Las Espiritistas
by Marie Delgado Travis
In my early twenties, I fell madly in love—emphasis on the word mad … caution, do not try this at home!—with a young man with a serious drug problem. Why is it that the greatest loves are always impossible? Like the naive nun in Chaucer's tales, I believed that love conquers all. But just in case, I visited an espiritista who had converted a store on the lower East Side of New York into a church. On Sunday afternoons, mysterious worship services could be perceived through the smoky showcase window.
Without divulging any details, I asked the medium to pray for a "friend" of mine. The plump, white turbaned psychic prayed quietly. Slowly, her black penciled eyebrows arched and her Dragon Red lips parted. She counseled me to write the person's name on a slip of paper, fold it and place it in her Bible.
I complied and left her church hastily, relieved that I hadn't disclosed any secrets. It was, in fact, a personal sorrow that I kept scrupulously from everyone, especially my parents, for fear they'd warn me not to see him.
In time, his condition worsened, and I reluctantly realized I had to free myself from the relationship. Not only was I not helping him, but he was dragging me down emotionally. It was a gut-wrenching decision to make, because I truly cared for him. To bolster my resolve, I visited my parents in Puerto Rico, while I contemplated my next move.
During that stay, I overheard a neighbor say that a highly-regarded espiritista lived only a block from my parents' home. I took this unexpected news as a "Sign"and went to see her in secret, desperately seeking guidance
The gaunt, sickly-looking medium in tattered housedress and flip-flops welcomed me at the door of her wooden shack and invited me into her "office." She motioned me to a wooden folding chair near an altar, almost completely covered with images of saints, chief among them Santa Barbara. A strong scent of patchouli permeated the humble, candle-lit room, choking the air.
The medium was totally unaware that I had visited one of her "colleagues" in New York City. And like the psychic there, she did not inquire about the purpose of my visit. After a few preliminary prayer rituals, which thankfully did not involve any chickens, she extended her knotty hands on the table, bowed her head in, at first murmured and then, silent meditation.
A few unkempt greñas escaped from her kerchief and flickered golden in the candlelight, as she fell into what seemed a hypnotic state.
Just as my chest began constricting with claustrophobia, she slowly and purposefully began to speak. Huskily, eerily, ultratumba, she pronounced that not long before, I had written someone's name on a piece of paper and asked another espiritista to pray for him. I gaped. Her jaundiced eyes flew open and glared accusingly, as she uttered, "He’s a drug addict, isn't he?"
Without answering, I fled the house in panic. And to this day, I flee from espiritistas!
