There was to be a buffet dinner in the evening, with psychic mediums who could help us talk to people on the other side. This included Guy Roberts, the headliner of the convention, who had been greeted with cheers during introductions on the first morning. He was Botoxed and hair-plugged, and he made it clear to us that he didn’t need to be here—he wanted to be here. When the woman leading the introductions asked him how long he had known he had the gift, he laughed as if the question was beneath him and said, “My whole life.”

Though I had paid in advance and chosen the brisket dinner, I couldn’t stay. Instead, I went back to my hotel, happy to be far away from the throng of retirees rushing upstairs to get ready for dinner. I stripped down and pulled on a bathing suit and went to the pool to float. I wanted to fill my lungs with as much air as possible. Misters blasted down on me as I stared up at the sky. I felt no closer to solace here. Instead, the hours of PowerPoint presentations about what happened on the other side and astral planes and higher levels of consciousness only allowed my despair to set in fully. The pool did nothing to cool down my body; I felt myself sweating through my suit.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to bring myself to go back tomorrow, but I felt guilty about the money I had spent to come here; besides, Saturday was Bethanny’s day to speak.

I did not go to the hotel bar, because I was conserving money and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, when I got back to my room I pulled out a bottle of wine that I had shoved into the mini-fridge. I had left all the contents of the fridge lined up on the desk—cans of cranberry juice, mini-bottles of liquor. Things I had no use for. I would put them back in the fridge to cool before I checked out. I only made it through one bottle before crawling into bed and falling asleep.

In the morning, I made myself a one-cup serving of hotel coffee, after inspecting the machine for use. There was a film of greenish tint in the water container, which led me to believe that the flimsy hotel coffee maker had been used only minimally. I was slightly ashamed that one of those users was me. But I didn’t want to be late, so I surrendered to the Coffee-mate creamer and drank it down.