The Tarot Reader, page 11
By the time I’d reached the shop, the rain had soaked through my clothes and a tooth-rattling shiver had settled in that I knew would linger for hours. I walked past a customer talking to Stevie, and they both glanced at me in surprise when I tossed my bag behind the curtain to the stairs with a squelchy, wet plop.
“One second,” Stevie said to the young woman who was now holding two bundles of sage up to her nose, so much that they were practically inside her nostrils. “You look like hot garbage,” Stevie whispered. She pulled me behind the curtain as the front bell chimed and the sound of chatter filled the shop.
“Thanks, Stevie. Love the support.” I rubbed the heels of my hands under my eyes, wiping away droplets of rain from my face.
Stevie grimaced. “That made it way worse.” She pointed to the mirror on the wall by the stairs, and I glanced over to see black makeup smudged along my under-eyes. “What’s your deal?”
The front bell chimed again, and the sound of murmuring voices hummed like a hive of bees, ratcheting up my anxiety. Now wasn’t the time to ask her. “We can talk about it later. You should probably go back out there.”
“Yeah, I know, and you should probably get yourself together because it’s about to get a lot busier out there. Go upstairs and fix that”—she motioned to my face with waggling fingers—“and then read the paper on the kitchen table. Then check the shop’s social media.”
“What are you talking—”
Stevie turned my shoulders to face the stairs and gave a violent slap on my butt. “Go on. Up, up!”
I picked up my drenched tote bag and dragged it behind me up the stairs, the pathetic thud with each step driving home my failure to make Stevie feel secure. Had I really created such an unstable environment that she felt the only way to keep us afloat was to give up something she’d worked so hard for?
Stevie greeted the waiting customers with a bombastic, cheerful voice I’d never heard come from her. A pleasant murmur greeted her back, and I welcomed the warm feeling of hope budding in my chest.
In the bathroom, I toweled the rainwater out of my hair and wiped the smudged mascara from my face. Before I made my way downstairs, I remembered Stevie’s order to check the shop’s social media. I picked up my phone, mindlessly making a cup of tea while I tapped into the news article we’d been tagged in. “Local Psychic Helps Find Missing Councilman,” read the headline.
My heartbeat surged in my chest, the shiver I’d had before becoming a near-violent shake. I needed to sit before my legs gave out. I sat and continued reading, my breathing audible even over the sound of the boiling kettle on the stove.
“Local psychic Jade Ravencroft of Ravencroft Psychic Parlor and Shoppe has helped authorities find the body of beloved councilman Thomas Nichols, who went missing on September 20. After receiving a tip from Ms. Ravencroft, police were able to discover the location of the councilman, who was unfortunately found deceased. ‘When she called in with a vision of where the councilman was, we immediately took her seriously and sent officers out to the construction site to initiate a search,’ Chief Officer Blanton states.”
I scoffed at the blatant lie, remembering how they’d blown me off and treated me with nothing but suspicion and derision. I skimmed the article, knowing I’d be rereading this at least ten more times, if not framing it on the wall. It continued, “This is not the first time Ravencroft has successfully predicted the location of a missing loved one. Mr. Neville, a 90-year-old veteran, raved about Ravencroft’s talent after she called him to report the location of his missing dog, Angel. ‘She has a gift from God,’ Neville states.”
My eyes welled with tears. This was an enormous victory for the shop, and there was no telling how many people would read this and pay us a visit—hell, there was evidence of it right now downstairs. I pulled up our social media pages, reeling at the number of comments and new followers we’d gained. The story had gone viral on multiple platforms.
My stack of bracelets jingled as I raced down the stairs. I enjoyed this new weightless, hopeful feeling in my body. For once, I thought triumphantly, people were taking us seriously. When I peeled the curtain back, I nearly gasped at how crowded the shop was. Everyone’s heads whipped to me, and I plastered on a serene smile despite the fact that my heart was racing, my mouth nearly salivating at the thought of how much money we were about to make. I’d be able to convince Stevie to call the college and explain. I needed to get her back on that admissions list.
Stevie mouthed Say something!
“Welcome, everyone! I know many of you are just browsing, but if you’re interested in a reading, please join me at the tarot table.” I took my seat in the alcove, appreciating that Stevie had already lit candles and arranged everything I would need. I reminded myself to thank her later for picking up my slack. I didn’t do that enough.
To my surprise, as soon as my thighs touched the seat, eight people had organized themselves in a tidy line. I made panicked eye contact with Stevie, who asked the patrons for privacy and encouraged them to continue browsing, promising she’d remember the order in which they’d lined up.
A new sitter took their spot across from me, and I released the rope around the velvet curtain, wrapping us in a cocoon of privacy, or at least the illusion of it. That was what this was all about—the illusion. The reading sped by, and it was clear they just wanted to lay eyes on the newly famous town psychic. A trail of new clients came, one after the other, and I eagerly smiled back at them, ready to put on a show.
* * *
Between clients, my heart thumped with excitement at our spurt of success but also the desperation to take a second to talk to Stevie about everything.
“It seems like most of them just want to interview you about the murder,” Stevie whispered. “Did that one lady actually ask you if you killed him yourself?”
