The Mystic

by Maggie Santangelo

  “You, too,” I say with a smile I don’t have to force.

  He says goodbye to everyone and leaves so quietly I don’t even hear the door close.

  Ellie asks me, “Would you like to put your stuff in your room?” She looks over at the pile of luggage in the foyer.

  “Yes, I would.” How could I forget that this is my new home?

  Ellie leads me through the house and down a long hallway. Pictures line the wall, but some are missing; whoever took them off left the nails in the walls. “These first two bedrooms aren’t used. They’re filled with books and papers and stuff. We just keep the doors closed.”

  “Ok,” I say.

  “The bathroom is on the left and your room is right across from it, here.” She walks in the room and lays my bag down on a chair next to the bed. In between the chair and bed is a small, pale-yellow wooden table with a lamp.

  I set my bag on the foot of the bed. It’s covered by a quilt with pink, blue, and yellow flowers, and it has a bookshelf headboard, which is empty. There’s one window in the room and it’s draped with a white curtain that has little eyelets. Under the window is a small desk with another lamp. The dresser sits across from the bed and has a mirror attached to the back. “My dresser at home is like that,” I say. But that’s not right now, is it. “I mean, was like that. In my old home.” It’s amazing how quickly something can become a part of the past.

  “Well, this is it,” she says. “What do you think?”

  “It’s pretty,” I say. “It’s the first time I’ve moved into a room that already had furniture.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “I wonder what’s going to happen to my furniture and stuff when it gets here from California.”

  “Oh, um, I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but…”

  “What?” What more could happen to me now?

  “My mom said, while we were waiting for you to get here, that your mom left everything behind. Donated it or something.”

  I jump and run out the door and right into the person I was after—my mother. “Did you send for all our furniture and boxes?”

  “Raina, I can’t talk about this right now.” She looks at Brooke, who’s standing beside her in the hallway trying to pretend she doesn’t hear us.

  “So it’s true,” I say.

  “Not now, Raina.” She pushes past me and heads into the room past mine. Brooke gives me a pity-glance as she walks by and follows my mom.

  I’m not going to be passed by that easily; I go after her. “At least the boxes? My life was in those boxes. All my notes from friends and letters from Dad. And all my clothes!”

  Brooke says, “You know, it’s late and we’re all tired. We need to get going. Call if you need anything. Come on, Ellie.”

  “Bye,” I say.

  “Bye,” Ellie says. She looks at my mother, and then at me and attempts a smile. Then they’re gone.

  “How could you embarrass me like that?” Mom says under her breath.

  “How could you lie to me?”

  “I did not lie to you,” she raises her voice.

  “We always send for our stuff; you knew I expected it. Why did you tell me it would be here and then leave it all behind? And when were you going to tell me? I had to hear it from my cousin…that I didn’t even know I had!”

  She spins around and looks past me, through the open door. “What we need is to make a clean start. What’s done is done. I prayed on it and that’s what I felt was best, and I’m the mother so you will stop this now. We’re here and as you see, the rooms are already furnished.” She looks back at me with the moonlight at her back. “We have everything we need. We have to let go of the past, not cling to it.”

  “I don’t have everything I need. I need my dad, and I’ll never have him again!” I only realize I’m crying because my voice is so shaky.

  “I can’t do anything about that.” She steps closer and embraces me. I’m mad at her but I need her, too. I hate this feeling. She continues, “All the things in those boxes that you think are so precious won’t bring him back. He lives in our memories now. I donated everything to charity. We’re starting over.”

  ***

  I sit alone in my new room. I want to burst into tears but they won’t come. I’m all cried out. I examine the quilt and brush my hand across the flowerbed. I notice small tears in the fabric. That’s fine, I feel torn as well. I look at the mirror and I don’t care for the reflection staring back at me. I am sad and angry and I look every bit of it. I feel my body shudder but my reflection is unmoved, uncaring perhaps.

