Psychic Junkie (18 page)

After watching him swing on a vine and do an odd impression of a German Tarzan, I found a perfect spot to just sit and relax. To do nothing. For a while I did nothing, just watched my boyfriend swing through the trees. Eventually I mustered the energy to eat some banana bread, which was so delicious I found the energy to eat all the banana bread and then scrounge for crumbs. Full and absolutely content, I leaned back against a black rock and closed my eyes. I felt the sun through the foliage, the slight mist of the waterfall. In the air was the fragrance of the tulip tree’s flaming red blooms, the sweet spice of white ginger, the fresh, clean scent of rainbow eucalyptus. I don’t think I’d ever experienced it before then, but it was the feeling of pure bliss.

When I opened my eyes, Wilhelm was before me, on bended knee.

I sat up, my heart pounding. It was happening! I didn’t know what to do. I tried to conjure my Proposal Face, but suddenly forgot how to look radiant and memorable and so instead simply grinned like a fool and stared expectantly. He was facing me, on both knees actually, which was perhaps some odd German tradition? I waited. Maybe I’d cry. Would I cry? I felt like I might cry.

And then, with a slightly pained look on his face, he put one hand on the back of his hip and slowly got up.
What the hell?
“What are you doing?”

He raised his right arm above his head in a stretch. “I think I pulled something on that last swing. I was trying to stretch it out. I think it’s okay, don’t worry.”

I stared. “Oh.”

“We should go, though. It’s getting late and I don’t want to drive back in the dark.”

On our return we opted for a different route, one that was surreal in its stark contrast to the scenic road we’d taken earlier. Somehow we’d found the dark side of paradise. The land was barren, black, and foreboding, and I knew without having to be told that there would be no proposal now. Soon we’d fallen into complete silence, as if harboring a fear that the sound of our voices could alert evil beings to our presence. Hands folded stiffly in my lap, I concentrated my energies on keeping the car safe, the tires full of air, the gas from running out. I did not want to be stranded there in that spooky place while back in the land of blue water and coconut trees my pink sparkling diamond was waiting and lonely.

After driving for what seemed like forever, we came upon a policeman, who greeted us with the fun news that a flash flood had submerged the road, and therefore we needed to turn back around. We looked at each other, and then peered past the cop to assess the situation ourselves, as at this point nothing short of the Rio Grande was going to keep us from getting back to our hotel as fast as possible. Sure enough, the pavement stopped at one point and then started back up a great distance away. In between there was what looked like a raging churning river, as if some lazy schmuck had been meaning to build a bridge but just hadn’t gotten around to it. A few Jeeps with four-wheel drive were braving the rapids, fighting their way to the other side, but all the little cars were doing awkward three-point turns and heading back toward us, the drivers’ faces dejected and slightly shamed, like kids embarrassed in gym class.

I thought of my ring. I thought of my pot stickers. I did not want to turn around. Yet there we were in our little rented Kia Rio, a car that appeared barely capable of taking on a slight rain, much less a flash flood. We had no choice but to go back through the creepy dark land.

Or so I thought. I looked back at Wilhelm and saw in his eyes what I can only describe as an insane flicker. He grinned, faced the road, whooped like a cowboy, and hit the gas.

I screamed. I grabbed the armrest, the seat, the ceiling, the window, anything. We met the water, and our car churned, lurched, and struggled. Beside me Wilhelm was still whooping, though now he was whooping rather frantically, like a cowboy on speed. We were going to be swept into the ocean. Such an unromantic and stupid way to go.
So yes, all in all Sarah had a wonderful life, and then she was swept into the ocean in a rental car. That was that. They only ever found her pink beach towel and a pine tree air freshener. So senseless. I mean, a
Kia.
Who would brave a flash flood in a Kia?

Half-submerged, we fought against the raging current. I couldn’t look. I squeezed my eyes shut, but then couldn’t help but envision our car crashing and sinking into the Pacific.
Stop! Traction. Picture traction. See the tires gripping something, anything, propelling us onto dry land.
I tried. I really did. I fought to picture us moving forward, but all I saw was us moving sideways, floating slowly at first and then faster and faster toward a white rumbling ocean.