I nodded, holding back a nervous laugh. It had shocked me at first, but the woman had clearly been half kidding. I was about to ask Stevie about revoking her college acceptance when a woman entered the shop and tentatively approached us. Stevie busied herself with tidying the shelves. I ushered the woman into the alcove and she sat in her seat, her hands twisting with anxiety in her lap.
“Here,” I offered, plucking a crystal from on top of the drawers next to me and handing it to her. “Amethyst. For your nerves.”
She gave a timid smile as she took it and thanked me. “This is my birthstone,” she said quietly.
“I know,” I said. Her eyes widened, unaware she’d set me up for an easy home run.
She did much of the same for the rest of the appointment, dropping hints about her mother’s failing memory. When I asked about her dementia and if they could afford to hire someone for part-time in-home care, she nearly began to cry.
“I can barely afford to feed her as it is, much less hire someone,” she said with a warbled, tearful voice.
For the remainder of the reading, I stretched the true meaning of the cards to comfort her. By the end of the reading, she was openly crying, and I handed her a box of tissues. “These sessions can feel worse before they feel better. You’ve been brave.” To my surprise, my voice cracked, and I fought against the tightness in my throat as I thought of my own mother, knowing I’d never have the chance to watch her grow old.
She dug through her purse with a shaking hand and put a ten-dollar bill on the table, inching it toward me. I pushed it back. “This first session is on me, and take the crystal. You deserve it.”
Her chin quivered. “Thank you. The paper was right. You really do have a gift.”
“I hope to see you again soon. Best of luck with your mother’s care.”
As she left the shop, I let out a deep exhale, relishing in the brief moment of silence in the space, which promptly died as the phone rang upstairs.
“Can you man the shop for a second?” I asked Stevie. She gave a thumbs-up as she straightened a line of prayer candles.
I answered the phone with a distracted “Hello?”
“Is this Jade Ravencroft? Er, Madame Ravencroft?” asked a voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, this is Jade,” I answered.
“Greetings. My name’s Max, and I would like to extend an invitation for you to have a booth at the upcoming renaissance fair. I understand we rejected your previous application—um, for the last two years, sorry about that—and are reaching out to correct our mistake and extend our deepest apologies. And additional apologies for the last-minute invitation.”
My cheeks flushed at the mention of their previous rejections, calling them mistakes when they clearly weren’t. “I accept your apology, and of course, we’d love to have a booth.”
“Glorious!” he exclaimed. He had the theatrical lilt to his voice of someone who’d spent hundreds of hours playing Dungeons & Dragons and took his role as Dungeon Master very seriously. “As a show of apology for our mistake, we would like to waive the one-hundred-dollar deposit required to reserve a booth.”
I held back the overpowering need to pump my fist into the air and instead took a deep breath and said, “That’s so kind of you. I look forward to it.”
“Tremendous. Sometime tomorrow, I will drop by your shop to deliver our booth guideline booklet, and I can answer any questions you may have.”
We ended the conversation, and I finally let out the overjoyed expletives I’d been holding in, startling Stevie. This was a goal we’d never accomplished, nor had my parents. I relished in the comforting serenity washing over me and wondered if we’d finally made it.
* * *
Stevie
* * *
Jade had just wrapped up with the last client of the day, and the relief I felt when she flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED was instantaneous. Today had been a complete clusterfuck, albeit a profitable one.
I was counting the cash in the register when I glanced up at Jade, who was studying me as she tidied her tarot table. She did that all the time, so although it annoyed me to be so profoundly seen, I let it slide. “Are you ready for Lisa’s smudging? We’re leaving at, what, quarter till eight?”
Jade didn’t answer, and when I looked up from the register, her face was flushed, eyes glassy.
“You good?”
“I know about college, Stevie.” Her voice warbled as she said it, and dread washed over me. I knew she was going to find out eventually.
I sighed. “I’ve decided I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t believe that. It’s about the tuition, isn’t it?”
“We can’t afford it, Jade. Please just be realistic about that.”
Her shoulders sagged, and I knew some part of her agreed with me. “There’s so many other things we could sacrifice. Just not that, please. And the shop seems like it might really take off. You saw how crazy today was.”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly. It was true—I didn’t know what to do. I’d called the college in a panic and hadn’t thought it through, but I knew the payments were too high and our credit was too bad for student loans. It was the hard choice but the right one.
She hugged me. “You have to go, Stevie. You’re more than all this.”
It was then that I felt something crack open inside me, a deep sadness and longing for an average life. For parents who were dependable and asked me when I’d be home after a party or ordered me to clean my room. I wanted normalcy. Jade was trying so hard to give that to me. She’d been the one to push me to apply, even years after graduating high school and with me not doing anything with myself.
But Jade was far from average and certainly far from normal. She’d gotten us wrapped up into such a big lie, and now I didn’t see how we were going to get out.
CHAPTER
17
Jade
IT WAS JUST before eight as we stood on the sidewalk outside of Lisa’s home, our jaws slack.
