Page 9

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

As the last box gets stamped and stickered at the OB post office just before they close for the day (fun fact: it’s the number-one ranked location for customer service in North America), it feels final.

There is no turning back. In other words, my period is due in four days and my tampons are en route to the Midwest, so I better be, too.

Now that everything is packed, there are only two things I really need to get through my last night in OB: toothpaste and a bottle of wine. I’ve got eyes on my tube of Crest and Yasmin is on her way over with some vino as I press order on DoorDash pizza delivery.

A few minutes later, two headlights shine into my living room from the driveway. Postmates—aka my dear friend, Yasmin in her equally-as-adorable MINI Cooper—is here to help see me off.

“Does Gordon know you dress like this when he’s out of town?” I ask as she walks through the door looking stunning in a strapless yellow maxi dress.

“Good evening to you as well,” Yasmin responds. “I come bearing gifts.”

She holds up two bottles of wine and immediately I remember I sold my wine glasses. And the corkscrew.

Yasmin brings her trusty oversized bag into frame and begins to dig around.

“Don’t worry. As soon as you mentioned you were leaving tomorrow morning—which by the way was a complete shock to me—I brought the essentials just in case.”

At that, she procures a wine opener and two stacked, red Solo cups. It’s been way too long since I’ve drank alcohol out of a plastic cup. I’m excited!

“I can’t believe you thought to bring all this,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“I’m a sommelier, Moonie. These things are floating around in my car at all times. Plus, I’m ten years older than you. I know what to bring to a Girls’ Night. You think you’re the first girlfriend of mine who got dumped, lost her job, and had to head home to Mom and Dad’s and start over?”

“I’mstaying with my sister—not my parents—thankyouverymuch.”

Yas rolls her eyes.

“For the red this evening, I’ve selected a classic favorite of mine: a NorCal cabernet-shiraz. Blackberry, cherry, oak, and spice with a hint of pomegranate. And for the white, a medium-bodied Sauvignon Blanc with luscious flavors of honeysuckle, pear, and grapefruit. What’ll it be, mama?”

Yasmin makes both of them sound too poetic to drink, but I point to the white as my selection.

“Excellent choice,” she says, wearing her sommelier hat well.

As I hear the glug, glug, glug of the liquid pouring into the cup, I soak in my friend Yasmin one last time knowing that I won’t see her again for a while .

She’s the definition of a strong, beautiful woman.

Her unapologetic, unruly brown hair. The way every outfit—from skin-tight athleisure to baggy mom-jeans to sun goddess apparel—looks like it was made just for her.

The fact her purse contains all of life’s essentials at any given moment.

Her robust knowledge of just about everything (wine, yoga, business, culture, you name it).

It all culminates to this visually-apparent ability to navigate the world.

The same world that has knocked me on my ass three times in one day. Will I ever achieve Yas Status?

“Let’s drink these on my patio,” I suggest before my existential crisis sets in. “There are actual chairs that haven’t been sold out there.”

It’s a perfect seventy-three degrees and cicadas quietly hum around us as the ocean crashes in the distance. I plug in a string of café lights that I probably should have listed for five bucks, although the full moon above us practically suffices in lighting the entire patio on its own.

“You know, even without furniture, this really is such a great place,” Yas says as she soaks in the surroundings.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“So what exactly happened here?” She gestures toward the house. “Landlord finally realized she could be making double off you?”

“No. She finally realized she could make millions off a developer . She sold it. It’s a tear-down.

I only had til the end of the month anyway, then I would have had to find another spot.

It took about ten minutes of looking online to realize I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent place, especially not without solid proof of income. ”

As I explain, I fidget with the string on my black, short sleeve hoodie—a reminder that once again, my fashion is both amateur and monotone when compared to Yasmin

“I’m sort of out of touch with the job market these days, but I feel like you could get a job doing anything, Moonie. You’re charming, young, smart. God, I sound like a Hollywood creep right now, don’t I?”

“That’s just the thing. I don’t want a job doing anything .

You know how much I loved Joe n’ Flow. There’s nothing else like that here—or anywhere, for that matter.