It took me a bit to realize that not only were we moving forward, but we were moving forward
quickly
. That meant either our car had turned and angled toward the ocean, or we’d hit dry land. Cautiously I opened one eye first and then the other, as if opening both at the same time would have yielded a different result. We’d made it. We were on dry land! At the top of the hill we paused, looked at each other with astonishment, and then looked back at the policeman, who’d turned from us with disgust, most likely calling us crazy
haoles
—“pale-skinned foreigners” in Hawaiian.

Wilhelm was exhilarated, completely breathless from the thrill. I’d never seen him that excited; it was as if he’d just conquered nature at the wheel of a Kia Rio. I
loved
this side of him. So sexy, so brave!

Unfortunately, it was also a side that was rather short-lived. The next day we went snorkeling, and Wilhelm became instantly frightened and fled back to the hotel. I stayed in the water, happy as could be, though now and then I’d glance up toward the balcony, at the little speck that was my boyfriend, a speck that was apparently afraid of fish and masks and snorkels and was now chain-smoking and keeping an eye on the ocean from a safe distance.

A few more days of pot stickers, piña coladas, sunburns, and no ring, and it was time to leave. Saying “Aloha” to Hawaii—a phrase that means both “hello” and “good-bye” and would, I’d imagine, be cause for much confusion—we packed our bags, raided the maid’s cart one last time, and then found ourselves standing miserably at LAX, watching our luggage plummet onto a conveyer belt.

Back at home, surrounded once more by smog and traffic and my messy apartment, I called Erlin. Again he said the engagement would happen soon, and that I needed to be patient. Patient?

Patience, clearly, has never been my strong suit. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I could be extremely patient when it came to one thing, yet when it came to another, I could snap without warning. If anyone had carefully examined my childhood Rubik’s Cube, they would’ve seen evidence of this, for although I’d lasted only five minutes before determining that the stickers indeed needed to come off, I’d then spent over an hour removing and reapplying them carefully, so as not to be detected. Perhaps, I suppose, it’s not a patience issue at all but a focus issue. My brain stubbornly refuses to follow the logical, trodden path. Instead of sliding those cubes around, as the game intends one should do, I’d embarked on sticker extraction. While another child might have seen fifteen minutes as enough time to get all the yellows in order, I saw it as enough time to get the water boiling for the steam bath my Rubik’s Cube was about to have.

Annoyed with Erlin, I called Gina.

“Please tell me you got laid,” she said right off the bat.

“Yeah, when we landed at the airport. I got a really pretty pink and orange one.”

“No. I meant the other kind. Jesus, has it really been that long?”

“Oh,
that.
Yeah, once. It took him swinging on vines like Tarzan and then charging through a flash flood like a cowboy to put him in the mood, though.”

“Wilhelm swung on vines?”

“I know. It was hysterical. He was the whitest Tarzan ever, just this white flash through the trees. By the way, why don’t people have compatible sex drives?”

“If everything were perfect, we’d have nothing to talk about? A cruel trick of the universe?”

“I’m thirty and my hormones are out of control, and I’ve got a guy who wants to stay up all night smoking, drinking fancy wine, and chatting.”

“Does he call it ‘chatting’?”

“No, that’s me.”

“Well, there’s hope, then. And at least you’re not screaming at each other in the street, like with Jonas.”

“True. We totally get along. I just need to find some vines in L.A.”

After Gina convinced me that encouraging Wilhelm to drive across the Los Angeles River during the rainy season wasn’t the answer, we hung up and I fixated on my relationship. Everything would be fine. Really, all was good, better than good in fact. Other than the incompatible sex drives—and honestly, I didn’t know any couple that was perfectly matched in that department—our relationship was pretty ideal. We weren’t screaming at each other in the street, police weren’t being called to put an end to our dates, we had fun together, and wanted to spend time with each other. This was, in truth, the best, most easygoing relationship I’d ever had.

And actually, not one psychic had predicted the proposal would take place in Hawaii, so that meant it was still coming. Wilhelm probably figured proposing in Hawaii would be too expected, too typical; I bet hordes of people got engaged on vacations. What was unique about that? For all I knew, his goal was to truly catch me off guard, to sneak in the proposal in a way I’d never see coming or in a way that was much more true to who he was. Perhaps he’d nestle the ring with parsley on a plate or bake it into a chocolate soufflé. After all, platinum and diamonds can withstand high temperatures, right?

