Page 11

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

As I head east on Wellington, a city bus approaches a nearby stop and suddenly I’m reminded just how much further there is to go before I reach Lincoln Park. I raise my hand to the driver and hurry my pace to reach the door he opens especially for me.

“How much is the fare these days?” I ask like a total fledgling.

“Two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

I reach into my crossbody purse and attempt to load three crusty dollar bills into the fare reader machine.

“Let me help you with that. You gotta do them one at a time.”

I hand him the money and when our palms connect, a quick vision of this bus puttering out flashes into my brain.

“Hell, I can’t get this damn thing to work either,” he says, giving it a smack. “Don’t worry about the fare, just hop on board,” he says, handing me back my bills.

“Actually, I’m going to walk,” I reply as I carefully grab the money with just my fingertips. “Have a good one.”

The bus zooms off, leaving a trail of exhaust. I keep my eye on it as it approaches the next stop. A plume of even thicker black smoke puffs out of the bus as I see the emergency flashers come on.

I saw that coming. Is this the gift Esther Higgins said I had? I can see the future?

At that exact moment, I decide I need to be tracking this.

I open the Notes app on my phone. The cursor blinks, inviting me to title the entry.

I type: “FIELD NOTES” and start to bullet out what I seem to know for sure.

Touch someone’s palm = can see the future!

?! Started the day I turned 26. Accompanied by bad, sharp headache at first…

has since gone away. Itchy, burning palms at first…

now morphed into more of a “tingle”. Esther Higgins (weird psychic lady) seems to think it’s “a gift”.

Visions are hit or miss. Can’t see myself, couldn’t seeGerda or Nora.

Saw Yas and the bus driver so far. Glimpses are of the not-so-distant future.

Beware of: handshakes, high-fives, manicures, handholding, getting change back from cashiers, arm-wrestling, etc. etc. etc.

Then, I bullet out my burning questions: Who can I see? Who can’t I see? Why? Will it happen if I touch fingers only? Just how far into the future can I see? Are visions more intense on a full moon? What else am I capable of doing? Whose palm is next?

I stop myself there even though I could come up with at least ten more questions about what’s seemingly come over me since turning twenty-six.

But right now, the biggest mystery of all seems to be this: if I can see the future with the simple brush of a hand, will it end up being the coolest, best thing to ever happen to me?

Or will it be nothing more than a distracting burden that renders me unemployable (handshakes are off the table),unfriendable (and so are high-fives), and most of all…

undateable (how will I ever hold hands without seeing the spoiler alerts)?

I bring up google on my phone and punch in “chicago metaphysical store.” A few search results come back, but the one I’m most interested in is for a place called The Energy Shoppe.

Mostly because I like how they spell shop with two Ps and an E—it makes it sound like they also sell hot fudge sundaes and waffle cones.

Besides that, The Energy Shoppe is located in Lincoln Park, exactly where I’m headed anyway.

The Energy Shoppe is the garden unit tenant of an old brownstone building.

The first floor, which is street level, is occupied by an Insta-famous stationery store called Smitten.

Their pink neon sign written in barely-legible cursive sends brides-to-be flocking to them to take a selfie while picking out thousands of dollars’ worth of invitations that will inevitably wind up in the trash.

You’d think that all the traffic in Smitten would send residual customers to The Energy Shoppe, but with no neon signs in sight and an entrance that’s hidden down a dark gangway that needs to be swept and power washed, the allure is absent.

Still though, despite my Gen-Z tendencies to gravitate toward all-things pretty and shiny, I remain focused on my journey as I shoo a few pigeons out of my path and march purposefully through the scary side alley door.

“Good afternoon, welcome in. Are you looking for anything specific?”

The immediate smell of patchouli circulates through my nostrils and I can taste it on my tongue.

“I’m not really sure yet,” I say back to the lady, who is about my mom’s age, with a smoker’s voice and frizzy pink dyed hair with protruding dark brown roots that she seems completely unbothered by.

“Well, I’m Madame Angeline. You can just call me Angeline, though. I own the place. Tap me if you need help. I’m just going to be restocking these candle kits. Boy, did our customers wipe us out this last cycle.” Madame Angeline makes a motion like she’s dabbing sweat from her brow.

