My Life Across the Table (6 page)

Ken was happy that he had introduced us, “You guys were having such a good time, I didn’t want to interrupt you. I had a feeling you would like each other.”
That brought a quick smile from both of us. With a flourish, I slid the ring off my finger, dropping it into Peter’s hand, “I would keep listening to those feelings if I were you, because I would say you were very right.”
A curiously fleeting look passed between Peter and Ken, one that I didn’t quite understand at the time. It wasn’t exactly a smile, it felt more like another secret they shared, and I wasn’t supposed to know.
Peter had become very still. Holding my ring tightly in one hand, for a few minutes, he didn’t move at all, silently sitting next to me, with his eyes closed.
I looked over at Ken hoping for some sort of wordless explanation. He offered none.
When Peter opened his eyes, he deftly plucked the ring out of his now open hand, and slipped it on the tip of his right index finger. Carefully positioning the ring on his finger, and finally satisfied that it was where he wanted it, he brought it up to his face for a closer look.
Without a word, he placed his left hand on my wrist, lifting my arm up with him, as he stood straight up from his chair. Looking down at me, with a suddenly merry tone in his voice, “It needs cleaning, Karen. Come in the kitchen with me and we will clean your ring together.”
What a funny site this must have been. There I was, with my arm kind of hanging in the air, as Peter stood next to me, wearing my ring on his right index finger.
I looked over at Ken, but was looking up at Peter when he finally spoke, “Go on Karen, Peter is very good at cleaning jewelry.”
I caught a glimpse of that look, passing between them again.
Peter was still holding my wrist as I stood up, gently leading me between the chairs, moving me into the kitchen toward the sink. Turning me by my shoulders, so we were facing each other, he let my hand fall for a moment to remove my ring from his finger. Without uttering a word he raised my left hand, positioning the ring where he wanted it now, on my left index finger.
Turning me around to face the sink, he stood behind me, carefully guiding my arms over the edge, so that my hands hung out into the center of the sink. Peter reached past me to turn the water on. I watched his fingers wiggle under the tap, as he tested the water temperature, staying like that until the water got hot enough, and since he hadn’t said a word since we entered the kitchen. I teased him, “Do you clean everyone’s rings, Peter?”
His voice was gentle and kind, “No, but I wanted to clean yours. It’s special to you, and should be kept beautiful.”
Without another word, he took a toothbrush from the windowsill, reaching out with his other hand, removing a small dish from the side of the sink. Placing the brush in my right hand and the small dish in my left, he placed his hands directly over mine.
Methodically, Peter guided our hands under the faucet, first wetting the brush, then moving it over to the substance in the dish. He guided my right hand in circles, swirling the wet bristles around the top of the cleaning material, repeating this action several times until satisfied with the way the brush looked.
He placed the dish back in its place, now ready to clean my ring. With the precision of a chemist, with only Peter knowing the magic formula, we repeatedly brushed all sides of the stone. Very gently he removed the ring from my fingertip, turning it upside down. Once this was done, we carefully applied Peter’s jewelry cleaning formula to the underside of the stone, and finally to the gold mounting.
Happy with the procedure, we thoroughly rinsed out the brush, rinsed off my ring, and turned off the faucets. Peter took the ring from my hands, stepping back to grab a towel.
I turned to face him, but he was focused intently on my ring, “Well, how does it look Doctor Peter?”
While carefully drying every surface, he periodically held it up to the light coming in the kitchen window to check for water spots. Finally happy with the results, he gently took both of my hands in one of his, sliding the ring back where it belonged, slightly tightening his grip on my hands.
His whole energy changed as he spoke, saying what he had been wanting to say since opening the front door, and it wasn’t about my ring, “Karen, I know you are going through a difficult time right now, but everything is going to be all right. I promise. Please, don’t ever doubt, and don’t worry. Please, don’t look back, you must keep going.”
He had barely finished his words, when I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. Putting his arms around me, he continued in the softest, most gentle voice, “Don’t worry, Karen, I promise. Everything will be all right. Just keep going, because you are doing what you are supposed to be doing, and you should never, and must never question it.”
