The tarot reader, p.2
The Tarot Reader, page 2
“That’d be great. Meet you down there.”
I carefully removed myself from the window and tugged on a pair of jeans, then smoothed my hair in the mirror and wiped the remnants of sleep from my eyes. I’d been so tired last night that I’d washed my face with minimal effort, and traces of my eyeliner remained. I’d found clients took me far more seriously when I wore smoky eye makeup, which was ironic, because in most areas of life, the more makeup women wore, the less people took us seriously.
I took my cup of coffee downstairs and poured Daniel one. We’d been friends for two years, ever since we’d moved into the building. Daniel was a psychologist and had taken over his father’s practice when he retired. He had a swanky apartment above it, and I envied his lifestyle, but not the student debt he had from years of schooling.
I opened my door and there he was, package in hand, smile plastered wide across his face. I could see why his patients would open up to him with his harmless, comforting energy. I’d once told him his aura was indigo, the aura of someone empathetic and caring. I didn’t actually see auras, but that’s what I felt about him, and it clearly pleased him to hear it. So what was the harm?
“Trade?” I held out the mug, and he took it gratefully as he swapped the package for the steaming black coffee.
“You’re amazing. You have no idea how much I needed this. I stayed up way too late preparing for this conference I have next week. I’m beat.”
“Same,” I said. I took a sip of coffee and told him about last night’s séance.
“You don’t look tired. Must be blessed with something I don’t have.” He ran his fingers through his wavy, caramel-brown hair, which still showed remnants of a rough night’s sleep.
I let out a playful scoff, and he blushed.
Phyllis, the neighbor to my right, scowled at us while watering her plants, and I gave a perfunctory wave. She was an old, irate woman, easily set off by any noise or inconvenience, especially if it was caused by me. She shook her head and stomped inside, her hose left limp on her front porch.
“Wow, she really loves you.” Daniel laughed, and I scoffed again. He rocked on the balls of his feet. He was too polite to ask to come inside for coffee. I’d invited him in a few times, and he’d always stared around in wonder at all the occult knickknacks. “I guess I’ll go get ready for the day. First client at ten.”
“The one with the yellow Hummer?” He nodded. “I hope his wife signed those divorce papers. For her sake.”
His eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
I waved my hand at the sign above our door: Ravencroft Psychic Parlor and Shoppe. Our last name wasn’t actually Ravencroft. Legally, we were Crawfords, but in an attempt to distance myself from my parents, we’d leaned into the over-the-top occult aesthetic and adopted it for the shop and ourselves. It had been Stevie’s invention, and she’d proudly put up a portrait of Edgar Allan Poe with a stuffed raven next to it.
His eyes glistened with awe. “You’re amazing.”
“Okay, yes, I’m a psychic, but you leave your office window open sometimes, and I can’t help but overhear. He’s an enthusiastic crier.”
His face was beet red now. “I really need to stop leaving it open. That’s a HIPAA violation to end all violations. Let’s keep that between us?”
I ran my fingers along my closed lips and threw away an imaginary key. “Wow, our first secret together.”
He grinned. “I guess our jobs are one and the same, huh? Keepers of secrets.” He took a sip of his coffee but didn’t finish it. It was his trick—albeit a transparent one. If he took my mug back to his place, he had an excuse to knock on my door again. I waited for the question I knew was coming.
“Mind if I finish this in my office? I’ll bring it back later.”
“I know you will.” I smiled, leaning my shoulder against the column of the porch.
He raised his mug in cheers. “Have a good one, Jade.”
“Always do, Daniel.” I grinned as he turned to walk away with a little shuffle before hitting his stride. He was so easy and carefree, despite listening to other people’s problems and dark secrets all day long.
I did the same, for much less money of course, and it wore me down a bit more every day.
