by Amy Cissell
“That was amazing,” Ann said. “I thought you’d lay out some cards and say a couple really generic things like ‘you’ve had hardship’ and ‘all will be great in the end,’ but although that’s still the gist of what you said, the specificity was amazing. How did you do that?”
Sandy smiled self-deprecatingly. “I guess it’s my gift,” she said.
A bell rang, light and silvery, and Sandy looked up trying to locate it. There wasn’t a bell in sight, but she felt something ephemeral settle over her shoulders like a mantle when she looked back at Ann. Something right had happened.
“Thank you so much,” Ann said, standing. “It was difficult to hear, but I know what I need to do now.” She reached her hand across the table and shook Sandy’s, which came away with some folded bills.
Sandy wanted to protest that the additional funds weren’t necessary, but she bit her tongue, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”
When Ann walked out the door, the squeaking hinges heralding her departure, Sandy slumped back into her chair and let the tears streak down her cheeks, likely ruining the kohl eyeliner she’d spent so much time on. Between the odd power that changed the cards from individual pictures into a whole, like puzzle pieces, and the parallels to her own life, she was overwhelmed with feelings she couldn’t describe. She took a deep breath and then, another.
The door hinges squeaked, announcing another client. Sandy hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks and hoped the poor lighting was enough to mask her tear-streaked face.
Hours later, the last client left. She turned off the neon sign and sank back into her chair and let her mind return to Ann.
“That was weird,” she whispered to herself. Nothing like that had ever happened in the three years she’d done readings in college, and it hadn’t happened with any of the rest of the customers who’d wandered in, either. It was like the carefully memorized book passages didn’t matter because she could see to the heart of the problem, read the past and present, and intuit the future, just by looking at a few beautifully painted cards.
“I wonder if I can do it again.”
Sandy closed her eyes, shuffled slowly, all the while thinking about how to decide what to do next. She cut the next, then laid the top ten cards in the classic Celtic cross position. Justice. The High Priestess. King of Swords Reversed. Three of Pentacles reversed. Page of Cups reversed. Page of Wands reversed.
Well, yes, tarot deck. I am seeking justice. I would like to right some wrongs, and I would like to delve deeper into who I am. Sure, I’m on a journey of self-discovery, and maybe I do have a jerk in my past who undermined my self-confidence.
Six of Pentacles, bloody reversed. Yep—I am not financially secure, and all my decisions are coming from that fact.
The Fool. Of course. I do feel pressured to start over, to begin a new life, and to find my way.
The Wheel of Fortune. That pretty much encompasses my hopes and fears. Change. Inevitable change.
And The World—the same card Ann had gotten as her final draw—but reversed. Ann is much further along in her acceptance of destiny than me, I guess.
“Damnit,” she said aloud. She’d never really believed in Tarot. It was just a party game, and anyone who had enough sense to speak in generalities and read the client’s facial expressions could do well. But this—all the need for spiritual awakening, acceptance, and growth was jumping out at her.
“It’s because it’s me. I know who I am and where I’ve been. I’m reading too much into it.”
The hinges creaked, announcing another visitor, and Sandy vowed to buy out the entire WD-40 supply at the local hardware store and get a tinkling bell, like the one she’d heard earlier.
“I’m sorry, I’m closed,” Sandy said.
“Oh. I didn’t know. The sign…” he gestured behind him at the window where her sign was defiantly announcing she was open.
Sandy hastily gathered up her cards and smiled. “Come in then, and close the door behind you.”
A man walked into the shop, shoved the protesting door back into the jamb, and approached the table. “I’d like a reading, please.”
She repeated her spiel, and he opted for a simple three-card spread. He had a decision to make and needed some guidance. He seemed sincere, so she shrugged, took his cash, and had him hold the deck while concentrating on his quandary.
She laid out the cards, took a deep breath in, and unfocused her eyes. The meaning of the spread clarified in front of her. “In the past, you opened up to someone, took a huge risk, but were willing to do that because you believed it was the right choice. Right now, you are fighting between your head and your heart. An authority figure whom you greatly respect is giving you advice that runs counter to what you truly want, and the path you started on when you opened your heart before.”
The young man was staring at her, jaw hanging in shock, and Sandy tried not to let the flush of self-consciousness overwhelm her and distract her from finishing the reading.
“If you don’t take the chance on what you believe you want—if you listen to your head and your mentor rather than your heart—you will lose the greatest opportunity you’ve ever had for lasting happiness. You’re on the right path, but you’re wavering. Take it, because we don’t all get that chance, and few get it more than once.”
“Thank you, thank you!” He was smiling as he walked out of the room, and Sandy felt a satisfaction deeper than anything she’d experienced before. She shuffled the cards back into the deck, and The High Priestess fell out, her gimlet eye appearing to stare directly into Sandy’s soul.
“Fine! I’ll walk the path. For now, at least. It’s not any crazier than anything else I’ve done these past three months.”