“Wow,” Stevie said with both amazement and trepidation. All we needed to do was a quick smudging, a prayer, and boom—we’d earned one hundred dollars in under an hour. We would put on our best performance and give Lisa some relief and peace in her home.
Stevie and I walked up the cobblestone path to her front porch, where plump crimson and mustard mums sat by the door, unaware that they were only a slab of brick and drywall away from a supposed haunting. Lisa answered the door, and as she ushered us in, I studied her home. She’d lit scented candles, a failing attempt to cover a sour, musky smell, and their flames danced in the air as we passed by.
A hefty wooden cross was the center point on a wall of photographs by the stairs. It cast a shadow against the wall that danced with the flames, the cross’s black shadow becoming bloated and slanted on the wall, covering a photograph. It was Lisa and her husband standing next to a priest shrouded in a long white cassock.
Lisa approached my side. “Roger’s father was a priest at the Episcopal church. He died almost ten years ago, but Roger still goes to church every Sunday. That’s why he didn’t want to be in the house when you came. I hope you understand.”
“Of course. We want you both to be comfortable. If you’re ready for us to begin, could you please crack the windows? This will allow the sage to encourage any spirits trapped to exit the house for good.” In reality, it was because sage always gave me a headache and I didn’t have the energy to fight the dull ache in my skull that would inevitably plague me. Lisa began obediently.
Much to my dismay, the bundle of sage in Stevie’s hand kept going out. This was supposed to be a quick and easy job, but clearly the universe had other ideas. Stevie took the lighter out of her jeans pocket, flicking the spark wheel with her thumb. Each time, a single spark sprung forth and died.
“You were supposed to bring a new lighter,” I hissed at her under my breath.
“I thought I did,” Stevie grumbled.
“Clearly not. This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t smoke so much.”
Stevie glared up at me, a mixture of annoyance and apology in her eyes. I softened my face and apologized for being on edge. At least I could tell by her clear eyes that she hadn’t smoked tonight. She was reliable on that front—you ask her for something, and she would do her best to deliver, even if she complained about it along the way.
“I’ll check my bag,” I said. I walked into the kitchen and rummaged through it, snatching a white lighter. I grimaced at the bad omen, thinking of all the musicians my father had told me about in the “27 Club” who had died with a white lighter nearby. Why couldn’t he have told us normal bedtime stories?
I set my bag down and glanced at the window in the kitchen, which was one of the last ones still closed. I walked over and cracked it open, not even having to bother with the broken lock.
A chill blew in through the crack and I shivered, something catching my attention outside. My heart dropped down into my gut. In the darkness of the night, I could have sworn I’d seen the distinct outline of a human standing in the trees.
Swallowing was a struggle, but I stepped closer and peered outside. Two enormous magnolia trees stood guard a few feet from the window, providing privacy to Lisa’s home. Or cover for someone to lurk in.
There was nobody there. Had I even seen someone? Maybe I was a little too good at creating a spooky atmosphere.
Stevie called for me in the living room. Lisa stood by her side with her arms crossed in front of her, braced against the chill flowing in through the cracked windows.
I smiled, my cheeks twitching from the effort. Despite what I told myself, all I could think about was the shadow outside, knowing that with the blinds drawn back and the lights on inside, we were in full view for anyone to see and we would be none the wiser.
I shook the thought away and lit the bundle of sage, placing it in a ceramic dish on the coffee table.
“Before we smudge your house, we’d like to begin with a prayer.” Lisa’s face softened, comforted by the idea. I’d known by Lisa’s cross necklace that she’d be more comforted by a familiar prayer rather than any New Age incantation I could make up, so I’d assigned Stevie with the task of brushing up on her Lord’s Prayer so she could lead it.
Stevie nodded at me, ready to begin. We took our seats around the coffee table. “Let’s join hands and close our eyes,” Stevie said. Lisa extended her hands to us, which were clammy and cold, and closed her eyes.
There was a beat of silence, and I opened my eyes to see Stevie mouthing What’s my line? I rolled my eyes at her poor memory but also felt that childish enjoyment of watching your sibling squirm under pressure. I pursed my lips and bobbed my head as if to say You got this.
“Our Father,” Stevie began. Good start, I thought. “Who art in heaven. Hollow be thy name.” Okay, maybe not. I stifled a laugh. Stevie’s eyes grew wider as she continued, panic mounting. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth and… also in heaven.”
Lisa’s eyes were still closed, but I could tell by the crinkle around her eyes that she’d noticed the mistakes.
“Give us this day our daily bread,” I joined in, as did Lisa, putting Stevie out of her misery. Stevie mumbled quietly through the rest of the Lord’s Prayer but proclaimed the last word of each sentence enthusiastically.
As we prayed, I studied Lisa’s face, wondering if she would ever realize we were frauds. It could be years later that it finally happened. We had to give her something, and relief was good enough. My sleep at night depended on it.
The sage smoke lazily billowed up toward the black splotch on the ceiling. Lisa was right. It really did look like the outline of a corpse. I cleared my throat and said, “Let’s begin.” I stood and they followed suit.
“We cleanse this space. Be gone, any negative energy. Be gone any ill will,” I intoned as we walked with Stevie, who waved the sage in all directions around the living room.