* * *
I closed the front door behind me and sat at our kitchenette table. The apartment was a tiny area above the shop, and the only thing that separated the two spaces was a crimson velvet curtain in front of the stairs. It unfortunately absorbed the smell of anything we cooked. And more unfortunately, last night Stevie had cooked fish.
Every single morning, I read the obituaries. In their grief, people often divulged bits of information they might normally not. Grief was my cruel right-hand man as I raked in money off people’s suffering. It was wrong to use it to my advantage, but more often than not, I could see a weight lifted off clients’ shoulders as I comforted them with messages from their deceased loved ones. It wasn’t entirely ethical, but I’d always believed it could be healing if people let it.
Often the grieving would wander in on their own, but sometimes it wasn’t so organic. I studied the people around me, and when you were armed with enough information, it wasn’t so hard to gently lure them in. Nothing was ever forced. I thought of my mother, who’d taught me everything she knew.
All it takes is a little coaxing, Jade. Like a bowl of milk set outside your front door. Eventually the stray cats will come.
I shook away the thought and scanned the remaining obituaries. There weren’t many today.
“Rosalyn Harborough, age 81, passed away on September 21 after a long battle with kidney failure. In her honor, a service will be held October 1 at noon at the Moravian Church, followed by a bake sale. All proceeds will go to the National Kidney Foundation.”
For a moment I saw the obituary through my parents’ eyes. October 1 at noon. That meant the entire family would be at the church for at least an hour, followed by more time at the bake sale. Their house would be empty. The perfect time to strike. But not for me. I would not be like them.
When I was done, I turned on the TV, and it shuddered awake. I changed the channel to the news and shuffled around with a duster while I listened.
The deep robotic voices of news anchors drifted through the room. I was karate-chopping the throw pillows on the sofa, trying to make them look a little less like they were from the 1990s, which they were, when a news segment began.
“We’re interrupting this segment with breaking news. City council member Thomas Nichols has been reported missing. He was last seen on Thursday morning, jogging around Salem Lake. If you have any information concerning his whereabouts, please contact local law enforcement.”
The screen showed a headshot of a man in his late forties. I felt sorry for his family but was quickly distracted by the clock: almost eleven. I had a standing appointment with a client every Monday morning. Daniel didn’t realize it, but Cheryl always came in to see me before attending therapy.
I needed to make the shop look more mystical. Right now it was a grungy mess. The harsh light of day sucked out the magic, revealing the crooked nails holding up the velvet curtains and the incense ash stains I could never seem to get out of the rug under my tarot table.
I moved on autopilot, doing my routine the same way I did it each day. Windows shut, curtains closed. Incense and candles lit. A nature sounds playlist playing. And of course, I had to get myself ready. Jeans and a white T-shirt didn’t exactly scream I see dead people.
I ran up the stairs, two at a time, and pulled on a black maxi skirt and a dark-red blouse. I tugged on my wavy black wig, then quickly put on earrings and a smattering of bracelets.
The wig was ridiculous in the daylight, but it looked better in the dim lighting of a reading. My natural hair was already dark—a flat, lifeless brown—but sitters always responded better to the stark black wig. My real hair was close enough in color that nobody ever noticed when I was out during the day. Maybe they assumed I transformed for sessions, like a bat transforming into a vampire, just with a bad wig on.
I slid on the moonstone ring that had been given to my grandmother by a sitter who was especially moved after a session in which my grandmother manifested the spirit of her dead cat. In reality, it had been my grandmother’s cat that she had locked in the bathroom for the session and was yowling to be let out. On my grandmother’s stealthy cue, my grandfather let the cat out. As my grandmother blew out the only candle in the room, the black cat skulked in, camouflaged by the darkness, and rubbed enthusiastically against the sitter’s leg. The woman had been so happy afterward that she’d slipped the ring right off her finger and shoved it into my grandmother’s open palm.
The final and most important step was a thick gold ring with an emblem of Saint Agabus, the patron saint of divination and fortune tellers. It had been handed down by the women in my family, the emblem toeing the line between our facade of traditional Catholic beliefs and dabbling in the occult.
