Page 37 of Nothing Less than Magic
I build a fire, curl up on the couch, and call Lolly.
“Hey.”
“How’s Taylor?” I ask.
“As good as new. Kids today, they bounce back fast. What’s up with you?”
“I spent my day at the local farmers’ market. It was a real kick.” I swipe the throw blanket off the back of the sofa and wrap myself in it. “Have you ever gone to a fortune teller before?”
She laughs. “Don’t tell me you did.”
“I did. Her name is Misty, and she was something straight out of central casting. Flowy dress, Victorian boots, long, curly hair, the whole nine yards. It was weird. Sometimes I thought she was making it up as she went. Other times, it was as if she was actually seeing things, real things.”
“Like what?”
“My name, for one.”
“Aren’t there billboards all over the place with your name and face?”
“Billboards, Lolly?”
“Okay, maybe not billboards, but you’re aNew York Timesbestseller. There’s a pretty good chance she knows who you are.”
“That’s what I thought. But she also seemed to know about my accident.”
“Did the news cover it?”
“Not that I’m aware of. And she knew about you, or at least we think it was you. And about Austin. She said I was running from my pride when I was hit by the cable car, not a broken heart. Do you think that’s true?”
“Only you can know that. What else did she say?”
I take a moment, wondering whether I should tell her, whether it’ll only pick at old scabs. “She talked about Mom,” I say reluctantly, waiting to take Lolly’s temperature.
“What did she say about Mom?”
“That she wasn’t angry that we buried her next to Dad. That she loved us and knew she had grandchildren.”
“Do you believe her? Misty, not Mom.”
“I guess I want to. Do you?”
“How would I know? I wasn’t even there. But if you want to, then believe it.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Lolly.”
“It can if you let it. You’re the one who went to a freaking fortune teller in the first place, so clearly you believe in it on some level.”
“I did it because I thought it would be fun. The truth is, I did it because it was something you would do.”
“So now you want to be like me?”
“More spontaneous, yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since I had a brush with death.” It’s an exaggeration, but there’s also truth in the fact that getting dumped by my ex-husband, getting hit by a cable car, is a wake-up call of sorts. A wake-up call to mend fences with my sister. A wake-up call to make friends. A wake-up call to have balance.
A wake-up call to get a life.
