By Carolyn J. Palo
“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” she quietly said as she looked down at the cards, spread over the table. “You know what I’m talking about right…a ring…a bright pink gem, surrounded by diamonds, in the shape of a teardrop.” I nodded “Yes.”
They were rocky times. What at first seemed like such a smooth-sailing romance had turned topsy-turvy, and I was contemplating ending the relationship. Like many women (and some men), when times are strenuous and it seems like there is no end in sight, we may seek out the psychic, fortune-teller, seer, medium or whatever the emblem is for the need. The idea that the storm would pass, and when it would was anyone’s guess. The strange anxiety of needing to know “what’s going to happen next” can drive one to seek answers in unlikely places.
Unnerved, I knew exactly what psychic Shirley was referring to, as she turned the cards over in front of me. I indeed did have a bright pink gem (fire opal) surrounded by diamonds, in the shape of a teardrop. It had been sitting in my jewelry box for most of fifteen years. She was right, it didn’t belong to me.
Many years ago, as young teenagers, my friend Shannon and I were at the mall, and while making a stop in the ladies room, she noticed a ring sitting on top of the shelf above the row of sinks. She picked it up and put it on her finger, the sparkling brightness was beautiful. It was too big for her fingers, so I tried it on, and it fit. As I admired it she announced, “You should keep it.” I thought so too. Seconds later, two girls, close to our own age, came rushing into the bathroom and asked us if we had found a ring. Shannon and I looked at each other and nodded “No.” One girl searched frantically, “It’s my grandmother’s ring, I can’t believe it – are you sure you didn’t find it?” I stood there with my hand in my pocket, and said “No.” After an exhausted search, they left, sadly.
I looked at Shannon, who broke out into laughter, and I sort of laughed, but wasn’t quite sure what was so funny. I knew I should have given them the ring, but for some odd reason, I kept it. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted it or not, but for some reason, I knew I didn’t want them to have it. I can only attribute my actions as merely a sense of power, having something that someone else wanted. I don’t think I had experienced that feeling before. Maybe that’s why I lied, shoved my hand in my pocket and waited patiently for them to leave. I kept it in my pocket for the rest of the time we were at the mall, and by five o’clock, when my father came to pick us up and take us home, I had it on my finger and wore it home.
“It’s been bringing you bad luck for a long time,” Shirley said. “It was an heirloom, handed down to a young girl.” Shame filled me. “That energy, that is with the ring is bad energy, for whatever reason. “Did you recently move?” Yes, I had moved. “There is such negative energy, and this energy is trapped, and it’s not good, not good at all.” This new home, well, it’s not a home, it’s temporary, but it’s not the right place for you at this time. This ring, I’m afraid, has something to do with it.” My heart sank. I had made a mistake, and I knew it.
I was newly engaged, (diamond-clad) and we had recently moved into a new condominium that was previously occupied by a woman and her son. We found out much later that there was a tragedy, and for some reason, she and her son were being forced out of the condo by the owner, as they were unable to purchase it.
“This place you have moved into, it’s not a happy place, and whoever lives there now has problems. It is a house full of problems and broken relationships. Does this sound right to you?” I reviewed our neighbors who occupied our building. There was Ann, an eighty-year old widow who lived in one of the basement-level condos. She consistently complained about the building management. She was twice a widow, with two middle-aged daughters who never married. I could hear her saying, with wide blue eyes and pursed lips, “My first husband was wonderful, it was that second one, who had more money than God that drove me crazy. He was an abuser. Cancer finally got him. I’m glad the bastard is dead.”
There was the professor who lived next door, Charles, who was married and wore a wedding band, but we never saw his wife. One day I asked, “Did your wife pass away?” “No,” he said quite matter-of-factly, “I had her committed to a mental institution.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Don’t be sorry, these are actually some of the best days of my life, without her.” I didn’t ask any more questions and he offered no explanations.
Then there was Dave who lived alone on the top floor (we lived on the second) who was equally secretive and slightly strange. One day when our phone was out of order, I went upstairs (as his car was in the driveway) and asked if I could use his phone to call the phone company (this was pre-cell phone days). Instead of inviting me in, he told me to “Hold on” and brought the phone to the door, which he opened only a crack and handed it to me through the cracked door with the chain still attached. I said, “I don’t know the phone number to the phone company, do you have a phone book?” He got me a phone book, and slipped that to me from the cracked door. It was within a minute or two that a stench like no other began to waft into the hallway, coming from the cracked door. Creeped out, I handed both the phone and phonebook back to him through the crack, and said “Thanks.” He quickly slammed the door and I bolted down the stairs. We did not know his circumstances, only that he was single, odd and we were told that he used to hold “experiments” in his condo. We were told that he was a science teacher, but no one seemed to know what school he taught at.
