I bet you’ll easily relate to this story, the second in a three-part series inspired by my More Than Blue Shoes post. If you missed last week’s installment about Norman, catch up here.
London
I met “London”, randomly, a few months ago while enjoying pancakes at one of my favorite breakfast spots–and got more than I bargained for: breakfast and an unexplained wave of familiarity.
It’s hard to describe the tingle I feel when I meet someone I think I know, but I don’t know why. Near as I could tell, I’d never met London before, but our friendly banter stuck with me, leaving me racking my brain and wondering where we’d crossed paths.
I wondered…if I closed my eyes and squinted, maybe I could force an a-ha. Maybe clarity would come and explain how I knew her? FYI…squinting didn’t help.
My meandering thoughts took me on a trip of another sort–to psychologist Carl Jung’s research on synchronicity; the human compulsion to make meaning from experiences which might seem random–but could also be a pathway to meaning we can’t quite discern. A memory tucked deep within:
Psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung developed the concept of synchronicity in the early 1900s. Jung himself believed in synchronicity, which he defined as “meaningful coincidences.” He wrote extensively about the concept.
Coincidence and synchronicity are related but distinct terms. “Coincidence” describes a seemingly related series of events that occur without apparent cause. The term “synchronicity” requires the individual to ascribe deeper meaning to the coincidence; Carl Jung described synchronicity as “meaningful coincidences.”
Maybe meeting London was a meaningful coincidence?
Intrigue grew when I ran into her again, at an entirely different restaurant–a local pizza place offering wood-fired slices to die for. When London arrived at our table and introduced herself, I caught the twinkle in her eye, a flash of delight as she smiled broadly. I wondered: does she recognize me, too?
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, hoping I read her expression accurately. “Now you know all of my secret food obsessions—pancakes and pizza.”
London didn’t miss a beat. Laughing she said, “Good to see you, too! After we met at my other job, I couldn’t shake the feeling I knew you from somewhere and wanted to tell you, but I figured you’d think I was a nut!”
My brain clickety-clacks. I think…maybe she’s simply being friendly. Maybe she doesn’t really recognize me but picked up on my exuberance and played along.
My lunch companion, Darcy, is now thoroughly bored. In an irritated tone she chose not to cloak, she sighs and complains. “Yep. This is my friend, Vicki, and we can’t go anywhere without her running into an old friend, a new friend or a long-lost friend.”
London laughs, enjoying the playful girlfriend banter in progress, watching me as I shrug and take the dig. Darcy’s not wrong.
London takes our drink order, and Darcy gives me that look. The one where she knows I’m gonna pontificate. Come up with a theory. Darcy knows the drill; she’s an educator and a psychology maven, too. When I bring up Jung and his synchronicity research, she gives me a go-ahead nod, signaling defeat.
“Okay, ” I say. Launching my schpiel. “I think this is an example of Jung’s theory, playing out in real life. Stuff like this–meeting people we know, but don’t know? It’s probably occurring all day, every day, but we miss the cues, the subtleties. We’re so wrapped up in ourselves, our phones, our devices.”
“Maybe,” Darcy nods, “But you’re still a freak. A freak who wrote about people with over-the-top intuition, empathic skills. You did that in Slivers. More memoir than you care to admit?”
Oof. Direct hit. She got me.
“You know that scene in Slivers, where Jane takes a big risk, talking about spooky houses with her friends, and the messages she receives? Pretty brave. And honestly, Jane reminded me of you…always seeing something.”
I knew exactly which scene Darcy meant:
Slivers – Chapter 5: Puzzle Pieces
Jane twisted her mouth. Half smile and half frown—marveling at Katie’s business-like knack for acknowledging the muck but plowing through anyhow. Sighing she said, “Yep, you’re right. But we need to make a pact. Everything we discuss is just between the three of us. I mean it.”
Eric cleared his throat and checked his watch.
Katie groaned, thinking: Stop, start, stop, start. We’re not here for a speech, buddy.
Eric’s blonde eyebrows knitted into one straight line, shooting a quizzical look at Katie. She hadn’t said a word, but he heard her just the same.
Undeterred, he said, “I’ve gotta be home soon. I’ll share what I can now, but can we keep talking tomorrow?” Glaring at Jane for emphasis. “Like tomorrow, tomorrow. No disappearing acts.”
