The Mystic

by Maggie Santangelo

  “I’ll get the keys.”

  I walk around to the passenger’s side. It’s scratched up, like it’s been driven through thorn bushes, but a new coat of paint would make it as good as new. Until he starts up the engine.

  “It’s loud!” I say, nearly shouting.

  “Yeah, you’ll get used to it,” he says. “It needs a little work, but it runs!” He pulls out of the driveway and turns onto Magazine Street with a screech of the tires. I welcome the excitement.

  Zac takes me through the neighborhoods that were effected by Hurricane Katrina. I was surprised to see so much damage this many years after the hurricane. I try to imagine what it was like during the storm. I mentally put pictures I saw on the news together with what I see now. It’s difficult to imagine. I ask Zac, “Were you and your mom living in that house during the storm?”

  “Yes, we had just moved in. It was bad for us. We had some roof leaks and my mom’s car was flooded. I hate to complain though, because it was so much worse for a lot of people.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “Near Lake Pontchartrain. It’s a little ways from here, but the lake is nice. I’ll take you if you’re up to it.”

  “Sure, I’d like to see it. We went around it when we drove in from Nebraska. That’s a lot of driving for you, though, are you sure you’re up to it?” I say with a smile, knowing he’ll say yes.

  “Yes I am! I can’t get enough of driving my Mustang around. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes I am!” I say back to him.

  “Perfect, I know just the thing.”

  We drive from Canal Street to Canal Boulevard. I try to pay attention to where he goes because I’ll be driving here soon. He stops at a gas station that advertises that it sells Po’ Boys, Fried Chicken, and Home-style Fries. I must have a confused look on my face, because he looks at me and says, “Trust me.”

  We walk in and it’s bigger inside than it looks on the outside. It’s also nicer. There’s even an area with a few small tables and chairs, although I hope that’s not where he intends for us to eat.

  We wait in line behind an elderly couple who question everything on the menu. Zac says to them, “The po’ boys here are the best in the city.”

  The lady in front of us turns around and says to him, “I hope so, young man, because that’s what we’re having.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Her husband turns around to get a look at us, he gives a weak smile.

  “You’re a nice-looking couple,” she says.

  I don’t want to correct her, and apparently Zac doesn’t either, because he says, “Thank you.”

  The couple takes their sandwiches and bottles of fruit juice and leave the store. Zac orders our food and two sodas. When he gets to the cash register to pay, the guy says, “The old man paid for your food. You’re all set.”

  “Really?” Zac says.

  “But, how did he know how much?” I say.

  “He gave me an extra 20 and said to pay for your lunch and keep the rest. So that’s good for all of us,” he says with a proud smile.

  “That’s really nice,” Zac says. “Thanks!” He picks up the bag with the sandwiches and we take our cups to the soda machine to fill them up.

  “I’ve never had anything like that happen before,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  Zac drives us to the lake and then drives alongside it for a few minutes. He pulls off the road next to a bench that overlooks the lake. I think it may be a little embarrassing to eat with cars driving by, but I tell myself I don’t care. And the more I tell myself that, the more I believe it, so by the time we’re sitting on the bench unwrapping our po’ boys, I really don’t care.

  “This is delicious,” I say. It’s messy though; I’m glad he got a stack of napkins.

  “They are, right?” he says.

  We eat our lunch and look out over the lake. The seagulls squawk at us, asking for food. I know better than to feed them though; they’ll turn into a frenzy of hungry birds really fast.

  When we’re finished Zac says, “So, what do you think of the grand Lake Pontchartrain? Was it worth the drive?”

  “Yes. And so were the sandwiches. Oh, excuse me, po’ boys.”

  “That’s right,” he says with an exaggerated southern accent. “When you’re in the swamp, you do as the swamp folk do.”

  “The swamp? I haven’t seen any swamps. I’ve seen the French Quarter, and what you’ve shown me today of your fine city. No swamps.”

  “Oh, well. We’ll have to add that to our next tour.”

  When he smiles his dimples show and he looks like a boy instead of the young man that he is. His wavy hair is tousled in the wind. He looks back at me and I feel cheeks blush.

  “I would love to,” I say.

  “Maybe we’ll even spot a gator or two.”

  “Really?”

  “Sometimes, but usually you go out in a boat to find them. I know an area along the swamp where people live. I have a friend who’s Cajun and he lives out there.”

  “Ok. Next time then.”

  He smiles again and looks out over the lake. “Well, are you ready to go home?”

  “Yes.”

  ***

  We pull into the carport as the afternoon turns into evening. I don’t really want to go home, but I don’t want to impose. We sit in the car for a minute and I say, “I guess I’d better go.”

  “Ok. I had a good afternoon.”

  “Thanks for showing me around the city.”

  “It was nice to be able to. I mean, I’ve lived here my whole life, and so have my friends. Telling you about the city was kind of like seeing it new.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m reluctant to get out, and at this point he’s not moving so I think he might kiss me. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, but it makes me think of Johnny. Then again, Johnny doesn’t even know I like him, and it’s not like we’re in a relationship or anything. I just met him.

