I Made a Promise to a Ghost and I Plan on Keeping My Word

Back in 2010, not long after marrying my second husband (yes, I’m very popular), we landed in NYC to visit friends. With my foray into burlesque, my girlfriend suggested we take trapeze together. I envisioned an aerial class where we’d be hanging from silks or a lyra barely lifted above the ground, so I agreed.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t that.

What my friend had in mind was attending the Trapeze School New York in Brooklyn, where I’d be expected to scale a ladder and hang from a metal bar 40ish feet in the air.

The problem was—and still is—my monumental fear of heights. Pretty crazy for a flight attendant, right? All I can tell you is as flight crew, if you’re falling, you’re doing it wrong! Being flung out into the open air with nothing but a strap around your waist and your sweaty palms white-knuckling a metal bar isn’t exactly the makings of stability. And it certainly won’t get you to your proper destination.

But I had to follow through with the trapeze thing.

My newly relocated New York friend wanted to embrace everything Big Apple and she was having none of my hesitant Southern shenanigans.

I jumped backward, letting the door slam in our faces when she tried to cram herself, my then-husband, and me into a crowded NYC Subway car. Evidently, this was not an appropriate reaction and I caught hell for it. In New York, there’s no such thing as having social anxiety because when it’s this hard to catch a train car, you must shove yourself into the first one that arrives, no matter your level of terror.

So, I had failed my first NYC test. But I couldn’t help it. My anxiety and empathic radar will not allow me to sardine myself.

Okay, so there’s that flight attendant dichotomy again. Yes, we do spend long shifts confined to small spaces. BUT. And this is a big BUT. As flight crew, we’re in control. We board early and organize our areas in advance. We have access to jump seats away from passengers and we’re trained to handle emergencies.

But stuck on the Subway? Wouldn’t I just be 6 o’clock news as Woman Trampled to Death if any crisis ensued?

Now, here I stood for NYC test #2 at the base of this wobbly ladder staring up at some sky perch while trying to keep my legs from turning to jelly. I looked back to see my friend’s stern face glaring in my direction. There was no getting out of this one. So, I took my place in line behind Clara.

At 9, Clara must have sensed my fear because she turned to me and said, “It’s only scary the first time but once you do it, it’s fun.”

Thanks for the pep talk, Clara. But as a 9-year-old, you’re made of rubber, so you bounce. You’ve also never read news stories about rollercoasters that come off the tracks plunging passengers to their deaths, so you just keep revving up that confidence engine, girl, and I’ll be over here sorting out the facts from the fairytales. Okay?

No, I didn’t have the faith of a 9-year-old, but I made my way up the ladder anyway. Nothing says I have a death wish like being required to scale an unsteady ladder immediately upon signing a waiver releasing the Trapeze School from liability in the event they accidentally kill me. But here I was against my will, anyway.

Ahhh friendship.

Just finding my footing was an epic feat. The ladder moved so much I wasn’t even sure I’d finish the climb. But somehow, I propelled myself upward to that ridiculous roost where I scanned the ceiling from my bird’s eye perspective and attempted to stave off a panic attack. I refused to look down as my trapeze instructor grabbed hold of the metal bar in front of me.

“Thanks, but I can’t do this,” I said and scrambled toward the platform’s edge only to stare down into the judgmental eyes of everyone waiting their turn below.

“There’s only one way out of here and it’s not down the ladder. Hi, I’m Billy,” he gave me a genuinely warm grin.

“I don’t think I can do this, Billy,” I confessed.

“I’m afraid of heights, too,” he tried to commiserate, “That’s why I took this job. When I first started, no one believed I could have acrophobia and work here until one day the other instructors saw me standing on the platform, shaking. I had to overcome my fear. And if I can do it, so can you.”

Billy placed the weighted trapeze in my hands.

He counted, cueing me to jump. 1…2…3…

No dice. My feet were glued to the spot.

Surrender.

Release.

My lead feet were having none of it.

“This must be what it feels like to face your own death,” I thought. But as Ruth Gordon exclaimed in Harold and Maude I wanted to L-I-V-E, LIVE.

Sure, I was inspired by Billy’s speech. I was also holding up the line because no amount of encouragement could drive me to dive straight down to my doom.

“Here,” Billy said when it was evident I’d never jump off on my own, “sit on my lap.”

Billy had now morphed into some Trapeze School Santa Claus and in seconds there I was sitting on top of him thinking we must be going down together. Mutually Assured Destruction. As someone who recoils from hugs and sardining myself on the Subway, this situation was oddly comforting to me. It’s strange the places where we discover our need for people. But before I had a chance to launch into a psychological study of the human condition during wartime, Billy gently propelled me off his legs and I was airborne.

And I took to the trapeze like a brand new bird, soaring through the air.

Just kidding…

I kept my eyes locked down and swung back and forth, rigid as a board. When I sensed I was slowing down, I finally let go and dropped into the net below me. I’m certain I was about as graceful as a falling brick, unlike my show-off friend who was doing flips in midair.

All I could manage was to hang on for dear life and then—plop.

But I did it.