My family was technically Catholic, but in the same way french fries are technically vegetables. I remembered asking my grandfather if we were real Catholics after a sixth-grade classmate said I shouldn’t wear my cross necklace.
“Yes,” he’d said. “But we’re not practicing.”
I hadn’t understood what that meant. Was talking to God something that took practice? Why wouldn’t God listen even if we were bad at it? “Why aren’t we practicing?”
“There’s no need to practice when you’ve perfected it.” His laughter had boomed around the room, and the other adults had joined in. I’d stomped off, thinking they were laughing at my ignorance. The next day at school, I’d told the classmate we were perfect Catholics and she must be bad at it if she still needed to practice.
I studied my appearance in the mirror. It was three minutes until eleven, and Cheryl always got here exactly on time. She’d smoke a cigarette outside the front door, inhaling furiously all the way down to the filter, savoring every last second.
I hastily swiped on eyeliner and mascara and slung open my bedroom door, rushing toward the stairs. At the same time Stevie shuffled out of her bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Whoa,” I said, almost knocking us both down the slim, creaky staircase. “Nice to see you’ve risen from your slumber, sleeping beauty.”
“Cheryl?”
“Yep,” I said, halfway down the stairs.
“My window was open. It reeks of cigarettes in there now.” Our bedrooms both faced the street, and nestled in between was our shared bathroom.
“That sounds like a you problem,” I shouted up the stairs, and Stevie mumbled a string of obscenities back at me as she hobbled to the shower.
You gotta love sisters.
I opened the front door as the clock struck eleven, and Cheryl pushed her way in before I could even say hello. She shuffled to her seat at my table, where my deck of tarot cards sat patiently waiting next to a fluttering purple candle.
“I desperately need someone to talk to,” Cheryl said breathily.
She always did. She was the type of person who was always on the brink of a meltdown. Most of the time, her issues were of her own making, but she always cast her blame elsewhere.
“I can sense that, Cheryl,” I said calmly as I sat down. Obviously, I could. Anyone within a block could smell the anxiety seeping from her along with the stench of cigarettes. “Let’s begin.”
CHAPTER
3
Jade
“PLEASE PLACE YOUR hands on the table, close your eyes, and take a deep breath.”
She inhaled quickly, and her eyelids twitched as she pressed them together. I knew she wanted to rush me along and get the answers she was seeking, but I had a process. To get people to truly believe, you had to lean into the performance. There was no spiritualism without the ritual, just as there was no entertainment without the performance. People didn’t come to me, or other mediums, just for answers but also to be swept away by an experience.
She opened her eyes, and I picked up my cards. “Place the stack of cards between your palms, and ask your question.”
“Will my son break up with his girlfriend and get married to a good woman?”
I swallowed my annoyance. I couldn’t remember how many times I’d told her she could ask only one specific question per reading or else I’d have to charge more. It was all fine in the end, because she always tipped me half the cost of the session. She was also responsible for a steady stream of business for me, as she told every single person in her bowling league about me.
“Awaken the cards,” I instructed.
She shuffled and handed them back to me. I split the cards into three stacks, placing two fingers on each as I silently encouraged the cards to speak to Cheryl. Or at least that’s what she thought I was doing. I flipped over one card from each stack, my crimson-painted fingernails lingering for a moment before moving on to the next.
“Major arcana represent forces outside of our control. These are the most important. Minor arcana represent day-to-day truths we may be able to change, if we’re willing.”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. “And what do they say?”
“The first card is the World.” A nude woman danced above the earth, surrounded by a wreath and four intently watching creatures. “It signifies a relationship that provides deep fulfillment and gratitude.”
She smiled smugly, thinking the gratitude was directed toward her. Cheryl’s fatal flaw was believing every positive reading was a reflection of her goodness and every negative reading a curse put on her by someone else.
