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