When Nate was a kid, he never thought all that much about not having a mom. Maybe it was precisely because he’d never had one that he’d always accepted his one-parent existence, which, at least as he remembered it as an adult, was fairly exceptional. Jim was a fine dad: concerned, present, and loving, but never hovering. As a result, Nate grew up feeling supported and valued, but also developed an independent streak that helped make him his own person.
Sure, he’d see other kids’ mothers picking them up from school or rooting on their soccer matches or weaving with them around the supermarket and wonder what life would be like with one of those seemingly devoted women rounding out his little family. But the thought—and the mood—would pass and Nate would simply go about his business.
Besides, by the time Nate was old enough to know which end was up, he was familiar with all kinds of families—ones with single parents, divorced parents, stepparents, two moms, two dads, grandparent-run—so his situation didn’t seem that extraordinary. It also didn’t hurt that Jim was such a relaxed, fun, charismatic guy; Nate was envied for the parent he did have rather than pitied for the one he didn’t.
It wasn’t until Nate was older, maybe in his early teens, that he truly registered the absence of a mom, and started to wonder more about his own mother. Coincidentally, it happened around the time he started to date girls and found himself enveloped by their physical and emotional presence in all new ways. He wasn’t unprepared for the female sensibility per se; Jim had filled him in, with his usual candor and intelligence, about the opposite sex: what to expect, how to do right by them, the sexual component (“Dad, c’mon!” Nate would moan. “I know all about that part!” Which, at fourteen, he really didn’t). Still, he began to ponder what a mother’s take might have been about her son’s romantic inklings; suddenly a woman’s point of view seemed essential, especially if she was someone as invested in his success as his father was.
Nate became fascinated, in an almost scientific way, with the moms of his high school girlfriends, and the duality of thought and process they brought to their children’s lives—as well as to their husbands. Whereas most of his guy friends were intimidated by their girlfriends’ fathers, it was the opposite for Nate: He found himself trying harder with the moms than with the dads, whose XY energy was more familiar, more clear-cut to him. And in turn, these women took an almost proprietary interest in Nate, something he came to find as compelling as his girlfriends’ attention. And when he went out with a classmate who had two mothers, it was double the thrill.
Yet Nate never walked away thinking kids with mothers were luckier, more complete than he was—and it wasn’t like his peers didn’t gripe their asses off about their moms and dads. If anything, he came to realize just how blessed he was to have the father he did, and, though having a mother might have been a great thing, everyone was on their own life journey and so be it. Needless to say, Nate was a lot more self-possessed back then than he was now. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? What happened?
Maybe Nate was looking for the answer to that exact question—or maybe just a sign—when he wandered into the home of a psychic near the Los Feliz intersection of Franklin and Vermont Avenues. It was the day they’d finished Amy’s job (her front yard looked even better than the back—and that looked pretty great), and Nate thought he’d treat himself with a pizza from Palermo, one of his favorite Italian joints, where he and Jim had shared many a meal. The popular restaurant had been a staple in the area forever, and made, in Nate’s humble opinion, one of the best pepperoni pies in town.
He had half an hour to kill after placing his takeout order (he should’ve called ahead but it was a last-minute impulse) so he took a walk around the eclectic neighborhood. After paying tribute to his father with a wave at Skylight Books—they’d always stop into the welcoming shop for a look-see after dinner at Palermo—Nate turned onto a residential side street off Vermont and stopped cold at the first house in: a small, slightly dilapidated, white-clapboard bungalow with a neon sign in the window that read “Psychic Reader and Advisor.” If he’d ever passed it before he was unaware—it looked like it had been around long before Nate—but, at that moment, it intrigued him.
Nate was not the “psychic readings” type. He wasn’t the psychic type at all, never had much interest in knowing the future or hearing about his past; he didn’t need someone telling him what he already knew. Nate never read his horoscope, still thought it was a silly concept (his vague interest in them as an eighth-grade conversation starter with girls sealed that deal), and knew little about astrology beyond his sign (Virgo) and its attributes (practical, organized, realistic, observant—blah, blah, blah). Jennifer was into it, had tried to interest Nate in all things Zodiac, but it didn’t take. She didn’t live her life by astrology by any means, but said she used it to better understand people; said it helped her get along with others if she knew how they operated. (She was a Pisces: dreamy, creative, romantic; that much Nate learned). Apparently, it didn’t help her get a handle on Nate—or maybe it did and that’s why she ended things.
