Page 79 of Nothing Less than Magic
But I go through the motions, flipping through the months, reading the inspirational sayings at the top of each page, and trying to remember if the fonts match the ones I chose when we first started.
“What do you think?” Ronnie is looking over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I think it’s good. What do you think?”
“It’s great.”
I turn to look at her. “It’s a joke, isn’t it? Like seriously mockable.”
“What are you talking about? This is your baby, Chels. You worked so hard on this. And look at it”—she points at the screen. “It’s a homerun, a complete grand slam.”
“Really? You don’t think it’s stupid? You don’t think it’s beneath my dignity? I have a doctorate degree in psychology, for God’s sake, and here I am hawking calendars. What’s next? Inspirational bookmarks? Charm bracelets?”
Ronnie laughs. “You think you might be overreacting just a little? So it’s not the Stanford Prison Experiment. It’s what you do. You make psychotherapy accessible to the masses. It’s a good thing. What’s with the sudden angst?” She gives me a soft appraisal. “Look, a lot has happened. You’re finding your way after a significant injury; let’s take it easy today. Not make any big decisions.”
I get to my feet, go over to her, and lean my head on her shoulder. “What would I do without you?”
The rest of the day I dedicate to answering emails and posting on social media, though my heart isn’t in it. My heart is in Ghost in a small cabin by the lake and a gold-country town where I had a life beyond work and Austin.
I can’t help but wonder about Misty, about her odd and rather cryptic predictions, if you can even call them that. To be generous, she did sort of foreshadow my return to the real world. But the psychologist in me realizes that was merely my subconscious talking.
Still, I hop on the World Wide Web and search for her. Madam Misty, Universal Diviner. Much to my surprise, I get more than a dozen hits. She even has a website, which I immediately click on, then navigate straight to her bio. Her picture looks nothing like my Misty. This one is cherubic with short gray hair and resembles someone’s sweet, round grandmother. Not the lithe Stevie Nicks, ballet-dancing figure in my dream.
According to her bio, she’s had the “sight” since childhood and that by the time she was a young adult, police departments around the state were using her “supernatural powers” to solve crimes. She lists several missing-person cases, including one I’m familiar with because it was headline news a few summers ago.
I move over to her contact information, copy her address, and plug it into Google Maps. Madam Misty, Universal Diviner is located off a stretch of highway four miles from Ghost, not far from the drive-through coffee shop that always has a long line. According to Google Earth, it’s a trailer park that I must’ve driven past at least a thousand times. In the image, her shingle—the same design as the one in my dream—hangs on a post on the dirt shoulder between the entrance to the park and the highway.
I’m absorbing the discovery when my phone rings. Same number as the one I didn’t recognize from my missed call the other day. I consider letting it go to voicemail—I get a lot of nutty calls, as you can imagine—but at the last second pick up, hoping . . . I don’t have a clue what I’m hoping exactly. And to add voice to it would only make it that much crazier. But this is the thing. While I don’t recognize the number, I do recognize the area code.
“Hello.”
“Hey, it’s you. I mean, of course it’s you. I just didn’t think you’d answer.”
“Who is this?” The voice isn’t remotely familiar. It’s distinctly male, but that’s the only thing I can place about it.
“It’s Leo Antonelli. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but Austin gave me your number and said it would be okay for me to call on your private line. I just wanted to see how you were you doing.”
I scramble my brain for a Leo. As far as I recall, I know of no Leos. “I’m sorry, but at the risk of sounding rude, do I know you?”
He chuckles. “You probably don’t remember me, but I was the guy who called nine-one-one after your accident . . . of course, I’m probably not the only one who called. There were a ton of people on that cable car, a ton of people on the street that night. But I happen to be an EMT and . . . Well, I guess it was just fate that I was in San Francisco to meet a friend. In any event, I was behind you when you crossed, saw what happened, and was the first to respond. You were pretty out of it. I was worried that you wouldn’t make it, but it sounds like you pulled through like a champ. I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to see how you’re making out and say I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Wow,” I say, stunned almost speechless. I’m sure there were a lot of heroes that night, anonymous heroes. So to speak to one, actually get to show my undying gratitude, is quite amazing. “I’m much better now. Thank you, Leo. Thank you for everything you did that night. I haven’t read the police report yet. Honestly, I’m still getting my bearings and am not ready to relive the accident. But my medical team believes that it was the quick work of strangers that kept me from being crushed under the wheels of the cable car. They thought it was lucky that all I sustained was head trauma, no broken bones. Apparently, someone pushed me out of the way just in the nick of time . . . just before . . .”
“Yeah,” he says. “That was me.”
All the time you hear about acts of bravery that change the course of lives. The pilot who landed his plane on the Hudson River to avoid catastrophe. The father who pulled his child, alive, from the jaws of an alligator’s mouth. Hikers who fought a grizzly with their bare hands to rescue a friend. Never once do you stop to think that this will be you. That because of the quick, brave work of a stranger, you’re still walking this earth.
That’s how I feel about Leo. That because of him, I’m still walking this earth.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him. Seriously, do I offer to buy him lunch, send his kids to college? What can I possibly give him that doesn’t seem trivial compared to what he’s given me?
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I try to check up on all my patients. Look, I’ve got to go. But it sounds like you’re doing great. Hopefully, I’ll see you around soon.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m on my way to LA. Dr. Sadie cleared me for flying but not yet driving.
Despite making great strides—yesterday, I walked all the way from my apartment to the Ferry Building without once getting out of breath—I occasionally experience fuzziness. I’m sure there’s a medical term for it, but the bottom line is my brain hasn’t completely healed.
