My Friend the Medium, Installment 5

While blogging about Mary, the medium I once knew, I’ve been thinking that those of us who want to believe in what mediums claim to do are those that want additional proof of life after death to undergird faith that has been developed through religion.

Mary consistently situated her mediumistic abilities within her Catholic upbringing; for example, she said the guardian angels her parents had told her about were the spiritual guides that spoke through her.

I asked Mary in what way she “heard” the spiritual guides. She said she meditated so as to clear her mind. Whenever an idea began to take form, that idea did not originate with her but from a guide outside her.

Over the years that I knew Mary, I was gradually becoming skeptical of whether her readings were from guides. I suppose I have a proclivity toward scientific thinking, which demands incontrovertible proof, even though I have enjoyed a long career in arts and literature, fields so expansive as to entertain speculation beyond scientific evidence.

My skepticism persisting, I began to consider that Mary might be a counselor unusually adept but not a conduit for voices from beyond the grave. I know she helped the customers that came to her for readings. She offered them advice that benefited them. Often, her readings began by contacting FGH, Mary’s master guide, but ended with lengthy conversations about the clients’ specific difficulties and solutions to those problems.

Mary developed quite a list of customers, most of them earnest people who visited her regularly. She was a positive influence in their lives.

The year after Mary and I enjoyed Quebec City, we decided to take a vacation in Omaha, where Mary’s husband had died unexpectedly and where her financial troubles had begun. In May, we set out for Nebraska. We had a lovely time along the way. I remember one spectacular sunrise in Iowa City after pre-dawn showers that made the world look fresh and new.

Arriving in Omaha, we drove past the suburban house where Mary and her husband had lived. I could tell that Mary felt ill at ease in the location. We rang the doorbell, and the owner graciously permitted us to step into the living room where Mary and her friends in Omaha had regularly gathered to discuss books and to share spiritual concepts. Even though Mary spoke in sunny terms about her time in that house, I could tell she was reliving the sadness of the sudden loss of her husband not long after they had moved there.

While we were in Omaha, Mary and I delighted in long visits with two of her closest friends. They were women very different from one another but alike in their high regard for Mary. One had been a stewardess in the early years of jetliners; she was a stately woman who carried herself with the grace of a model. The other was a housewife who loved to cook; wherever she was, she inspired a sense of comfort. The group talked about the past but also about more recent spiritual investigations. I listened intently. Both of Mary’s friends said how greatly she was missed, and I developed the impression that Mary had been the adviser to whom the others had turned.

When we came back home from our journey to Nebraska, Mary and I were tired but elated from having experienced uplifting conversations. All the same, I sensed that our world had no intention of remaining pleasant.

The summer flew by, and Mary and I were ready to begin another fall semester. Every evening of the week before the first day of classes, thunderstorms roared. The lightning was fierce.

My Drawing of the Lightning

Mary and I had come up with the idea to market recordings of her talking extemporaneously about spiritual concepts. I served as the interviewer. We had doubts about the success of our venture because we lacked professional equipment. Using an inexpensive cassette recorder, we were trying to do in the dining room of my rented house what needed to be done in a studio. Each evening that we met to record, the thunder crashed and rumbled so loudly that our tapes were not the best.

At dusk on the day when Mary taught her first university class, she was to stop by my home for another recording session. On cue, the thunderstorms appeared. I walked through my darkened house while waiting for Mary’s car to pull into the driveway. The lightning was especially frequent, and the thunder was particularly powerful. After Mary was more than an hour late, I began to worry. I rang and rang her telephone number, but there was no answer. After another hour had elapsed, I drove to her apartment to see what was keeping her. I parked near her car. I knocked on her door. No answer. Using a key that she had given me, I let myself into her entryway. Lightning was still flashing on the horizon. I called Mary’s name. I walked through her rooms. I found her sitting upright on the edge of her bed. I said, “Mary, what’s the matter?” She did not reply. I reached my arms around her to shake her, and the skin on her arms was cold. I jumped back in shock.

I ran to her phone to call 911. Soon the paramedics arrived. They said that Mary had died at about the time that she was supposed to drive to my home. In the palm of her hand was a pill prescribed for her heart.