My Friend the Medium, Installment 4

Quebec City was a welcome relief from the troubles that had been afflicting Mary and me. Mary’s friends from the days when she managed the English-speaking radio station greeted us. I spoke bad French but somehow communicated. Mary and I toured the sites from the fort to the boardwalk. A carefree atmosphere like a comforting blanket wrapped the city.

We stayed with the couple that had purchased Mary’s house. As I write this series of blogs, I remember so distinctly the first time I entered the basement and strode up to the bar where, many years before, Mary had met her spiritual guide, named only FGH. Having heard so many stories from Mary, I felt that the basement of that house was a special place full of benevolent potential.

My Ink Drawing for Mary's Business Cards

Mary engaged in readings for her Canadian friends. She usually asked the questioner to choose a card from a regular deck of playing cards. In turn, Mary concentrated on the card as a way of clearing her mind. Then she began to bring through messages from the questioner’s deceased loved ones that affirmed their eternal connection and that confirmed life after death. Mary was anything but pretentious. Affectation was not part of her personality. She was simply a kind soul who wanted the best for everyone. At the time that we were in Quebec, Mary did not charge for readings. Later, she began asking for modest fees because she wanted to be perceived as professional. When she started to charge a fee, the number of her customers skyrocketed.

While Mary and I were visiting Canada, Mary had the leisure to learn what her friends had been doing throughout the intervening years. One of her friends had studied therapeutic touch and had begun a practice employing the technique. I participated in a session, which, ironically, did not involve actual touch whatsoever. The therapist’s hands remained at some distance from me. With my eyes closed, I experienced a deep relaxation.

The trip to Canada reinvigorated both Mary and me and inspired us to continue on our quest for knowledge of philosophical topics.

After we returned to the states, Mary invited her late husband’s aunt, who lived near Louisville, to visit for a few days. “Fay makes me look like an amateur,” Mary said.

I met Fay for dinner at Mary’s apartment. Fay was a thin, elderly woman with so much jet-black wiry hair that her face appeared to be surrounded by a huge ball of steel wool. We ate salad and pork chops while chatting about this and that. I recall that Fay and Mary talked about their afternoon trip to Value City Furniture, where Fay had seen bowls that she had liked but had not purchased. After dinner, Fay and I sat on Mary’s couch while Mary sat in her customary chair. Whenever I picture Mary, I see her leaning in her chair with her shoes off and one foot drawn up behind a knee.

It was during the after-dinner conversation that I discovered Fay’s gift. She would be talking about something as mundane as bowls at Value City and would abruptly interrupt herself to utter a disconnected sentence or two revealing knowledge that she could not have gained except through extraordinary means. Here is a reconstruction:

“I wish I had bought those bowls, but I have plenty of bowls and certainly don’t need any more. You recently had a student who died in a wreck. I see fire all around. He says to tell you he didn’t suffer. He was really surprised to find himself on the other side. All the same, I liked the bowls, and they would have come in handy for salads.”

Such disjointed sentences kept coming for an hour or longer. Many of the comments that Fay directed toward me included facts she could not have known, unless Mary told her. To this day, I don’t know why I reacted in the way that I did. I grew increasingly uncomfortable and fearful. Finally, I excused myself and returned to my townhouse. I almost typed “fled” just now, and maybe I should have done so. I truly fled from Mary’s apartment. Fay’s talent for piercing through the bubble of what we assume is reality unnerved me.

I never saw Fay again. Within a few months, she passed away. Mary was quite right: Fay made Mary look like an amateur.

I distinctly remember one anecdote that Fay shared. She said that, when she was a little girl, her parents held séances. First, Fay was put to bed, so that the adults could pursue their séances without interruption, but Fay would only pretend to be asleep. She would sneak to a landing on the stairs, sit down, and listen to the adults. “I watched spirits go up and down the stairs,” Fay asserted. “I’ve always known there is much more to life than we think.”