Surviving Valencia (19 page)

“I can stop by after school sometimes if you want, but I usually have homework to do,” I told her, as I was halfway out the door.

She just kept looking out the window. So I left.

Her cupboards were filled with Pringles and Doritos, gummy bears, Skittles. She had half-finished blankets she was making for me. I would never know if Jennifer ended up with Frankie or Jack.

I walked slowly home, feeling with every step that I needed to go back and fix things. But I didn’t. I just kept walking. I ended up at the park, sitting on a swing. The next day high school would begin. I did not belong there.

So don’t go.

It seemed reasonable enough.

Obvious, even.

I got up, ready to walk back to her house to tell her the news, that I would take care of her all year long, that nothing had to change. But then I sat back down. I spun in crooked circles, kicking at the worn patch of grass beneath the swing, frustrated and confused.

Could I
really
take care of her instead of going to school? I wondered how it would be as summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter. Would Grandma Betty and I still have fun when we couldn’t eat lunch on the breezeway? Would I be able to drive the Buick on slippery, snow covered roads?

I took my little notebook from my purse and made a list of pros and cons.

Pros:

Grandma Betty is nice

Grandma Betty pays you. She will now pay $20/hour. That is probably more than most grown ups make.

You get to drive a car

I’m going to say that again: You Get To Drive A Car!

You love that car

You forgot your Carmex in the ashtray

You get to eat good food at Grandma Betty’s

Grandma Betty makes you nice stuff:

Blankets

Scarves

Hats

Mittens

Sweaters

Maybe socks?

You would now get to pick the colors!

You get to watch Days of our Lives

Grandma Betty lets you drink coffee

Grandma Betty’s house is cute

Grandma Betty is your best friend!

Grandma Betty likes you!

Can you imagine how great it would be to never see any of those bitches from school again??

No homework at Grandma Betty’s!

Cons:

It is probably illegal to skip school. But you are too young to go to jail, so if anyone went to jail, it would be Mom and Dad. So this is kind of a ‘Pro.’

You might get stupid if you stopped going to school. Then again, maybe you would get smarter, considering how lame school is. So this is kind of a ‘Pro’ too.

Mom and Dad would freak out and ground you forever. Oh well. What’s new?

Only a weirdo would rather hang out with an old lady than go to high school!

And I wanted to be normal. So I got off my swing and went home, laying out some jeans and a rugby shirt I had purchased from the Gap. Maybe this would be the year that I stopped being me.

Upon learning I was pregnant, Adrian and I immediately began preparing the nursery. His enthusiasm surprised me. I rode along on the tails of his baby cheer, slipping in and out of experiencing it.

The small bedroom across the hall from ours was supposed to be my office, but I never used it for anything but a storage place. Adrian hauled everything out while I perused our local hardware store for paint colors. Periwinkle blue would be nice for a boy or a girl, I decided, calling him for his opinion on the matter.

“I can’t picture what a periwinkle is,” he told me.

“Adrian, you’re an artist. You’re supposed to know all the colors.”

“I’m sure it’s great. Bring it home. We can always return it if it doesn’t look like it’s going to work. Don’t forget rollers and a couple of those edgers. Why don’t you grab some treats for the dog while you’re there, if they sell them.”

Ugh. I had forgotten about Frisky. There was no way Frisky was going to be anywhere near our baby. Hopefully, in nine months everything would be peachy and the foreboding gate would be enough to keep us safe from harm.

While I drove home I dialed Jeb’s cell phone to see if he had any news for me. He should be in Minneapolis now. I was hoping he’d be giving me daily updates but so far, not a word from him. My call went straight to his voicemail. I closed my phone calmly and replaced it back inside the pocket in my handbag. Through the actions of my body, perhaps my brain could be tricked into believing this was not a big deal.

But no. My brain was not falling for it. My mind jumped swiftly from the pleasant distraction of paint samples and nursery décor back to the images of my sister.

You have the fence and the dog. Everything is going to be fine.

I thought hard about the nursery. I wanted it to be elegant and edgy. Not too cookie cutter. Adrian’s friends expected
so
much out of us. It’s like, it was up to us to determine the proper way to live.

Watch them all get fences now.

Watch them all suddenly announce they’re pregnant too.

What a bunch of sheep.

If it was up to me I would just tear a page out of a Pottery Barn catalog and order everything on it.

