Ouija Wine Wednesdays

I’ve never seen a ghost, but I believe the people that have. I spend a lot of my time pondering what lies on the other side of this life, knowing deep down that my ‘research’ will only ever lead into a purgatory of unresolve, deep diving into an unanswerable abyss. That infamous Houdini secret word is ever present in my mind during my other worldly pursuits. The story goes that during their own quest for answers about what exists in the afterlife, Harry and Bess also set out to unmask fraudulent psychics (oxymoron?) in the process. Bess, fulfilling a promise they had made to each other, went from psychic-to-psychic following Harry’s untimely death for the remainder of her life seeking their secret word from beyond the grave. “Believe.” She never heard it. This story haunts me. In life, human beings are so capable, at times transcending even their own limits, discovering things barely fathomable, below earth’s surface and out into space and beyond. If we are so astonishingly capable on this earthly plane how could it be that no one has been able to send a definitive message to the living from beyond? What awaits us? The creation of religion an often-deadly salve created to soothe the suffering brought upon us by evolution and the ultimate development of a frontal lobe. Without setting out to do so I had unwittingly revolved my life around the inexplicable, by day as a robotics engineer searching for answers in deep space and by night with my best friend, Serena, a self-proclaimed “gypsy” who performed weekly seances in her living room.

I had developed a most unlikely friendship with Serena through a shared disdain for an ex-boyfriend we had dated simultaneously, unknowingly. Once we uncovered his deceit, we did the female unthinkable, and wrote ourselves a triumphant finale sprung from a nonexistent feminist fairytale. We chose each other over him. We thought if we could perform this kind of magic in the real world, maybe our shared powers could extend to the beyond. Blond and meek in stature, Serena was the more fairy-like in appearance of the two of us as well, my dark hair and features foreshadowing my skeptical nature. I admit it was an unusual bond, as I lived the life society and my parents had dreamt up for me in an effort to pursue all the commercial trappings advertised to make you happy like designer bags and clothes while Serena needed no more than hand-me downs and thrift shop specials, always pulling off her eclectic look. Serena would take me to her favorite psychic shops on the weekends where she would wave various incense sticks under my nose and shuffle through gorgeous sets of tarot cards. I adored these trips with her although I could never truly shake my cynical nature or the education that had so severely glued my feet to earth. I have, however seen death tempt even the most hardcore atheist to hope against all available earthly evidence that something lies beyond, a happy place where our beloved ones exist still, a place where we will be united in dreamlike perpetuity. And even after all the evidence to the contrary is presented to me day after day, I am still a person who wants to believe that magic exists.

So even though the ghosts Serena and I have summoned have not yet appeared, she is not a doubter like me. She is a knower, needing no proof to believe, magic appearing to her everywhere, all her actions denoting a plan laid forth for her by the universe as she speaks to her dead relatives over our weekly Ouija board sessions. My copious research to-date had provided no evidence for the afterlife, but personal prayers had led to some tangible success and I had even met with a preeminent South Carolina psychic who provided some bone chilling details about the specific chardonnay preferences of my deceased Grandma and the dog that accompanies her in the spirit world (“little and brown”). Koko. I missed them both. This could not have been the result of googling as this information was not mentioned in her obituary and she passed prior to the invention of social media. In absence of definitive answer could it be her? Them? My beloved grandma and our little brown dog, come to tell me everything is ok, that I am loved here and beyond. Serena took this as proof to support her case for magic while I was just game to drink wine and play a Hasbro board game and unwind with her after a stressful work day. It couldn’t hurt to see if my Grandma wanted to do the same.

Tonight was my turn to supply the wine for our and Ouija Wine Wednesday at Serena’s apartment. I arrive at her apartment door and stand atop her “Witches Welcome” mat while I balance two bottles of red wine under my arm and knock on the door. My knock doesn’t incite any barking behind the door, a reminder that I should, but never will, accept the fact that cats are the more peaceful, if not less affectionate apartment companion. The door knob begins to jiggle as Serena unlocks and opens the door. She is an impish vision in her pink robe and black leggings, platinum blond hair pinned back displaying the sprouting of dark roots. My beautiful hippie friend opens the door and immediately walks away leaving me pushing the door open to let myself in. “Come in Cupcake, I’m just finishing up a few things in here.” 

I walk through the cherry-paneled kitchen to the living room where velvet chairs sit on opposite sides of Serena’s small, circular dining room table, appropriately covered by a red patterned table cloth, the ominous Ouija board sitting pristinely on top. The living room is blanketed by burgundy tapestries and the window blinds are drawn tightly closed beneath rows of curtain lights. The result is a cozy, dark psychic haven. A dubious thought creeps in as I stop for a second and wonder why ghosts are more likely to come to a dark place. I push the logic away. Serena bends down and lights the incense on the coffee table which is set amongst a smattering of her favorite gypsy tchotchkes including a beige antique tea leaf reading cup and several divination candles in neon colors.