Nate gazed at the psychic’s colorful, blinking window sign and found himself mesmerized. There were many like it all over L.A.—in homes, on storefronts, and at beach piers—and whenever Nate would pass one he’d think they should add “Suckers welcome” to the neon lettering. But not that day. That day, Nate did something startlingly uncharacteristic, and, checking to make sure no one was watching, he went up and rang the psychic’s doorbell. It sounded like a Chinese gong.
Her name was Lena and she was a compact, sturdy little woman with bright blue eyes and a neat gray bob. Nate guessed her to be around 70; she could have been anyone’s mother or grandmother. They sat across from each other on upholstered straight-back chairs in the house’s small, lovingly cluttered living room, which was lit by only one small table lamp and the remains of the day streaming in through the front window. Her enticing neon sign cast an eerie glow over the walls and furnishings.
Nate looked around for a crystal ball or a deck of tarot cards, but the room was disappointingly generic in that regard. That is, if, like Nate, you needed some extra convincing that this seemingly genial, unassuming woman was anything but the charlatan he was expecting. Yet, there he was, anxiously wondering what she might have to say about his life at this uncertain moment.
To her credit—and Nate’s surprise—Lena didn’t want his money yet: she waved him away when he took out his wallet.
“No, no. You pay after,” she said in a vaguely Teutonic accent. “Just give me your watch.”
“Wait, hold on,” said a startled Nate. “What for?” What kind of racket was this? he thought, ready to bolt.
“You’ll see.” She extended her small, lightly veined hand. Her eyes seemed kind and, yes, knowing.
Nate slowly unstrapped his watch—a Swiss Army he’d worn for ages—and handed it to Lena. She held it snugly between her hands as if trying to warm it up, then tightly shut her eyes. Nate could feel his pulse race, his throat constrict. What the fuck was he even doing there?
Then, Lena’s eyes snapped open. Her silent, steady gaze unnerved Nate but he was locked into it. The seconds ticked by like minutes. Lena’s stare deepened, darkened; her hands tensed around Nate’s watch. His head pounded.
Finally, a string of words tumbled from her mouth with a kind of robotic flatness. “Someone has come into your life. Someone you don’t trust … but somehow need.”
She looked at Nate as if for confirmation but he didn’t let on; what she said could have applied to almost anyone. Couldn’t it? “Keep going,” was all he said.
“You’re caught between two worlds—an old one that’s safe and a new one with risk.”
Nate shifted in his chair. “Can you tell me about this person? This … someone?” His voice sounded far away, detached. The room turned a shade darker.
Lena considered his question, cocking her head as if listening to something only she could hear. “She—it’s a she—is part of this new world …” Lena rubbed Nate’s watch between her hands, concentrating. “And yet, she’s not a stranger to your own life.”
Nate could feel himself resisting her reading; his arms weren’t crossed but they might as well have been. She’s still too general, he thought, her words still too interchangeable. Did he even want her to be right?
“Young man, is your mother still alive?” Lena’s voice relaxed. She assessed the stony Nate, perhaps could tell he was refusing to accept what she was “seeing;” he wouldn’t have been the first.
And then, as if a tiny door creaked open for Nate, he said, “That’s not an easy answer.” His eyes softened. He became aware of the simple gold cross hanging from her neck. Nate had no religious ardor whatsoever, but the symbol’s presence soothed him.
“No, she’s very much here—your mother. Just not in the traditional sense.” She loosened her grip on Nate’s watch, flexing her fingers.
“What does that mean?” Nate asked, impatience creeping into his voice.
Lena paused, gathered her thoughts, and cagily answered, “I think you already know.”
Nate had had enough. He snapped his watch back on and pulled out a handful of twenties. Lena put up two fingers, took Nate’s forty dollars, and dropped it in a small carved wooden box on a nearby table.
As Nate left, Lena took his arm with urgency. “It doesn’t have to be so hard,” she said.
He left without another word, floated back to his car in a daze, and didn’t realize until he turned onto Escarpa Drive that he’d forgotten to pick up the pizza.