She nodded tightly and turned to chat with the person across the aisle. With my anxiety now at an all-time high, I attempted to order three miniature bottles of vodka from the flight attendant. He informed me, rather unkindly, that I could only purchase two at a time, and so I chugged them as quickly as possible and ordered the third, much to the alarm of Rosie’s mother.
Then I closed my eyes and waited for the alcohol to take hold. San Francisco, my heart thundered. Caleb and I had spent three blissful weeks together in Zanzibar before his contract had ended and he had flown home to New Zealand. His departure ignited something of an existential crisis in me. Being with him had made me feel like a better person, and I was suddenly disenchanted with the aimless wandering that had become my life. When the ragtag group of European hippies I had traveled with to Africa began pooling resources to venture down to Lake Malawi, I let them go without me.
I didn’t want to travel, and I didn’t want to go home. Mired in indecision, I did nothing and spent my days wandering alone through the gloomy alleys. But when I saw on Facebook that Lilly, a friendly girl and fellow American I had met in a hostel in Chiang Mai two years prior and then spent a month traveling around Thailand with, was now living in San Francisco, I knew what I had to do. I sent Lilly a message and spent the last of my money on a ticket to California without waiting for her response.
I felt sick with anticipation when I arrived in San Francisco. The Life Force Collective’s compound was somewhere in Northern California; I was closer to my mother than I had been in years. Still, I had no idea how to go about finding her. Every dark-haired woman I passed on the sidewalk drew a second glance from me, even though I had no reason to suspect my mother was in the city. I spent night after sleepless night on Lilly’s couch, scouring the internet for evidence of my mother or the cult that had consumed her.
And then one afternoon, as I wiped tables in the coffee shop where I’d picked up some work to fund my stay, I saw a guy my age reading a thin paperback called The Dark Side of Sunshine: The True Story of the Life Force Collective.
“What is that?” I demanded, my voice hollow.
He shrugged. “Some book about a cult I’ve never heard of. It was on the quarter rack at the used bookstore down the block, so I thought why not?”
“I’ll give you five dollars for it,” I said, my pulse galloping.
For the remainder of my shift, the slim book burned a hole in my back pocket. I could hardly wait to get back to Lilly’s and dive in. My internet searches had only turned up pages of vendetta, propaganda, and insanity; a physical book promised something more solid. I read it cover to cover in a single sitting. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before about the Life Force Collective (it was founded by former child star Rhetta Quinn, its commune was located somewhere in Northern California, its members believed in free love and living off the land), but it was presented in such an authoritative manner that I felt my first flicker of hope.
When I finished the book sometime around four in the morning, I sent the author a message through his website: My mother is in the LFC. Can you help me find her?
Two hours later he responded: I can’t promise anything, but I can put you in contact with them.
The next week, I borrowed Lilly’s car and met Sister Amamus at a Dairy Queen north of the city. I had expected someone willowy and ethereal, someone like my mother, but Sister Amamus was of hardier stock, with wide shoulders and the large hands of a ballplayer. She waited for me outside, standing barefoot in a parking space, colorful scarves fluttering around her and long earrings tinkling like wind chimes.
“Uh, I think you should probably put some shoes on,” I said to her.
She waved me off and padded into the store, gauzy layers rippling around her. She ordered a large Snickers Blizzard, and looked at me expectantly. I handed the clerk my credit card.
I waited as she spooned ice cream, but impatience got the better of me and I leaned forward, my words tumbling over each other as I asked, “Do you know my mother?”
She took another bite before looking at me frankly. “Sister Anahata wishes you well. But she does not want to see you.”
I sat back, stunned. I could only hope she was confusing my mother with someone else. “Is that the name my mom is using? Erin Buhrman?” I wished I’d brought a picture of my mother with me, but I didn’t have any of her—or any of my family. Instead, I tried to describe my mother. “She kind of looks like me. A little shorter, I think. But black hair. Lots of it. Blue eyes. She, uh, she likes baking. And lemon tea and daffodils. She . . . she can be kind of a hermit.”
Amamus smiled indulgently, her mouth full of candied ice cream. “I know Sister Anahata.”
“So you’re saying that Sister Anahata is Erin Buhrman.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Frustration grew, and I curled my hands into fists. I hadn’t come all this way to dance my way through some half-rate “Who’s on First?” routine. “Cut the bullshit. If you know something about my mother, I need you to tell me.”
Amamus sighed and seemingly took pity on me. “Your mother came to us to start a new life. Please respect that.”
“Then why even meet with me?” I asked desperately.
“To assure you that your mother is happy and healthy. You don’t need to worry about her.”
“But how am I supposed to trust you? Can you prove to me that you even know her?”
“Don’t contact us again,” Amamus said, standing up. “Be well.”
She picked up her Blizzard and walked out the door without looking back.
From Slate, published September 22, 2015
Chuck Buhrman’s Widow Takes Own Life—Podcast to Blame?
by Jasmine O’Neill
Almost everyone in America knows who Erin Blake Buhrman is.
Such notoriety is something Mrs. Buhrman went to great lengths to avoid. But in 2002, Mrs. Buhrman, described as a gentle woman and devoted mother, was thrust into an unwelcome spotlight by the murder of her husband, Chuck Buhrman. (Refresh your memory of the case here.)
In the wake of her husband’s death, Mrs. Buhrman endured a very public examination of her husband’s private life. His affair with Melanie Cave, the married next-door neighbor and mother of Warren, became front-page news. While local media claimed the details of Buhrman’s affair with Melanie Cave went to establishing motive and were therefore relevant, some argued that the salacious details were printed for sensational effect.
The sudden death of her husband, the public destruction of her marriage, and the trial, during which she spent nearly three hours on the stand, all chipped steadily away at Mrs. Buhrman’s already delicate emotional state until she left her Illinois hometown for a Northern California commune run by the Life Force Collective, or the LFC. (Want to learn more about the LFC? Read our primer on celebrity-led cults here.)