  Before I can continue my daydream about choosing between Johnny and Zac, Zac opens his car door and gets out. Well, I guess that’s that. I get out and thank him again.

  “No problem. Stop by anytime,” he says. He moves his hand up to his glasses and I think he’s going to take them off and maybe I’ll get that kiss after all. No, he just pushes them further up the bridge of his nose.

  Awkward.

  “Ok, bye,” I say. I start to walk around the house.

  “You can come through the house, if you’d like,” he says.

  Well, that would be better. I don’t want to run off. But it’s too late now, I’ve made it past the point of turning back and still saving my dignity. “That’s ok,” I say.

  “I’ll walk you home then, to make sure you get home all right.”

  “Sure.”

  Once we reach the front door, I take the keys out and unlock the door. I wonder if I should invite him in, but I just turned down his invite inside, so I’m thinking no.

  “I’m fine—”

  He interrupts me with a kiss. Not a totally romantic kiss, but a sweet, soft kiss on my lips. Then he pulls away and says, “Good night, Raina.”

  ***

  Ellie texted me and said she’s coming over before work and I’m so glad. In my room I dress in khaki shorts and a button-up blouse. I make up my bed and straighten up my room a bit. I’m mostly unpacked, but I’m reluctant to unpack everything, I don’t think I’m ready to see this as my permanent home, so I stall.

  “Good morning,” I say to Grandpa, and walk by before he gets a good look at me. He doesn’t say anything as I pass, or as I sit at the table and eat. I can get used to his quiet company; the sound of newspaper pages turning is comforting. I clean up the dishes in the sink and clean the kitchen. It makes me feel useful and normal.

  “Hello?” I hear Ellie’s voice from the front door. I greet her with a hug.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She looks great in a loose, floral print blouse with a short ski
rt. “Hey, Raina, are you feeling at home yet?”

  “A little more every day.”

  “Good. Here, I got this for you.” She shows me a large green gift bag that she had behind her back.

  I set the bag on the bench in the foyer and rush to open it. It’s the stained glass church from the antiques shop. “I love it!” I say.

  “It’s a welcome to your new home gift. We all pitched in for it,” she says with a proud smile.

  That makes me think of Johnny—and he was thinking of me.. “Thank you,” I say.

  While my mind is on Johnny, she walks over to Grandpa and says hi, and gives him a hug and kiss on the forehead. “How are you today, Grandpa?”

  “Ellie,” he says. My heart drops. Any good feeling I had about my growing relationship with him is sunk when I hear him call her by name. I am left to pretend it doesn’t bother me. He goes on to say, “Rachel has been here, I’ve seen her.”

  “Yes, she has.” Ellie turns to look at me.

  “She’s not here now,” I say in a low voice.

  “Who’s that?” he says.

  “That’s Raina, she’s my cousin. You know, your other granddaughter.”

  “Oh, yes, they’re coming to visit. Rachel, David, and their little girl, Raina Rae.”

  Ellie looks back at me, no doubt to see how I react to what he said. I just shrug my shoulders and look down at my shoes. She says to him, “Yes, Grandpa. We’re gonna go in her room for a little while, ok?”

  “Hmph,” is the sound he makes.

  In my room I sit on the bed and lean back against the wall. Ellie moves the chair closer to the bed and sits. She kicks off her shoes and says, “Do you mind if I put my feet up?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  She looks around and says, “Looks like you’re almost unpacked. Need help?”

  “No, I got it. I’m just a slow unpacker.”

  “I guess you’re used to it, having to move so often.”

  “Yes, sometimes it’s fun to set up a new house and all, but this is different.”

  A moment of silence goes by and she says, “I can’t imagine. I’ve lived in the same house all my life.”

  “I’d like to see it sometime,” I say.

  “Of course, we’ll have y’all over for dinner. We can’t get Grandpa out of the house, but you and your mom can come.”

  “Well, maybe just me. Mom’s spending so much time with an old boyfriend, she hasn’t been home much.” Maybe I shouldn’t tell her anything unflattering about Mom. Ellie doesn’t really know her, and I don’t want her to think badly of her aunt.

  She surprises me when she says, “Kyle?”

  “How did you know?”

  “He’s friends with my dad and mom. I guess they all grew up together. I heard Kyle say he was looking forward to seeing Aunt Rachel again. I guess he’s seen her,” she says.

  “Yeah, he has. Anyway, about Grandpa; are you sure he’s ok here alone?”

  “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. My mom takes him to the doctor, which is an ordeal, let me tell you. He never wants to leave the house. Mom tells me and my dad how she has to trick him into leaving by telling him that Jacob is at the doctor’s office and he needs him.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, the doctor says he has the beginning of Alzheimer’s, but as long as he’s being looked after he’s ok here.”

  “He’s alone a lot,” I say.

  “Well, Ms. Mona checks up on him, and so do Mom and I. What else are we going to do? A nursing home is so expensive, and he won’t leave here to come live with us.” Her tone of voice is defensive.

  I backtrack, “If the doctor says he’s fine here, then I’m sure he is. It just takes some getting used to his…” His what? Confusion, illness, temper? All of those things.

  “I know, but you’re here, and that’s just one more person who loves him and will keep an eye on him. You don’t have to watch him or babysit, just let me know if he does anything that could hurt himself or anyone.”

