by Amelia Oz
Needing to act, I jumped up and carefully poured the green gunk down her garbage disposal. Whatever happened in the woods was a mystery I needed to understand. I'd felt helpless. Why couldn't she get this? I put the glass in the dishwasher and marched down the hall to her family room. I would have stomped, but I was barefoot and too lazy to make the effort.
The family room was a plaid meets floral explosion, the result of her parents' compromise on decor. Family photos filled most surfaces, and it was cozy in a way that my own home was not. We didn't have photos for one thing. My grandfather despised nostalgia.
I sidled up to the corner window and peeked through the cream silk curtains towards the house next door. Scott's jeep still sat in front of his house. I watched the portion of his front yard that I could see while my fingers played with the ends of my French braid. Waiting for Scott, I thought about the young man who plucked me out of the river yesterday. His scent had been amazing—warm and intoxicating. Sandalwood, pine and spearmint...
Hearing a sigh, I turned to find Amanda sinking into a nearby sofa. She normally joined me at the window, my partner in all things stalkery.
I peeked between the curtains again and was rewarded by the sight of Scott walking across his yard to his jeep. A white thermal shirt clung to his defined arms and his sandy hair was messy, as if he'd just woken up. He climbed in and looked down at something I couldn't see. Probably searching for music. Maybe even the Doors album we'd listened to over and over last summer when he wanted to educate me on his favorite 70's music. I'd pretended to be unaware of the classics to make him feel good. As I was a poor actress and often hummed along to the songs, that just made him dumb.
After a month of seeing each other nearly every day, Scott, my first and only boyfriend, had dumped me, accomplishing it spectacularly when he'd made out with a Portland Timber cheerleader on the hood of his car—after he'd locked eyes with Amanda and I sitting twenty-five yards away on Amanda's front porch. No words were exchanged. His message was loud and clear. If I didn't put out, he would replace me with someone who would. Proving spectacularly that he wasn't worth it.
In turn, I stored a dozen eggs in our very warm garage for a month, waiting for the right moonless night, and egged the inside of his mailbox. I'd felt bad about it when his dad had given up trying to clean the stench and bought a new mailbox. I should hate him but oddly didn’t. I definitely hated that I still found him attractive. That I still remembered what a great kisser he was. Someday he would beg for my forgiveness and confess his undying love. My response would be to tell him he'd missed his chance. At least, that was the most common scenario.
“I thought we agreed to save the boy drama until after college? Careers and then hot love lives, remember?” Amanda reminded me.
Scott’s car rolled past my car, braked and then backed up. His head turned towards Amanda's house. I ducked, flinging myself to the floor. Holding my breath, I only dared another look once the rumble of his car engine faded. Satisfied he'd gone, I joined Amanda on the couch.
"I don't know why you're still hung up on him. He’s a class A douche bag." In Amanda's world there were three levels of douche-baggery. Scott won the jackpot and top honors.
"I am not still hung up on him."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Did you know he had sex with Mrs. Hopkin's niece right after she returned home from a mission in Brazil? She's like, twenty-four and has a fiancé."
Mrs. Hopkin's was her Mormon neighbor across the street. Her niece led bible studies. I was impressed despite myself. He did seem to enjoy a challenge, and I was very glad I hadn't succumbed to become another notch on his bedpost. Save that honor for the next idiot girl. I wanted spectacular or nothing.
"At least he already graduated so we won't run into him when school starts," she commented. I snorted and curled my legs beneath me. It’d been Amanda's idea to matriculate into public school for our final year.
"Tell me again why we’re doing this?"
"Because with early credits, we won’t be losing time with college—and you need to socialize with people your own age," she said firmly, "normal people, not those feral relatives of yours, and I want to have an actual report card with straight A's to put in my scrapbook. We’ll be creating memories." My eyes twitched with the effort not to roll them.
"I don't like people. People don't like me," I stated for the hundredth time while nudging her leg with my toes. Amanda sighed and pushed my cold feet away.
