Heller - Crystal Clear

Many thanks to the following people, without whom Crystal Clear would still be a germ of an idea: former Barnes & Noble community relations whiz Judy Martin, who said, So maybe your next heroine goes to an ashram?; Ruth Harris, who came up with the books title; my agent, Ellen Levine, who was supportive beyond the call of duty; and my editor, Ann La Farge, who worked her usual magic on my words.

Special thanks to my husband, Michael Forester, for allowing his aura to be cleansed, his energies to be palpated, and all the rest.

It all started when my secretary, Rona Wishnick, told me I needed my aura cleansed.

My what cleaned? I asked, then glanced down at my navy blue suit and inspected it for stains. It was 7:30 on a Friday night and Rona had come into my office to say she was going home. Or so Id thought.

I didnt say cleaned. I said cleansed, she explained as she stood beside my desk, fingering the angel pendant wedged between her heat-seeking missiles, as one of the more sophomoric men in the office had nicknamed her large breasts. And I was referring to your aura, not your outfit.

I didnt have a clue what she was talking about. I was a CPA, for Gods sakea down-to-earth, practical-to-a-fault, nose-to-the-grindstone accountant. I was a whiz at preparing income tax returns but totally out of my element when it came to making sense of New Age-speak, Ronas second language. By telling me that my aura needed cleansing, was she suggesting that I should switch perfumes? Underarm deodorants? What?

Ive been wanting to talk to you about the problem for a while, she said as I popped two Bufferin, a NoDoz, and a Pepcid AC into my mouth and washed them all down with an Ensure Plus. My dinner.

Oh, I get it now, I said, nodding. You want a raise. Or is it more vacation time?

She shook her head, marveling at my obtuseness. Youre the one who needs more vacation time.

A trip on the astral plane, right? I laughed.

Go ahead. Make jokes. But Im worried about you, about the pressure you put on yourself. Sure, theres a lot of work to be done around here, but its Friday night and, once Im out the door, youll be the only one left in this office. Even the housekeeping people went home hours ago. The point Im trying to make is that youre in complete denial of your She stopped, grasping for the right word, then gave up after several seconds when she wasnt able to seize on it. Rona and I are both in our mid-fortiesthat age when grasping for the right word and not being able to seize on it starts to become embarrassingly routine. Look, youre this close to total burnout, okay? Rona said finally, holding her thumb and index finger about an eighth of an inch apart.

Youre sweet to care, Rona, but I think youre exaggerating, I said, polishing off the rest of the Ensure.

Oh, really? she said, tapping her foot on the white Berber carpet that had recently been installed in all the partners offices. Then why the canned milkshakes instead of a nice, home-cooked meal?

I like the taste of them, I said. The chocolate ones terrific.

Ill bet, she said. What about the headaches, the heartburn, the insomnia? Youre telling me youre not stressed out?

Of course Im stressed out. Who isnt?

Who isnt? People who have found their center, thats who. People who have achieved balance in their life. People who have evolved.

Rona was, hands down, the most evolved person I knew. She meditated in the office every morning in one of the stalls in the ladies room, was a heavy user of the Psychic Friends Network and quoted frequently and liberally from The Celestine Prophecy. Recently, she announced that she was considering changing her first name to Raven because it sounded Native American and, therefore, more spiritual. I didnt tell Rona this, of course, but there was nothing remotely ravenlike about her; she was a platinum blonde with a body that more closely resembled a bison than a bird.

What Im saying, Rona went on, and Im saying it with love in my heart, okay?is that this place has become your entire universe, Crystal, and its sad.

By this place, Rona meant the Manhattan accounting firm where we worked, Duboff Spector. By Crystal, she meant me, Crystal Goldstein. Rona liked to think my name was linked in some paranormal way to the chunk of rock she kept on her desk to ward off negative vibrations, but it was simply the name my parents had given me in memory of my maternal grandmother, Crystal Schwartz.

Look, hon, Rona said tenderly. You and I have been together for seven years and in all that time Ive seen you successful but Ive never seen you happy. Really happy.

Rona, I sighed, patting her massive arm. She was so much more than an employee to me; she was the closest thing I had to a best friend. Youve been reading too many of those magazine articles about baby boomers who have all the trappings of success but are still searching for Meaning in their lives. Well, I dont have time to search for Meaning or anything else. There arent enough hours in the day. Besides, I hate people who sit around whining about whether or not theyre happy. Im happy enough.

Oh, sure, she said skeptically. You work like a dog, and when you do take ten seconds off, you either shlep up to Larchmont to see your father, whos too busy watching that big-screen TV you bought him to notice youre even in the room, or you grab a few hours with Steven, the man you say youre going to marry but never do. Thats not my idea of bliss, Crystal.

I smiled. Ronas idea of bliss involved bathing in aroma-therapeutic essences with her husband, Arthur, a manufacturer of doorbells.

I appreciate your concern, Rona, and I promise Ill think about everything youve said. But right now the IRS is breathing down Jeff Jacobsons neck, and Im the one he hired to straighten out his books. In other words, instead of searching for Meaning tonight, Im gonna be searching for a way to keep this guy from an audit. Now, am I excused?

She nodded grudgingly, then blew me a kiss. Have a good weekend.

You, too. Say hi to Arthur.

Rona was about to exit my office when the phone rang, making both of us jump. Instinctively, she reached across my desk and picked it up.

Crystal Goldsteins office, she said. Oh, Steven. Yes, shes still here. Ill put

I tugged on her sleeve and mouthed the words: Tell him Im busy. I hadnt made a dent in Jeff Jacobsons tax problems. Steven would have to wait.

Rona did as she was instructed and hung up the phone. He said hell be in his office for another fifteen minutes or so if you want to call him back. She shook her head disapprovingly as she moved toward the door. You and Stevie, she snorted. You communicate through secretaries, answering machines, and E-mail. Is that what you call true love, Crystal?

Before I could answer, she was gone.

Alone at last, I sank back in my chair and fanned myself with a legal pad. It was an unseasonably warm September night in New York, and since the air conditioning in the building automatically shut off at six oclock and the windows were hermetically sealed, my office was as fetid and airless as a sauna and I felt weak, light-headed. Still, there was work to be done. I pulled up Jeff Jacobsons file on the computer and tried to focus on the numbers on the screen. But for some reason, Ronas comments kept floating through my mind, haunting me, taunting me, and before I knew it I wasnt concentrating on Jeff Jacobsons tax problems at all; I was asking myself the sort of insipid, self-indulgent questions I swore Id never ask.

Was I on my way to total burnout? Was all my hard work worth it? And what was