The Other Side of Psychics

Photograph by JC.

She said, “I suppose I am the color blue.”

I said, “No, you’re the color yellow.”

She said “It’s because of the yellow eyeshadow in that picture, isn't it?”

And I said, “No. You’re the color of the daffodils who defy the sweeping gray skies that try to cling to winter. You’re the yellow of sunshine ripping through, bringing us to spring again.”

That’s the last thing I said to her. It was posted on her timeline. And if you ask me, she was the most perfect person to exist. She was bright, beautiful, made of paint splashes and the brightest smiles. 

So, of course, for me, her story would end this way.

Her tense changed. Is. To was.

Not too long after that exchange, Katelyn went missing. My nephew’s fiancee. Vanished from her home one night with no sign of struggle. She left voluntarily, at least at first. But there were so many “not her” things about it, that there was no question she didn’t just want to give a new life a try. She was gone. And eventually a neighbor said they remembered hearing a short scream.

The police, then the news and it all took off from there. We gathered every day for--I don’t remember how long anymore because I worked so hard for so long to make it all a blur, though I still remember shopping for different shoes, and shirts because it was so hot outside that August that I didn't like the feel of cotton anymore. 

Texas Equusearch got involved, and brought some amazing, dedicated volunteers who showed us how to search for a shallow grave-- you take a stick and you stab disturbed dirt or suspicious piles of rocks, and you smell the tip. The best tools were extendable paint roller rods, because they can be collapsed and stowed in a bag.

I found out during that search that I was pregnant with my youngest.

That’s how I spent my first trimester. Stabbing piles of dirt, smelling for a corpse that was someone I loved.

Nancy Grace caught wind, and did what Nancy Grace does, leaving pain in her wake. “Good Morning America” showed up for a morning interview. And everyone had an opinion. 

Facebook pages were dedicated to stalking the people closest to her. Some literally digging in the family backyard fire pit for “evidence” and judging character by handshakes.

The onslaught of analysis rolled in. Who makes eye contact, and when, and who does the talking and who doesn’t, and why doesn’t she say something when he does, why are they sitting together and why is that one on the news but not the other one? 

It never ended.

Our lives became public domain and it was horrible. Deeply, unspeakably horrible.

And then the psychics.

Every one claimed credentials.

From working with police, to finding other people’s stuff. We were contacted by phone, facebook, email…We never asked. They just arrived with predictions and visions. And I knew they were trying to do the right thing, likely guided by compassion, kindness, or duty.

Here’s the thing.

I believe in psychic ability, I’ve experienced it myself; I felt the sting of her leaving this existence late one night.

Reliability is the problem. But with every “She’s in a barn in Fort Mitchell” and “She’s under a water tower with a giant W on it” came a drive to check. I had to look. Because I do believe. And despite how painful it became, each call was a teardrop of hope.

Hope. It’s a wicked bitch.

So my pregnant self would dutifully look if I could, not because I believed, but because I didn’t know how I’d feel if one of them was right.

“What if she is on this small slip of land by the river...not even remotely easily accessed by any road?” I annoyed the hell out of the rest of my family, and I get it. Because at least one sibling usually made the trek with me regardless of how they felt about it all. Their pregnant sister was looking for a dead body left behind by a murderer. And they didn’t believe. But they were there for me anyway.

Two years later a scrapper found her remains by the side of a road in Indiana, her head in a Kroger bag.

Cops and search crews were called in. They used little flags to trace where her bones had washed from the years of weather so they could be sure to get as much of her as they could. 

She was 5 miles outside of our search radius and exactly nowhere near any psychic sighting. 

When psychics contact people who are in these places of pain, chaos and darkness, they’re adding pressure to a stressed system. They’re telling a pregnant woman to go stab a pile of dirt and hope it comes out smelling like the dead girl she loved.

If you’re a psychic and want to be effective help, join the searches.

Get involved. Physically go to the places you’ve seen and look for yourself, and if you can’t, find someone else who can.

Searching for a loved one is a merciless thing. The grass doesn’t care, the sun, the stars the dirt hold no concern.

This is not a cautionary tale.

It’s a plea for mercy.