"People like you just fine. You just need to remember to smile and cut down on the sarcasm." I plastered a toothy smile on my face. "Me? I'm a ray of sunshine." She gave me a pointed look and I shrugged.
"I can't help it if people are annoying. Anyway, I need to go home and check on Sam. Then I'm going to visit your mom at the market today and ask her advice on why I couldn't speak or move and had to stand in freezing water while you Jedi-mind tricked some freaky guy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was paranormal.” Amanda stiffened.
It felt silly to say out loud. I mean, magical stuff didn’t actually exist. In fact, I wasn't even sure that's what really happened. For all I knew it could have been dehydration or maybe even hypothermia playing tricks on my mind.
Amanda bit her lip and refused to meet my eyes.
"I'll have to tell her that I jumped from the cliff, but what will she do? Tell Sam on me?" I wondered aloud. My grandfather was nearing his ninety-seventh birthday and recovering from hip surgery. It was doubtful that Amanda's mom would want to upset him. But then, neither did I.
"I'm also wearing your clothes home. I may or may not return them." As I'd put on her favorite pink t-shirt and navy sweats after showering at her house last night, she narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Fine then.
I made it to the foyer before she caught up to me.
"Wait for me."
Surprised, I shook off her hand. "I thought you were trying to get rid of me?"
I didn't want her to come home with me. I had no idea what state Sam would be in. We had Carol to help us during the day, and a night nurse about to start, yet his moods were unpredictable.
"Stella, we both know that if I ask you not to go to the Market to see my mom, you'll go straight there. I might as well go with you." She smiled grimly. "Give me five minutes to change."
"Fine." I waited until she walked upstairs to her room. As soon as I heard footsteps cross the floorboards above, I scooped up my backpack and wet sneakers by the door and hurried outside.
My heart sang at the sight of my baby—a 1995 Volkswagen beetle. It was ancient, but what I could afford. Sam surprised me by having it re-painted in vintage gulf-blue the week I brought it home. He'd wanted me in a "safer" car with all-wheel drive, but I'd adamantly refused to allow him to buy me one. We always had what we needed but I had no idea what our finances were and he'd been retired for a long time.
Plus, I loved my VW and was proud of making a modest amount of money from my artwork and the occasional dance class. Having wheels and the freedom to go places without anyone's help was satisfying. One day I’d have to take care of myself and every penny counted.
After tossing my burgundy backpack and shoes in a backseat crowded with canvases and crates of old oil paint intended for the town's recycling center, I started the engine just as rain began to polka-dot my dusty windshield. At the stop sign I spotted Scott's jeep idling next to the curb a block away. My face burned, imagining his regard as I rolled past. Glancing into the rearview mirror I released my pent-up breath when his jeep remained in place, his windshield wipers flicking the rain in slow sweeps.
My VW left Troutdale behind as it purred noisily along the twisting roads of the Historic Columbia River Highway. Emerald green trees and foliage surrounded me as hawks and eagles dipped and circled the cliffs above the river. Rolling down my window, I breathed in the fresh moist air that carried the lingering, acrid odor of smoke from last year's wild fires. It’d been a miracle when the fires had stopped jus
t short of leaping towards our house. The scent reminded me of the interaction with Marcus in the forest and I rolled up my window. Amanda's refusal to talk about what happened with the strangers hurt more than I cared to admit. We never kept secrets from each other.
The rain began to pelt down in earnest as I made the turn onto our long driveway. Passing our neighbor's fence, I nodded at the grumpy goats and lazy cows that always seemed to congregate near the wooden railing, no matter the weather. The dirt road snaked through a half mile of maple saplings, white oak trees, and wild blueberry bushes before the house came into view.
The rare visitor who called on us was always taken aback by the sight of the massive oak trees shading our front yard. The trees were remarkable, but their decorations dropped jaws. My heart warmed to see the hundreds of hollow eggs that swayed from tattered silk ribbons in the trees. Most had been hand-painted by Sam or me over the course of our years together. Although sealed in a protective glaze, it was a miracle we'd only lost a few to windstorms and curious squirrels.