  I give a sideways glance to the nightstand table and notice that there’s a little drawer in front, but no handle to open it. I tilt my head to get a closer look and see that there are two little holes in the drawer front where the handle used to be. I dig into the top and bottom of the drawer and manage to pry it open with my fingernails. It’s empty. No, wait, there’s something in the back…I reach in and pull out something rectangular-shaped and wrapped in a piece of purple fabric that looks and feels like silk.

  The fabric falls away and I see the deck of cards in its box. But not regular cards. I know what these are without further investigation—these are tarot cards. I’ve seen them used in movies. Aren’t they magic or witchcraft or something?

  I carefully remove them from their box. There are more of them than in a deck of regular cards, and they’re longer. I fan the cards out on the bed and see swords, sticks, cups, and the star inside a circle—that’s the one I thought of as a sign of witchcraft. But these cards seem innocent enough. Still, maybe I shouldn’t test my luck right now. I gather them up to put them away and The Devil card falls out. I am mesmerized by this card. It has horns like a ram and looks like pure evil. It keeps a man and a woman on a chain leash that’s fastened to metal collars around their necks.

  I shake my head and snap out of my gaze. I pick up the card and stick it in the middle of the deck. They slide back into their tattered box and I throw them back into the drawer and slam it shut. I should just get ready for bed; God knows I’m tired enough.

  I get up and find the piece of purple silk lying on the floor. I look back to the closed drawer and decide it’s not worth it to pry it open again. I kick the cloth under the bed and feel a strange sense of satisfaction in this act. I grab my tote bag with my toiletries and head for the bathroom.

  ***

  I lay in bed, exhausted. My thoughts start to slip away and I welcome sleep. I pick up in the dream of my father where we’re walking side by side down a road that ends somewhere off in the horizon.

  “Why did you leave us?” I ask.

  “I have business at the end of this road. Walk with me and I’ll show you why I left,” he says. He stops and looks at me; he makes me feel so small, like a little child. Now I notice his eyes. They’re different. The color is the same grayish-blue, but the kindness behind them is gone.

  “You’re not my father,” I say.

  He lifts the skin under his chin and reveals that he was wearing a mask. I cover my face with my hands; I can’t bear to see him transform like this. I want to run but my feet won’t move. I turn my head and peer through my fingers—the trees on the sides of the road that were green and lush are now void of leaves and their thin branches sway in the wind. I will my feet to move and I turn and run back to where we began, only to find that the road is gone. Trees now block my path. There is nowhere to run.

  I can’t hear anything. Maybe he—or it—is gone. I turn back. I can’t make out his shape clearly, and it looks like he’s surrounded by smoke, like he’s burning. I strain to see his face, but his back is turned to me. I drop my hands and scream, “Who are you?” I get no response. I want to leave this place. I know it’s a dream. I want to wake up. I look around to see what I can do to wake myself up. The landscape is closing in on me, I feel myself fall…

  I feel myself fall and awake with a start. It was just a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. One that I never
want to have again.

  ~ 4 ~

  The clock says 6:00 a.m. How can that be? I feel like I haven’t slept all night, like I just closed my eyes and then, the nightmare. I try to shake the image of my father as some kind of monster. One minute I was next to him and it felt so real, like it wasn’t a dream at all. Then he took the mask off… I can’t lay here and relive this over and over, I have to get up. It’s so early! I expected to sleep in after the long days Mom and I have had. It would be nice to relax, or at least try. But my mind won’t rest, so I bundle myself up in the robe that hangs on the back of the door and walk out.

  Mom’s door is closed. I’ll let her sleep, and go see what Grandpa has in the kitchen for breakfast. The hallway leads into the living room, and the dining room is just past that. I see him sitting at the table. His head is down, and he appears to read the paper. Or is he? My nightmare was so real, maybe I’m still asleep. I take a hesitant step closer and he turns the page. He looks up at me and says, “Good morning, Rachel.” I look down at my robe; maybe it was once hers. People have told me I look like my mom.