  I’d like more of an example of how she thinks that might happen, but I feel that she, like me, doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

  I don’t know if telling her about my nightmares is an acceptable change of subject, but I need to talk to someone about it. “I’m having a problem, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “I’ll try, what is it?”

  “Don’t feel bad if you can’t do anything. I don’t really think there’s anything you can do. I mean, I don’t really think there’s anything anyone can do.”

  “It’s ok. Just tell me.”

  I think I may have changed my mind. I can’t find the words to explain that my father turns into a monster in my dreams. Will she think that he was a monster in real life too, and that’s why I have these dreams? He wasn’t, so how do I explain what’s happening?

  I’m about to tell her never mind when she leans her head down so she can look up at me. She smiles and says, “Raina Rae, you can trust me.”

  I think she may be poking fun at my full name. God knows I’ve had times of thinking it’s ridiculous. So while she may be, and probably is, I don’t care. She’s made me smile, and that’s enough to make me open up to her.

  I tell her about the nightmares, and also about the good dreams. I tell her I never know which one it’s going to be until he takes off his mask. She listens attentively and with patience while I ramble on and sometimes repeat myself.

  When I’m done she says, “I know your father’s passing was hard on you. And to make it worse, it seems like your mom isn’t here to help you through it. Maybe you should see someone. Like a professional, who can listen and maybe tell you something that can help.”

  “I didn’t think you could help. Thanks anyway.”

  “No, wait. I’m sorry I told you I could. Sometimes listening is help, but maybe you need more than that.”

  “Like what, medication? I’m not crazy. If you don’t think Grandpa is, then I’m certainly not.”

  “No, not like that. Not medication. I only think that should be used in extreme cases, when nothing else works. That’s not you; it’s only been two nightmares.”

  “Only two?” I say defensively. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming in frustration.

  “Crap, am I just making this worse?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “We could try reading your cards,” she says.

  “My what?”

  “Your tarot cards. Remember? That’s my job.”

  “I thought that was just a gimmick, like, to lure in tourists.”

  “Oh, thanks. No, it’s not. Lovie taught me how to do it, and she’s a mystic.”

  “What’s a mystic?”

  “It’s like a religion. It’s been around for centuries, passed down from mother to daughter, aunt to niece, occasionally from father to son. It’s a way to open your mind, like meditation. You put your energy into the cards and a mystic can pick up on that energy—then she uses your energy, and the general meanings of the cards, and puts them together with the way the cards are laid out. That, along with intuition, gives a full reading.”

  “Oh, so she’s like a witch.”

  Ellie laughs, “If she is, then I am.”

  “I don’t think you are.”

  “Lovie isn’t either. Of course, some people called mystics witches and burned them at the stake.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “It’s not witchcraft, or black magic; that’s just something that’s spread to give people like me a bad name. And to scare people like you away. Does it work? Are you scared?”

  “No, of course I’m not scared.”

  “Ok. I said I want to help you, and this is the best way I know how to. It’s a skill, something I’ve been working on for a couple of years now. Some people say it’s so accurate, it’s scary; maybe that’s why people are afraid of it and try to scare others off too. But I’m good at it, Raina, and other than just listening, it
’s the only way I know to help you.”

  I sigh and give up trying to turn what she’s saying into something logical. “Ok, do a reading on me if you think it will help.”

  “It will work better if you can try to believe in what I’m saying. Can you at least try?”

  “Yes, I’ll try.”

  “Let’s do this, then!” she says.

  I laugh at her apparent excitement in what she must perceive as winning me over She sits straight up and takes her purse off the floor and sets it on the bed. It’s made of fabric and is tied in a knot at the top of the strap. When she opens it up to look through it, I see it’s filled with stuff. She pulls out a deck of cards, closes up her purse, and sets it on the floor.

  I feel like I have to say, “I want to try this, but maybe just because I’m curious. You made it sound interesting, but I don’t really think I believe in it.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter,” she grins.

  “I guess not.”

  “You can’t shuffle them by fanning them out like you can with playing cards.” She shuffles them with grace in her fingers. “Clear your mind, and take a deep breath with me.”

  We take audible breaths and exhale in unison. She says, “Think about what you’ve had, what you have now, and what you want to have. Basically, past, present, and future.”

  Too many thoughts fill my mind—the friends I’ve left, all my possessions that were left behind, and of course, my father. How can I focus on just one thing?

  “Here,” she says, and hands me the cards. “You shuffle them like you saw me do.”

  I take the cards.

  I try to shuffle them the way Ellie did, but some fall out and I feel clumsy. I pick up the fallen ones and add them back to the top. I shuffle again. Oh, I’m supposed to be focusing on one thing. I close my eyes and reclaim my focus. I shuffle one more time and hand them back to her.

  “Good?” she says.

  “I guess. I can’t shuffle them well and I can’t concentrate, so I guess I’m done. You can shuffle them more.”

  “No. You stopped when your intuition told you to stop. That’s enough.”

  No, I stopped because I suck at this and I want to get it over with.

  “Ok, here we go,” she says. She lays three cards in a row.