I recently finished Liane Moriarty’s latest novel, Here One Moment. This thought-provoking story unfolds aboard a flight where an older woman predicts the deaths of her fellow passengers. What follows is an exploration of belief, fate, and the choices we make when faced with our own mortality.
As I read Here One Moment, I reflected on my own encounters with the inexplicable. Every so often, we meet people who seem to have an uncanny insight. But are these insights the result of keen observation or something more supernatural? The novel explores the fine line between intuition and the power of suggestion, reminding us how easily we shape our realities based on what we choose to believe.
The moment my hairdresser, Anna, mentioned Michael, I knew I had to meet him. She told me how he’d helped the police find the body of a missing person. In my grief-numbed state, I clung to this glimmer of hope, ignoring the alarm bells in the back of my mind. Dad’s death had left a void no one could fill—he was my rock, my cheerleader, the one who always made me feel special.
Michael’s apartment was just a fifteen-minute drive down Ashland Avenue, from my North Side Chicago neighborhood to a high-rise on Chicago Avenue. The irony didn’t escape me: a man living in the sky, looking down to find the dead.
That October afternoon, as the wind whipped off Lake Michigan, my heart pounded as I pushed through the revolving door. What was I thinking, meeting a strange man alone in his apartment? The doorman’s casual question— “Name and unit you’re visiting?”—did little to calm my nerves as he escorted me to the elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor.
As the elevator lurched upward, my stomach churned. Dust and grime caked the corners, but this didn’t deter me. I needed answers. For three months, I’d been fumbling in the dark, desperate for a way out. Once the idea of talking to someone with answers took root, I was hell-bent on seeing it through—even if I didn’t know the questions.
I thought of Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost, channeling Patrick Swayze’s messages to Demi Moore. Did Dad have messages for me? Was Michael the messenger? Grief, I was learning, could twist your mind in strange ways.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to a dimly lit hallway with worn carpet. It could have been midnight for all I knew. I paused at 1011 and knocked softly. A tall, slender man with stark white hair opened the door. His silent response to my timid “hello” only heightened my unease.
The smell of tuna hit me as I stepped inside. “Tea?” he asked, leading me past two small dogs yapping in their crates. A parakeet chirped from its perch on a fake tree branch in the kitchen.
“No thanks, I’m fine,” I mumbled, sinking into a wooden chair at the kitchen table. One side was folded down against the windowsill where a cat lounged, indifferent. Michael sat across from me, tea in hand. Between us stood a napkin holder, a flimsy barrier.
As his pale blue eyes locked into mine, I wondered: Had I made a terrible mistake? Would I end up in a cage like his dogs?
He says nothing at first, just stared as if searching my soul. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “Your beauty comes from your mother, but your mind—it’s your father’s. Your eyes are striking. Truly beautiful. Eyes can reveal everything about a person,” he paused, his gaze drifting. “So much light inside you. You’ve left your home, but the time to return has passed. You’ve outgrown it—and your father knows this. He’s with you now, sitting right here on your shoulder.”
Sitting on my shoulder? I thought, but said nothing. What does my dad want to tell me? Michael’s gaze unnerved me, sending a chill through my body, but I remained still as he continued.
“The Black Forest mountains of Germany, it’s so beautiful. The evergreen forests and picturesque villages,” he said. “Ah, and your paternal grandmother—County Mayo.”
How did he know my family’s heritage? Had he researched me after I called? I had only given him my first name, per Anna’s recommendation. Could he have traced my info from my cell number?
“You’re creative. And a caretaker. You could’ve been a nurse, but that’s not your calling. You could do many things, but once you start writing, your life will change.”
And just like that, he snapped out of it, sipping his tea. I waited for him to ask if I had questions. When he didn’t, I asked, “Can you tell me more about my dad?”
He smiled. “He’s right there on your shoulder. He’ll always be there for you.”
And that was it.
Did it give me the closure I was looking for? No. Did it bridge my skepticism and hope? No, it left me more confused. In the years after that meeting, I slowly healed and accepted that some questions simply don’t have answers. I continued to visit psychics, most of whom were obvious fakes.
But when I had an in-person session with renowned psychic medium Rebecca Rosen, I finally experienced something closer to what I had hoped for with Michael. She knew things about me that weren’t on-line. She even laughed as she recounted my husband’s Valentine’s Day flower shop fiasco—the one where they told him to come back in 15 minutes because they hadn’t opened yet. How could she know that?
She shared general insights about my dad and other loved ones who had passed. Then she asked, “Your dad wants to know why you aren’t writing. He wants you to get on with it.”
The next day, after dropping my kids off at school, I started writing. I haven’t stopped since. It was the one thing I’d always felt called to do, but never did it. Michael was right—once I started writing, my life did change. The peace I had been searching for found me on the page.
I’m not sure why I sought strangers to tell me what I needed to hear, but I’m glad I finally listened. What I learned from that experience is that almost everything we seek outside ourselves is already within—”right there on your shoulder.” When we quiet our minds and let things be, the answers find us.