Chapter Two
Sandy woke up gasping and thrashing, trying to free herself from the arms that held her still. It took a few minutes for her to realize she was tangled up in her covers and not being restrained.
She took a few calming breaths until she could untangle herself enough to grab her phone and turn on her favorite meditation. The nightmares were still happening every night, and they were stupidly devastating. Every morning, Sandy reminded herself that she was okay, nothing really bad had ever happened, and there were so many women out there who had it way, way worse.
And every night she had the nightmare—the same one—where she was being held by the wrists against the wall, crying, more in anger than in fear. The man who held her there was cloaked in shadow, and all she could see were his eyes—they blazed brightly in the near dark.
When she woke, gasping for air and choking on sobs, it always took a while for her to come back into herself; longer than a typical nightmare, because this one was based on a true story. She liked to phrase it that way because it sounded more like a made for TV movie, although she supposed it might be a Lifetime Original movie about the dangers of marrying straight out of college and giving up all your career aspirations for a handsome stranger.
She shook herself, willing herself not to dwell on him. He’d never crossed the arbitrary line she had between awful and abusive, but he toed it from time to time. Aaron had a temper on him, and the last few years of their marriage, she’d found herself on the wrong end of it more than once. Still, she told herself, he never laid a hand on you. Never hurt you. He was just a jerk.
She took another deep breath. That chapter of her life was almost over. Pretty soon, she’d never have to see him or his awful, overly pious, and entirely too judgmental family. She’d never have to pretend to be a church person for the sake of keeping the peace, and she wouldn’t have to make polite noises about the possibility of having kids someday. It’s not that she was opposed to it, but she was opposed to procreating with her almost-ex-husband. He might be able to charm the spots off a zebra, as her step-dad used to say with a laugh, and no one could say he wasn’t bringing home the bacon, but he wasn’t father material. For him, a child would be nothing more than another milepost. A way to show he’d achieved somet
hing, proof that he was as virile as he presented himself to be.
“It’s over, Sandy,” she said aloud. He doesn’t know where you are, and you don’t have to see him again until your court date. You didn’t ask for alimony, even if the lawyer you consulted thinks that’s the dumbest decision you’ve ever made, so once it’s final, you’re free and clear.
Too free and clear, though. She was giving up the house and specifically requested no alimony so she’d never have to see his name again, but in addition to their home and the money, he ended up with most of their friends. She sighed. They’d never really been her friends anyway. She’d hung out with them because they were in the same circles as Aaron—young professionals, both men and women, who were a step away from the C-suite who liked to stay out late, drink too much, and pretend that their frequent visits to Portland’s ubiquitous strip clubs were due to Portlandia irony, rather than a perfectly justifiable desire to see attractive women remove their clothes.
Sandy’d made nice, and had even—she thought—made friends with a couple of the other ‘wives.’ They’d taken turns hosting dinner parties and cocktail parties, which were really excuses for everyone to drink too much and make inappropriate passes at their colleagues and colleagues’ spouses.
But once Aaron’d announced their split, everyone stopped returning her calls. She suspected he’d made up something to elevate himself and put her down. He’d been doing that for years. Once she’d decided to leave him, there was no reason to even pretend to hold back anymore.
She wanted to call up everyone, or do a group message on Facebook, or order up a billboard to let everyone know that the real reason they were splitting up wasn’t whatever made up reason he’d come up with, but rather because when she’d shown up one evening when he was working late to surprise him with dinner, a bottle of wine, and new lingerie, she’d been the one to be surprised.
He’d talked about Sam from IT for weeks, but she’d never suspected that Sam was Samantha, liked to wear short skirts with no knickers, and enjoyed married men on the conference room table. Sandy had dropped the wine and fled. Aaron had chased her down—eventually—to let her know that it meant nothing. She’d moved into the spare room and started going through her personal finances. She had a few savings accounts in which she’d been stashing money for years that he didn’t know about, and when she tallied them all, she found she had just enough to live on for a year in the suburbs, if she lived cheaply, or six months of frugal living on the coast.
It wasn’t even a question. She packed the essentials, hocked all the jewelry he’d ever given her, hired a cheap divorce attorney to file the paperwork, and got the hell out of Portland. She hadn’t really had a destination in mind other than “the coast,” and had planned on cheap Air B&Bs until she found an even cheaper rental and a job bordering on decent.
When she rolled into Oracle Bay, Washington on her first night, it felt like something had clicked. She’d checked into the cheapest motel she could find that also had a view of the ocean. Oracle Bay was on a narrow spit of land with the Bay on one side and the ocean on the other, and it was the most perfect place she’d ever been.
The next morning, she’d scrolled through Craigslist for beach rentals and found a brand new listing. She met her landlady in front of the shop and got the tour. The shop, even with its perma-grungy aesthetic, had an inescapable draw. She’d shaken hands with her new landlady, and the woman—Misty—had given her a look that bared her soul and caused her to wrap her arms around her chest protectively. Twenty minutes and one check later, and Sandy had a new business and a new place to live.
