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Water on a Leaf

Sunday Drive – Part Two

Originally, the time span from my psychic appointment with Angelia seemed endless.  However, I passed it by grabbing lunch at McDonald’s and getting my car’s emission test across the street.  The emissions manager was pleasant, and we chatted about the weather and his ride while he quickly analyzed my car.

“That’s a gorgeous motorcycle,” I said, nodding at the Harley on the opposite side of the alcove.

He paused in his administrations, sounding surprised that I had noticed it.  Still, he murmured a pleased “Thank you,” as he resumed.

“Okay,” he said once it was over, swirling his signature on the printed report and handing it to me with a smile.  “You pass.  You have a wonderful day!”

I drove back across the street with seven minutes to spare, parking this time at the back of the house.  Just as I had considered the entire morning of incidences, I had no expectations of what was going to happen next or what I was going to feel.  My few hours of sleep had left me not numb, but indifferently receptive to whatever I heard.  If this woman was real at all, it would be a cool, inspiring experience.  If she wasn’t, at least this was something that I could mark off of my bucket list.

Two minutes to my appointment, I got out of my car and walked to the front of the house.  The screen door gaped open, and I slipped through without touching it.

The “waiting room” was small, with two tiny wire chairs and a wicker basket of popular magazines.  Behind them were piles of laundry bags, nearly all overflowing with regular cotton and denim apparel.  No mystical scarves or sequins.  I was both comforted and disappointed.

I rang the doorbell and moved to the side to sit down, but the front door opened before I could settle.

“Hello?” called the voice from the phone.  I had yet to turn the corner and see her.  “Hello!  How are you?”

“Fine!  How are you?”  I peeked around the threshold and finally caught sight of a pale woman in her forties with platinum blond hair and poorly lined blue eyes.  Her face reminded me of the moon:  wide and expressive.  Her eyes, skin tone, and hair were all almost the same color.

She was pleasant as she guided me down a narrow, hardwood hallway to a simply decorated room with a solid desk.  She had me sit in front of her and directed that I hold an egg-shaped piece of selenite in my right hand.

“Now,” she said as she settled behind the desk.  “I have two major readings that I do.  The first one is a Tarot card reading.  This one is good if you have questions or concerns about the past.  The other one is a full psychic reading that will address both the past and the future, and give you specific dates as well.”

Specific dates, I thought.  I wonder.

“The psychic reading does cost more than the Tarot reading,” she warned, but I dismissed that, still with the open apathy I had all day.

“It’s okay,” I said, and smiled.  To her credit, she didn’t seem wary about my mood.  “Let’s do the full psychic reading.”

“Very well.  You get to ask three questions; your time won’t start until you ask.  So, what is your first question?”

Huh.  I bent my head and thought.  Questions.  On four hours of sleep, I found it difficult to concentrate.  I didn’t want to ask the generic questions (“When will I find love?”  “Will I ever win the lottery?”)  Rather, I wanted to test her and receive answers to things that would require a bit of creativity on her part.

Unfortunately, my first question came out jumbled.  A radio’s bass was thrumming in the background, leaving me worse off than my grogginess alone.  “Um, well, it’s about people.  About how I relate to people.  I mean, how I am to people; how should I react when people—”

Suddenly, Angelia’s face slackened in exhausted annoyance.  I thought for a second that it was due to my utter stupidity as a question-asker. “I’m sorry; you’re being distracted.  Let me ask my son to turn that down.”  Rising with the air of a mother who had reprimanded her son way too many times before, she departed the room.

It was just as well.  It gave me a chance to get my thoughts together.  If I’d had a notebook, I definitely could have written the questions down, reviewed them, and edited them as needed.  Writing had always been a sort of meditation for me, calming my mind and helping me understand situations that otherwise would have alluded me.

By the time Angelia returned (and the thrumming from the other room had dissipated), I was ready.  “What I meant to ask,” I said, “was, What role am I meant to play with those in my life?”

Her face also cleared, became radiant.  “Ah, I see.”

Taking her seat once more, she began to explain my role as a healer and the fact that people have and will continue to gravitate towards me with their troubles and confusions.  “You need to take time for yourself, though.  You need to learn to say no and how not to involve yourself in everything.  Otherwise, you will deplete your energy.”

“Okay,” I said.  While this was true, I didn’t see this as strikingly distinctive.  Many people were “healers”.  Many people had others come to them for advice.  Absentmindedly, I smoothed the selenite with my thumb and wished again that I had brought a journal, this time so I could write down her answers word for word.

Taking a deep breath, Angelia leaned back and stretched her arms, anchoring her glass-blue eyes onto my face.  “Now,” she said, “tell me about your writing.”

I’m sorry.

What?

Immediately, I mentally scanned through my appearance.  I was wearing the satin scarf on my head, completely hiding my hair.  I was also wearing a simple tank dress, grey, with no writing on it.  I had no telltale signs that I was a writer.

Angelia was smiling wider when I looked back up at her.  “You haven’t been able to write for a while, right?  These last few months have been very busy for you.  A lot of changes have happened since April.”

I tried.  Goodness knows I tried not to show any expression on my face.

April was the beginning of when everything turned around for me.

April was when I was given an inkling of hope about switching from a contract to a permanent job.

April was also when I finished the first draft of the novel I planned to publish.

Angelia smiled, looking very pleased and not at all surprised.  “You have a lot of projects in writing.  You stepped away from them, but you’ll come back to them in November.”  She nodded.  “Writing is very important to you, like a meditation.  By the end of the year, expect to see very big things with it.  It’s the main way that you reach people.  You’ll be using it much more, especially in November.

“In fact,” she added, pulling out one of her business cards, “I’m so intrigued by what’s going to happen, I want you to give me a call once it happens.  No charge.”

She passed into her own detour regarding the current state of my love life; while I was intrigued to hear her take on this, I confess that I was still caught by how in the world she could have known that I was a writer.  How she could have guessed it?  Was there a bumper sticker hidden on my car?  Had I left a book in one of the chairs?

I wish I could say the surprises were done.

However, after completing her appraisal of the potential mates in my life, she sighed a sigh that released outdated notions, then grinned anew.  “Alright,” she said.  “Now, what is your second question?”

To be concluded in Part Three!

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