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.”
I wait for her to wish me well or offer me an aura cleanse or specifics about a short life line, something. But she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. She remains in her chair with a look that’s equal parts sour and distressed. I can’t tell if she feels sorry for me, or if she’s about to chase me out of here with a vial of holy water and a crucifix.
I nod at her, muttering a quick thanks as I hurry away, out through the velvet curtain. On the other side, Nadia stands in front of one of the bookshelves with her hands on her hips.
She’s surprised to see me.
“That was fast,” she says. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m shrouded in darkness.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. Can we go?”
Nadia is fun, sweet and bubbly as Coca-Cola, but she’s not so happy-go-lucky she can’t tell when something’s wrong. She says, “Yeah, let’s go.”
As we turn to leave, I catch Atlas poking her head through the curtains. Her face is drained of color. It floats before the dark velvet like an ominous moon.
I look at Nadia, wide eyes asking, Are you seeing this?
She clutches my wrist as confirmation.
We bolt for the door. When we’re outside, we don’t slow down. We speed up. We don’t stop. We run for two blocks, until we’re out of breath.
“I mean,” she says, “really?”
“She looked at my hand like this,” I say, doing my best impression, “and then was like, ‘Happy birthday.’？”
“So weird,” Nadia says.
“Yeah, happy birthday to me and my dark energy.”
“She told me I’m going to marry the love of my life at twenty-eight. That’s next year! I’m not even dating anyone I’m that into right now. She said his name won’t be his name—whatever that means. I’m going to have one son and move somewhere warm, like Florida or California.”
“Sounds nice. Except the Florida part.”
“What’s wrong with Florida?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was supposed to be fun.”