She hadn’t been able to go to sleep, and it’d been too early to open the shop, so Sandy had made coffee, bundled up in leggings, an oversized flannel shirt, and a hoodie, and walked down to the beach to watch the tide go out. Early October on the coast was chilly, but at least it’d been clear and dry for the last couple weeks while she’d tried—and failed—to spruce up her new shop in preparation for opening.
She was nearly done with her coffee and ready to turn back to her shop when her cell phone rang. She hadn’t gotten a call from anyone but her lawyer and a customer service agent at her bank in over two weeks, and she answered without glancing at the display.
“Hello?”
“Babe,” Aaron’s voice oozed through the phone. “Long time, no talk.”
Sandy’s stomach clenched with nerves, and she fought back a wave of nausea. “What do you want?” She tried to sound professional and brusque but was afraid he’d hear the anxiety and hesitation in her voice and take advantage.
She straightened her spine, took a deep breath and counted to ten, then tuned back in.
“…so glad I found you. I was worried.”
“It’s really not your place to worry about me,” Sandy said. “We’re divorced.”
“Not yet. Not until next month—and hopefully not ever.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The sharpness in her tone made her wince, and she hoped it didn’t carry across the phone lines.
“I want to make it up to you, babe. I know I screwed up.” His voice got even smarmier, and her lip curled in disgust. She’d known him for almost nine years. She knew that tone. He was pretending to be sincere to make the sale. She’d heard it a million times at a million networking events.
“What’s your end game?” Sandy didn’t bother to hide the exhaustion she felt. It was bad enough that he was interrupting her sleep with the flashback dreams—now he’d ruined the meditative mindset she’d gotten into staring at the ocean with her morning coffee.
“I want you back. I thought that’d be obvious.”
“Why?” She was never so blunt, and by the silence on the other end, Aaron was as surprised by it as she was.
“Because I love you?”
“That shouldn’t have been a question, Aaron. I know you. I know there’s got to be a reason you’re doing this. I caught you with your pants literally down. It’s an open and shut case. I’m not asking for alimony or a share of your 401(k). You are winning the divorce.” At least the financial parts of it, she added to herself. I think we all know I’m the big winner here.
“I really am, and I feel bad about it.”
“No, you don’t. I don’t have time to play twenty questions with you this morning. Either tell me what you want, or I’m hanging up. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Someone hired you? This I’ve got to see.” He hung up.
“Damnit,” Sandy muttered to herself. “When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut, Cassandra Helen Franklin? He hates not knowing shit, and did he say he’d found me?”
She tried to rewind the part of the conversation she’d been deep breathing for, but couldn’t focus on anything he’d said before “…so glad I found you.”
She squelched the fear that threatened to rise at the thought of him showing up in town, squared her shoulders, and marched back to her shop. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, and if she was lucky, that bridge would be very, very high, rather secluded, and have an unsafe railing that made a tragic accident an unfortunate reality. She grinned at the thought, even though she knew she’d never do something like that. She’d watched way too much true crime to believe there was a chance in hell she’d get away with something like that, even if she did start to harbor homicidal urges.
There was someone waiting outside her shop when she got there, and she tilted her watch towards her face in confusion. It was only eight o’clock, too early to be open. Her sign announced a ten am start, although she usually did flip the switch about nine-thirty.
“Can I help you?” Sandy asked.
The woman was tall, light-skinned with black hair and shockingly blue eyes, and one of the most imposing presences Sandy had ever encountered.
“Are you Alexandra? The psychic?”
“Yeessss…” Sandy said. After talking to Aaron, she was on high alert, and something about this woman made her feel even more on edge.
“It’s imperative that I get a reading from you right now.”
She was sick and tired of not being the main character in her own story. “No,” she said.
The stranger looked surprised. “No?”
Sandy pointed at the sign on the door that said she opened at ten. “Come back in two hours. I’ll be ready for you then.”
“I have money,” she said.
“Well, I certainly hope so. I’m not doing this for free.”
Her jaw dropped a bit, then she turned and walked away without another word.
“That was weird,” Sandy said to herself. “Almost as weird as how much I’ve been talking to myself lately.”
She shook it off, unlocked her shop, and went in to make breakfast.
Chapter Three
It was two days before the imposing stranger returned, and Sandy was beginning to hope she’d dodged that bullet for good. But when she turned on her sign and unlocked her door on Thursday morning, the woman was standing there waiting.
She glanced pointedly at her watch, causing Sandy to look down at her own. It was two minutes after ten. “You’re late,” the woman said.
“I’m a psychic, not the stock market,” Sandy said. “I hardly think two minutes is going to make a huge difference.”
“It might to your clients.”
Sandy made a point of looking around, then said loudly to the empty street. “If everyone could please stop jostling and form an orderly line. I’ll see you in the order in which you’ve arrived.”
The woman’s mouth made a thin, brittle line across her face, and she asked, “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Sandy led the woman into her shop, noticed the door opened silently for once, then sat down in her usual chair.
“Can we switch seats?” the woman asked.
