Marion then said, “You’re here because of your mother.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
“Yes,” I answer. My body language was closed off and I felt skepticism radiating from me as I responded.
‘The others are here to support Louise. We’re just waiting for her to arrive.”
Louise is my mother. Had I told Marion her name? I couldn’t remember.
We waited a few minutes and then: ‘Louise is here with us now. She’s happy to see you, but she wants to know if you’re still angry.
I took a deep breath. Yes, I was furious that the kindest, funniest, most brilliant person I knew was struck by terminal cancer at the age of 58. I was furious that she missed seeing her precious grandchildren, my brother’s children, grow up. I was also angry that she left me. I wasn’t ready to be her daughter yet.
“Yes, I am angry. But not as bad as me.”
‘She wants you to know her is proud of you; That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?
I decided to start asking my own questions: “What exactly is she proud of?”
“She says she’s proud you stopped drinking, pudding.”
The last word struck me like a bolt of lightning. To me, pudding was my mother’s nickname. How on earth did Marion know that? I felt myself improving. Was Mom really here? Marion continued, “She says she couldn’t save her parents, but she’s glad you saved yourself.” I started to cry.
My mother’s parents both died from alcohol abuse when she was in her 20s. Just as they were called “puddings” well into adulthood, it wasn’t common knowledge that my maternal grandparents drank themselves to death.
As I cried, Marion continued to talk, but I was distracted by a new feeling: I could feel Mom’s presence. It felt like being wrapped in a warm towel after emerging from a cold pool. I felt comforted and loved. I never wanted that feeling to end.
The fifty minutes I spent with Marion passed in a blur, and she continued to bring other people into the conversation, just like a friend I lost the year before. Sure, I missed my boyfriend, but I desperately wanted to spend time with my mother and became irritated when other people walked in and out.
I left the session feeling satisfied exhausted. I felt satisfied that Mom was doing well (well, as good as a dead person can be…), and I knew it would take time to process what had happened. I didn’t tell any of my friends except Katy what had happened, in case they made fun of me for thinking I’d spoken to my dead mother. The following days I felt mentally lighter and for the first time in years a calm descended on me.
As someone with a history of addictionI thought hard about making a follow-up appointment, believing that I could easily become addicted to spiritual readings. After talking to Katy, we agreed that we didn’t need to see Marion anymore. I miss my mother every day, but I realize that perhaps I have become so fixated on talking to the dead that I could forget how to live, which would be a real tragedy.