Page 79 of Clinically Bewitched
“I don’t need to open my third eye.”
“Everyone needs to open their third eye, brother.”
“I’m not your brother.”
“We’re all brothers in the cosmic sense.”
I reached for my wineglass.
It was empty.
I reached for the bottle.
“So,” my mother began, her voice tight with the kind of forced politeness that suggested she was seconds away from snapping. “Woodlawn. What is it that you do?”
“I’m a woodworker,” Woody said proudly. “I make custom furniture. All sustainable materials, all hand-carved, all infused with positive energy. And I also do some shamanic work on the side. Healing ceremonies, vision quests, that kind of thing.”
“Vision quests,” my father repeated.
“Yeah, man. It’s powerful stuff. Really helps people connect with their true selves. You should try it sometime. I’m sensing you’ve got some unresolved issues with your masculine energy.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
“I assure you, my masculine energy is perfectly resolved.”
“That’s what everyone says right before they have a breakthrough.”
“I’m not having a breakthrough.”
“Not with that attitude.”
I poured myself more wine.
“And you, Stephanie?” my mother asked, turning to Stevie with the kind of desperate hope that suggested she was praying for something...anythingnormal.
“Oh, please, call me Stevie!” Stevie smiled, her bracelets jingling. “I’m a herbalist and a Reiki master. I grow all my own herbs. Completely organic, completely aligned with the lunar cycles, and I help people heal through energy work and plant medicine. It’s very rewarding.”
“Plant medicine,” my mother repeated faintly.
“Yes! Herbs, tinctures, teas. All natural, all blessed by the Earth. I actually brought some with me.” She reached into her bag, a massive woven thing that looked like it had been made by very enthusiastic hippies, and pulled out several small bottles. “This one is for stress relief, this one is for digestive issues, this one is for—”
“We’re fine,” my mother said quickly. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m getting a very tense energy from this table, and I think a little chamomile and lavender might—”
“We’re fine.”
“Well, if you change your mind!”
The waiter appeared, looking slightly panicked.
“Are we... ready to order?”
“Yes,” my father said. “Please.”
“I’ll have the duck,” my mother said.
“The salmon,” my father added.
