the tunnels – part 15

Lauren Parker was a high profile, investigative reporter at the Trib.  She worked for their “I Team,” as we used to call it.  “I” stood for “investigative,” but the truth was, they all did investigative work at the Trib.  The difference was that the I-Team people were paid 3 times as much the rest of the paper and they made frequent TV appearances.  Lauren was an expert on superbugs and since the war, she’d become a germ  warfare talking head – appearing regularly on the Sunday morning talk show circuit.  For some reason, Larry had sent me a link to a “Slate” magazine article on Lauren and her WMD reporting.

“Jude wanted me to pass this on to you,” he’d written.

It was a couple of weeks after our visit and I’d made myself a little scarce. I was sitting in an empty, darkened office at the end of a long day.  I was exhausted from working a couple of doubles.  The fluorescent lighting out by the cubes was just too much.  The station was using extra producers in-studio during the morning show, because the war coverage was so heavy – so doubles were the norm back then and the OT was nice.

“Thanks,” I wrote back.  “How is Jude?”

I shut down the computer, double-checked my bag to make sure I had my wallet, my glasses, my keys, my ipod.  I just didn’t have the energy for a volley.  My cell started ringing in the outside pocket of my bag.  Of course, it was Larry.

“Hey,” I said.

“You got my email?” Larry asked.

“Hi, Larry, I’m about to duck into the subway, but, yes, I got your link. Great profile of Lauren. Thanks,” I said drily.

“I thought you might like it,” Larry snickered.  “She’s had some good breaks.”

“She’s one of the privileged few,” I said – sick of hearing praise for the elite at the Trib.

“Sure, sure.  Well, I’ve heard she’s had some good luck, shall we say,” he snickered.

“Whatever, Larry,” I said, ignoring his inferring that Lauren was on the take.

“So Norah, I’m wondering if you and Shakti could come by this weekend again,” Larry said awkwardly.

“Uhmm.  What brings this on?” I giggled.  “More paintings?”

“No,” Larry said, quietly.  “Actually, I was thinking we could watch a movie.”

“Oh, that’d be fun,” I said, thinking this was one, lonely man. “What movie?”

“It’s called ‘The Lathe of Heaven.’ Know it?” he asked.

“I do not, but I’m sure if you like it, it’ll be interesting,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s kind of an end of the world flick. I think you’ll get a kick out of it,” Larry snorted.  “How about Saturday again?”

“Sure.  I’ll ask Shakti.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.  Thanks, Norah.”

“Sure,” I smiled. “I gotta go, babe. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

*    *   *

I dialed up Shakti as soon as I stepped off the El. She was not a night person, but I was all fired up suddenly.

“Hey, Shakti. Sorry to call you so late, hun.”

“Norah, how wonderful to hear from you,” Shakti purred. She sounded like she was in meditation land.

“Shakti, would you come with me to Larry’s again this Saturday? He wants us to watch a movie at his place.”

“What movie, baby?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s called ‘Heaven’s Lathe’ or something.”

“‘The Lathe of Heaven,'” Shakti corrected me from the astral. “I know it.  Have him come to my place,” she said.

“You sure?” I asked.

“My place. Saturday. 3p,” she trailed off.

“Sweet dreams, honey. Love you. Blessed be,” I said.

“Love you too.”

*    *     *

I was looking out the dining room window in Shakti’s Upper West Side apartment.  The window faced south on to 93rd Street and her apartment was close to the river – so I was catching some late afternoon sun as it reflected off the water.  Shakti had made me some percolated coffee.  I loved that she still had a coffee pot. It reminded me of my mom.

“He’s coming,” she said.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” I said, enjoying the view of the river through the buildings.

“No,” Shakti said, firmly.  “I mean, he’s here.”

2 seconds later, the doorman buzzed and she told him to let Larry come up. We moved over to the living room area.  Shakti handed me a coaster for my coffee mug and I sat down on her super comfortable rust-colored, upholstered bench.  Shakti’s living area was decorated in rusts, varying shades of green, burgundies and black lacquered wood.  Across from the conversation nook where I’d taken a seat, was a large, decorative fireplace that Shakti had covered completely with a giant photograph of the face of a golden bodhisattva statue.

I let Shakti usher in Larry.  As usual, he was dressed in brown pants and a navy work shirt. For a change, though, he was wearing a light blue jacket with gray, leather sleeves. He’d stuffed the tape in his right jacket pocket.

