11. LO #3
“Part of the healing and self-discovery process is working through those complicated feelings that often consume us—grief, jealousy, anger. We use various methods to let those go so we can keep living our lives and, ideally, find some form of peace. I’m sure any of my friends here would be happy to give a glowing recommendation.
We’ve seen tremendous progress from people who’ve finally been able to get closure. ”
“Closure,” Stevie says slowly. “How does that work? Journaling?”
Sunniva heads for the door to leave the room, and we follow behind her, our feet padding over the pristine carpet.
“Oh no, we specialize here in gaining closure for those who’ve been hurt by someone they can’t make contact with,” she says as she keeps up her pace a few paces ahead of us.
“Typically, this is someone who has already passed.”
I know I’m going to regret asking the question, but someone has to ask it. “How can you get closure from someone who’s dead?”
Sunniva turns and looks at me, stopping me and Stevie in our tracks. She stops so quickly that we nearly run into her. I don’t like the look in her eye; it’s as if she can literally see through me, see what I’m thinking and feeling. “We have our methods. We can try some, if you’d like.”
Then, she starts walking again, leaving me and Stevie to exchange looks of What the fuck is this woman on?
“She must not have seen Hereditary,” Stevie whispers, making me snort. I quickly cover up the sound with a cough.
“We’ll pass on that, but thank you,” Stevie says in response to Sunniva’s offer.
I’m glad she’s the one answering the question instead of me; she’s firmer than I’m capable of being, and I have a feeling it requires a strong personality to keep up with Sunniva.
She’s been soft-spoken and gentle so far, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious she has ways of being convincing when she wants to be.
“Are you sure?” She turns her head over her shoulder to look at me. “You’ve lost your mother. You wouldn’t want one last opportunity to speak with her?”
My mouth goes dry, my stomach immediately drops.
I’m not naive enough to give her information—I know that she’ll just keep making educated guesses to make me think that she can read my mind or something—but it’s hard to keep a level reaction when that’s the last thing I expected her to say.
I don’t talk about my mother’s passing: I’ve never posted about it online, and I don’t talk about it in interviews.
I’ve kept it between me and my grief counselor and my therapist and my desperate Google searches following hours of crying so hard I almost vomit.
“She’s fine,” Stevie answers, and I reach out to squeeze her hand in a silent thanks.
“She misses you,” Sunniva continues, definitely taking advantage of the fact that I’m the weaker link.
I can suddenly hear my mother’s voice, her laugh.
I’m so fortunate to have so many photos and video recordings of her; I’ll never forget any of it.
Bringing her back up like this makes me crave her company —just one more coffee together on her porch, another morning of sitting on her bed while she spritzes on her perfume as a finishing touch.
I try to channel Stevie’s skeptical energy and the way she still questions everything, even when it feels so clearly laid out.
She’s always looking for more proof, more evidence.
I’m not about to believe that this woman actually has some kind of ability to not only know about my mother, but also speak to her.
But it is a really strange coincidence she would know, and that’s what makes me uneasy.
“We really should stay on topic. We don’t want to take too much of your time,” Stevie says.
“The best way to understand our practices here is via demonstration.” Sunniva keeps her attention on me, clearly waiting for me to be the one who breaks.
“A verbal explanation works just as well in this case.” Stevie comes to my rescue again.
“I can explain it to you, but you won’t believe it until you see it,” she says.
She stops at the top of the stairs. “If you’re planning on staying for the meeting—which I encourage—you’ll see some of the lighter practices we work on.
Most of those have to do with the self, as implied by the name.
But we do other sessions, too, that are more personalized.
Even when you think there’s nothing to be said to someone, there always is. We open those doors for people.”
“What do you mean by lighter practices?” Stevie asks.
“We encourage self-reflection, talking, and drawing. We discuss personal areas of improvement. Hurt that we’ve experienced at the hands of others.”
“So, group therapy?”
Sunniva offers an amused smile. “Something more than that.”
“And the individual sessions? How are those conducted?” I ask.