“My insights are telling me your son will indeed get married to a good woman.”
Cheryl leaned back in her chair. “Thank goodness. This girl he’s with is no good. He just needs to be patient and wait for the right one.”
The second card, the Six of Cups, was reversed. Right side up, it meant familiarity, healing, and happy memories—something Cheryl believed she gave her son. “The Six of Cups is reversed.” I tapped the card, where a boy in a medieval village was surrounded by six flower-filled cups, one of which he was handing to a girl. “This means there will be independence and a shift forward, such as leaving home.”
“He’s going to leave me?” She leaned forward. “Who will it be? How long until he meets her?”
I pointed to the third card: the Hierophant. A pope sat benevolently on his throne, staring back at me. “He’s already met her. The Hierophant signals a meaningful step in a relationship, often in some form of commitment. Oh.” I closed my eyes. “I’m seeing a ring,” I said, suddenly feeling inspired to grant her a vision, free of charge. This was how you kept your regulars—the freebies.
“A ring!” she exclaimed. “So it must be soon. Oh, fantastic. He just needs to redirect his attention to the right woman.”
“The ring…” I paused, opening my eyes and peering into the middle distance. “The ring is not in a jewelry box.” I tilted my chin down, as though I were struggling to maintain my grasp on the vision. “The ring is on a finger. He will be married soon.”
She blanched at my words. “To her?” she asked. I nodded. “How could he propose without asking me first?”
I’d been holding on to this piece of information since Friday night when Stevie returned home from work. Being a bartender at the most popular bar in town made Stevie a wealth of knowledge. The drunker people got, the more they shouted their conversations to each other, right in front of the bartender, who they assumed either couldn’t hear them over the music or didn’t care.
What they didn’t know was that I paid her to care. For every piece of information she brought me, I paid her a small bonus. The amount depended on the value of the secret and whether it was related to any of my clients. For what she’d overheard on Friday night, I’d paid her fifty dollars, triple the amount she usually got. She’d held it up to the light, pretending to check the money for signs it was counterfeit. “Well, howdy doody,” she’d said as she’d tucked it into her pocket.
“Keep your gigantic ears open, Stevie,” I’d said as she walked away. She’d laughed and raised one middle finger as she’d skipped up to her bedroom.
“The Hierophant and the World are major arcana, meaning you cannot change them. However, the Six of Cups is minor. Although I don’t believe you can come between your son and his fiancée, it’s in your power to improve things. Instead of pushing him away to where his independence means a complete separation from you, you can encourage a healthy distance between you while he builds his new family.”
“Distance?” she guffawed.
“I know what you need.” I opened a drawer to my right and rifled through it. Each drawer was filled with some sort of occult bric-a-brac: crystals, candles, feathers, and even tiny little bones for divination. “This is black tourmaline. It will protect you from negative energy and draw love toward you and your family.”
She took it with a shaking hand and sniffled a thank-you. “Isn’t there a spell you can put on them to make them break up? Some sort of curse?” She had an inky black stream of tears and makeup running down her cheek. I handed her a tissue, but she just gripped it angrily in her fist.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t work with dark magic.” A handful of sitters had asked for more sinister services like this, but I never agreed. Even if it wasn’t real, a small, superstitious part of me didn’t want to toe that dangerous line. Perhaps magic wasn’t real, but maybe karma was, and I didn’t want that stacking against me.
She rummaged through her purse and pulled a wad of cash out. “Please,” she said as she slammed it on the table. My eyes widened at the amount. A hundred-dollar bill. Three twenties. Two tens.
“I’m sorry, Cheryl,” I murmured. “I’m not that type of psychic.”
She shoved the bills back into her purse. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”
As she continued to cry and vent her frustrations about her son’s choice of partner, I leaned back in my chair and listened intently. These were the moments that kept away the moral panic. For every sitter that left our shop, they’d at least gotten one thing:
