Psychic Signals

She had a bit of Romany blood in her—dark lustrous hair, tawny skin, large hands, a face that reflected a life of experience. I wish I could remember her name. Let’s just call her Gypsy. She was one of the secretarial assistants at the ad agency I worked at. We were friendly—lunch now and again, but not much else.

One day, over sandwiches at the coffee shop, she announced “I am training to be a psychic.”

“Really?” I said as flatly as I could manage. My eyebrows lifted slightly, but my mouth stayed closed. I did not laugh or look shocked. She took this as a positive sign.

 “Would you help me with a homework assignment? I have to do a reading on someone I don’t know very well.” 

“Well, you should know that I’m really skeptical about paranormal phenomena,” I replied,” but I’m really curious also.” Then I admitted that I had known things in the past that made absolutely no sense for me to know – once in a dream and once after reading a letter.

Two weekends later I visited her in her apartment.  After some pleasantries, she dimmed the lights and reclined on the couch. “I have a voice on the other side who I need to contact,” she explained. "She will give me the answers to your questions. You can ask anything you want.”

Applying my 7th grade scientific method education, I planned to ask questions for which I knew the answers and others for which I needed answers. She handed me her assignment sheet, printed with lines for me to read aloud. The instructions said that words would relax the beginner psychic and lead her deeper and deeper into the trance-state.

I read the words slowly and evenly, speaking without urgency, pausing between sentences. And then I waited.

Suddenly a small drugged voice broke the silence with, “You may begin now.”

My first question was extremely practical: “Where is my stolen car?” A moment passed.

Then she informed me slowly and dreamily, “I see a dark red, maybe a maroon car . . .  at night . . . near water. . .  down near a dock. . . on the west side. Oh wait, maybe it’s light blue.”

“What kind of psychic manure was this?” I thought. This was no help. I needed specifics. When she got the color wrong, I just shrugged my shoulders and continued on with ever-diminishing belief in her psychic aptitudes. I decided to check out something I knew the answer to.

“What did my mother die from?” There was a long pause, a painful look on her face, before she made the pronouncement: “Cancer.”

 “Not a bad guess,” I thought. Then Gypsy was more specific: “It started in her left breast.”  Still, not quite right. It actually started in her right breast, metastasized to the lymph nodes, then to the stomach, her reproductive organs, and her brain. A closer answer but not a jackpot.

“What about the problem with my eye? Will I go blind?” This really troubled me. Finally, the response came.

 “No.” It may get worse, but you’ll never go blind.” I let out a sigh of relief. Something I wanted to believe in. Turns out it’s been 40 years, and she was right (well so far anyway).

There were other questions and answers. I can’t remember them all.  Throughout the session, I kept thinking encouragingly,” It’s all right. You’re doing fine.” After all, she did get a lot of the questions right.

When she woke up from her trance, she told me that I was a strong mental transmitter and that no one had ever put her into a trance so deeply or so quickly. I thought, “Oh, boy, she’s trying to flatter me.” But then, my skepticism suddenly disappeared and I became a believer when she said this:

“I’m so exhausted, but I’m confident it was a good reading. My voice from the other side kept saying ‘It’s all right. You’re doing fine.’”

I swear I did not move my lips during the entire session, except to ask my questions. Gypsy’s eyes appeared closed throughout. I did not whisper a thing, but she heard what I was thinking, word for word, and repeated the sentences in exactly the same cadence I had said them in my mind. Did Gypsy’s little voice from beyond place the words in my brain or did it read my mind and transfer the words to her? I will never know. 

What I do know is this. The next car I bought was light metallic blue, and not because of the power of psychic suggestion. No. It was the only color left in that model in the showroom. I wish Gypsy had told me not to buy the car. It was such a piece of junk.  The car after that? You guessed it: deep, dark red. Happy trails and psychic paths to you all.

M. Hoffer

May, 2020