Disbelief (short story)

This was going to be a big day, Nancy had told me on the phone.

Her call had come the night before, Friday night, right when I had gotten home from work, tired and worn out. All I wanted to do was drop my briefcase, grab a beer, and park myself on the couch in front of the television.

Then the phone rang, rather insistently. I saw Nancy’s name on the phone and picked it up, but I almost didn’t recognize her voice.

“Jeff! It’s me!”

I held the phone away. “Hey, what’s up?

“Whatareyoudoingtomorrow?” Which I managed to translate as “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? No plans,” I said, then kicked myself. And then she told me about how Saturday was going to be a big day.

“Big day, huh?” I said, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Huge.”

“Want to give me a preview?”

No dice. She wanted me to meet her at Phoenix Coffee House on Saturday at 5, where the big reveal would take place.

I couldn’t very well turn her down, though I was tempted. Nancy was my oldest friend. We went all the way back to first grade, in Sister Anne Marie’s class. We sat next to each other for all eight years of grade school, separating only when we got to high school. People, including (and especially) my mother, used to ask me why Nancy and I never dated. As I explained to everyone, including Mom, I had never even considered it. It would have been like dating my sister.

I like to think that one of the things Nancy valued about our friendship is that, when the situation called for it, I could be honest. Brutally honest, if necessary. That is what I consider being a good friend, I would patiently explain, especially if she looked hurt.

So here I was, on a frosty Saturday two weeks before Christmas, making my way down slippery Lee Road to meet Nancy. I was running late, which always drives me crazy. It was 5 now, and I seethed behind the wheel, cursing traffic and red lights. A jerk in a Jeep cut me off. I hit the wheel and cursed again.

I finally reached the parking lot behind Phoenix and glanced at the dashboard clock. 5:10. I found a space, parked, and got out of the car.

The sharp December air slapped my face. I made sure to feed the parking meter (this being Cleveland Heights), and headed toward the coffee shop, putting my hands in the pockets of my coat. Nancy always chided me for not wearing gloves in the winter. For once, I wished I had listened to her.

I made my way across the slick parking lot, nearly losing my balance twice. My mood was just as icy—the harried drive to the coffee shop, on top of rushing around to do Christmas shopping that I should have done weeks ago. Slipping and falling in the parking lot would have been a capper. The icing, if you will. (Wrote that one down later.)

I walked into the shop through the back door. A blast of warmth and caffeine greeted me. The place was nearly full, almost every table and the small couch and chairs on the side occupied by a man or a woman in his or her 20s, laptop open, earbuds in place. Those who weren’t looking at a laptop had their eyes locked on their phones. Nobody was talking; the only sounds were the Christmas music (“White Christmas”) playing over the speakers, and the tap, tap, tapping of fingers on keyboards.

I hadn’t been to Phoenix in a couple of years. It had undergone quite a makeover, from grungy indie coffee shop into something sleeker: vivid paintings and artsy black and white photographs on the walls, a huge new logo (of the mythical Phoenix bird—I think) occupying most of one wall, track lighting, strings of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. It looked like an entirely new place, but, thankfully, not like Starbucks.

I stood in the entrance a moment, rubbing my hands together and scanning the room for Nancy. She’d been watching for me, because I spotted her near the front door, waving to me. Yeah, I see you. I walked over, still rubbing my hands.

The first thing I noticed was that she had dressed very sharply for Saturday afternoon coffee. She was wearing her best winter coat, a long black thing that went past her knees. As I got closer, I noticed that she’d done…something…with her hair. Something fancy. It looked like she’d just come from the hairdresser.

And she was wearing makeup, which was definitely not the norm for her. Nancy was a very attractive woman—long dark hair, slim build. Guys always noticed her when we were out somewhere, and some of my buddies used to ask me about her “situation,” but she almost never wore makeup. There was something else different about her, but I couldn’t quite make it out. Something about her manner, her demeanor.

She jumped up and threw her arms around me. “Thanks for coming!” she said, way too loudly, and squeezed me, way too tightly. I hugged her back, not quite as tightly.

“Sorry I’m late,” I lied. She finally let me go, with a big smile.

“That’s okay,” she said. “As long as you made it. I really appreciate it.” She pointed to the other chair. “Let’s sit down.”

She had taken the liberty of ordering for me. A large cappuccino sat on the table, awaiting my pleasure. It had cooled somewhat, but I wrapped my hands around the still warm mug and took a sip, taking a small pleasure in breaking up the fancy foam design on the top.