The worst situation, by far, was the girl who lived upstairs, right above us. She was just eighteen, a single mother of a two-year old boy. The father of her child was in his twenties, and we believed he had seen jail time and displayed other unsavory traits. He had a ring of fire tattooed around his neck. The first time I met him I noticed how dark and piercing his eyes were, in a disturbing way (like Ted Bundy I thought). I told my fiance, “That guy (I later named him “The Deviant”) is dangerous, you can see it in his eyes.” This young man had a penchant for bouncing a basketball on the floor at all hours of the night. Often, when my fiance was on business travel, he would bounce the basketball. I would usually be woken up out of bed infuriated, and took to banging a wooden mop handle on the ceiling in attempts for him to stop. This was followed by the young toddler waking up crying, and so then an argument ensued between he and the mother of his boy. One evening, during the fatherly visit including the bouncing basketball, things seemed to get so out of hand that he slammed the door upstairs, ran down the stairs and pushed the outside metal door so hard he broke it off the metal hinges. Clearly, a violent streak. The police were summoned, and later, we learned, a restraining order was enacted.
Hostility seemed apparent with our neighbors, and I noticed it happening in my home as well. Unsubstantiated outbursts, accusations and a man I thought I knew, who was turning into someone I didn’t. He began phoning me at work several times a day, joking that he was making sure I was at work and “not off having an affair.” He began insisting he drive me to the train station so he could “make sure I got on the train” to work. The relationship had become claustrophobic and oppressive. “Where are you getting these ideas from?” I would ask. “I don’t know, I just want to make sure that I know where you are, you know, safe.” Time after time, I felt I had to defend my every move and my energy levels were being drained. His trust in me eroded, for what reason, I’ll never know. I was wearing a diamond ring, with no wedding date, and no real desire to be married. “What a beautiful ring” strangers would remark, followed up with, “When is your wedding date?” I didn’t have one. A bad sign.
“Yes,” I said. “The people in my building are single, we are the only couple, it’s an unhappy place, I guess I never thought about it,” I admitted. “What you can do to offset this, is get a box of kosher salt, a new broom and a new dustpan, spread the salt around the perimeter of your condo, and sweep it out the door, over the threshold and outside the building.” “You should have done this before you moved in, it may be too late, but try it, it may help.” How strange I thought. “Regarding the ring in your jewelry box, you need to get a blue velvet pouch and put the ring in it. That will neutralize the negative energy, then you will know what to do.” Of course, I wanted to speed up the process, and wanted to get rid of the ring. “You can’t sell it or give it away, you just keep it in the blue velvet pouch, and trust me, the day will come when you will know what to do,” she said. “Remember, that when you acquire things that don’t or didn’t belong to you, it can have negative ramifications.” I agreed.
When I got home that evening, I shared the details of the salt-and-broom method to eradicate the negative energies with my fiance. He laughed and said, “Hey, whatever you think will make you happy, go for it.” So I followed her instructions and did as she instructed. I found a blue velvet pouch at a new age shop, and I swept the kosher salt out the door with the new broom. And waited.
A few months went by, and thoughts of leaving were consistently clouding my thoughts. For the most part, nothing had changed. I was feeling more claustrophobic, and unhappy. He was trying to battle the unfounded thoughts that I was having an affair, or planning to go back to an old boyfriend. I began planning my move. Breakups are never easy, and it seemed best to remain civil, and note my move as “taking some time.” “This is just a break for us, you’ll keep wearing the diamond, and when it’s right for you, you’ll come back” he assured. I knew a reconciliation was unlikely. “Remember,” he said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I smiled and thought to myself, “Out of sight, out of mind.” I looked forward to leaving, having peace-of-mind, and rethinking my life and my next move. I looked forward to living freely and not having to explain anything.
Back at home, at the age of thirty-one, emotionally and mentally drained, I had slept a whole night without any interruptions. Weeks went by and although I still had the engagement ring, I wasn’t wearing it. The feelings were no longer there, and neither was the intent. I called my pseudo-fiance and and planned to stop by, which I did . He wasn’t there, so I let myself in with my key. I unlocked the door and proceeded to the bedroom. I put the engagement ring on his bureau, with the keys to the condominium. I wrote a brief note, “This is the right thing.”
One morning, months later, post-break-up, I woke up very early. The first thought in my mind was “I know what to do with the ring.” I got up, went to my jewelry box and retrieved the blue velvet pouch, got dressed and jumped in my car. I drove to the mall and went inside. Seventeen years had gone by, and among many renovations, the ladies room was still in the same place.
I entered the empty bathroom, took out the ring, a bright pink gem, surrounded by diamonds, in the shape of a teardrop, and placed it on the shelf above the row of sinks, and I quietly left.
