Follow Me(23)

I cast an appraising eye over my handiwork. Something was still missing. I thought for a moment and then dug through a box until I’d found my grandmother’s ashtray. Granny Wanda had smoked like a chimney—as a girl I’d been convinced she was part dragon—and her beautiful cornflower-blue ashtray with its inside crisscrossed with delicate gold lines was always within arm’s reach. It was the only thing I had wanted after she had passed on, and I had kept it by my bed as a catchall ever since.

I reverently placed the ashtray on the table in front of the flowers and then balanced the smudge stick on the ashtray. I snapped a few pictures with my DSLR, then ignited the stick and took a few more. I reviewed the images on the camera and smiled. I had been right; there was something alluring and beautiful about the smoke curling up from the shot. The brilliant blue of the ashtray provided a necessary pop of color in an otherwise monochrome setting. It was an arresting image.

I put down my camera in favor of my iPhone and shot some video of myself wafting the smudge stick through the air—carefully keeping the angle tight so as not to reveal the mound of boxes. I checked the results. All good. I fluffed my hair and went live.

“Hey, everyone! Guess what I’m doing!” I held up the smoldering sage and wafted it back and forth in front of my face. The smoke made my eyes water, and I blinked as I set it back down in the ashtray. “I’m smudging my new apartment. Have any of you ever smudged your homes? I’d love to hear about it!”

I smiled as comments started rolling across the screen.

Love smudging!

Great lamp!

hi audrey!

“Shoot me a message and let me know if you have any great smudging tips!” I continued. “I’m a newbie.”

I like the table. Much better choice than that marble one.

I caught my breath. In the years I’d been sharing my life on the internet, I had received hundreds, if not thousands, of creepy, weird, and downright disgusting comments. I was largely immune to them, including the truly upsetting ones (even “your eyeballs would look perfect on my nightstand” had only bothered me for thirty minutes), but this one sent a real chill down my spine. I had been admiring a marble end table at CB2. Had someone been watching me?

I suddenly realized I hadn’t said anything for several seconds and forced myself back into action. Smiling hard to conceal my uneasiness, I said, “All right, guys, I’ve got to go and drive the negative energy out of this place! But send me your smudging stories! Talk soon.”

Hands shaking, I disconnected the livestream and watched the Stories I’d made about my shopping trip. There I was, meandering around the store without a care in the world—completely oblivious to someone who might have been watching me—and giving a running commentary on pieces I liked. I relaxed when I saw myself trail fingertips along the smooth surface of that marble. So that was it. The commenter had seen the marble table in my Stories.

But I didn’t say anything about that table, I thought uneasily. How would they have known I was seriously considering it unless they’d been there to overhear my conversation with the salesman?

I brushed the concerns aside, telling myself I was overthinking things. Just because I hadn’t specifically mentioned a table didn’t mean a commenter couldn’t have an opinion on it. Or, who knows, maybe that commenter really had seen me in the store—that didn’t mean they were watching me. I had followers all over the world; I was sure I had several thousand here in DC. Maybe one of them happened to be there at that moment.

Maybe.

I went to extinguish the smoldering sage but hesitated. I didn’t believe for a second this bundle of herbs had mystical cleansing properties, but waving it around couldn’t hurt. Just in case. I carried it around the apartment, driving away any lurking bad vibes, feeling a bit absurd but also a bit comforted.

? ? ?

TWO HOURS LATER, I arrived home from a Reformer Pilates class feeling strong and delighted. I loved working out on Reformer machines, but at around forty dollars per class, they weren’t part of my normal routine. But I’d treated myself and then bonded with the studio owner, who had also lived in New York before moving to DC. I walked out with a verbal agreement for fifteen sessions in exchange for an Insta post featuring her studio and the possibility of additional classes for more publicity. Like the professional I was, I promised to send her a contract later that night.

I was mentally modifying my standard contract as I unlocked my front door, and so I didn’t notice it at first. It wasn’t until I reached my bedroom that I smelled it.

The sage.

It was burning.

I looked around the room and spotted the smudge stick balancing precariously on a wineglass set atop the cardboard box beside my bed, smoke curling from the dwindling bundle. My heart leapt as I snatched it and rushed to the kitchen sink. I dropped the smoldering herbs inside and turned on the faucet, extinguishing it.

Still shaking, I returned to the bedroom and stared at the small pile of ash beside the wineglass. On the cardboard. Jesus Christ. I could have caused a fire. I could have burned down the entire fucking building. Why would I even leave the sage there in the first place?

I hadn’t, had I?

I tried to retrace my steps. After I turned off the livestream, I had carried the sage around the apartment, swirling the smoke in corners and generally acting like a loon. I had finished the bogus ritual in the bedroom; I remembered that. I also remembered setting the sage on the wineglass—momentarily—while I fielded a quick FaceTime from my mom, who’d wanted help deciding which shoes to wear to her book club.