I’m not ready to work forty hours a week as a barista just to put my entire paycheck toward some shitty apartment I share with two stoners and their stray cats from Tijuana.

I think it’s a sign my little San Diego experiment was a failure and it’s time to head home and find some other life purpose. ”

“I’m all for a good sign,” Yas says. “But I disagree that this was a total failure. After all, we found each other. Hell, you’ve been a better friend to me in two years than anyone in Los Angeles ever was.

I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m really going to miss you, Moonie. You better keep in touch.”

“Ditto, girl,” I say.

“Hey. What did Esther say?”

Sharp pivot.

I take another sip of wine as I contemplate her question. Careful not to pause for too long, I decide that I just can’t get into all that right now.

“Not much,” I say. “She actually had to cut the session short.”

In a way, that is the truth. I’m just leaving out the “I have super powers apparently” part. I’ll come clean to her in time, I promise myself. Once I put San Diego in the rearview mirror.

“Are you serious? She cut the session short? You know, I heard a rumor she was losing her touch. Sorry my gift was a bust, Moons.”

“No worries,” I toss out.

We both take a moment to be quiet, sip our wine, and look up to the crystal-clear night sky. As Yasmin’s eyes return to the patio table, she asks: “Is this a smudge stick?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say completely forgetting I left that out here this whole time.

“Does this mean what I think it means? Is my Moonie Miller finally embracing the spiritual side of things on her last night in OB? And on Friday the 13 th at that. How poetic!”

How do I break it to her that it’s just a weird parting gift from my quirky landlady?

“Bunch of smelly leaves I’m supposed to burn to clear the air or something,” I casually say.

Yasmin sniffs the smudge stick.

“Mmmm, blue sage,” she says, fluent in woo-woo. “Very good for cleansing the home.”

“You know, I could have probably used that thing two years ago when I moved in here. I just found out my landlord’s late husband died in this house.”

“Oh, hell no,” Yas states, nearly spitting out her wine. “You’ve been sleeping for two years in a death-house?”

Her reaction tells me if I ever need some inspiration for a good “two truths and a lie” icebreaker, this one would make for a great fun fact.

“Well, I think you know what you need to do now,” says Yasmin.

“Open that second bottle of wine and pour some out for Larry?”

“That can be part of it, sure. But here’s a hint: look up. It’s a full moon, Moonie.”

“Yas, I love you, but I am not about to do some séance, channel-the-dead type shit.”

“Not a séance, mama. A full moon smudging ceremony. Follow me.”

The two us head into the house like we’re on an episode of Ghost Hunters . Yasmin grabs a lighter from within her purse and holds the smudge stick upside down. She lights it from underneath, then blows out the flame. The smoke fills the tiny abode and we both cough a bit.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“This is one of my favorite full moon rituals,” Yas says.

Good god, how many are there? I wonder.

“It’s an ancient cleansing ritual. First, let’s start by setting our intentions.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say.

“What do you wish for when it comes to this place?”

“That Larry doesn’t come back to haunt me on the last night I’m here.”

“Okay, so ‘peace for all souls.’ Let’s call it that. Close your eyes and visualize what that looks like.”

I stare at her blankly.

“Just do it, Moonie.”

I take a deep breath in and the sage tickles my throat. On the exhale, I close my eyes. Minus the lung irritation, this isn’t too unlike the beginning moments of my yoga practice.

Or my time with Esther Higgins.

From there, I visualize a restful, quiet night. I don’t hear or see anything unusual. The smell of the ocean creeps through my windows just enough to remind me how lucky I am to live next to a wonder of the world. And I wake up feeling recharged, not resentful, that I’m leaving for something new.

“All done,” I announce as I open my eyes.

Yasmin blows the smoke so it billows again. With her free hand, she moves the smoke towards my heart, over my head and down the front and back of my body.

“Now that you’re cleansed, we’ll waft the smoke in every corner of the house and get out any bad vibes.”

I don’t like the smoke, nor do I care much for walking around with something that’s burning in a small, enclosed space. But there’s an undeniable sense of calm that comes over us, so I trust Yasmin and let her continue to do her thing.

“Where did he die?” Yasmin asks. “Do you know exactly where he passed?”

