof and now you have it. Remember what Oscar Wilde once said: ‘Be careful what you wish for . . . because you may get it.’ Did I ever tell you that Oscar was a friend of mine? A platonic friend, I might add. Very amusing fellow. We used to go to the theater in London . . . ”

I 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 to live. I simply couldn’t stay there under the circumstances. I hated the thought of returning to the apartment building. I wished I never had to go back. I considered spending the night in a hotel, but it occurred to me that I didn’t have a change of clothes or my toiletries. Of course, common sense told me that I’d have to go back to my apartment. I was thankful that Sam worked the day shift so that I wouldn’t have to face him that evening. But what about the following day? I wondered what time he arrived in the morning. Maybe I could leave extra early so I wouldn’t have to face him. Had he really told everyone in the building about what happened? And how would all of my neighbors treat me now that they knew I spoke with spirits?

Trying to put off the inevitable, I remained at work until after eight. Feeling sick and edgy, I reluctantly drove home, parked my car, and walked quickly and quietly with my head down. I was hoping to avoid contact with anyone in the building. I reached the bank of elevators undetected and then was startled by someone who abruptly shouted my name.

“KIM! WAIT!” I jumped ten feet. I turned and saw Sam, the doorman, quickly approaching. I flinched, fully expecting an angry tirade. Instead, he threw his arms around me in a warm hug. I stood motionless.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting for you all day. I thought you’d never get home. Guess what?” He pulled away, breathless with excitement. He looked at me expectantly, waiting for a response. I had none to give, so I just blankly stared at him. He waited for just a second before continuing, eager to share his big news.

“Remember this morning?”

I nodded mutely. Did he think I could have forgotten?

“At first, I thought you were nuts. A kook. You really scared the shit out of me. But then I got to thinking. I was already having this feeling that I needed to call Karen. I just didn’t know why. So I thought what the hell—why not? What could it hurt?” He stopped to catch his breath. “It was really weird! Karen is always at work during the day and I don’t have that number—so I called her at home and was going to leave a message—but she picked up the phone. She’d just come from the doctor’s office. When she heard my voice, she started to cry. She said that the doctor wants to remove a lump from her breast, but she was too scared to let him do it. I told her I’d plan a visit whenever she decided to have it done. She promised to call the doctor and schedule the surgery.”

I was mute with disbelief.

“And there’s more. She told me that her husband just left her and ran off with the eighteen-year-old babysitter! Can you believe that sorry SOB? When I fly down there, me and my brother-in-law are gonna have a little talk. Karen said she never would have called me because she knows how busy I am—and she didn’t want to bother me!”

I was in shock. All I could muster in response to what he was sharing was a wide-eyed, confused gaze.

“If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have called her. And if she didn’t have the operation, who knows what would have happened?” He grabbed me again, eyes filling with tears. “You might have saved her life. Thank you!”

“I’m so glad,” I muttered.

“Listen,” Sam said, leaning toward me and whispering confidentially. “No offense, but I thought you were bullshitting me. Did you really get the information from an angel?”

“Well, I . . . ”

Without stopping to listen, he quickly looked around to make sure no one could hear him. Then he leaned in even closer. “Does the angel have any more stuff to say? I mean, the information was right on target. If you ever hear anything else about me, or my family, would you tell me?”

“Okay,” I answered hesitantly, clearly remembering that I had given the angel in question his walking papers.

Sam repeated his enthusiastic thanks, pushed the elevator button for me, and wished me a good evening. I stood there staring after him as he walked away. He turned the corner and began to whistle as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

I had just received the proof I had been asking for—in spades. As the mirrored doors opened and I stepped inside, I suddenly had a mental flashback of the mother and her young son getting into the same elevator that morning.

“MOM! Did you see that guy disappear in thin air? That was AWESOME!”

The little boy had seen John! Why hadn’t I picked up on that this morning? Even more proof. Maybe I’m not crazy after all!

At that moment, I was overcome with the now-familiar goose bumps sensation. I heard a masculine, disembodied voice say, “Oh, ye of little faith.” John Reid materialized by my side in the elevator. “PMS is right,” he said with his usual handsome grin. “I keep telling them I need hazardous duty compensation.”

“John! I got my proof! Just like you said!”

“Maybe next time you’ll believe me before you jump to conclusions and make false assumptions.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied humbly. “I should have had more faith in you.” Then I had a pivotal realization. “So, I guess—at times—psychic information is not going to resonate inside of us right away—but that’s okay—because it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong . . . right?”

“I’m not quite certain about what you just said, but I think you’re getting the picture,” he replied. “You’ve had a big day today. What you’re going through isn’t easy, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. And everything is happening so fast. But, John, I’m so relieved. Do you know what I realize now? I’m not a crazy person! There’s nothing wrong with me. Even though I talk to you.”

“I am impervious to flattery, I warn you,” he responded dryly. I smiled at him and he smiled back at me.

“And I’m sorry that I interrupted your story. What were you saying earlier about Oscar Meyer?”

“Oscar Wilde,” he corrected me, in a mock lecturing tone.

“Sorry!”

“As I was saying,” he began with hesitation, in the same lecturing tone, as if convinced that the story might be wasted on me. “My friend Oscar and I used to frequent this small theater in London’s West End. Did you know that a very handsome young lady who used to perform there inspired him to write The Importance of Being Ernest?”

“I loved that movie!” I chimed.

John hung his head and looked resigned.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, originally, he was going to call it End Over End, but I convinced him otherwise; I didn’t think such a title would appeal to the carriage trade. He was already in quite a bit of trouble over some unfortunate incidents that occurred at a little soiree he had given at his country home—”

“Really?” I asked eagerly. “Like what?”

“Your sensibilities are far too delicate to hear the details,” John chuckled at some distant yet vivid memory. “I’ve never known anyone before or since who could throw a party like Oscar.”

The elevator doors opened and we exited, John still holding court as we walked down the hall to my apartment. I was glad my spiritual companion was back.