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I bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
“Zane.”
“What?”
“She thought you were a hallucination.”
“I’m aware and it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened. Don’t tell them, let her think I’m haunting her.” I laugh pretty hard, hoping she’s not around to hear.
“I’m guessing still no fiancée. How bad is it going to be?”
“Bad. Very, very Bad. I’ll take any warm body at this point. They don’t even need to hold a conversation, just nod along for my mother.”
“It will be fine.”
“No it will not. Where the hell--- unless.” I stop and tap my lip with her rolled up schedule. That’s a wickedly bad idea. She has nothing. No job, no partner, not even somewhere to sleep. And there’s no way she’s enjoying tofu and tragedy reporting. That’s all path finding is. You’re fucked, go fix it. She can’t possible tell me no. If she doesn’t talk a lot, I could handle it.
“Unless what. Stop it right now, you’ve got that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one where you’ve decided something stupid and you’re going to do it anyway and no one can stop you.”
He’s not wrong. “Just don’t say anything,” I say.
“Zane. Oh, hell no. Don’t do it.”
Chapter 7
Hallucinations and Terrible Tea
KAT
Canyon Point, Utah
This morning I opted for smuggled Wintermint gum instead of poached weeds for morning energizing to get me through. Ginny’s off to a head and foot massage. The bitch. I keep an eye out for my chimera as I head to the path shacks.
I’m one with the damage I’ve done to my body. But Shaman Shelly says I rob myself of essence with caffeine. All from looking deeply into my eyes. What I feel is robbed of my sanity. At juice break I discover ‘my’ juice is turmeric, fennel, and thistle. I thought that was a spiny plant from Brigadoon. It’s to get my liver on track. Glad I’ll be in fighting shape for my post spa bender.
No sign of my laughing spirit animal but the constant wind chime white noise must be our cult induction. That’s how they’re going to program me, keep me devoid of pop culture, alcohol, and coffee. A month from now I’ll be married to Serge in exchange for an hour of listening to Taylor while mowing on Swedish Fish, and sucking down a margarita.
Everyone on my way to the path shack says, “Namaste.”
Shaman Greg bows and I bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh at the name Shaman Greg.
“Namaste, my lamb.” Oh, sweet fancy fuck enough with the Namaste.
“And to you. Is it Shaman Greg or just Greg?”
“Greg’s fine. Lie down. Relax. If you don’t mind, I’m going to lay hands on you.”
“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”
“Humor tells me your path is cloudy.”
“It should be real clear after the sweating.”
“MMMMMMMMM.” He checks my tongue and behind my ears. He spends twenty minutes clicking his hot curry breath on me.