NATURALLY, AS ANY NEUROTIC GIRL WHO’S JUST
come to the realization that her relationship is bordering on perfection would do, I self-destructed.

It couldn’t be as good as it seemed. Hidden beneath the surface of our seemingly ideal relationship had to be something horribly, horribly wrong. I’d never had such a good relationship, so that in and of itself was a fluttering bright red flag. Nothing was this good. Somewhere, I knew, was a loose thread that could unravel our relationship, and by God, I had to find it.

The first order of business was to embark on intensive snooping sessions. This involved my staying at his house, waiting till I heard the click of the door that told me he was safely on his way to work, and then ransacking his apartment. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew with certainty I’d find it.
Just keep looking,
I told myself as I finished rummaging through his desk and turned to face the closet.

And indeed, the second I hit the closet, I found something. Up at the very top, accessible only by stepladder and buried beneath mounds of sweaters he never wore, was the obligatory shoe box filled with photos of unidentified women. Every guy has this, the shoe box being their version of a photo album, and though they never have the good sense to actually throw these snapshots away, they do have the wisdom to hide them. Though I must say this wisdom is part of a catch-22, since anything that’s left in the open is grounds for scrutiny and alarm, but anything that’s hidden naturally becomes violently suspect and cause for terror. Perfectly innocent pictures of female friends or relatives thus become immensely threatening as a result of the location in which they’re stashed, and hence there is no way a guy can have
any
evidence of a past without running the risk that at some point his girlfriend will go absolutely loony, shove a picture of his great-aunt Edna in his face, and scream, “Who is this? Just who is this!”

I pored through every picture, torturing myself, comparing their attractiveness with mine, picturing Wilhelm gazing into their eyes. Naturally, I determined that the prettiest one was Nadja, the Aryan Goddess. Nadja I’d actually not been overly concerned about for a while, because Gina and I had determined that she wasn’t a threat; she was simply a girl with whom he barely kept in touch. Besides, we figured, if he considered her more than a friend, he’d never have told her about me. Reassured after this deduction, I’d tucked the Aryan Goddess into a corner of my mind and only brought her out when in need of another log to toss on a panic session’s fire.

But now I held a photograph in my hand. Was this her? Blond and wearing a tennis skirt? Since when did Wilhelm play tennis? Or was this her, a girl in another picture, gracefully holding a glass of white wine
as she should
, by the stem? I, on the other hand, tended to get my warm little hands all over the bowl and send Wilhelm into a tizzy. In the wine drinker’s other hand was a cigarette, and in her eyes was a look that said, “Hello, Sarah, nice to meet you. I’m perfect for Wilhelm and you’re not.” I flipped to another picture, and then another, trying to determine, based on the intensity of their smiles or the gleams in their eyes, if these girls were in relationships with Wilhelm. I hated them all.

Once every nook and cranny in his closet had been inspected, and I’d recovered from the horror of learning my boyfriend owned more pink shirts than I deemed acceptable, I moved on to the bathroom. Hair products abounded, and bottles of cologne had jurisdiction over an entire medicine cabinet. Good God, my boyfriend was vain. Then I opened the cupboard below the sink and found…porn.

Porn.
Stacks and stacks of magazines hidden at the very back, all reassuringly heterosexual and not obscurely kinky, but nonetheless all of women who weren’t me. I was completely thrown. Wilhelm had no sex drive, what did he need this for? Had the former tenant maybe left these magazines behind? Perhaps, upon finding them, my poor delicate boyfriend had been too afraid to touch them and had left them where they were?
No, Sarah, that’s ridiculous. No guy would leave behind his porn.
Along with the TV, porn would be the first thing packed and ready to go.

But why would Wilhelm employ one-dimensional women and his hand when he had a three-dimensional girlfriend pretty much raring to go at all times? In a frenzy, I ran to my purse, grabbed my cell phone, and returned to the porn. Settled in on the linoleum floor, I flipped through pages and waited for Gina to pick up.

She sounded distracted as she said “Hello,” but I charged forth.