The house itself was a three-story, Queen Anne Victorian, built by a wealthy banker for his family when the current city of Portland was still a frontier village they nicknamed "Stumptown." It was a large, wood framed house but old and certainly not a fancy one. I liked the creaking floorboards and peeling butter-yellow paint we never got around to repainting.
Stepping barefoot out of my car, my toes sunk into the wet moss that blanketed the edge of our driveway. I glanced up at my attic bedroom window. At thirteen, a phase of wandering in my sleep and waking up in our backyard had freaked Sam out. He'd hired a tree service to cut down the thick limb that once rested near my window, and alarms were placed on the glass panes to keep me from plunging to my death while sleepwalking. Another branch had grown since then, and on windy days it nearly reached the base of my windowsill, a fact I carefully avoided pointing out to Sam.
I spied our handyman raking leaves to the side of the house and met Roger’s gloved wave with a peace sign. Rain slicked the painted front steps, but I managed to leap them two at a time. The front door opened, spilling light onto the graying porch boards.
"Come in, come in!" beckoned Carol. She tsked as I passed her into the house.
"Where are your shoes?" It was a frequent question from Sam’s nurse, as I would walk barefoot twenty-four hours a day if I could. I flicked the rain from my arms and tossed my backpack into the hall closet.
"In the car."
Carol scrunched her round face in disbelief. A youthful fifty-something woman, with a pleasing face and brunette bob, her jeans and green top revealed the figure of a woman who liked to run and ski. Or wrangle grumpy old men into physical therapy.
"How’s Sam?" I asked, reaching my hand out to touch the gnarled handle of his walking stick where it rested forlornly in our umbrella stand. An avid hiker, Sam’s slow recovery was affecting his moods.
"Your Granddad is sleeping soundly after a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. He said I made them just like his “Mamma did back in Virginia” and I told him he was just being nice.” I grinned. Sam was such a charmer.
“He told me you spent the night at Amanda’s house and seemed glad you were off having fun. You have about an hour before he wakes up."
“Cool. I’m dying for coffee—want some?” Nodding, she followed me down the hall to our dated kitchen. "I'll grind the beans," she offered. I smiled in gratitude and pulled mugs from the cabinets.
"So, how’s Thomas?" Carol was proud of her youngest son and a former member of our homeschool group. A little shy and on the scrawny side with glasses, homeschool had been a way for Thomas to avoid the painful teasing he received from his former classmates.
"Oh, he's coding all kinds of programming now as a consultant. He starts his sophomore year of college next month." Her face beamed with pride. "He's working part time for the Maryhill Museum," she said just before the loud burr of the coffee grinder kicked up. I waited until the grinder was silent and the scent of fresh ground beans filled the air.
"Maryhill? Isn't that the park with the Stonehenge replica?”
"The very one. He's been giving tours of it." She pulled a pink box from a bag resting on a chair. My mouth watered at the scent of fresh donuts and she smiled knowingly. I grabbed plates and napkins.
"I know how much you love these. I’m just glad Thomas is happy." She laughed. "He’s happy, which makes me happy." Carol was an eternal optimist and loved her son. We sank into chairs at the round wooden table and I prepared my cup with milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
"How’s your school work?" she asked. She used a napkin to hand me my favorite donut, its surface decorated with a cute vanilla icing mustache.
"Still taking online classes but I have no idea what I want to do besides art. I start senior year of high school in two weeks." It was kind of fun saying that out loud. Like a girl saying typical teenage stuff when on the inside that experience felt so unrelatable. I stuffed down my feelings with a huge bite of yeasty sweet dough. The several minutes were spent in blessed silence as we enjoyed the rich, velvety brew and I finished my treat.
"I'm glad you'll get that experience. I found my love of nursing in high school. I was a volunteer candy striper." she recalled fondly.
"You’re lucky. I just want Sam to get better." Loneliness and uncertainty caught me off guard and lodged in my throat. I pushed the plate away.
“You’ll be okay, Stella. Sam’s had a very long life and has more to live. But when the time comes, plenty of young people forge their way through life without family. You still have your friends.” Right. Like my best friend who was keeping secrets from me.