Shakti was all smiles and giggles. She took Larry’s jacket and hung it up in the bathroom over the tub – her makeshift closet.   Larry ambled into the living room, while Shakti moved into the kitchen to pour Larry some coffee.

“Hey, Norah,” Larry said, heading for the green and rust colored chair to my right.  It was one of my favorite chairs, upholstered with a Chinese painting of  soldiers on horses, charging into battle.

“Larry,” I smiled, as I got up to hug him.  “Thanks for coming up here.”

“Sure, sure. It’s nice to get out,” Larry said, still standing.  I couldn’t believe it – not only had he cleaned up, but Larry was also waiting for Shakti to return before taking a seat.  Shakti breezed back in with coffee for Larry and a bowl of raw sugar – which she placed on the black lacquered coffee table in the center of the room.   Before settling down, Shakti, slid a large, mahogany armoire with ivory inlay over toward us.

“This,” she said, “I discovered works well for holding my TV and tapes.” Shakti popped the doors open by pressing on them. Inside there was a 24″ screen TV and a VCR.  “Work for you?” she squeaked, taking a sip of coffee.

“Works great for me,” I grinned, crossing my legs and leaning back.

“Larry, do you want us to focus on anything in particular?” Shakti asked, taking seat on the small, olive green couch to my left.

“Not really,” Larry said. “I just like the movie a lot. It was a TV movie at first.  It’s about a guy who has these dreams and the dreams start becoming realities – so he’s afraid to sleep,’ Larry coughed.

“You okay?” Shakti asked, standing up to get him water.

“I’m fine, fine,” Larry coughed.  Shakti hurried off to get a glass of water nonetheless.

“Norah,” Larry said to me. “Who else do you think likes this movie?”

I laughed. “Me? Are you anticipating I’ll like this?”

“Oh, that goes without saying, Norah,” Larry snickered. Shakti handed him a glass of water, picked up the remote and sat back down.

“What did I miss?” she asked, crossing her cute, little legs. She was wearing black leggings,  dark brown, chunky mary-janes  and a black and red embroidered Indian shirt with mirrors sewn into it – tres 70s.

“Oh, no, nothing,” I said. “Larry was just saying this movie is the favorite of someone else – so I guessed me.”

Larry took a sip of water. “A couple of things to think about,” he said. “First of all, the name of the dreamer is George Orr – remind you of anything?”

“George Orwell?” Shakti knitted her brow.

“Very good,” Larry snickered. “Lots of times people communicate through movies.  You know, sometimes paintings, sometimes movies.  Uday, for instance, had a collection of almost a thousand videos.”

“Uday?? As in Saddam’s son, Uday?” I laughed.  “Uday liked ‘Lathe of Heaven?'”

Larry smiled and winked. “When we raided the palace we found thousands of tapes – not just the wild party movies Uday had made of himself. These guys like old movies.  Like they get ideas from them and communicate about them in emails, let’s just say. “

“Like what were some of the other titles?” I asked.  “‘Doctor Strangelove?'”

‘Norah, not nice!” Larry laughed.

“Oookay,” Shakti said, hitting play.  “Shall we?”

*     *     *

George Orr is a guy who realizes that whenever he dreams something, it becomes a reality the very next day.  This is  all fine and good, when the dreams are pleasant ones, but when they become dreams of disaster, George starts freaking out.  Petrified of contributing to an apocalyptic future, he begins to fight sleep – popping pills to stay awake.

George’s world appears to be one of post nuclear holocaust, post natural disaster.  The streets are filled with people covered in disease and filth.  Desperate men and women, maimed and starving, reach out to George wherever he walks through the town where he lives.  He tries to find help to be able to control his dreams, and because he is on public assistance, we find him in a vast auditorium, where he is waiting see a therapist.  The psychologist to whom George is assigned is enthralled by George’s ability to manifest his dreams.  The doctor seeks to control George’s dreams himself – so that he can live in his own version of a Utopian society.  He harnesses George’s powers, by hooking him up to a dream machine and directing George to dream about a wonderful, idyllic, sweet world.

Horrified of being controlled, George runs away, as soon as he realizes what the doctor is up to.  Away from the doctor’s clutches, George stumbles on a world of aliens who are gentle and intuitive and kind.  They have the same gift of dreaming that George has and they have learned how to just go with the flow and accept these powers.  George no longer feels alone and he is happy in this world of aliens that look like people in turtle costumes.

The credits started to roll and Shakti got up to rewind the tape and stretch her legs.