“So what’s going on?” I finally said, setting the mug down. She’d been smiling the whole time. Her natural enthusiasm was usually infectious, but I didn’t feel like playing, so I didn’t smile back.

“Well,” she said, pausing, taking a deep breath, then, “It’s a big day.” She left it there. Apparently, I was supposed to ask why this was a big day.

I sighed. I sigh so often that people have called me on it. I’m so used to doing it, sometimes with an exhaled “oy,” that I don’t even notice it. Comes from living alone all these years, I guess.

“Yeah, you said that last night,” I said. “A big day, huh? How come?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” she said, laughing. I could almost see the exclamation point. Then she cleared her throat, building the drama. I waited with less-than-bated breath.

 “Well,” and now her tone was serious, “today is the day I’m going to meet the man I’m going to marry. At six o’clock. Less than an hour!” The exclamation point was back. She laughed again, but it was drowned out by the whoosh of the cappuccino machine behind me.

I still remember the look on her face when she said that, and for a brief, scary moment, I thought she meant me—that she was going to marry me. She must have seen the confusion on my face, because she laughed again.

“Not you!” she said, reaching over the table and touching my hand, as she always did to reassure me about something. “But this is the day. Six o’clock. Cain Park.” She pointed to her left toward the park just down Lee Road.

I shook my head, partly to erase my earlier confusion, and partly to register what she had just said. Then a thought struck me, and I groaned, almost audibly.

Oh God, not the psychic.

Beyond being Nancy’s best friend, I’d been her sounding board. Her adviser, really. On every major decision she’d made—what car to buy, whether to accept a job, where she should live—she’d ask for my help. It had gotten to the point where I felt like she expected me to make these big decisions for her. Almost like she didn’t trust herself, and needed my counsel.

Every time she asked my advice, I made a show of acting like I was doing her a favor by sharing the benefit of my wisdom. The truth is, I rather enjoyed it. It gave me a feeling of power, like I was telling someone how to live their life. Who wouldn’t enjoy that?

I’ve helped her make decisions about jobs, apartments, even the house she bought. (I didn’t like the first three she had picked.) She only acted on these things after I’d given the Jeff Seal of Approval^®.

And she always—always—took my advice. One time, I talked her out of buying some car—I don’t remember what it was—because I didn’t like the model, or the color, or something. She really liked the car. It took a lot of convincing for me to talk her out of it, but eventually she bought a different car. And I’m sure she was glad she did.

I was on a roll, so not long after the car I helped her out with a relationship. She’d been seeing this guy Brett—Brett—for some time, and she really liked him. Brett, Brett, Brett, that’s all I heard from her. They were so serious that she was certain that they were going to get married, and she even started checking out wedding gowns online.

Brett was a nice enough guy, I guess, but my problem with him was that if they got married, they were going to move to Chicago for his job. If she married him, my friend—my best friend—would be moving out of town. Yes, Chicago isn’t that far from Cleveland, but that’s the point—it’s not Cleveland.

So, I persuaded her, gradually, that Brett was not the guy for her. I pointed out that she would be moving away from her mother, who was ill. And, I added, casually, she’d be moving away from me, her best friend.

Slowly, slowly, I wore her down, until she ended up breaking it off with Brett. I congratulated her on such a wise move, especially for her mother’s sake. Last I heard, Brett did move to Chicago, and had married a woman he met there.

It took Nancy long time to get over him. She kind of shut down for a while, to the point where I started to worry about her. Eventually, she came around again, and things were back to normal between us.

I sighed again. I took a sip of the semi-warm cappuccino, and looked back at Nancy. She’d been watching me, and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

“What?” I said.

She smiled again. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what I just said? About meeting my future husband today?”

I paused. One beat. Two beats. “The psychic?”

She nodded and laughed again, reddening slightly.

Jeez, the psychic. Nancy had always been a rock. I admired her ability to take whatever life threw at her, even as a child. She had some tough times as a kid, including her parents’ divorce when she was 10.

Then, several months ago, her mother had died after a long illness. Afterward, Nancy seemed to change. Subtly, at first. She seemed anxious, more prone to lose her temper (I’d been surprised to learn she had one), or become impatient over things she had shrugged off before. Not a big surprise, after what she’d been through with her mother’s illness.

We would go out for a drink, I would ask her what was wrong, but she would just shake her head and say she was all right, and then order another drink. I chalked it up to her getting older, but there was something else going on. I knew her too well.