I took my empty cup to the sink and Carol followed, setting her mug gently next to mine. She bumped my elbow and slipped away. I sighed and made my way through the foyer and down the hall to check on Sam. He snored softly beneath his favorite orange and red Pendleton blanket, his thick, white hair combed neatly, even when lying down. I tiptoed out, leaving him to dream of catching largemouth bass. My legs ate up the wide stairs to my attic bedroom, passing doors of small storage rooms that held holiday decorations and Sam's old books and papers from when he'd been a country doctor back east.
My bedroom faced the front yard, its large space a welcome sight with its exposed wood beams and wide plank floors. I stood for a moment and drank in the sight of familiar sloped ceilings and the bed frame crafted from twisted juniper branches. I flicked a wall switch and a web of fairy lights sparked overhead, crisscrossing my ceiling. We didn't have air conditioning, so two fans near my windows provided ventilation when I painted. They also helped me sleep, the cool brush of air across my face and steady hum better than any lullaby.
I hurried to the long wooden table covered with paint projects and inspected my latest work. The tower card had dried beautifully and I sighed in relief. This would be the eighth set commissioned through Amanda’s mom for her customers. Each deck was unique and stamped with my personal signature—a golden star in the right lower corner of each card. The completed works for this particular project were lined up in a neat row, their jewel-like colors gleaming. Marion reprinted my original fifty-six Minor Arcana cards, then included the unique twenty-two Major Arcana cards that I painstakingly created for each new deck.
There’d been an extra set, one I’d gifted my paternal grandmother last year. She’d shrugged upon unwrapping its box and tossed it into a drawer, unimpressed.
I moved to a standing rack of clothes and, in a red mood, selected a short, crimson summer dress with cap sleeves and buttons down the front that I’d purchased at a vintage store for fifty cents. Once my teeth were brushed in the tiny bathroom crowded with paint cleaning supplies, I stared at my pale but determined face in the acrylic mirror above my stained sink and resolved to find out exactly what secrets Amanda was keeping from me. There had to be a logical explanation for how my will had been stolen for those brief moments. I couldn’t live without knowing the answer.
The Fool
Stella
lthough late afternoon, vendors, visitors, and street performers were enjoying the vibe of Portland's Saturday market. A steel drum tinkled a gorgeous African melody as the trembling voice of an indie singer wove in and out of a tune with ukulele accompaniment from another. Wet children ran from the sprinklers at the Legacy fountain, one nearly clipping the stool I sat cross-legged upon.
I shook my fist in their direction, to the horror of the parents chasing them. My perch allowed me to lean against the door frame of the manga shop, where Silvan was currently working. It was a great spot to people watch. The narrow lane was filled with shop stalls and a mix of people, with storefronts facing one another on either side.
Kicking off my sandals, I pinched my lips in thought. Marion's Mystical was diagonally across from me, its window display filled with rocks, Buddha statues, and a whole host of crap that made the new age crowd go nuts. A closed sign gleamed against the darkened windows. Absently, I unwrapped a stick of gum and stuck it between my teeth.
The spot where Marion usually set up her booth had been replaced with a crepe seller. In all the years I'd known Amanda's family, this was the first time they'd been closed on a Saturday without a planned vacation or holiday. I checked my cell again. No response to the dozen texts I'd sent Amanda.
Mrs. Withers, the old lady who owned the map/bookstore next door to Marion's Mystical, was sweeping outside her storefront. She caught my eye, scowled, and abruptly went inside her store.
I'd questioned her earlier about whether she'd seen Amanda's parents and my attitude may have been a trifle aggressive. Sighing, I twisted the mala bracelet tied to my ankle that read “Fuck off” in Morse code and glanced down at the sketchpad in my lap. I'd intended to draw ideas for the Sun card from the Major Arcana, yet the page was filled with different versions of the Knight of Cups, his fingers gently cupping a golden chalice. The margins were filled with eyes. Eyes with intense, glowing irises and fringed by lush eyelashes.