We must have stood there for ten minutes, me sobbing, and Peter comforting me.
If it had been anyone but Peter, I would have been deeply embarrassed. But he knew me, and he knew how I felt. He understood how difficult finding my way had been. Without a word, he knew how painfully sensitive I was, and that everything my clients felt, I felt deeply as well. He knew exactly what I had been going through.
Without my ever asking, Peter had delivered the answer I had been asking God to provide for years, and he knew it. He also knew that the few sentences he uttered to me in his kitchen that day, would profoundly change my life forever.
Sobbing in Peter’s comforting hug, the weight I had carried in my soul since childhood was lifted. For many years I had asked God for clarity about my gift. Peter saw that in me, and knew that I was ready to hear it.
I couldn’t stop sobbing, but my tears were no longer tears of pain. Now they were tears of joy. They signaled the deep and lasting peace that had finally found a home in my heart.
Peter led me to the sink, so I could wash my face with cool water. He placed his hands on my shoulders, tipping my chin upward to look in my eyes, “I am glad you came today, Karen. You needed to hear this, and now you will be fine.”
Stepping back into the dining room, I thought I would have to explain my hysterical crying in the kitchen to Ken, but he never said a word about it. Not then, or ever.
That magical day of tears and peace was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between Peter and me, and I hold many precious memories in my heart for this wonderful man. Every time I pass a Dupars Restaurant, I think of his lovely laugh, and the kindness in his beautiful heart, and I am forever grateful that he was one of the Angels in my life, sent to calm the soul of a prayerful sixteen-year-old, long searching for an answer.
Those looks between Peter and Ken, the ones I didn’t understand at the time, after that day so many years ago, I finally understood what they meant. I realized that though I may never have been able to translate their verbal shorthand, I had spoken their “secret” language of the heart all along.

Through this particular reading for a socialite I learned a painful truth about the old saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” After her reading with me, I realized that as human beings, we will instill qualities in people they may never possess. I also learned the difference between what we wish for a person to be, and who they truly are. After meeting the socialite, I never looked at people through quite the same eyes again.

In early September 1979 I flew into Texas to be interviewed for a front page article in a major newspaper. The three-hour interview was done rather casually over dinner at Gallagher’s, a steakhouse in Houston, with the reporter and her husband.

The reporter was the friend of a very prominent architect and longtime client of mine. She had been told about me and the outcome of his readings with me, both personal and business, several times over the course of a couple of years.

In 1979 in Texas, a psychic from California was an oddity altogether. Writing a story about a psychic at all, I thought was pretty brave, and I wondered if the newspaper would even print it. The reporter was highly respected, and the editor not only said yes, but put it on the front page of the Sunday edition of their Lifestyle section.

The response was overwhelming.
One day, in the midst of the bazillion readings generated from the article, I answered the door to find a stunningly beautiful, dark-haired lady of about forty years old. She was my next appointment. I showed her into the living room, and had her sign my client book, while I removed the tape she presented, and slipped it into my recorder.
Everything about this beautiful woman appeared to have a designer label on it. Her face was Charles of the Ritz, her blouse was Gucci, skirt by Escada, and her dainty feet were encased in shoes by my favorite shoe designer, Stuart Weitzman.
She had a diamond on her hand, and one in each ear, as big as my eyes. Her husband owned several insurance agencies throughout Texas. The prior Christmas he had presented her with a Rolls Royce convertible, laden with more gifts covering the back seat.
She had beautiful sons that were truly exceptional in every way. One fair in coloring and light eyed, the other, dark haired and brown eyed. They were handsome boys, and perfect students that achieved straight A’s across the board at private school. They excelled at playing lacrosse, rowing, and seemingly every other thing they did.
This woman appeared to have a truly perfect marriage, perfect children, and a seemingly perfect life.