She was approaching 40 and she was working through a lot of emotional stuff, so to deal with it, Nancy had embarked on a “journey of discovery.” (That’s what she actually called it.) She said she was feeling at loose ends, and I guess she wanted guidance, direction, something.

As part of this “journey of discovery” (even in my head, I put quotes around it), Nancy tried a number of things. First up was yoga. She bought a mat, took classes, practiced poses for hours. Then, suddenly, she gave it up.

This pattern repeated with photography, and then running, and then Tai Chi. When I asked her why she kept starting and then dropping these activities, she’d shrug and say she lost interest. She was heading for a crash, and I was getting worried.

I’d been through something like this myself when my mother died, so I gently suggested (advised) that she get some professional help to deal with her feelings and emotions. Though I sure as hell didn’t mean a psychic.

I don’t remember how she found this woman—I’ve tried to block the memory—but she started going on a regular basis, sometimes twice a week. She had told me about it apologetically, knowing how I felt about paranormal “phenomena.”

Anticipating my objections, she waited until she’d gone to the psychic a couple of times before she told me. “It’s just for fun,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “And she’s an amazing woman. She knew things about me that I hadn’t told anyone—not even you.”

The “you” was meant to persuade me of this woman’s extraordinary powers. “Uh huh,” I replied. I think I snorted.

She had tried to drag me along to the sessions (the “brainwashing,” as I called it). “She’s amazing, just amazing,” Nancy kept saying. “Amazing” was her favorite word about anything that excited her—a new band, a movie, an art exhibit. I found it hard to believe that so many things could be amazing, and so I always declined to accompany her to the psychic. I couldn’t help it. I’m a cynic, and cynics and psychics don’t mix. (I wrote that one down, too. One of my better ones.)

But seeing her now, in the coffee shop, the “old” Nancy seemed to be back. I used to call her Little Miss Sunshine, but now she seemed even sunnier, more upbeat, almost manic. And again, I could sense something else different about her today, too—a sense of purpose, certainty, something like that.

I sighed—again—shifted in my chair, and put the mug down, very slowly and carefully. Then, I picked it up again and took a sip. I was stalling, rehearsing what I was going to tell her. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, so I was looking for a way to do it as gently as possible. I stretched my legs under the table, partly to get my circulation going and partly to buy some time.

The loud, insistent whir of the cappuccino machine brought me back to the moment and to Nancy, who was still looking at me and waiting, ever so patiently. I sighed—again. (When I’m stressed, I count the number of times I sigh. That was number four.)

“Tell me exactly what the psychic said,” I finally said, not quite ready to bring her back down to earth.

“I know how you feel about psychics,” Nancy said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear her above the cappuccino machine. “Do you really want to know what she said?”

“Yeah, sure.” I waved my arm, wondering how believable I sounded.

“Well,” Nancy began, “first she told me that I did the right thing by end­ing things with Brett.”

Hmm. So I was right about him, after all.

After a moment, she said, a little louder, “Then she said that my patience would soon be rewarded—those were her exact words—and that today, at 6 o’clock, I would meet my future husband.”

Her voice had been getting louder, and she emphasized the word “husband.” I glanced around to see if anyone had heard her. No response.

I started nodding, for some reason. “Does this guy have a name?” I asked. “What does he look like?” I was still nodding, and now I was smiling. I was sure Helen Keller could have heard the sarcasm in my voice and seen the insincerity in my smile. (Wrote that one down later, too. I was on a roll—in my head, at least.)

Nancy just shook her head. “She didn’t say. But she said I’ll know who he is right away.”

“By the mark on his forehead?” I wanted SO badly to say, but didn’t. Instead, I just kept nodding. Why couldn’t I stop?

When I didn’t respond right away, she spoke up. “You’re my best friend. I just wanted you to share in this moment.” She reached over and touched my arm again and smiled. I started to feel a little sorry for her. I kept revising what I was going to say to try to make it kinder, but I was struggling. At least Brett was a real person, not some mysterious stranger conjured up by a psychic.

I sighed (five). I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time for me to set her straight—again. My job never ends, it seems.

“Nance,” I began, and her smile disappeared. “Nance” was what I called her when I was about to lecture her, to lower the boom.

“Nance,” I said again–as gently as I could–“are you sure about this?”

She was looking right at me, almost through me. I had to look away.

“Absolutely,” she finally said, quietly.

And here’s the thing—I believed her. That is, I believed that SHE believed what she was saying. She just seemed so sure, so certain of herself.

