May 12
I couldn't stop shaking. The newspaper quivered recklessly in my hands for God-only-knew-how-long until finally those dreaded words came into focus once again. She was gone. Forever. The news delivered through an ad in the personals. Sandwiched between the men-seeking-women and help wanted listings. Right near the ads looking for editorial staff. So I couldn't possibly miss it.
My heart pounded through my ears as I read the words over and over. Words from Will, who had combed the streets of New York to find me. Words that brought only a painful truth.
Looking for Katherine of London hotel art fame and stories of a past together. Destiny has left us. Come to the gallery. May 12, 13 until midnight. I have to find you, to tell you everything.
Tears drowned my eyes as I threw the paper aside and held my head in my hands. A profound sense of loss. I cursed myself for turning my back on her, for running away, for being childish. Did I actually think she would make it through? My naïve mind really thought that Destiny was above the ravages of terminal illness? I spent an hour or two curled into the fetal position on Blanche's bed. I squeezed an oversized pillow against my damp cheek.
Who was Destiny, after all? I asked myself. And why hadn't I tried to find out more when she was alive? Granted, she was pretty evasive, but my attempts were feeble at best. When I dried my eyes, I knew what I had to do. Numbly, I slipped onto the desk chair, and with a few clicks of the mouse, found a short article about Destiny's demise.
Two paragraphs in a British tabloid summed up the life of a young woman who made rare but memorable appearances at a swanky hotel, ran a teahouse for the fun of it and touted her abilities as the best medium in London. Medium to the rich and famous, who secretly sought her out. My mouth went dry. The stories flooded my head, the scent of champagne filled my nose. The parties. Sam's words. Illusion. Then Destiny's voice rang in my ears over and over again.
"So Katherine, now do you believe?"
That was the last thing I could remember when I came to around 7 p.m. I took a few deep breaths, splashed water on my face and looked emptily into the somber eyes reflected in the mirror. I turned away in disgust and returned to Blanche's bed with my journal. After writing about the whole episode, I would have expected to feel some sense of calm, of acceptance. But I didn't. The loss widened and deepened within my heart.
I hardly knew Destiny, yet letting go of this near stranger seemed almost impossible. How could she leave everything unresolved? No, what I was thinking was ridiculous. She didn't choose to die. I was being selfish. She had tried to deliver a message to me—whether it was true or not was another story—and I had refused to accept it.
There, I admitted it. Right there in ink on paper. She had done her best, and I turned my back on her.
I glanced at the clock again. Nine o'clock. Three more hours. Would he really be there, waiting for me?
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