As I moved further into her reading, stepping past her “perfect” life, a man that was clearly not her husband appeared to me in her reading. I started describing this man to her. “I see another man around you. He is about 5'11", slim, with beautiful salt-and-pepper hair. He sounds American, but is definitely foreign born, with olive skin, more Mediterranean in coloring.” I paused for a moment, “This comes as a very intimate type of relationship. Do you know who this gentleman is?”
She had become slightly uncomfortable, looking down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Demurely responding in her softest Texas drawl, “Uh, huh,” drawing out each syllable.
She continued staring at her hands, without so much as a glance when I spoke, “There appears to be a rather upsetting situation involving this gentleman right now. Do you understand what I mean?”
Murmuring again, “Uh huh.”
This time measuring my words, “This is a deeply spiritual man, a man with deep religious convictions, and a very strong relationship with God. This appears to be a very complicated relationship with you. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
She finally looked at me with those big brown eyes, and was practically purring, “Uh huh.”
I finally asked, “Who is he, dear?”
Without missing a beat, she kept looking directly at me as she spoke, “Umm, it’s my priest.”
Taking a deep breath, I found myself sputtering, “No, no, dear…this couldn’t be your priest. I mean this looks like a very complicated…very intimate relationship, one that is causing him a great deal of pain.”
I took a deep breath, patiently asking again, “Now do you know who this is?
Suddenly, the purring stopped, along with her practiced softness, as she practically snapping at me “Yes, it’s my priest.”
I thought that I must not be making myself clear, “No, no, this couldn’t be your priest, dear. I mean, it can’t be, because what I am looking at is definitely a sexual relationship.”
I am certain she thought that I must be deaf. Defiantly leaning forward, the edge even sharper in her voice, now “Uh huh, it’s my priest.”
I was in my twenties at this time, and still living under some silly illusion that a priest would never, ever have an affair. Let alone with a married woman.
Absolutely astonished, I quietly asked, “You’re having sex with your priest?”
Naively, I kept on insisting that it couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t be. Though in my bones I knew it was true. I could see him as clear as a bell in her reading, and he came to me as a devoutly religious man. I just didn’t want to believe it.
Again, just to clarify it for myself, I repeated my question, “If you are having sex with your priest, then why does this feel like he’s trying to pull away and end this relationship?”
She was pouting now, “Because he does want to end it! You see, he and my husband, and I have been having “three-ways,” and he wants to stop!”
I was in utter disbelief, not that she ever bothered to notice, and could barely get the question out, “You’re having three-ways with your priest? And, you’re upset that he wants to end this? And, why exactly are you upset?”
If she could have stomped her foot, I think she certainly would have. With great defiance, sniping at me like I was just an idiot, and couldn’t possibly understand, she blurted out, “Because we like it!”
I sat back in my chair for a moment just looking at her. I was speechless, and had to think, if only for a moment.
This absolutely elegant woman looked as though she had stepped off the page of a magazine. Everything about her was simply stunning. She had jet black hair, big brown eyes, and porcelain skin. I finally got it. She was perfect and clearly living in her own perfect little world.
I excused myself for a moment, as I turned off the tape recorder, walking into the kitchen to pour myself a big cup of coffee. I felt like I had just been kicked in the stomach, and could barely breathe. I was in the kitchen about three minutes, just long enough to center myself again.
I came back, sat down and turned the tape recorder on, with the stark realization that she simply didn’t get it. She couldn’t “see” what I saw.
Softly, I continued, “I understand that you like this, and I can hear the frustration in your voice, but this man took a vow of celibacy in his dedication to God. Can you not see that he has profound regrets about his actions, and that he can no longer live with this duplicity in his life?”
Defiantly, and practically shouting, she glared at me and said, “But, I don’t want him to stop!”
Her reaction was so painful for me.
This beautiful woman, with an amazing life, was having three-ways with her priest. She couldn’t even remotely understand why he wanted to go back to the church.
I was trying to reach her heart. I wanted to help her find the most unselfish part of herself. Reaching over, I touched her hand, tenderly asking, “Do you care about this man?”