Jane didn’t answer, but the fact that she didn’t bolt was good news.
“Okay, okay. Time is short. Start talking already,” Katie lamented, pointing to her wrist as if she had a watch on. “Tick tock!”
But Jane drifted away as soon as Eric began speaking. Watching his mouth move, she couldn’t stop thinking about his house. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. Sideways wrong. Flooded with visuals, she rubbed her temple, trying to contain the rush while pretending to listen. Eyes focused on his lips, she nodded appropriately even though an unexpected slideshow bombed her brain.
She knew Eric’s house was going to be closed up tight when they drove by on their way to the pool. The weathered gray-green farmhouse screamed, keep moving…nothing to see here…as Maggie’s Bonneville full of girls rolled past. The aging clapboard home communicated plenty with its foreboding attitude—a relic yearning for its glory days before the subdivision sprouted all around it, in the name of progress and two-car garages.
Add this to my list of quirks, Jane thought. For as long as she could remember, she reflexively classified structures by their predominant emotion. Waves of unsolicited input revealing clues about the occupants, the home’s history. Like an animated echo or a faint pulse communicating with her.
But Eric’s odd farmhouse was a conundrum, offering a plaintive wail, exuding sorrow when they drove by. She would never be able to describe how she knew what she knew, but his house conveyed conflict. Suffering from its own peculiar brand of loneliness tinged with bravado. Just like the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz, she mused. Playing games with people’s hearts.
Without warning, the visuals in Jane’s head shifted. A montage of Katie’s house shoved its way in, demanding her attention. The Murphys’ mahogany brown colonial had attitude—it was angry and exhausted, desperate to exhale.
Then the slideshow shifted again, prompting Jane to clutch her abdomen from the nausea she felt—trying to look normal while she pretend-listened to Eric. Images of her own house arrived, the yellow two-story smirking like a smiley face. Looking like a self-satisfied child struggling to keep a secret with oversized windows and chubby cherub cheeks. Happy and welcoming, but cartoon-like with a swaying roofline over the attic.
Jane thought she might throw up when the last barrage arrived, a petrifying peek at Greer’s house. The steel-colored bungalow exuded fear with its sharp roof, pointy angles, and black trim. Greer’s house was a razor. A shiny Gillette blade just like her dad’s…
And in that moment, Jane understood the reason for her ruminations. Punctuation for the wild ride in her head. She’d missed the most pervasive emotion from Eric’s house. It winced as if it was in pain…because of his…mom. She met Allison once when Maggie invited her to play cards, arriving overdressed for an afternoon of Canasta, prompting the other ladies to fuss over her with fakery. Jane knew why. The other moms felt frumpy in their Bermuda shorts and tank tops compared to pretty, wide-eyed Allison in her flowy sundress. Cloaking their unkind thoughts with hollow compliments, they hid behind faux flattery.
Eavesdropping from the stairs, Jane listened as Maggie introduced Allison and played helpful hostess, but the awkwardness was intense. Allison left soon after, saying something about a forgotten appointment, scampering down the driveway. Escaping.
I know that move.
Shuffling her thoughts to the last scene from the awkward card party, Jane remembered Eric’s mom pausing to stare at her school pictures, prominently displayed in the family room. She turned abruptly, perhaps sensing Jane’s presence behind her, but offered no words. Only a wink—directed at Jane like an icy blast.
pgs. 32-35
I hope I cross paths with London again. Maybe Darcy’s right and there’s no backstory at all. Sometimes a moment of connection is just that. Wonderful and inspiring, a sense of warmth without understanding the source but trusting anyhow. A lesson our plucky trio in Slivers experience as their adventure moves into overdrive.
Vicki 💝
Hi – I’m Victoria, Vicki, Dr. Vicki. I hold a doctorate in Adult Education and I’m a Licensed Professional Counselor (LPC), and author of Surviving Sue and Slivers.
Check out this link to learn more about Surviving Sue – a memoir about resilience and love. Check out this link to order Slivers in paperback, a ghost story with surprising twists. Click here for the e-Book.
Check out my interview with publisher, Rick Kaempfer from Eckhartz Press.
P.S. Are you on Substack? If so, I’d love to connect with you there: Vicki Atkinson, Ed.D | Substack
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