“Where is your wine opener?” I ask her as she sits down at the Ouija table.

“It’s in the drawer to the right of the stove I think, “she responds without looking over to me. I open the drawer and it’s not there, so I continue searching through other drawers. As I hunt, I ask her how her day was. She recently got a new job in retail, the commercial designer kind, not the mystical variety and I wonder how she fares in that cold, harsh bottom-line business.

“Eh, you know, no Stephens or anything but I hope I don’t need to stay at this corporate monstrosity too long.” Stephen is the name we created in rejection of the misogynistic “Karen” term so readily accepted and disseminated by society to describe a difficult, whiny customer. 

“How was your day?” she asks me as she places the planchette delicately in the neutral zone in the middle of the board.  

“Oh, you know another day of space bewilderment,” I respond as I fumble with her clunky wine opener. She looks up from the board and flashes her contagious smile at me. “Well, it’s time to shed all that white coat energy and come over here to enter the shimmery netherworld,” she says.

I pour out two sizable portions of wine and bring them over to the Ouija table sitting myself opposite Serena. She always begins our sessions with her little spirit chant, which I accept as readily as I would any pre-meal prayer performed by a host. I tell her the Houdini story and how adversely affects my supernatural expectations. Serena grabs my hand and squeezes it in understanding and I instantly relax at the touch of warm skin on my hands that have spent a long day spent handling cold, robotic metal. She closes her eyes and bows her head and I follow suit.

“Spirits and heavenly creatures of the light, we beckon you tonight with love and acceptance in our hearts. Bring your love and light to us spirits so we can know you too.” She lifts her head, looks at me and winks. “Ok Cupcake, you ready?” she asks as she sets her pointer and middle fingers on the plastic toy.

“As ready as I’ll ever be for a ghost visit,” I say and place my fingers on the other side of the device.

“Are we searching for someone specific tonight or are you still trying to get Houdini to tell you that word?” she asks me as casually as if she is inquiring about how I take my coffee.

“I didn’t know spirits took request,” I reply somewhat snidely. “Can we get JFK here because we’ll be able to make some good money on a book talking about what really happened that day.”

Serena gives me a sideways glance, purses her lips, and closes her eyes. “Spirits of the netherworld,” she begins. “Please ignore my good friend Rose as she is a skeptic who has lost her sense of wonder for the other world. Is anyone there to restore her faith in the unseen?” I stare down at our hands on the planchette, and it begins to move slowly up and to my right, the plastic centerpiece landing on, ‘yes.’

We both look down, clock the answer, and move the planchette back to the middle of the board. Serena lifts her chin up and closes her eyes again. “Welcome spirit,” as if narrating Dickens. “Is there a Harry Houdini in the netherworld?” Her eyes stay closed as I look from her back down to the board and it begins moving in the same direction and lands on the same answer. “Yes.” I smirk and we replace the Planchette.

“Can we speak to Harry Houdini?” asks Serena dramatically. Our fingers land on the affirmative again.”

“Mr. Houdini,” Serena starts. I silently commend her deference to the dead. “We are here to acknowledge your existence in the other world. Mr. Houdini, what is your secret word?”

Nothing happens for a few seconds as I glance back and forth from Serena’s closed eyes to our fingers on the board. I am wondering if the spirits would allow me to life my finger for just a quick sip of wine when the plastic device starts moving around the center of the board, the alphabet. Over to my left, down to my right, ‘R…. O…S…A…B…E…L…B…E…L…I…E….’

“Very funny Serena,” I say grinning. “What did you do, google Houdini’s phrase?”

“No, I didn’t!” Serena declares opening her eyes wide and staring at me.

I stand up more quickly than I anticipated. “Listen Serena, it’s fine if you looked it up, but just be honest. I mean, come on, you don’t really expect me to believe this is real,” I say to her still good naturedly.

“Rose I swear I didn’t. I don’t even know what it’s saying.”

“He’s saying the full secret phrase, “Rosabel, Believe,” I say ‘he’ as if Harry Houdini really is the culprit behind the ruse.

“Well, I didn’t even know that. I swear,” she looks up at me innocently.

“No of course I believe you,” I reply. “But could that mean I was pushing it and I didn’t realize it? Because come on Serena I love our weekly hangouts, but this stuff isn’t real.”

“Maybe you need to believe a little more,” she says to me. “They are right there, on the other side waiting to converse with us, and if you don’t believe it, you’ll never be able to hear it!”

I looked at my faithful friend in awe. I hoped we’d continue our Ouija Wine Wednesdays and that I never rubbed off on her, only the other way around.