“Ask your boyfriend, as he’s now a representative of the male species, why my boyfriend, who has no interest in sex, would have a stack of porn magazines in his bathroom.”

“Hold, please.” I heard her adjust the phone, then yell, “Honey, Sarah’s losing her mind. Will you come here for a sec?”

Once she’d explained the situation, Mark offered his opinion, which I heard, followed by Gina’s word for word repetition.
Masturbation’s different.
“He says masturbation’s different.”
It’s quick and easy, a way to relax.
“He says it’s quick and easy, a way to relax.”
It doesn’t compare to having sex with a real woman.
“He says it doesn’t—”

“Put him on the phone.”

She handed over the phone, and Mark, sounding a tad nervous, came on the line.

“Okay,” I said. “So if it doesn’t compare to having sex with a real woman, tell me again why he’d do that and not have sex with me?
I’m a real woman.
”

He took a deep breath, clearly ruing his decision to go over to Gina’s house that day. “Well. There could be lots of reasons. I mean, first, it’s habit. Ever since he was twelve, he’s probably been doing it every day. At this point it’s routine. You just do it; I don’t know. Then there could be all sorts of psychological reasons, like performance anxiety. Maybe sex with a real woman is stressful? You gotta remember, centerfolds don’t bitch—”

Gina snatched the phone back. “That answer your question?”

“Performance anxiety,” I said with wonder. “I bet that’s it.”

“Okay, glad to help, but I’m in the midst of a Virgo moment and have to finish alphabetizing my CDs, DVDs, and books. Gotta run.”

We hung up, and I stared at the girl on the cover, a girl whose skin looked plastic and whose boobs looked so filled with helium that it would’ve made perfect sense if the picture were of her spiraling in the air, passing pigeons and treetops and kites. Of course. Wilhelm was
nervous
. I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of that! Early in our dating I’d made the mistake of revealing that I’d had flings with a couple of rather famous actors, and though my objective had been honesty—while also attempting to instill an I-am-so-lucky-to-have-her feeling—the disclosure might have backfired. He could be worried he didn’t measure up! Poor Wilhelm!

I vowed not to pressure him anymore. In fact, not only would I not pressure him, but I’d also try to build his ego, compliment him, make him feel like a manly man. Briefly I considered hiding all his pink shirts, but then told myself no, I love him the way he is—my masturbating, sex-hating, pink-shirt-

wearing, discount-store-window-shopping, balding, self-punishing, pretty boy chef of a boyfriend.

I also vowed to stop snooping, which, once I’d completed the search of his entire apartment, I did. The only other curious thing I found, besides the pictures and the porn, was a plastic folder from the FBI. How the hell he’d gotten it, I had no idea. Momentarily I entertained the idea that Wilhelm was
in
the FBI, was perhaps actually here undercover and on assignment, but even that didn’t bother me. As long as Nadja wasn’t the requisite partner he was in love with, the thought of his deceiving me was not a problem.

I was good. I was trusting. I believed in Wilhelm and knew better than to invade his privacy. I was proud of myself, of how well behaved I’d become—until one day I had a little slipup and put spyware on his computer. Well, actually, it was my computer, the one he used to check his e-mails when at my house, so my reasoning was that it was my property and in truth it was smart to know what was happening on one’s own property. If I happened to come across his e-mail password, that wasn’t my fault, was it? I know, I know. If there were ever awards for Most Outlandish Justification, I’d certainly take the prize with that one.

So, in a state I dare not describe as sane, I installed the spyware, sat back, and waited for him to check his e-mails. To be perfectly honest, I’d actually been trying to crack his password since I’d learned of the Aryan Goddess’s existence, and the effort to do this the old-fashioned way, by educated guesses, was exhausting. I was tired. I just wanted to
know
. Essentially, I wanted to trust him, as one should be able to do when about to get engaged, but in order to do so I needed to search through all his belongings and break into his e-mail account. It made perfect sense.

It was only a matter of time till the plunder of my plot materialized. One bright sunshiny morning, a day when our only plans involved an expedition to Ross and T.J. Maxx, followed by a nice dinner of beef bourguignon and a seductive, velvety pinot noir that Wilhelm wouldn’t shut up about, he asked if he could check his e-mail.

