Now, standing with the blond woman, the same unmoored sensation returns. The name she gave him has faded out. Something unbeautiful. Gertrude, or Greta. For the past few minutes she has been relating the story of a dream she had as a young girl.
“They were angels, I’m sure of it. They came to my bed and talked to me. They explained the difference between right and wrong.” She cocks her head to the side. “I really believe they gave me my first lesson in morality.” She has the faraway look of a woman traveling on three margaritas.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Her gaze spirals back. She moves a piece of hair behind her ear, exposing a cluster of icy gems. “Gretchen Von Mauren.”
“It’s been nice talking with you, Gretchen. Will you excuse me?”
Despite the gravitational pull to remain in any woman’s orbit, Michael steps away. He is careful not to make eye contact with anyone as he drifts to the periphery of the crowd. But, as if supernaturally attuned to the defection of any of her guests, Carol Christensen appears at his side.
“Lovely party, Carol,” Michael offers, producing a smile. “And you look wonderful.”
She grins like a teenager. “I’m feeling wonderful.” Stepping closer, she lowers her tone. “You know, I never mentioned it to you, but I did have some bad headaches right after the surgery. And some very dark moods.”
“No, you didn’t mention that.”
“I’m afraid I might even have been clinically depressed for a while.” Carol blinks. “But thankfully that’s all gone now. I’m better than ever.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
Carol pauses, gives Michael a long look. “I feel a little bashful telling you this, but I ended up finding a holistic healer. Well, I guess he’d call himself an indigenous healer.” She quickly puts a hand to Michael’s sleeve. “Honestly, I never thought I’d go in for the New Age stuff. That’s not the kind of person I am. But I have to say, I’m so glad I kept an open mind.”
Michael feels he has no choice but to prod further. “So, what kind of healing was this exactly?”
She smiles and draws closer. “He did something called a soul retrieval, which sounds very spacey, I know, but afterward I felt like a completely new person. It seemed like everything was brighter around me. Even my complexion has improved. People have noticed!”
Michael looks sternly at her. “You should have called me about the headaches.”
“That’s what Harold said.” Carol tilts her head. “But, anyway, they’re gone now. The healer said that sometimes, with some conditions, there’s a point where Western medicine can’t really help anymore, and you have to address the root cause of the problem. He said that the surgery may have been an effective solution for the epilepsy on a superficial level. But he perceived some deep-seated spiritual issues, too. I’m sure that must sound implausible to you, but whatever he did, it worked for me.” Carol touches Michael’s sleeve again, as if in apology, then scans the crowd. “I invited him tonight, actually. I’d love to introduce you, but it seems he’s not here yet.”
“That’s all right,” Michael says, raising his Scotch glass and disengaging Carol’s touch. He has cut open more than one shamanic skull in his career, short-circuited more than one carnival in the temporal lobe. He can predict just the kinds of interictal spikes that would appear on an EEG if Carol’s healer were monitored during one of his so-called retrievals. Michael considers the irony here, of one epileptic healing another.
“His name is Apocatequil, in case you meet him. Hard to forget that! It means ‘god of lightning’ in the Incan language. He’s really a very interesting person.”
At this, Carol summons a nearby crescent of guests to her, and, as they begin to congeal into a ring, Michael lifts his chin as if suddenly remembering something. With a quick backward step, he melts out of the circle toward the edge of the pool. He stands, feeling the cut of Carol’s insult. There is an acidic taste in his mouth as he watches the flux of revelers.