But it wasn’t really up to me.

Aren’t women usually in charge of decorating the nursery? He really drives me crazy sometimes.

Adrian had mentioned he thought a black and white themed nursery might be cool, and that the contrast was good for developing minds. I’m not sure about it. I guess my issue is that it doesn’t seem very
babyish
. But as he pointed out, babies aren’t actually babies for very long.

Why can’t I stop thinking about that picture? I wish I had never seen it.

I gave up on planning the nursery and drove aimlessly for a while, listening to music. Even when I pushed her from the forefront of my mind, I was still experiencing life through a Valencia tinted filter that made everything sad, distracting, false. I was going through the motions, waiting for whatever turning point or resolution Jeb could bring.

For the third time in as many days, I found myself parked in front of the little purple house. This time I was turning off the engine. This time I was serious.

I spritzed myself with perfume and brushed my hair, and touched up my shiny forehead with some powder. Then I got out and smoothed my skirt. I walked up to the front step of Zemma’s House and rang the bell. I waited, not having heard anything ring, but not sure if I should try it again. A car went past that looked rather familiar; at first I thought it might be some of Adrian’s friends, and I shuddered at how stupid I would look standing on the doorstep of a psychic. Just as I was about to chicken out, and just as I was
literally
thinking “I am about to chicken out,” the door opened and there stood Zemma.

“Chicken out?” she said. “This isn’t voodoo.”

My mouth dropped open. Then I swallowed, though my throat was suddenly completely dry. Anyone else would have gotten the hell out of there. But in a flash I reasoned myself out of it.

Oh my! That was horrible.

I’m scared.

Terrified. Terrified. I am terrified.

I need to leave.

But she is very, very good. She is for real!

She is the only person in the world who can help.

I followed her right inside.

With a nimble click of her waxy pink fingers, she locked the front door. “We don’t want to be interrupted,” she said. She then took my hand. Even though it was completely out of my character, I let her. She led me to the back of her house and we sat down across from one another.

“Close your eyes, relax. Take some deep breaths,” she told me. I wasn’t sure about closing my eyes, but I did not want to be rude, so I did as I was told. I heard her stirring, and I opened one eye to see what was happening. She had placed a long marble tray before me, and with an eyedropper she was adding scented oils to it. Rosemary, eucalyptus, lavender.

“Close your eyes. Keep breathing. Relax.” When she seemed convinced that I was settled and comfortable she got up and went away for a bit. She came back with a hot cup of tea and set it before me.

“Drink this,” she said.

“I’m pregnant,” I told her.

“It’s no matter. It’s just tea.”

So I took a sip. “It’s very hot.”

“Take your time,” she said, smiling. She didn’t seem like a bad person.

I took another sip.

“This is not the path you were going to take today,” she said smiling, shaking her head.

“It’s not?”

“No. Not at all. You got brave, I guess. Unexpectedly?”

“I guess I did,” I said.

She had cats. At least three that I had counted so far. Her house smelled of them. I was a little afraid of their mysterious ways. They slink about and seem to know things only reserved for humans. I like cats best in a quantity of one or less.

I focused hard on Zemma, trying not to think about the cats. I focused on the tea.

“What you
almost
did,” she said, slowly, deliberately – I was unsure if she had an accent of just a strange way of speaking – “was go shopping. For your baby, and yourself, at a little shop. I can see it all right now. It’s almost happening, right now.”

“It is?” I asked. I felt very uncomfortable. Light, nervous. My gut was telling me to leave.

“If you weren’t
here
you would be
there
. And the chance of you being here is so
slight
, that I can easily see you there. That is what
almost
happened today.” She smiled. This all made perfect sense to her. I twisted in my chair. Had I not been here, I would have gone to the Lucky Duckling baby and maternity store. It had been on my original agenda, though I had not told anyone or really even formalized it in my own mind.

“They could have monogrammed the blankets for you. They are telling you this right now. If you were there. They would tell you to bring the blankets back after you know the baby’s initials.”

“I don’t know…”

“Two blankets. One is white. One is
periwinkle
.” She looked at me, smiling, raising her eyebrows. Clearly enjoying how this was going. I felt that there was nothing to say. She already knew everything.

“I think I need to leave,” I said. With a jittery clatter I set my teacup on its saucer. I searched in my handbag for my wallet, which is always buried when I need it most. “How much does this cost?”

