Ohio Girl

I have passed the psychic shop down the street for years. I always note that it is there; the large tarot card poster, the neon light, the bargain-basement reading price. I never go in. My connection to the psychic world is something like getting up early just because you want to greet the day, or being meticulous about lawn care. I believe there is the possibility of both things happening, but they have no relevance to my daily life.

I do look forward to Wednesdays when Rob Brezney's horoscopes come out in the alternative weekly. He is like Oprah, but edgier, funnier and without all the hair extensions. He never refers to Jupiter in your money house. He writes like fiction and satire and easy-to-make dinner recipes.

Recently, while stopped at the traffic light in front of the shop--the all-knowing eye looking out at me--I whipped over to the curb and decided to go in. The door was locked even though the open sign was in clear view. Through the slit between the glass and the curtain I could see someone sleeping in a recliner that sat in the middle of the room. I knocked. There was movement. A loud buzz let me in. The psychic who later referred to herself as Momma did not move from her chair. She set down a garage door opener and told me to retrieve a chair next to the wall.

"Come sit next to Momma." I jabbed myself in the thigh with my keys. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to see what she would say next.  

"What you want Momma to do for you?" I pointed at the palm-reading sale-sign; both palms for ten dollars. After blowing on my money and closing my eyes to concentrate on what I wanted to know she grabbed my hands. She pulled me closer-my butt just about to go over the edge of my seat.

"You will live a very long life."  I looked at the floor having no means to jab myself.

"Your work is going well."  I was wearing a blazer.

"You will achieve your real career in the next five years."  Now I looked up.

"There is one part of your life that is not on the right road."  I was all ears.

She jerked my hands hard.  "Now you can ask one question. Ask Momma what you really want to know."

Several questions came to mind. Will Bush bring the apocalypse? Are the scientologists right about aliens? Will my genetic predisposition to Alzheimer's make itself known? Will Junior turn things around and make it into the chase for the NASCAR Cup series championship?

I blurted out the one question I thought I was way too smart and independent to ask. The question EVERY OTHER single woman in her 30s would ask. "Will I get married and have children?

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was still for several minutes. I thought she had gone back to sleep. I took the time to look her over. She was a large woman in a healthy-looking sort of way, but several bottles of prescription medicine sat on the table next to her. Her hair was died black and pulled back in a bun. Her eye brows were drawn in like crayon. She looked Hungarian, I thought, but had no idea what that meant. Just as I was about to identify the food stain on her chest she was talking again.

"You had two chances for a happy marriage."  I did not recall being married, engaged, or even close to marriage with anyone.

"They were people that were kept away from you, so that love would not grow"  Well, that explained it.

"It is not your fault. You are good. You are attractive. This is being done to you."  Yikes.

"I have to do more research to find out what is the root of this. I will need three special candles and will do special prayer every night for one week. You give me thirty dollars for candles and come back next Friday."  I wrote her a check. I did not really have the money. I did not really have the will to say no. Momma said so.

During the week, I thought of Momma. I thought of her coming to America as a young woman. I thought of her reading palms to supplement a paltry social security check. I thought of her huge eye liner budget. I considered the possibility of her being Momma to a large identity theft ring of which I was now a victim.

I went back to the shop on Friday and pulled my chair close to Momma after waking her. It took her a moment to recognize me. She adjusted her position in the recliner. "Momma has been praying." She closed her eyes, concentrating.

"A curse has been placed upon you."  Game over. That was what the voice inside my head was saying.

"A curse that is causing two of your charkas to disintegrate."  For the love of God.

"I will need to do intense prayer to fight this. I will need candles for six weeks of prayer. Momma needs six weeks of focus just on you."  Here it comes.  "What is thirty times six?" she asked.

"Too much."  I was more abrupt than I planned.

"You have savings, this is important."  I actually don't have a savings account, but felt no need to argue the point. I offered to think about it and told her to take care.

"Momma will always be here for you."  I smiled.  "Put your chair back," she added.

On the drive home I remembered a man I met on the eastern coast of Guatemala many years ago. He was a Salvadoran ex-pat who spent his days on the beach shirtless and doing palm readings for tourists. I was standing on an isolated part of dirty beach having deep thoughts about the sea when he approached me. He asked me my sign, although in Spanish, so it took a moment to understand. He had long hair lightened by the constant sun and crooked teeth. He seemed pleasant and harmless, but I was on the defensive. I had already spent the last few months dodging stares and gropes and being cornered in alleys by men who believed the movies they had seen; that American women were ready to go anywhere, anytime.

He did not offer to read my palm. He talked about El Salvador and started rubbing my shoulders so casually that it did not occur to me to protest. It felt good. I had been traveling alone and was tired and stiff and warming to the possibility of getting to know him. Then he suggested that we go back to his hut so that he could perform an alignment of my charkas. Again, it was in Spanish so it took some time and questions to figure it out. I left the beach.

He followed me up the hill and towards town talking the whole way. I was not listening. Align my freaking charkas, the voice in my head was saying. For the love of God. He finally stopped and yelled out, "I was just trying to help."  I kept moving.

Maybe my charkas have always been in peril. Maybe that guy put a curse on me for blowing him off, or not, as the case might have been. It is somehow comforting to think it so. To have a clear answer to an emotionally loaded question is a relief; to be blameless even more so. And Momma knows all. Momma knows best.