  I decide not to correct him and say, “Good morning,” in return.

  “Your mother will be up in a minute to make breakfast,” he says, and goes back to reading his paper.

  “Mom’s making breakfast? That’s new,” I say in a voice so low I don’t think he heard me. “Well, mind if I join you then?” I say.

  “Are you ready for school?” he says.

  “No, Mom said I don’t have to enroll just for the last month,” I say. He looks confused so I continue, “My grades were good enough that my last school passed me already. Either that or they just felt sorry for me.” It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that maybe it wasn’t my grades but sympathy that moved me up a grade without having to take any exams. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  After a moment of me staring off into space, I notice his skeptical look. “Go get your mother,” he says.

  That’s probably a good idea. He seems like he may be getting mad, and I feel awkward.

  I walk down the hallway, past my own room and stop at my mother’s door. I knock. “Mom, are you up yet?”

  Nothing.

  I give her a minute and knock again a little louder, “Mom?”

  Still nothing. I turn the knob slowly and peek in. The bed is made and the bags are unpacked, but Mom’s not here.

  I check the bathroom and back to the living room, she’s not here. Grandpa sits at the table and reads like nothing’s wrong. In my room, I check my phone, but not a word from Mom. I text her, “Where are you?” I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for a reply.

  Fifteen minutes pass before I get a text back. “Went out with some old friends.”

  “Ok,” I reply.

  “I didn’t think you’d be up so early. I’ll be home soon.”

  She’s left me. Without a goodbye or a kiss on the forehead, she’s gone. I’m here alone, with Grandpa. And he doesn’t know who I am.

  ***

  I must have dozed off; the knock on the door sounds like it’s far away. Like the day the two airmen knocked on the door. Don’t answer it.

  “Hey, Raina, it’s Ellie. Are you ok?”

  Relief, it’s Ellie. I want to see her. “Yes, I’ll be out in a minute.” I sit up and stretch. I don’t know what to expect from my new family, but I’m ready to find out. I can’t stay in this room and hide. I check the time and see I’ve slept for three hours. I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and feel a bit lazy to still be in my robe, but this is my home now so I guess it’s ok.

  The smell of coffee fills the dining room. There’s a pot on the table, and Grandpa and Ellie each have a cup. “Would you like a cup?”

  “No, thanks.” I’ve never cared for warm drinks. When Mom made me hot chocolate as a kid I used to add ice cubes to make it cold.

  Grandpa looks me over and with one grunt I feel his disapproval.

  Ellie says, “I was going to the Quarter, I work in a shop on Royal Street. Anyway, it’s my day off but my boyfriend is working so I usually stop by when he’s there. Would you like to go with me?”

  “Yes,” I can’t say fast enough. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

  “Ok, take your time. I’m just going to visit with Grandpa for a little bit.” I look at them for a moment and see their apparent closeness. She has a section of the paper in front of her and they have an ease about them that gives me a pang of envy. Whenever I saw someone that had a close relationship with a grandparent I wished I had a relationship like theirs. Maybe it’ll happen here.

  Ellie drives a Volkswagen Beetle, it looks like it’s from the ’70s, but it’s all fixed up with new pale-green paint and the inside looks new. It’s the kind of car I would love to own.

  “So, how was your first night?” Ellie says.

  “I fell asleep so fast that when I woke up, I didn’t think I’d slept at all.” I decide not to tell her about the nightmare; I’d rather forget it happened. “Then I woke up early and I was surprised to see Grandpa was already up.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s still on his work schedule. He can be kind of grumpy sometimes, so don’t take it personally.”

  “So, he really just sits and reads the paper all day? Doesn’t he run out of paper to read eventually?”

  “That’s all I see him do. And he gets two papers delivered every morning, so he doesn’t run out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he read the same thing more than once, though.”

  “Well, I guess it keeps him busy.”

