Page 4 of Cackle

“Through there?” I point to the curtain.

“Yup!”

I lift the curtain back and duck underneath it. There’s a short hallway that widens into a circular room. In the center is a round table draped in layers of silky fabric. It’s slightly askew on a stack of Persian rugs. Two mismatched wooden chairs are tucked underneath. One of them is occupied by Atlas, who is shuffling a deck of tarot cards.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the other chair.

I’m ready to get this over with. I step onto the rugs and seat myself in the chair. I wonder how many people have sat in it before me and what brought them here. A pushy friend. Spontaneity. Curiosity. Desperation.

Maybe I’m letting my cynicism deprive me of a positive experience. Even if this is nonsense, won’t it be a comfort to hear about a future, any future, that could possibly be mine? To temporarily escape the pain of the present and be reminded that one day this will be behind me? That I won’t wake up every day feeling like my chest is full of stones. That I won’t be constantly thinking about Sam or about everything I might have done to prevent myself from ending up where I am now.

Maybe there’s someone or something in my future worth moving toward. A dangling carrot.

Atlas sets the deck of cards aside. She reaches for my hand and I give it to her. She takes a deep breath, her heavily lined eyes closing. They stay closed for a long time. Too long.

Should I be closing my eyes?

Her eyes open. I wish they were still closed. They’re gloomy and awful. She’s grimacing.

“You have dark energy,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say, because what else?

She unfolds my hand. She squints. She shakes her head.

She pulls my hand closer. Since my hand is connected to my arm, which is connected to the rest of me, something she doesn’t seem to realize, my entire body jerks forward, my ribs slamming against the table.

She leans over and turns on a table lamp. I recognize it. It’s from IKEA. I imagine Atlas roaming around IKEA in all of her scarves, letting the spirits guide her. It takes the edge off of my current situation.

Atlas is examining my palm like it’s an unexpected medical bill. Like the insurance actually isn’t going to cover it.

I did not anticipate this. I’m too afraid to ask her what the problem is, so I sit silently, studying the cuticles on my free hand.

She’s shaking her head and making a noise like she’s chastising me. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

I can’t believe this is happening, but at the same time, of course this is happening. I relent.

I ask, “What is it?”

Her brow is furrowed so deeply I can no longer see her eyes. She’s making no effort to look at me. She’s too busy with my hand.

“It is your birthday?” she asks me.

Nadia must have told her.

“Yeah,” I say.

She sighs, then folds my hand and returns it to me, pushing it back across the table.

“Happy birthday,” she says. She looks up at me finally, and her eyes are bulging. She’s clearly upset about something.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

She hesitates. Swallows. Adjusts her choker, a series of stars on a thin silver chain.

“Your life, your future, your fate . . . it’s shrouded in uncertainty. I sense a darkness. It’s all I can see,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I say. I wipe my hand on my jeans. It grew sweaty during its time in her too-firm grasp. “That’s okay. It’s fine.”