“Haven’t I seen those at Anthro before? They’re so cute,” I say to the shop owner, who looks like she could be an extra on the set of Moulin Rouge .

Angeline appears to be borderline offended.

“I mean, sure they’re cute . But, no. I can assure you this is an Energy Shoppe exclusive.”

“What are they for?” I ask.

Angeline grabs one from the box before she places it on the shelf and shows it to me.

“It’s a candle-making kit for the full moon.

Comes with everything you need: jar, wick, glue, wax, and a variety of crystal fragments.

Depending on what your intention is for the moon cycle, you perform your ritual on the crystal of your choice, then toss it in with the hot wax before you pour it.

When it sets, you light the candle to connect your intuition with your subconscious.

Basically, it helps you sync with the moon’s energy.

Burn it for the new moon to manifest your desires, or use it for a full moon and release what no longer serves you.

Just make sure you let it rip for a full twenty-four hours to maximize its powers. ”

There is not a landlord in town who would be chill about burning a candle for a whole day, but my interest is most certainly piqued.

“How much are they?” I inquire.

“Forty bucks.”

I nod, unsure of what the going rate is for such an item, and keep looking around the shop, which can’t be much bigger than seven hundred square feet.

“Oh, hey, I know what these are,” I say, changing the subject. “Smudge sticks, right?”

“Indeed. And we’ve got the best collection of them in all of the city,” she narrates as if I was contesting.

“My old landlord gave me one and I did a cleansing ritual with my friend. It was…interesting,” I share.

“And where do you live now?”

“In my sister’s coach house.”

“Have you cleansed it?”

“Not exactly. But the floors are getting refinished later today.”

“Do you get along with your sister?”

“Decently enough.”

“I have a sister like that. You’ll need this.”

Angeline hands me a bag of what looks like dried parsley flakes.

“It’s white sage and mugwort. Sage, as you know, is used for cleansing negative energy. And mugwort is for protection, particularly psychic protection.”

“This is loose leaf. I only have experience with the actual sticks,” I say, wondering if the random tea analogy makes me sound like a seasoned pro, or just a full-blown idiot.

“Time to evolve your practice then,” Angeline urges. “The kit is fool proof. It comes with an abalone shell that is used to burn the mugwort and sage in. It’s really not that hard. Just follow the directions. You can’t mess it up.”

I beg to differ, as the crystal selection catches my eye next.

They’re displayed in clear plastic bins, just like Jelly Beans at a candy store—green ones here, red there, and so on and so forth.

Except I’m much more familiar with technicolored sweets than I am with “dragon blood’s stone” and “selenite balls”—at least, for the time being.

I pick up what feels like each one individually, study their unique colors, and read all the descriptions, which are printed on tiny little tags.

As I do, I fully expect Angeline to make a comment about her crystal selection being superior to anyoneelse’s in Chicago but she says nothing of the sort. Instead, she asks me a question.

“Are you big on crystal therapy?”

“Am I big on it?” I repeat back. “I’m more like, dabbling .

But I guess you could say crystals are the reason that I’m here.

I have a rose quartz and a rutilated quartz that a friend gave me.

She carried them with her always, and so now I’m trying to get in the habit of doing the same,” I explain, pulling them out of my bra like that isn’t weird at all.

“My, those are beautiful stones,” she says, kind of like how you feel compelled to tell a new mom her baby is cute. “Rose quartz is wonderfully healing and charges so nicely with the full moon. Might I suggest a Tiger’s Eye and red jasper to add to your collection?”

“What do those do?” I ask.

“Tiger’s Eye is my go-to for courage and strength.

It’s a nice follow up to the healing elements of rose quartz.

It’s like, now that you’re healed, what do you want from the world?

Go seize it with the Tiger’s Eye. And then red jasper, well, that’s for luck and power.

I know it’s a little materialistic sounding, but there’s no shame in my quest to be Queen of the World someday.

And if you’re not sold on either of those, check this book out.

It’s a handy little thing for a newbie like you. ”

Angeline reaches for a small hardcover book located an arm’s length away from the rock collection and hands it to me.

“ The Beginner’s Guide to Crystals: The Everyday Magic of Crystal Healing, with 65+ Stones, ” I read aloud.

God help me if I get to the stage where I have sixty-five-plus crystals.

“I’ll take it,” I say to Angeline, surrendering to the woo-woo once again.