“Wow,” I said.

“Yes, wow,” Shakti echoed.

“Well, I’m glad the turtles came and George has friends now,” I said.  I really liked the bad costumes. I’d found them comforting.

“Yeah, that’s nice, Norah,” Larry snickered.

“Larry, you know, I feel we’re more likely to destroy ourselves than to destroy each other.  That’s clear. Global warming is alive and well and gaining momentum. Who wrote the screenplay?” I asked.

“Ursula Leguinn,” Shakti said.

“Oh, that’s right. I saw her name float by,” I said. Ursula Leguinn had written one of the first books that a high priestess had ever assigned me to read – a book called “Wizard of Earth Sea.”  “She’s very knowledgeable about magic, about mind over matter,” I mused.

We were quiet for a moment.  “That movie was eerie,” I said. “I liked it, though.  What about the plague, Larry? Do you think it will all converge?  Global warming? A plague? An alien invasion?”

“I think we’re headed there,” Larry wheezed.

“I feel like the well-meaning shrink who wants to save the world from being destroyed,” I said.

“I know the feeling,” Larry said. “What do you think, Shakti?  Can we still be saved?”

“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think that,” Shakti laughed.

“I’m interested in why you wanted to share it with us,” I said.  “Again I’m seeing an end of the world scenario. This movie didn’t have a happy ending,” I chided Larry.

“Disease, Norah, is inevitable,” Larry said.

“Okay, Larry,” I took a deep breath through my teeth.  “I am going to tell you something my high priest used to tell me all the time.  And that is – ‘you attract that which you are most afraid of.’  This is magick 101.”

“I like it,” Larry said.

“Feel free to use it,” I grinned.

Shakti, who’d been clearing dishes, stopped dead in her tracks on the other side of the room.  “Norah, hun, you don’t look too well,” she said.  “Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, I feel a little weird, but I haven’t really eaten all day.  I’ll feel better after I eat,” I reassured her.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

“Maybe we should call a cab,” I said. “I’m pretty beat.”

“I can drive you, Norah,” Larry said.

“Thanks, but I can handle it,” I said.

Shakti handed me a lemon-frosted Luna bar and that’s about all I remember from that night. A few days later, the 2 of them would be visiting me at New York Presbyterian Hospital.  I had an infection that went necrotic in a matter of days.  What had appeared as a boil on my right buttocks, quickly became a large hole that mysteriously ate through a couple inches of flesh.

Tom took me to the ER the night after movie night with Shakti and Larry.  I remember saying it hurt a lot. I remember screaming.  The ER sent us home with antibiotics and we were back the following night.  This time, they shot me full of pain killers.  Doctors from all over the hospital came to study my ass.  I was too out of it to care – making jokes about signing release forms and asking if I’d be able to check myself out on the internet.

I spent an entire week lying on my stomach in a hospital bed and begging friends to bring me good coffee and french bread and cheese.  I snuck in emails to Peggy and Don.  Bobbie sent flowers.  I tested negative for Lupus, Lymphoma, Chron’s, Diabetes – anything that could give you gangrene or kill your immune system.   I was ultimately diagnosed with a staph infection – nothing more.  I would be hospitalized twice more that year.  It took several rounds and doses of different antibiotics before the staph stopped recurring.

*    *     *

It was my first day back at work.  I had only a few positions in my repertoire.  I could sit on the edge of my chair so nothing pressed against the wound or I could stand or lie down on my stomach.  Mostly, I stood.  I was telling Peggy war stories from hospital hell, when Don poked his head around the corner.

“Norah!  Welcome back.  Did you get the flowers?” he asked.

“They were from everyone?” I asked.  I’d seen only Bobbie’s name.

“Yeh, we were worried about you, Norah,” Don said.

Something didn’t feel right.  “Well, they were beautiful,” I said.  “Thanks.  How are things here?  Anything new on Elizabeth Smart?” I asked.

“Just take it easy first day back,” Don said.

“Don,” Peggy said.  “You know, Norah was emailing pitches from the hospital.  You can’t keep this woman down.  We’ll see you in the meeting.”

“Sure,” Don said.  His Blackberry was buzzing.  Once he’d disappeared down the hallway, I scootched to the edge of my chair and wheeled it close to Peggy.

“Somebody gave this to me,” I said, referring to my infection.

“I don’t doubt it,” Peggy teased.

“I’m serious,” I looked straight at her.