She shook her head. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“But you are,” I said.

She reached out and placed her hand on mine. “Relax.” Her eyes met mine. “I can help you.”

I slumped back down. Her words were the pinprick of relief I had been yearning for.

“Do you have something with you that you wear all the time?” she asked. I naturally thought of my wedding ring and I touched it, began removing it.

“Not a wedding ring,” she said. “I need something that is truly
yours
. What about that?” she asked, nodding to the ring on my right hand: Valencia’s old class ring.

“Okay,” I said, reluctantly removing it.

“It’s harder for you to part with this one than with that big daddy,” she mused.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Keep drinking your tea.”

It was cooler now and easier to sip. There were pieces floating everywhere in it. “Are you going to read my tea leaves?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Does it matter that I set it down on the saucer, and maybe tipped it a little when that happened?”

“No, it will be as it should be.”

“Oh.” I sipped it, aware of more cats, at least five different ones. Zemma sat before me, her eyes closed, her fingers rubbing the ring. Her face looked light and pleasant at first, but it was darkening.

“This is not your ring,” she said.

“It is. I mean, it used to be my sister’s, but it’s mine now. I’ve worn it for years. I never take it off.”

“Why do you have it instead of her?” she asked, handing it back to me.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know
everything
. Some things come to me very clearly, and some things hide from me.”

My tea was nearly gone and she took the cup from me, pouring some of the tea onto the saucer. She handed the cup back to me. “Cup it in your hands with the handle to you and swirl it, gently, counterclockwise, yes, like that, now turn your cup over and set it on the saucer. And tap the bottom three times.” I did what she said, though I felt ridiculous, like a kid playing magic.

She took the cup from me, sliding it carefully across the table to herself, and she flipped it over with the handle close to her. She studied it for a very long while, periodically looking up at me. Then she turned it to me and pointed to the part of the cup to the left of the handle. “This shows me what you have done, and where you have been. This takes me back across your whole life, and it helps me see what your childhood was like.”

I leaned in, curious.

“The way the leaves spread out and become very thin, through here, makes me think you may have lost someone, or perhaps you relocated away from your family. Did your parents get divorced, and one moved away with a brother or sister of yours? Or did you get sent away to live with a relative?”

“No. It was worse than that. My brother and sister died when I was eleven.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

She went back to the cup and pointed to a shape further up on the left part of the cup. It looked quite a bit like a letter A, complete with seraphs at the bottom of it and a faint cross line through it.

“Has anyone or anything significant come into your life whose name begins with A? A person, or perhaps a city?”

“My husband.”

“There is heaviness here, like he anchors you, but I also feel that you may feel a little trapped?”

“Sometimes.”

“Another interpretation, with symbols as clear as this,” she carefully turned the cup and showed me, “can be had by examining them from different angles.” As she turned the cup, the A became a V. “You can see, this is now clearly a V, and we can apply the opposite meaning to it. Instead of weight, think of lightness or flight. Did you know anyone whose name began with a V, or does the letter V mean anything to you?”

“Both my brother and sister.”

“Hmmm,” she nodded. “So now, across from the handle, represents the present. You say you’re pregnant, and I do see this shape here, which could be interpreted as… an egg, for fertility… but there is a large spattering of sharpness here. Do you see how these look like little knives? I’m sensing danger, and evil.” She set down the cup. “Do you feel that you’re in danger?”

“Well, I feel like I might be. Can you tell me if something bad is going to happen to me?”

She gave me a skeptical look. “I’m not a substitution for physical protection.”

“No, no. I understand that.”

The doorbell rang and I jumped.

“We’ll just let it go,” she said, brushing her hand towards the door while she continued examining the cup. She gently turned it a bit this way and that, thoughtfully. The doorbell rang again but she ignored it, continuing to study the cup. I fidgeted, wishing the intruder would go away.

“Is it locked?” I heard myself ask.

“Yes, I keep it locked when I’m back here,” she said, raising her eyebrows at me rather suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“I think someone might be following me. Or maybe not. I mean, never mind. It’s just something I think sometimes, but no one ever is.” I shrugged, like this was a normal thing to say. The bell rang again and Zemma gave me a harsh, critical look. I shrugged again and scratched my neck as she set down the cup with care, rising and disappearing through the heavy velvet curtains into the front of the house.