“Absolutely,” I told him. “Please. Take your time.”

Whereas normally I’d agree, let him use my computer, and then somehow manage to hover in the vicinity—dusting the picture frames on the desk, sweeping around the chair he was sitting in, helpfully wiping off the computer monitor—this time I made myself scarce. I went outside to cut roses. Leisurely I selected the fullest blooms, the prettiest shades of pink. I realized that a well-thought-out plan of attack and deception lends a sense of serenity, a feeling of peace and accomplishment. It was a truly beautiful day, and I was happy. Tiny bouquet in hand, I headed back indoors.

Wilhelm was standing in my living room, a look of abject disappointment on his face. “I have to go in to work.”

“You do?” I asked, trying to hide my delight.

“Yes. There’s a crisis with a private party tonight. They vastly underestimated the amount of—”

“Shoot. That’s too bad. Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

He nodded, no doubt longingly envisioning the cluttered aisles of Ross. “I know. It’s true. But I was looking forward to our day together. I hope tonight I can join you, that I can come back. Though, I have a feeling today is going to be bad. Nothing at work goes as it should.”

I shrugged and headed to the door. “That sucks. Well, call me later and keep me posted.”

Once I’d herded him outside and stood by the window to make sure his car had started and that he was indeed reversing from the driveway, I turned and faced the computer, staring it down as if it were a hostage I was about to interrogate. In truth, all I had to do was press a few buttons. Voilà. I had his password. I must say I was pleased with my detective skills, as Hugo Boss, his favorite designer, had been one of my first guesses. But, being the sneaky Kraut he apparently was, he’d changed it to “HugBoss.” “HugBoss” being like a cry for help from a man whose employees had vandalized his car.

I paused. It was rather disconcerting that he knew people would naturally guess that his password was his favorite designer, which, I was learning, wasn’t normal. Just recently Gina had asked for advice on what to get Mark for his birthday, and when I’d replied, “Well, who’s his favorite designer?” my words had been met with a heavy sigh.

“Oh, my poor Sarah,” she’d said. “The way it works with most men is like this: They don’t
have
favorite designers. They don’t talk about collections or bold new color schemes, and they don’t go shopping for fun. When they need something, they get it. The only thing I’ve been able to tell about Mark is that he often buys his clothes at Banana Republic, and even then—when I asked if it was his favorite store—he said, “I go there because they have one at whatever mall you drag me to.” Other than that, I know he likes the color blue. That’s it, and that’s how it should be.”

I recognized this as a good point. Still, I loved my metrosexual. He gave amazing and hip gifts, like the Burberry scarf he’d recently bestowed on me, one he’d
had
to buy me because it was all the rage. Of course,
I’d
known it was a fake, but no one else could tell, because a true metrosexual also possesses the ability to discover and acquire amazing knockoffs. So being with a metrosexual had its perks, and one, I now saw, was the ability to almost correctly guess passwords. Sitting there, about to break into his e-mails, I found his little attempt at being sneaky rather adorable. HugBoss. It made me smile.

And then I got to business.

There before me was Pandora’s box, otherwise known as Wilhelm’s e-mail account. I felt my hand slowly moving the mouse, watching the cursor inch its way to the word “Inbox.” Was this really me? Was I really doing this? Was I really so untrusting, so brimming with trickery, so sneaky? I paused only momentarily. Hell, yeah I was.
Click.

I was in. I leaned forward and instantly stopped breathing. Nadja. And the date received was today.

There are times in one’s life when borders, boundaries, and lines become clear. You know if you take one more step, life will be forever and irrevocably changed, and you can actually identify the moment as you exist in it, feel the weight of its significance, the sharpness of the edge on which you are perched. This was one of those moments. I stared at her name. If I opened this e-mail, there would be no going back. My life would never be the same. My relationship would never be the same. I felt it. I knew it. People often utter consolations like, “You poor thing, you couldn’t have known.” Fine, I’m sure that’s true in many cases, but not in this one. I was aware. I knew it was bad, and I knew if I crossed the line, there was no going back. Though really there was already no going back, not now that I knew of the e-mail’s existence. Short of a lobotomy, there was no way to forget it.