“So am I,” she said.  “Lots of folks wanna see you drop that story.  Maybe it’s time to back off for a bit.”

“Peggy, our own government would poison me, try to kill me, a member of the press.  Don’t you think that’s fucked up?”

“Look Norah.  It’s totally fucked up.  Now come work on something light with me – like a good old fashioned rampage shooting.” Peggy patted my leg. “Oh my God.  Did that hurt?? I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Actually the sore is on my ass, hun, but it did smart a little.”

We laughed.  “I’m gonna make a quick call,” I said.  “See you in the meeting.”

“I got your back,” Peggy said – meaning I didn’t have to come up with pitches.

I dialed Larry’s number before the elevator doors opened and Larry picked up the phone, just as I stepped outside of the building.

“Hey Norah.  Long time, no hear.  How are you?”

“You know damned well how I am,” I said.  I needed coffee.  I ambled toward the Starbucks across the street.

“Sore?” Larry sounded simultaneously sweet and like he was trying very hard not to laugh.  I couldn’t remember if he’d visited me in the hospital.  Who knew.  Maybe we’d talked on the phone.  Things were blurry.

“Very.  Listen, hun.  I have a question.  Could someone have stuck me with a superbug, a supergerm?  You know, let’s say on the subway?” I asked.

“Norah, does it really matter?” Larry said again, with some kind of empathy.

“Good goddess.  Who cares if it matters??  I want to know.  Yes or no?  Could someone have pricked me with this fucking disease?” I asked.  I realized I should be asking Frank this question, but I thought he might be disappointed about my getting in this deeply.

“Norah, sure.  You know like in the old spy movies – the guy with the needle at the end of his umbrella.  He’d stick you with the disease.  Sure, it’s possible.”

“Like The Penguin in Batman,” I said, somewhat annoyed.

“Sure, like The Penguin,” Larry snickered.

“How else??” I asked, looking at the crystal clear sky on a gorgeous, warm Fall day that I couldn’t appreciate.  I stepped into Starbucks and was glad for the darkness of the shop.

“You ever hear of being schmeared?” Larry asked flatly.  I laughed. He sounded funny speaking Yiddish.

“Uhm, no. What, pray tell, is being schmeared?” I asked.

“Well,” Larry said, “They do it with people that they’re, let’s say, mad at.  You’re in a  hotel room and they come in and paint the toilet seat with something.  You sit on it and the next thing you know, you’ve got radioactive poisoning or something and it gets diagnosed as leukemia.”

“How the fuck would the hotel employees not get sick as well?  Ridiculous.  An entire floor would be glowing.”

I was feeling really dizzy.  Dmitry, my favorite Starbucks guy, was waiting for me to place my order.

“How may I service you?” he said with his adorable, Russian accent.  “Within reason, of course.”

“Larry, I gotta go.  Call you back?” I said.

“Sure Norah.  Feel better.”

“I’m sick,”I said to Dmitry, as I closed my phone.  Dmitry was studying to be  a nurse.  He made the obvious jokes about aspiring to work for a breast surgeon so he could help women with implants one day.  He was from a family of doctors and it was expected of him that he’d enter the medical profession.  I wasn’t asking for advice.  It wasn’t like me to talk about my health to people.  I no longer had control over what came flying out of my mouth.

“So you don’t want the banana chip coffee cake,” he smiled.

“No? Okay.  So coffee and a croissant,” I said.

“Norah, where have you been sweetie?” Dmitry asked, grabbing a coffee cup and filling it up.

“Truly, I’ve been out sick.  Long story,” I said, wishing I could spend the day on a smoke break with Dmitry.

“You’re limping,” he said.  “Are you okay?  You don’t look so good.  Sit down.  I’ll bring you your coffee,” Dmitry said, ringing me up.

“I can’t,” I looked pleadingly at him.  “Don’t laugh. I hurt my ass and I can’t sit.  Can we talk?  Do you have a sec to take a break?  Outside?”

Dmitry’s coworker, Tameka, nodded.   He took off his apron and brought my coffee and croissant with him.  We walked to this plaza between the office buildings that surrounded us.  I leaned on a low wall and winced.

“I’m calling an ambulance in a second, Norah,” Dmitry said, lighting a cigarette.

“No. They can’t fix this.  It just has to heal. I probably came back to work too early,” I said.

Dmitry gave me a crinkly smile and nodded.  “What do you have?”