I looked up again, and forced myself to look her in the eye. “Nance,” I said, putting my hand on hers, “this is crazy.”

She returned my gaze. I don’t even think she blinked once. “Why? Why is it crazy?” she said, still quietly.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” (This time, I could feel the exclamation point.) Between rushing to get here, the idiots on the road, and the frickin’ psychic, the words flew out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice, but she was just not getting it.

I glanced around the coffee shop to see if anyone had noticed my outburst. All eyes remained locked on their screens, large and small. “Jingle Bells” jingled out of the speakers. I never liked that song.

I looked at Nancy again. I lowered my voice, but not my sense of exasperation. “Think about it,” I said. “You’re going to wait, in the middle of December, in a park, for some mysterious guy to show up and sweep you up off your feet? Just because a psychic told you this?” I almost spit out the word “psychic.” For extra effect, I shook my head several times.

“Yes, but…”

I held my hand up. “What else did the psychic tell you? That you would have 2.3 kids and live in the suburbs and drive an SUV and have a dog and a garden? Sheesh, a psychic.” I had raised my voice again, but still no one looked my way.

I stopped to catch my breath. She had always listened to me in the past, so I was sure my words had their intended effect.

Nancy was still looking at me. There was no change in her expression.

Finally, she spoke. “You think I’m being silly, then,” she said, still in a quiet tone. Her face was passive, but firm. It unnerved me a little.

“I didn’t say that,” I said, even though I had thought it. I could suddenly feel my heart pounding. “I just don’t believe in psychics.” To help lighten the mood (and ease the pressure in my chest), I said, “Hey, how come you never see a headline in the paper that says ‘Psychic Wins Lottery?’” I added a grin to sell the joke.

Nancy nodded and smiled faintly, ever polite. “So you think I’m wasting my time?”

I sighed yet again (six). “Well, if you want me to be honest, yes.” I lowered my head and studied the table top. By this point, I was sure that everyone in the coffee shop could hear my heart pounding.

I looked up. “I’m sorry, but yeah, I think this is a waste of time. And I think you deserve better than to trust the word of a psychic.” I hoped that would take the edge off my earlier outburst.

She nodded again, then looked at her watch. “5:30,” she said, more to herself. She looked back at me, and I noticed a look of calm on her face. The look of someone…

 “Well, I’m going to go to Cain Park and wait for him,” she said, smiling again. “Thanks for your thoughts on the matter.”

…who has just made a decision.

What the…

In my mind’s eye, I could see the look on my face—surprise, mixed with disbelief. This was a first—she wasn’t taking my advice.

I struggled to come up with something to say. “Are you sure?” was all I could manage.

Her smile grew. “Absolutely. I’m really excited to meet this guy.”

I shook my head again. My heart was still galloping, and now a headache was beginning to form. “Do you want me to come with you?” I blurted. “For protection?” I knew it was a stupid idea, but I still considered myself her counselor, her guardian.

Nancy laughed. “No, no. I don’t want to scare him off!” She picked up her cup and drank the last of her tea. “Well, I should get going,” she said, and stood up quickly. “I don’t want to be late meeting my future husband!” She laughed again. A young woman at the next table looked up, considered us, and returned to her phone.

I felt Nancy towering over me, so I stood up. “I’ll walk you to your car,” I said. My cappuccino sat half-finished. I barely remembered tasting it.

We walked toward the back of the shop. Nobody watched us leave. The pain in the back of my head was slowly creeping toward the front and settling behind my eyes, to go with my pounding heart. Maybe my next stop should be a hospital, I thought.

We stepped outside into the frigid December evening. The parking lot was filling up, and the entire lot was bright from the overhead lights. We made our way carefully across the slick lot until we got to her car. She usually took my arm, but she didn’t this time.

My headache continued to grow. I looked over at Nancy. She was still smiling.

We hadn’t said anything in a while, so I broke the awkward silence. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we’ll catch a movie, if you’re not engaged by then.” Ha ha.

She turned to me, still smiling, and nodded. She unlocked her car, and then suddenly turned and hugged me, patting me twice on the back. Without a word, she got in the car, started it, and drove away. Then she stopped, turned in her seat, waved slowly, and took off. Off to meet her future husband.

I stood in the lot and watched her go. A symphony of sensations—cold, pain, confusion—crashed in my head. For the moment, the pain took the lead and demanded my immediate attention.

As I turned and walked gingerly back to my car, I remembered that I had no aspirin at home, that I’d used the last of it the day before. I’d have to stop at the store on the way home to pick some up.