“Right here. While he was watching Jeopardy! .”

“I’ll take ‘Creepy Shit for $500,’” she jokes. “Okay, so now you’ll hold this and stand here.”

Yasmin hands me the smudge stick and positions me where we suppose that Gerda’s husband croaked.

“Now turn around in a circle. As you hit each direction on the compass, pause and invoke the spirit of...”

“Larry,” I remind her.

“…The spirit of Larry. Ask him to come into the room with positive energy and ask that any negative, stuck energy please exit.”

“I’m supposed to ask Larry this? Out loud?”

“Or in your head, either is fine. I’ll do it, too,” she says.

“What if he’s busy?”

Yasmin closes her eyes and begins to chant—no real words, just noises. I hope my neighbors don’t hear. I really don’t want their last memories of me to be that I may or may not have been part of a satanic cult.

“Okay,” she says, seemingly returning to the present. “I’m done. Are you done?”

“I’m very done,” I confirm.

Next thing I know, she pulls a pen out of her purse and proceeds to draw a star on the wall near the window.

“What are you doing? You can’t draw on the wall,” I say.

“You said they’re knocking the place down in three weeks. I’m pretty sure I could spray paint a giant penis if I wanted to. Besides, I need to mark that this room has been cleared to prevent the re-entry of negativity,” she says like she’s installing a necessary support beam.

“So did it work?” I ask, handing the smudge stick back to her.

“Well, do you feel better about sleeping in a death-house tonight?”

“I suppose I do,” I say.

“Then yes, it worked. You see, Moonie, rituals aren’t something you get can get a receipt for.

They’re performed to help you visualize what you want.

We wanted a house with no more weird death vibes.

We got it. And we have the extra powers of a full moon to thank for that.

Man, how do you have a name like Moonie and not know the powers of the moon? ”

“My mom was a teacher. She taught me the importance of solving for X, not how to pray to the moon.”

“You think this is all a bunch of bull crap, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let me break it down for you. Every month, the moon travels the closest it can get to Mother Earth and showers us with light and yang energy. That’s a gift, Moonie!

There’s no better time to pause and check-in with yourself.

Purge anything that doesn’t serve you, let it go, and make space for the new.

If I were you, with all this transition going on, I’d make the full moon my new best friend—along with these. ..”

Once again, Yasmin dips into her bag of tricks. This time, she pulls out two crystals and hands them to me.

“What are these?” I ask, masking my disappointment that they are not a couple of Xanax.

“Rose quartz and rutilated quartz. I carry them with me always.”

“Then why are you giving them to me?”

“Because you need them more than I do. Rose quartz is for healing. Whether you feel it now or not, losing your house, job, and boyfriend back-to-back-to-back is traumatic.”

Oh, I feel it now, honey.

“You’ll need to recover from that once the dust settles. Visualize the healing you need and want, then put it in your sports bra, and go for a run.”

“A run ? That’s ambitious. And what’s this one?” I feign interest.

“ Rutilated quartz. It’s for goal setting. See those little gold flecks in there? When you use that crystal, you charge it with the goal of what you want to accomplish. Then imagine the gold seeping into your body, flowing through your blood, prepping you for greatness from head to toe.”

“Stuff it in my sports bra?” I inquire.

“Palm,” she clarifies. At least the directionwasn’t to shove it up my...never mind.

“Since those both have my energy on them currently,” Yas continues. “You’ll want to run them under warm water for sixty seconds to cleanse them.”

Or not? I would love to hijackYas’ energy.

“Then, power them up, mama.”

“I don’t see a charging cord.”

“Leave them out here for the full moon to charge them over night, smart-ass. Wake up before sunrise to bring them in. Repeat every moon cycle.”

Scratch what I said about OB people not waking up before sunrise.

“One last thing,” she says, grabbing a broom I left out when I was sweeping up a pile of dust bunnies that were under Gerda’s floral loveseat. “You should always put a broom upside down behind your door like this. It wards off unwanted visitors and bad energy.”

“Let me guess…” I say.

“…Abuelita Sarita,” we both say in unison, raising a glass in her honor.