“Staph.  They say it’s staph, but no antibiotic seems to be working for more than a few days – a week max.  In fact, I don’t think any of them have worked – except the IV Keflex in the hospital,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“All the more reason to go back in,” Dmitry said.

“I could get sicker in there,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

“You could get sicker out here, Norah.  I’m not telling you what to do, but you have to see a doctor, an infectious disease guy,” he said.  I raised my eyebrows. “Or girl,” Dmitry grinned.

“Thank you,” I said.

“So the staph went necrotic? Cellulitis?” Dmitry asked.

I nodded.  “It went from a bump to a big-assed hole – if you’ll forgive the innuendos,” I said.

Dmitry groaned.  “Let me help you to your building, at least,” he said, hooking his arm around my back and under my other arm.  I leaned into him and we hobbled over to the station.

“Call me, Norah,” Dmitry said, scribbling his number on a scrap of paper from my croissant bag, as we reached security.

“ID guy,” I said.  “Maybe Frank can recommend somebody,”I muttered.

“Frank?” Dmitry asked.

“Yeh, a germ warfare doc I ran into in the field,” I said.

“I don’t know if you need to go that far,” Dmitry laughed, giving me a gentle hug. “Just try to take care of yourself and find out what this is.  This won’t heal itself.”

“Thanks, babe.  Thanks for calming me down,” I said and I turned around and went through the gates to the studios.

*     *    *

I stood all the way through the morning meeting When it was over,  I approached Don and told him I might have come back prematurely.  He said I’d already been gone almost 2 weeks.  He seemed really annoyed, so I went back to my desk to call Frank and email reporters in search of an ID doctor for me.

Charles Lloyd, a gossip columnist at the Trib had a wife who was a Harvard grad and an internist, specializing in neurology.  Sarah Lloyd was sort of a Moses in the New York City medical community – mentioning her name made the waters part.  She got me an appointment to see an Dr. Andrew Germaine, an infectious disease doctor, the following morning, but I never made it. I was admitted that night to Mount Sinai for another round of IV antibiotics for another week.

I became good friends with Dr. Germaine over the next year.  He found the right antibiotic at the right dosage to kill the staph.  Dr Germain explained that staph morphed the day that penicillin was introduced to it.  It’s a very smart bacteria, apparently.   As soon as we found new forms of penicillin, the staph would become immune.   So Dr. Germaine’s trick was to go back and find a very old version of penicillin that the staph no longer recognized.  It was a bit of a chess game and, thank the goddess,  it worked.

I learned how boil my clothes and linens every day and how to wash myself head to toe with surgical soap a few times daily.   Patrick was not to touch me or my clothes. My ex came in to help a lot.  I ran my apartment like a military infirmary – with the help of encouragement from Dr. Germaine and Frank, who was just glad I hadn’t jumped at the bait.

I worked only sporadically, until one day I finally lost my job.  A few months later, my relationship with Tom also ended.  Six months later, COBRA and unemployment had run out and I was desperate for work.   I had been casting money and road opener spells ever since I’d been laid off and, as always, the gods provided – with a sense of humor and at the last minute.  Snatched from the jaws of poverty, I was offered a job as a researcher at “The Record,” one of the local tabs.   Working behind the scenes for very little money was fine with me – as it was with Jude, apparently, because he called me up to have lunch only a few months after I’d been at “The Record.”

for hire

I was out to dinner with a bunch of Tom’s law school buddies. It was excruciating for me, as I never could keep my mouth shut at those things. Some people found it charming – well, one person did, but for the most part, people hoped I wouldn’t say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.  I was your basic loose cannon. Goddess bless Tom for tolerating me.

A tax attorney named Karen told me how wonderful Tom was and how everyone there just adored him.  Then she asked me what I did for a living.  “Oh, I’m a researcher in the library at the Trib.”

“The Trib has a library.”

“Haha.  Yes, we do.”  I started explaining how it was like private investigative work – you know, piecing crime details together. “Sometimes,” I said, “I get to work on a very old homicide, a cold case. And sometimes, I get to work on a piece that really reaches my heart. I live for that. What do you do?”

I knew I’d regret that question.  My mind wandered immediately – something about Wall St. and investment bankers and I started wondering where the food was and where was the bathroom?

“So, pretty much, it’s a bore compared to what you do.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  News gets to be pretty routine after awhile,” I tried to comfort her.  Suddenly it was as if someone were projecting a short 8mm movie on to my third eye. Black and white.  Flashing lights.  I could see a car stopped on the shoulder of a highway.  Its  lights were flashing.  A young man was on the ground next to the car. It was not as if he’d been swiped by another car. The trunk to his car was open.  Something wasn’t right.