Stamped and bucket list approved.

I will always be grateful to Billy for attempting to allay my fear, but for now, I was sticking to my neurosis. I didn’t dare go for another dangerous dangle. My nervous system was so shot it felt like my spine was being used to open portals. There was this porous feeling like I was caught between worlds as we made our way to the hotel.

I’ve always had a sensitivity to the other side—the spirits and souls across the veil. But who admits this stuff? Only I will to you, thoughtful readers. To me, it isn’t anything spooky or strange. I believe when we die, we cross over, and our souls continue on into a new realm.

As a young girl, I remember feeling like I could hear the voices of souls on the other side when we arrived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana from Atlanta.

But I made a deal with them.

I promise to listen as long as you never show yourself to me.

And so far, they’ve obliged. I’ve since learned that’s called Clairaudience or just plain crazy depending on who you consult with. But if you learn nothing else from this post, take this point to heart: You’re alive now, but one day you’ll be dead. And when that day comes, you’ll be a ghost, too. All that’ll be left of you will be the stories people tell or read about you.

So, guess what? I treat the voices I hear the same way I’d treat anyone. Humanely and with respect. And I also make it a point to capture the best stories I can.

When we arrived at the infamous Hotel Chelsea, my nerves worn through from a day of air dangling, I should’ve known my sensitivity to spirits would perk right up. This was the hotel where Patti Smith, Robert Mapplethorpe, and Janis Joplin lived in their heyday. The place where Nancy Spungen, girlfriend to Sex Pistol’s Sid Vicious died mysteriously.

But the first thing that triggered me in that hotel was the damn staircase.

With an out-of-order elevator, we walked up eight flights to our room. Looking down at that black wrought iron as it turned in on itself with its square spiral was enough to make me feel like someone had taken a cheese grater to my nerve endings.

Pushing the door open to our enormous historic room, I felt nothing but relief.

But it didn’t last.

I spotted the windows and a borrowed sense of anxiety flooded in on me.

How many hotels had I stayed in before today? 99% of them came with windows that DID. NOT. OPEN. But here in the Chelsea with my frayed nerves, I was standing next to one that could be single-handedly unlatched, evacuating you to the pavement below.

Jump. I heard a female voice say in my head.

Absolutely not. I returned the mental exchange. I did not know who I was speaking to, but I didn’t have a death wish. Still, there was this overwhelming sense of magnetism to that window. I couldn’t shake it.

We went out for dinner and spent the early evening roaming around Chelsea. I tried to ground myself on the streets below, but no matter what we did I couldn’t regain a sense of equilibrium. That feeling of being so raw, so sensitive, so exposed remained with me the rest of the night.

My husband shared none of my feelings and when we retired to our room, he went straight to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep.

My anxiety felt as fresh as it did during my trapeze plunge and now that damn window kept beckoning me outward. If the trapeze had taught me anything, it was that I was no risk-taker. My efforts in life were mostly calculated and consistent. Yet, something kept calling to me. It felt profoundly feminine and as if I couldn’t turn my back on it.

I laid in the bed and closed my eyes and sleep did begin to creep in. But just as I started to drift off… WHAM!

There was a loud noise that startled me awake.

That was weird. Something heavy sounded like it had fallen to the ground. But doesn’t everything sound weird when you’re exhausted and trying to sleep in a new place?

Thirty minutes later I got settled and was drifting off once more when… WHAM! The noise broke the silence and abruptly woke me again. This time it seemed too loud to be anything down the hall. My nerves were still scrambled—maybe the idea of that unsecured window was just playing tricks with my mind.

I sat up, trying to figure out where the hell the sound was coming from when finally I began to feel drowsy a third time and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I was just floating off when WHAM! the sound hammered me hard and was loud enough to wake up my husband.

This time I thought I pinpointed the noise. My cosmetic case—it clearly had crashed to the floor in the bathroom. I jumped up to check, but the case was still sitting on the countertop when I got to the bathroom.

“It’s just the pipes,” my husband said and rolled over. He was snoring in a matter of minutes. Scottish by blood, he’d grown up in and around buildings far older than the Hotel Chelsea. To him, everything was haunted—and no cause for concern. But I wasn’t like him. I could sense a desperate plea from an old building when I heard one.

Someone was trying to get my attention.

Eventually, I got a few hours rest—more of a nap than a sound night’s sleep. Spent from our trip, the next day we decided to only go out for a bite to eat and to continue to relax in our room.

Once the sun set, my husband was ready to get his beauty sleep. I felt a bit less frazzled than the night so I, too, crawled under the covers and drifted off. But just like the previous evening… WHAM! There was that sound again and it startled me awake.

Something or someone was intent on getting my attention.

But I was worn thin. I didn’t know what to do, but I was done with this game. I flung out my only bargaining chip.

“Look,” I commanded, “I’m exhausted. If you’ll let me sleep, I promise I’ll write about you. I’ll tell your story.”

Immediately upon our agreement, I felt an energy shift in the room.

I never heard another peep for the rest of the night and slept like a rock until the following morning…

Part II coming next Wednesday.