Page 63 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Okay, let’s try this again.” She achieves the fifth position, arms en haut, and I’m unsure if she’s talking about ballet or Lolly.
Which is when she sits down across from me again and does her thing of holding my hands and closing her eyes. I immediately flash to Knox and his comment about crystal balls, about the desire to conquer our present fears by seeing the future. By knowing that whatever bad thing is happening now, there’s proof of something great right around the corner.
And then I realize I’ve been going about this all wrong. That I have been asking for the answers to the wrong questions.
“Never mind about Lolly,” I say. “What’s my future?”
Misty sighs, long and hard. Apparently, it’s a standard request, the garage band’s equivalent of “Sweet Home Alabama” for psychics. “You sure you want to do this? You may not like what I see.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Whatever she sees can’t be worse than losing my parents at the tender age of twelve or my husband’s love at the fragile age of thirty-six or having a sister who barely speaks to me, lest I forget getting hit by a cable car.
Misty lets go of my hands and rises to her feet. “First, you’ll have to sign a legal waiver.” She makes her way across the room to a chest of drawers, and after some searching, finds what she’s looking for and hands it to me with a Mont Blanc pen. “Right there at the bottom.”
I skim the contract. Basically, it’s a promissory note not to sue. People are so litigious these days. I sign with a flourish.
Chelsea Knight of sound mind and sound body herby gives Misty (no last name) express permission to tell me my future.
Though I think for the waiver to be truly legal, it needs to be notarized.
Satisfied, Misty carefully slips the signed contract back inside the drawer, lights a circle of tea candles, and dims a few lights. I can’t tell if it’s for ambiance or part of the ritual.
Returning to her usual position, she says, “This is your last chance to back out.”
“I’m good.”
“That’s what you say now.” It should sound ominous, but I take it with a grain of salt.
I’m ready to see it, to see my future.
She bobs her head, silently acquiescing, then slips off into the land of the fortune tellers. “You’re all in white,” she says. “A wedding gown, maybe. No, no, it’s a shroud. Wait a minute, I see both. Hmm.”
“What? Is it bad? What does the white shroud mean?” I don’t like the sound of it. I like the wedding gown better.
“I’m not sure. It’s not always a literal translation; often it’s a symbol for something else. Then again, sometimes a pickle is just a pickle.” She laughs, which seems in bad taste, since a white shroud to me is synonymous with death.
“Am I going to die?”
“We’re all going to die, sweetie.”
“Like soon. Is that what you’re seeing?”
“Shush.” She’s rocking back and forth, humming. “There’s a man, a handsome man. He’s by your side, he’s crying.”
“Who is he? Knox? Austin?”
“A tall man. Older. Your past. No, your future. Wait, there’s two of them. Two men. No wait, three. The man in the tower, the same one on the street.”
“What tower?”
“Is his name Mark?”
Oh, for goodness sake, could she please commit to at least one thing? And who the hell is Mark? “There is no Mark in my life.”
“They’re besides themselves with grief.”
“Why are they grieving?”
“They love you. Yes, that’s coming across strongly. I can feel it in the room. They’re pleading with you. They want you back.”