“I am so sorry.”  She seemed to know I knew.  “This was recent.”

She nodded.  “Last week.”

“Wow.  Okay . That’s why.  Gary, Gregg?”

“Craig.  My brother.”

“He was shot.  Robbery?”

“His car broke down by the side of the road and another car came to help him – only they didn’t help him.  They killed him.  He was approached from behind and shot in the head.”

“Unreal. How old?” I was feeling the other coast.  “Are you from California?”

She nodded.  “He was in Seattle, though. When it happened. He was 2 years younger than I am. 38.”

“A week ago? Well, he says hello.  He says he’s fine.  He’s a real chatterbox, actually.”

She laughed. “Yes, he is.” She patted her eyes with a napkin.  “I just came back from sprinkling his ashes on Mt. Rainier.”

My eyes welled up.  There was a lump in my throat. “My son is visiting relatives in Seattle right now and today he went up on Mt. Rainier. ”  She looked at me helplessly. “Well, my dear,” I said, touching her hand, “You have been through a lot.  If you ever need to talk, call me, okay? Or call Tom and tell him to have me call.  What’s your number? I’ll call it and that way you’ll have mine.”

“I’m sorry.  I couldn’t help overhearing,”  a handsome, prematurely gray lawyer – or so I thought – sitting next to me said.

“Not at all,” Karen said.  She seemed relieved that someone had broken the trance.

“I’m Norah O’Connell, Tom’s girlfriend.”

“Tom?”

“No problem. I’m crashing the party too.”

“I’m Sean,” he laughed. “Listen, I couldn’t help hearing the two of you talk.  I’m sorry, I’m Sean,” he said, extending his hand to Karen.

“Karen.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.  I noticed Norah was able to tune into your brother.”

“Yes, it was really beautiful,” she said.  “And unsolicited to boot,” she smiled at me.

“I try to keep my mouth shut at these things,” I said, looking down.

“Join the club, Norah. I’m a writer, a true crime writer. And I’ve kind of been blocked on this one murder and I’m wondering if you ever do your chanelling – is that what you call it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do people ever hire you?  Because I would love to work with you.”

“I’m a researcher at the Trib,” I blurted out.  Let’s just get the journalism thing out of the way, I figured.

“Oh, I used to freelance there.”

“Okay, so I’ll work with you, but I don’t want anyone to know about it.”

“No problem,” he said, handing me his card.  I tucked it into my back pocket – not sure if I’d do anything with it.

The party was breaking up. I grabbed my jean jacket. In the right hand pocket, I felt something rubbery and bumpy. “What the hell is this?” I muttered.  I pulled out a lavender-tinged, glow in the dark frog with a suction cup bottom. I cracked up.  In all of the fumbling around the other morning, I’d grabbed a glow in the dark frog.  I joked with Ryan that it might help us see our way to the car.  Even in the dark, I could feel his eyes roll.  Anyhow, it made me laugh – so I’d stuck it in my pocket.

Of course, as soon as I felt the frog I heard Karen’s brother, a gorgeous, tall, dark curly haired man. “Give her the frog.”

“Good goddess.  She’ll think I’m nuts.”

“So?  Add her to the list, Norah.”

“I am not adding one of his law school buddies to the list.”

“Okay, please?”

“Please is not going to help.”

“Come on, I’ll do anything for you.”

“Oh, you better watch out for that promise.”

I could feel his love for Karen. My heart chakra was heating up the way it does when I feel love between two souls.

“Okay, okay.” I summoned up my courage and made my way to Karen.

“Okay, so I know this is going to sound like I’m nuts, but try to remember, I’m  a journalist.  And not that that makes me sane or anything, but I do try to stay grounded and objective.” I wasn’t even convincing myself.  Karen waited patiently.

“So, I have a message from your brother.  I’m sorry, what was his name again?”

“Craig.”

“That’s right. I’m sorry. You did tell me. Well,  Craig has been bugging me and he won’t shut up until I give you this.” I held out the glow in the dark frog.  “I am sorry. I know it makes like no sense, but I had to give it to you or your brother would have kept me up all night – chattering away. ”

“It’s okay.  Thank you,” Karen said politely.  I thought, thank the goddess she is humoring me.

A couple of days later, Karen called Tom and asked to speak with me. I was a little nervous, because I felt foolish still.