  “It does. I’ve never really known him to watch TV much, so yes, it seems to keep him busy.”

  “He called me Rachel. I don’t know, maybe it was the robe. But he seems to remember who you are.”

  “Yeah, I’m one of the few people he never forgets. And he remembers his doctor; he’s the one who says Grandpa’s ok to still live there. Mom and I check on him often. Dad’s usually busy with work. I hope that doesn’t make you feel bad that he doesn’t know you yet. He will.”

  “No, I get it. You’ve lived here all your life and he knows you. I’m just glad to have the chance to get to know him a little bit.”

  “He’s a good grandpa,” she says. “Hey, where’s your mom? She wasn’t there, and Grandpa didn’t know where she was.”

  “She said she was with some friends. I texted her before I left and she said she’d be home later. It’s weird, but I guess it’s her way of coping with my dad’s…” I avoid saying the word “death.”

  “I didn’t say anything at the party, but I’m really sorry about your dad. That’s really awful what happened.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I want to tell her it didn’t feel like a party to me, but I don’t want to be rude.

  ***

  There are more people walking around the French Quarter than I expected for a morning during the week. I suppose they’re tourists. The buildings are obviously old, but they have a modern charm to them. I hear music coming from one of the restaurants. It must be jazz music. I haven’t heard much of it but I know it’s popular here, and I recognize the sound of the saxophone.

  Ellie turns onto Royal Street and points to an old, two-story building with the plants that hang on the second-story balcony and says, “Look, Grandpa grew up there.”

  “Oh, really? I wonder what that was like back then.”

  “I think it was busy down here, but not like it is today. I love the French Quarter, there’s always something going on,” she says.

  “It’s different than anything I’ve ever seen,” I say.

  “There’s where I work.” She points to another two-story building. I see a hanging sign that says: Mystic Café and Antiques. “I work in the café downstairs. My boyfriend, Andre, works upstairs in the antiques shop.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I read tarot cards for customers,” she says. She turns down a side street that takes us to the back of the shops and parks in a narrow space. “Come on, I’ll show you a
round.”

  We walk through a narrow alleyway and end up in front of the café. On the window is painted: Mystic Café * Tea * Pastries * Fortune Telling. Ellie opens the door. “After you, Raina.”

  “Thanks.” I walk into the café, which has about a dozen tables, and they’re full.

  “So, this is it,” she says. “People can order tea at the counter, and then they can have either their tarot cards read or we have a couple of girls who are good in astrology. We have a lady who reads tea leaves, but she hardly ever shows up for work.”

  “Is it expensive?” This seems like a farfetched idea, but it looks like it’s successful.

  “Not too bad,” Ellie says. “I get good tips because I do good readings. But not everyone comes for readings—the pies here are homemade, and we sell coffee, too, of course. Can’t make any money on pastries without coffee.”

  A couple walks in the door and looks around. The looks on their faces say that they’re a bit skeptical, like me. A woman walks over to greet them, but first she says hi to Ellie and gives me a smile. She’s wearing a long dress with a red-and-purple scarf. “Welcome,” she says to the couple.

  “C’mon.” Ellie grabs my hand and leads me through the tables. She stops at the counter and says, “This is my cousin, Raina.”

  “Hello, Raina, I’m Ben, and this is Patricia.” He is tall and thin and Patricia is short and stout; they make an odd pair, but their kind smiles are matching.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Ellie tugs on my hand and leads me through a door and upstairs. At the top of the stairs there are three doors. She leads me through the open one. The room has large windows, and a higher ceiling than I expected to see upstairs. The wall with the window has exposed brick, and the other walls are painted pale yellow with dark-red trim that matches the brick. Not exactly my style, but the old lady who is getting up from behind her desk looks like she belongs here. She is wearing a dark-brown dress and a colorful shawl that looks handmade and delicate. I can’t quite grasp why, but I get the feeling that she was waiting for me.