“It depends on what someone is looking for. For you, I would tell you to bring something of your mother’s that meant something to her. And then we would try and reach her.”
“Are you a medium, then?” Stevie asks. She says the word medium like someone just asked her about the Easter Bunny.
She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “There are a lot of words people could use.”
“And you did these practices at the place you just sold?”
“Of course.”
“Did you see anything or talk to anyone during that time? Maybe invite someone into the house?”
“Well, a lot of what we do involves inviting someone into the house, love. That’s how we speak to them. They can’t just walk back into our realm; someone has to bring them here.”
Next to me, I can practically feel Stevie’s desire to roll her eyes radiating off of her.
I’m less certain, though. As much as something about Sunniva doesn’t sit well with me, it would explain a lot.
It’s not that there’s a ghost that’s just been in my house all this time; she intentionally brought someone inside.
“Who did you invite into the house?”
“We communicate with sometimes five or six different people over the course of a day. It could be anyone. Maybe there are multiple spirits still living in your home.”
Perfect . “And this has been helpful for people?”
“Absolutely. Some people will come for regular sessions to talk to someone. We can’t always reach them, but we usually can. It’s a specialty of mine.”
“But how do you get them to leave?” I ask. “How can I get them to leave?”
“Sometimes, you can’t,” Sunniva says. “That’s not my line of business. People tend to want them to stay where they can find them again.”
I don’t say what feels obvious to me—that people making repeat visits to speak to a loved one who passed doesn’t sound particularly healthy. And Sunniva being the middleman to it all definitely makes it feel weird and more exploitative than helpful.
“None of this is scary. I can show you how it works. We can use your mother’s purse,” Sunniva says.
My stomach drops. “This isn’t hers,” I lie, an instinct to keep her as far away from my mother as possible. As much as I love and miss her, and would do anything to have her back, I don’t want to play this game. The more Sunniva says, the less I like what she’s doing and the less I like her.
Sunniva doesn’t seem discouraged. Rather than behaving how I’d imagine a bullshitter would, she gives me a look of certainty.
It’s like she really does somehow know it’s my mom’s purse, which isn’t possible.
It could be a lucky guess again, but my purse isn’t vintage—it’s less than a decade old; my mom bought it just before she died, so it’s not a safe bet.
My stomach turns. Having a ghost in my house is one thing—especially since it seems like it was invited in rather than just deciding to haunt the place willingly—but whatever Sunniva is engaging in doesn’t sit right with me.
It doesn’t feel safe for someone like her to know anything at all about me.
“Can we see how you talk to them?” Stevie looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.
Sunniva doesn’t hesitate. She waves us down the stairs and we follow behind. Stevie stops me at the top of the stairs, her hand around my upper arm.
“What are you doing?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“I have to see what’s going on here.” I can’t bring myself to say the whole truth—that I’m starting to believe Sunniva does actually have some kind of paranormal ability, and I need to be proven wrong.
I need to see the bells and whistles, the way she fakes people out.
I want to know that her empire is built on a lie, rather than going home believing that a woman really does hold so much power.
“Nico,” Sunniva calls out when she makes it to the bottom of the stairs. She does a dainty wave to get his attention and bring him over to her.
Nico is an almost shockingly handsome man with a full head of silver hair and glowing skin. He’s tall and fit and looks annoyingly good with Sunniva—they’d be the perfect, beautiful couple if Sunniva didn’t put such a bad taste in my mouth.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“Our two new friends would like a demonstration of one of our calls. Can you get my things set up for me, please? We’ll change up the plan for today’s meeting, just for a little bit.” She rests a hand on his upper arm, and he glows.
“Of course.”
Nico walks off, and Sunniva guides us into the living room, where people have started gathering around the room. Rather than a circle like I’d seen in my grief groups, all of the seating faces the front of the room.
“We have some new faces here, as well as some faces who I know have only come to these meetings instead of doing solo sessions with me. As a way of introducing you to the other things that we offer here, I’d like to do a demonstration.
” Despite the smile on Sunniva’s face, I can’t help but think about how there is something so sinister about her mannerisms and attitude.