Pushing Upward (5 page)

“I know. I've seen you. You look like hell.”

“Thanks for your support!”

“Look, Sandra, we've been through this a zillion times. Slow down—the decision isn't in your hands. Allow the universe to pull you in the right direction. Maybe this woman's the right one. How do you know? You haven't even met her. Why don't you come over and we'll throw the
I Ching
?”

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm catatonic.”

“All right. Give me half an hour. I'll come over there. But first I have to stop at the store, buy some snake treats.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I cleaned up the apartment. Well, I threw the dirty clothes that were sitting in the middle of the room under the chair and dusted the furniture with paper towels. I pushed books and magazines into the closet and rinsed off the pile of dishes sitting in the sink. I lit my favorite blueberry candle, a stick of nag champa incense, and twenty or so assorted other candles set in small pieces of tinfoil around the room. I placed the two pillows from my bed on the floor in front of the old oak table and fluffed them up so they'd look nice and new. After carefully, gingerly, closing the Indian-bedspread curtains, for fear they might fall off the pole, I sat down on the creaky rocking chair.

I couldn't stop fidgeting. Instead of going to the fridge again to eat something I didn't need, I picked up
The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson
from the side table and tried to focus on Emily's words while I waited for Rachel. Emily was so lucky. She could be a recluse, write poetry all day, and never have to worry about earning a living.

Rachel arrived at my door in less than twenty minutes. Without saying a word, knowing how important it was to maintain silence before we threw the coins, we simply hugged, sat down on the pillows, and took a few deep breaths. Slowly, silently, respectfully, I brought out the
I Ching,
the tiny brocade pouch with the coins, and a legal-size writing pad from under my bed, and placed them all on the table. I paused a moment, to respect the fundamental nature of the oracle, and then opened the pouch, allowing the three dimes to cascade onto the tabletop.

In ancient times, it was customary to throw yarrow stalks when consulting the
I Ching.
As sacred gifts of the vegetable kingdom, these stalks were considered to be related to the source of life and, when held firmly in one's palm, would take on the qualities of one's individual vibration. Since yarrow stalks were not easy to find, especially in L.A., coins (pennies, nickels, or dimes) were suggested.

Rachel stopped chewing her gum and watched intently as I placed the dimes in the sweaty palm of my hand. I closed my eyes, knowing
how
I phrased the question was as important as the question itself. Then I focused my entire being on the question:
Should I meet this woman, Emma?
I repeated the question silently again and again, shook the dimes, and then threw the silver coins onto the tabletop. Depending on the configuration of the six throws necessary to form the hexagram, the numeric value assigned to each head or tail would signify either a broken or an unbroken line.

The first throw was an eight, two heads and a tail:

A broken line. Rachel drew the two dashes on the yellow legal pad.

The second throw was a seven, one head and two tails:

A straight line. Rachel drew the straight solid line.

The third throw was another seven:

The fourth, fifth, and sixth throws were all eights, broken lines:

After Rachel had drawn all the lines, one above the other starting from the bottom, I looked up the identifying hexagram in the back of the book. It was number 46:

46. Shêng / Pushing Upward

Above: K'un, The Receptive, Earth
Below: Sun, The Gentle, Wind, Wood

This pushing upward is associated with effort, just as a plant needs energy for pushing upward through the earth. That is why this hexagram, although it is connected with success, is associated with effort of the will … P
USHING
U
PWARD
indicates … a vertical ascent—a direct rise from obscurity and lowliness to power and influence … The individual … must go to see authoritative people. Fear not … success is assured. But he must set to work, for activity … brings good fortune.

We looked at each other, eyes wide in disbelief, and then Rachel, in her inimitable style, popped a huge bubble.

Chapter 4

The images help us to know the things,
and the oracle helps us to know the future.

I contemplated the Pushing Upward commentary for many hours and realized that calling Emma was not only necessary for my growth, but an inevitable part of my destiny.
Fear not,
it said.
One must go to see authoritative people. Success is assured. A direct rise from obscurity and lowliness to power and influence.
How could I doubt such a positive throw? How could I question that the next Chapter of Sandra Billings' life was going to be a rising ascension, instead of a plummet downward?

The next morning, I kept checking the time. I figured nine o'clock was a reasonable hour, so I picked up the receiver and called Emma.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Sandra. I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Not at all. I'm out of bed early.”

“Well, um, I'd like to meet you today, if that's okay?”

She paused. “Yes, that will be fine.”

“Can we meet this morning?” I asked anxiously.

“This morning?” She paused again. “Certainly. What time?”

“How's eleven-thirty?” I wanted to jump in my car as soon as I hung up. But I didn't want to sound too pushy.

“Eleven-thirty is good. I'm staying at the Westbrook Retirement Home in West Hollywood. Do you know where that is?”

“Uh … yeah, I think so. It's on Sunset, near the karate school, right?”

“Yes, a few blocks past the school, only on the right. There is a parking lot behind the building. I'm in room seventeen.”

“Behind the building. Number seventeen. Got it. Okay. See you at eleven-thirty.”

The Westbrook Retirement Home? I must be legally insane.
Beads of sweat formed instantly on my forehead. Maybe her apartment was being painted, and she was staying at “the home” temporarily. Maybe she was visiting a friend. My throat clamped down in a viselike grip.

I was never good at waiting. What was I going to do for two and a half hours? Riding high on my nervousness and my inability to think of anything to do that might be constructive while I waited, I appeased my feelings of insecurity by devouring the three remaining orange Creamsicles that were in the freezer, along with two white-powdered doughnuts and some chocolate-chip cookie dough heated up in the toaster oven. There's
nothing
better than soft, undercooked chocolate-chip cookie dough to make one's nerves relax. Nothing!

As usual, I felt bloated afterward and didn't want to gain any weight, so I went to the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat, and threw up everything I had just eaten. When there was nothing left in my stomach but what was given to me at birth, I brushed my teeth and grabbed the bottle of eye drops from the medicine cabinet. Hiding the red veins where the whites of my eyes used to be had became an art form I had mastered. I applied white pancake shadow, eyeliner, and mascara to camouflage the puffiness around my eyes, and smudged apricot rouge onto my cheeks. My lips glistened from the last of my lip gloss, and when I saw my reflection in the mirror, I looked just like one of those puffy-lipped models from
Vogue
magazine. Well, almost. My hair was in dire need of a cut, and I had to remember not to let Emma see my cracked nails.

At 11:30
A.M.
, punctually and a bit apprehensively, I arrived at the Westbrook Retirement Home. I walked down the long corridor and could practically taste the musty air, feel the pores in my skin wanting to close up from the toxicity and lack of oxygen. Passing the industrial steel kitchen, I smelled canned carrots, peas, and potatoes, and felt sorry for anyone having to live on these soggy vegetables. I was surprised they used anything canned. With what they must be charging folks to stay in this pricey establishment, they could certainly afford fresh food, and a French chef to cook it.