“Hey, Karen.”

“Is this the frog lady?” Karen teased.

“It is.  Do you want to give the frog back?  Because you can’t.” I teased back.

“I absolutely do not.  I wanted to tell you something really funny that happened that night.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well, I came home from the dinner  and I went to open my emails and there was an email from one of our cousins.  He said he had been  looking for photos of  Craig and he’d run across  some really funny ones from a frog festival they’d been to a few years back. So he sent me a few of the pictures”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes, I thought it was so beautiful. I just wanted to thank you. So much, Norah. Really.”

“Sure. My pleasure. Truly. His too, I hope.”  We laughed.  “Hey, no offense, Craig, but enough outta you, baby,” I grinned.

the shrink

“We got a psychiatrist killed by one of her patients, looks like,” the photo editor shouted.

“What?”

“Psychiatrist. Hacked to death.  Do you want it?”

“Of course, I want it.  Names?” shouted the city editor, Aaron.

“No names.  We got an address, though. 383 West End Ave.”

“Norah, please?  Any shrinks in that building.  In fact, anyone in that building.”

“Okay.”

“Who you got?” Aaron asked the assignment editor, Mark.

“We got Patanella, Kelly, MacDonald.”

“Okay, who else? Norah, keep working on that and as soon as you get anything, send it to me.  Ivy,” he asked the he asked the head clerk, “Get me Kelly?”

“Female?,” I called out.  “Cos I’m seeing a male shrink in that building. Name is Slotkin”

“We’ll take it,” Aaron said.

“Kelly on 1,” the head clerk shouted.

“Kelly, I need you to go go to 383 West End Ave.  Right away.  A shrink was hacked to death – possibly by one of her patients.  How soon can you get there?”

“Of course.  Take a cab.  You’ll be working with – who’s Kelly gonna be working with?” Aaron shouted over to Ray at the photo desk.

“Flynn. Tell her we’re sending Flynn.”

“Okay. You’ll be working with Flynn.  You know him? Good. You’ve worked with him before.  So run over there.  Find out who she is.  Ask around to see if anyone saw or heard anything.  Try to talk to the doorman, if there is a doorman.  He probably can’t talk anyway.  Okay, good luck. Ivy? Patanella.”

I crunched the building in my databases. It used to be that reporters ran to a print reverse directory called “Coles.” Goddess knows why we still subscribed. They all call out to me for electronic views of the crime scene.

“Okay.  I got a female psychiatrist.  Shares an office with Slotkin.”

“Name?”

“Donaghy.”

“An Irish shrink?” Ray teased.

“Oh, like the Irish aren’t effed up??”

“It’s the shrink, Norah, not the patients.”

“Oh, right.”

“Patanella, it’s Aaron.  You up for some extra work today? Good. I need you to stand by for an address. Norah’s trying for a home address for this shrink – well, this person we believe to be a psychiatrist who was hacked to death today.”

“Got her,” I called out. “Emily Donaghy.”

“Address?”

“15 East 70th. 6F as in Frank.”

“Okay, Patanella. 15 E 70th. Apartment 6F as in Frank.  Shrink’s name was Emily Donaghy.  Husband?”

“Richard,” I said.

“Norah, send everything to me, Mark, Ray and photo.  This isn’t one of those buildings with 1,000 shrinks, is it?  Like the one on West 72nd?”

“Aaron? No. No, it isn’t.”

“Norah, you’ve been wrong before.  Don’t sabatoge me again, hun.” He cracked me up.

“Who do you think did this?” Aaron called over to Ray.

“I don’t know. I’m thinkin a patient.  You know, who didn’t like her.”

“Good guess. Norah?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

Aaron went back to his computer and started dispatching the weekend staff to the scene of the crime – Donaghy’s office. I had guessed correctly. I could see the doctor shaking her head.  She was standing behind the pagination guys.

“Looks like Slotkin got it too,” Ray said.

“Is he alive?” Aaron asked.

“We don’t know.”

“Norah?”

“Got him  Sending it in 2 minutes.”

“Kelly is saying they have surveillance tape.”

“Goddess,” I whispered. “Help me Emily?  This is so disgusting.  I don’t mean you, darling.  I mean what this monster did.”

She shook her head and pointed to Aaron, as if he were writing the wrong story.

I walked over to where the copy editors sit.  It was still and quiet.  “Listen sweetie, I know you’re in a bit of shock, but I’m here.”  She looked so frustrated.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.  I have a tarot deck in my purse and I’m gonna ask my High Priest for help. Goddess.”

