Sullivan & Bleecker

A rainy day palm reading

“I’m sensing something about your father”, the psychic tells me, leaning back a little into her chair. She pauses. “Where is he?”

My heart drops. For some reason, I don’t feel like lying. “He’s dead,” I say.

Something in her face changes. It’s hard to tell whether she’s sorry she asked or if she feels she’s just discovered a goldmine.

“I’m sorry,” she continues, “But he’s here. He’s all around you. He was so great—I can sense his greatness. You can’t see him but he’s proud of you, he’s with you, it’s why you are the way you are.”

In spite of my best efforts, my eyes grow hot. I clench my throat, force the impending tears back into their ducts. My cheeks are burning. I want to run out the door.

I can’t understand why this is happening. I know the claim is bullshit-- I’ve had others tell me the same things before, anyone can say them-- but for some reason I can’t stop this visceral reaction. Despite my generally logical brain, I want to believe. I want to think that this strange woman looks at my palm, or my aura, or over my shoulder and knows my father is there with me.

Then the psychic starts talking about god and loses me quickly. My face stiffens. I’m back to my critical, investigative self. We finish rather abruptly and I pass her a crinkly twenty and head out.

The whole way home I’m flustered and frustrated. Why did I let that get to me? I can’t figure it out, or perhaps I don’t really want to.

Perhaps something in me – something deeper and more substantial than my most right-brain understandings—wants to believe that it’s true. And maybe this is why psychics manage to keep people coming back for so many generations. They tap into our most inherent, desperate desires and challenges. They make us believe – for a moment—that there is some larger plan. Something to fall back on. They allow us for a few minutes to feel sure about something.