She hung her head, and with tears in her eyes, softly replied, “Uh huh.”
I knew that whatever caring meant to her, she truly did, “If you truly care about him, then you must step back from your feelings, and allow him to go back to the life he chose. Can’t you see that this is torturing him that this has created great conflict in his soul? I don’t believe that you want to cause him any more pain. Do you?”
Hesitantly, but calmer, she said, “No, I don’t want him to be in pain.”
Continuing I said, “Then you must let him go.”
Drying her tears, and thinking more clearly now, “I never looked at it that way, Karen.”
I had found the way to her heart, “I want you to promise me that you will let him go back to the church?”
It was funny how quickly she appeared to resolve the issue regarding her priest, or so it seemed, but she wasn’t done. Her next question just made me laugh inside.
She asked me if she would ever find anyone else to have three-ways with. I assured her that she would and that she would find other venues, outside of the church, to find that next person.
At the end of the reading, she told me that she felt so much better, because now she understood why he didn’t want to continue. As long as she was sure they would find someone else to play with, she was fine.
When she left, I walked into the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Oh, grow up, Karen.”
What profound realizations this reading had brought for me.
Here was this lovely man, who clearly loved God, loved being a priest, loved the church, and yet, he was human. He had fallen from grace for only a moment, and was suffering terribly over his transgressions.
She was a woman that had everything a person could ask for in life. She had a loving husband that spoiled her, wonderful children, a beautiful home, her health and the health of her family. Yet she was absolutely incapable, of seeing past her own selfish needs.
These were great lessons.
I learned that all men, whether devoutly religious or not, truly are, only human.
Only God is perfect.
It was the child in me that was so shocked. The part of me that grew up naively believing that priests, rabbis, and all holy men, were different that they were above all earthly temptations.
This woman and her husband had been having sex with their priest, without the slightest hint of conscience about the consequences. The only part of it she could begin to understand was that it was causing him great pain, great spiritual pain.
She said that she never thought about it that way, and all I wondered was, how she could not?
He had been dedicated to Gods work as a priest for 25 years, and had fallen. His shame was unbearable. It was so clear to me that he was having an impossible time, reconciling his spiritual duties and his relationship with God, with his all too human, desires of the flesh.
I felt terribly sad for him, because these were such personal issues. They were between him and God, and he had broken his promise with God. Now he would live with the consequences of his actions, for the rest of his life.
She said her husband had taken pictures of them, and all I could think about was how difficult it was, for the priest to realize he was human.
I know that some men have no conscience, but I knew that this man would spend the rest of his days, trying to make it up to God.
It delivered a crystal clear message for me that it was tough being human.
This particular reading had a profound effect on my life. I knew in my heart that the priest’s actions didn’t change his vow to God. I realized that his desire for intimacy with another person, truly is a part of being human.
I saw with stark clarity, the price he was paying, and would continue to pay for his behavior. It is emotionally and spiritually deeper, and more profoundly painful, for someone who has a powerful relationship with God.
Throughout my life I have repeatedly been exposed to a disturbing, yet profound experience, and sadly, one that we all share. It is that people seldom are, who they represent themselves to be. Sometimes there is so much more to them than meets the eye, and of course, there are times when we instill in people, qualities they do not possess, only to be surprised, and disappointed by their lack.
As human beings we carry the unspoken expectation of how people are supposed to behave, but I have learned that our expectations will only be, as lenient, or as rigid, as our frame of reference.
Human nature is born with a hunger, a natural curiosity to seek out what is denied. I am less naïve now, and know that simply because a person presents themselves to be religious, their relationship with God doesn’t mean they have lost their hunger.
This particular reading in Houston, Texas was the first of many priests and nuns being drawn to me for readings. It saddens me to see how many of them live with painfully deep conflict, in their desire to serve God. They have made commitments, and taken vows, yet live with the constant uncertainty of being human.
When counseling people in service to God, my desire is to help them find peace within their soul. Helping them reconcile two seemingly disparate elements, those of spirituality and human desire that live within us all.