Revelations

If a stranger opens up to you, are they still a “stranger?”

A few years ago, a screenwriter acquaintance, with whom I shared a manager, told me that he believed I was an empath.

That threw me for several minutes as the first thing that came to mind was someone who communicates with the dead. And then, (palm slaps head), I realized my mental glitch.

I am not a “medium.” Not as yet, anyway. If someone from the other side, be they human or animal, gives me a jingle, I’ll be sure to tell you. After I recover from the heart attack.

The guy’s comment gave me much to think about as I’d never acquainted my proclivity for picking up on how another individual is feeling, as my being an “empath.”

But, perhaps he was right. My whole life, I’ve had a strong affinity for and connection to animals, as well as for people in pain, whether that pain be from an emotional or physical wallop.

On the animal front, many of you will certainly relate to this, but I swear I know what my cats are thinking. If something is “off” with one of them, I get that vibe, immediately. I also believe, and this may sound crazy to some of you, that at least one of our three cats senses the presence of another that “crossed over” a few years ago. A medium of the feline persuasion, if you will. Incredibly soulful, these creatures, are they not?

Regarding other humans, if someone is lonely, I sense it. If they’re reeling from a loss, be it a partner or beloved pet, I sense it. If someone is harboring anger or frustration, I sense it.

Honestly, I don’t know if that makes me an empath or merely someone who cares. When I do get these feelings, I talk to people. Chat them up. My husband has always referred to me as an expert ‘schmoozer,” and I suppose I am as I’ve had a great deal of practice.

On our honeymoon in New England, I can’t tell you how many long conversations I initiated by the one-word query, “Traveling?”

If we were in a restaurant, that would be the signal for my husband to put down his fork and have a listen.

On so many occasions, my late parents recounted my antics as a toddler whenever they took me out to a restaurant. I’d wend my way through the tables and talk to the other diners. Well, as clearly as a toddler can talk, anyway.

Writing this, it occurs to me that today, I’d find this behavior annoying AF. Shit. A kid running amok in a restaurant chatting up its diners? I’d be the first one to bitch. Yet…there was no running amok with me. From what I understand, I was quite the little charmer, albeit my folks were biased that way.

Too, when I consider the person that I’ve become, it’s surprising that I harbor such empathy for other people because of late, I’m not really a fan.

People confound me. Their ignorance and fear of anyone who veers from what they consider to be the “norm,” alarms me. Their refusal to see another side to a story infuriates me. Yet there are those fragile beings amongst us who, in spite of my somewhat crusty interior, call to me.

The other day, I went to our local Petco to stock up on food for the kitties. As I visit this store every week, I’ve gotten to know some of its staffers. Not in a deep way, mind you, just friendly chit-chat.

This particular day, a girl who I hadn’t seen before, rang up my very large quantity of food. She had to be no more than twenty-five if that. She was tall and gangly, with long dark hair and dark, expressive eyes that peered over the top of her mask.

While she rang up can after can and packet after packet (our cats love options), we started chatting about our furbabies. She told me how much she loves her two cats and that’s all I needed to hear. Appropriately enough, her name, as it turns out, is Kat.

It’s a damn good thing that there was no one standing behind me in line because we were off on a tear! We segued from talking about how much we adored our cats to our mutual disdain for people who don’t understand the human/animal connection…and that there was an astounding number of assholes walking around on two legs.

For some reason, this sparked a memory and Kat told me about something that had happened to her when she was eleven years old. Immediately, I could sense the heartbreak and trauma that she experienced and still does, and wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to hear her story, but knew I had to.

Kat had a beloved pet cat and when the young girl wasn't at school or running errands for her mother, the two were virtually inseparable. Note that the cat wasn’t allowed outside and Kat was so adamant about this that she repeatedly reminded her mother — who apparently wasn’t on board — to “not let the cat out!”

One day, as Kat was on her way home from school, she saw something lying in the road near her home. Immediately, she knew what had happened. It was her cat, dead. Against her wishes, her mother opened the door, shooed the cat out and it was most likely struck by some vehicle.

My first thought: “That fucking bitch.”

Kat was heartbroken, and when I asked how much time passed before she spoke to her mother again, she told me that they still don’t speak. There is no communication between the two at all, and I can understand why, because to me, her mother’s behavior was cruel and heartless, and bordering on abuse.

I hardly knew what to say, other than to try to shift her thoughts back to her two cats who were safe and sound in her apartment, and waiting for her return.

As the store began to fill up, I grabbed my bags, told her how much I enjoyed talking with her, and left.

Since then, I’ve thought about Kat frequently. Someone who was a stranger when I walked into Petco that day, but shared a memory so intimate that I can’t get it out of my head. Or my heart.

I “see” her cat lying in the road and I feel the trauma she experienced and the rage for a woman who was supposed to shield her child from pain, but instead, perpetrated it.

Certainly, that’s not something I want to hold onto, but that’s how it is and how it’s always been, for me. Too, OCD, which I’ve battled my whole life, and an empathetic nature make for strange bedfellows, as my brain grabs onto every little detail of a story like the one Kat told, and then, when I least expect it, manifests in my head like a 3D cinematic blockbuster, every scene played and replayed.

Whether, as the mysterious “they” say, this is a blessing or a curse, it doesn’t matter as there’s no changing it. Just as there’s no altering that tragic memory for Kat.

But oh, how I wish I could.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her short films have screened at The Pan African Film Festival in Cannes (awarded “best short”), the Nashville Film Festival, the Honolulu Film Festival, the Los Angeles Film School, New Filmmakers New York, and New Filmmakers Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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