Page 34 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea,” she chants. “You’re recuperating from something. It’s either your head or your heart.”
That covers a lot of bases. I figure it’s a good go-to for any fortune teller. I mean, isn’t everyone recuperating from something? A vacation, a cold, a bad night’s sleep.
“I was in an accident more than a week ago,” I say, again willing to humor her. “Got a minor concussion.”
“Yes, I see it. It was on a big street. Lots of people. A man. There was a man there.”
“There were a lot of men there.” An entire paramedics crew.
“Just one. I’m only seeing one.”
I hitch my shoulders, but she can’t see me through her closed eyes.
“You were running from something. I see your heart. No, I see your head.”
“Like I said, I suffered a minor concussion.”
“I see sadness. Your heart again. No, it’s your chest.”
Oh, for goodness sake, why doesn’t the woman name every one of my body parts? Eventually she’ll touch on something. Isn’t this the way it works with so-called soothsayers? Aren’t they supposed to be just vague enough that everything is open to interpretation?
“My chest is fine. It was only my head,” I say, not even trying to disguise the skepticism in my voice.
“Your pride was hurt. Yes, that’s what it was. You were running from your pride.”
I’m silent.
“There’s the man again.” Her eyes squeeze tighter, like she’s desperately trying to make out the shadowy figure in her trance or whatever state she’s in. “No, this is a different man. A handsome man, who is having his own difficulties.”
I lean in. “Like what kind of difficulties?” I tell myself I’m only playing along.
“He’s holding on too tightly. Very tightly. Like a death grip. He’s afraid. Yes, I think he’s afraid. Wait, he’s running toward something. Somebody. A woman.”
“Is it me?”
“I can’t tell. It’s smoky. Misty. A fire maybe. No, water. Lots of water.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “It wasn’t a fire or water! It was a cable car!”
“That’s not what I’m seeing.” She releases my hands and splays her palm over my heart. It’s as if she’s trying to read my mind through my pulse.
“The other man. The other man is torn,” she continues. “He’s holding on, too. He can’t seem to let go. He keeps going back and forth, pacing. No, he’s vacillating. He’s stuck, frustrated. Sad.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I can’t quite make him out.”
“Is his name Austin?”
“Who is Austin?”
“My ex-husband.”
“I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?” It’s unbelievable that I’m even asking. It’s all nonsense, a charade, I tell myself.
“I can’t see him clearly enough,” she says. “But he’s there. He’s by your bed, kissing you. There’s a woman there, too.”