I took my place at the desk again and I grabbed my deck.  I shuffled quietly underneath me.

King of Rods, 10 of Swords,  7 of Swords.  Businessman, stabbed in the back.  Fire sign who feels betrayed and has hit a bottom.

“Okay, that’s my hacker.”

She shook her head.

“Your partner? Slotkin?”

Emily nodded.

“He’s okay, you know.”

She shook her head. It was as if I were getting everything wrong in a game of charades.

King of Cups, 3 of Swords, The Emperor. Patient with a broken heart.

Queen of Rods, King of Swords, 5 of Swords. Man who feels like something has been taken from him.

“Your husband?” She nodded.  “I am sorry, my love.  You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She shrugged as if to say, “Oh well.” We laughed.

“Slotkin’s patient.  Thank you.”

“Aaron, I don’t think this guy meant to kill Donaghy. I think he let himself into the wrong office in that suite.”

“Norah, please. Slotkin was practically unharmed.”

“Well, he did try to hack him and a patient as well.  It’s just a gut feeling.  Trust me?”

“Ivy, get me Kapner.  Ray, I need to send someone over to Slotkin’s home.  Norah, find out of he has any partners.  Has he shared an office with anyone else? Hospital permissions.  Lawsuits.”

The guy looked solvent and he was lawsuit free – just a lien or two. “Baby, if it was a patient, I need some help,” I said to Emily.

She flashed a picture of a balding, curly haired guy, carrying a black bag of some kind.  “Goddess help me. That could be anyone.  No offense.”

She seemed to have a good sense of humor. She smiled.

“Norah! We have a suspect.  Ready?”

“Sure.”

“It’s Michael Greenbaum. Cops say it was a patient,” he grinned.  “Yes, alright. Of Slotkin’s.”

“Wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“It does.”

I walked down to an isolated part of the floor and into  a conference room. I left the lights off so I could see better.

“You there?”  She appeared.  “Wow. Thank you for helping me out. I’m sorry. That’s not the way I meant it to sound. Really. Can I do anything for you? I’d really like to.”

She bowed her head and touched her wedding ring.

“Your husband.  I will watch out for him. I will. I promise we will go easy on him.  Well, as easy as possible.  I’ll hold back a little.”

She started to fade and I had to get back to the desk. I namasted the empty room.

“Norah?  You have her records yet?” He hadn’t noticed I was gone.

“I sent you the report like 15 minutes ago.”

“Why don’t you give me a heads up on these things? Her husband? Relatives?”

“In a sec.”

I started seeing

One day, I was in my kitchen, when I saw colors dripping from the branches of the trees in our backyard. They were dark, primary colors – almost like the colors you see on your TV screen, if you get really close and see those little dots. It looked like thin, rainbow colored streamers flying off of the branches into the ground. I panicked and, thinking it was an acid flashback, I ran to the phone and called my sponsor.

“There are colors dripping from my trees. What do you do for a flashback? Do you eat sugar or something? I seem to remember sugar.”

“What makes you think you are having a flashback?” Linda laughed.

“Uhm, could it be the colors I’m seeing flying around outside my window??” I was now sitting on the floor and staring at the white linoleum so I wouldn’t have to see.

“It could be you are seeing something spiritual.”

“Okay, good. So maybe it’ll go away.”

“Maybe you should find a book on this.”

“Maybe it will just go away.”

I was lucky I lived in a town that had a few new age shops. I threw my 2 year old into his stroller and off I went to the nearest funky bookstore.

“I’m looking for a book on colors. I’m seeing colors,” I said to the clerk.

“What kind of colors?” I thought she might buzz for help in a second.

“You know…dripping from trees? Dripping from you right now. Oh, actually I’m seeing big bows of light coming out from you right now. I’m not into this at all.”

The woman smiled and asked me if I’d ever read Barbara Ann Brennan’s “Hands of Light.” She told me it was about seeing auric colors and using this gift to heal people. I thought, well, this is as good an explanation as any and I bought the book in spite of having very little money.

“It has some beautiful plates in it,” she said. “I think you will see some of the things that you are seeing. I opened it up and saw colors bowing all over the place. I thought, I do not want to be a healer. I am happy writing and researching.

I wheeled us home and I sat on the front porch with Patrick and I started to read – about disease and entities who visit when you’re healing, about colors and what they mean. I could not get enough of it. Suddenly, I wanted to see.