With conviction, I walked up the warped metal stairs and knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again. Curses and grumbles came from inside, and then the door flew open, revealing Madame Richie dressed in a nightgown with a lit cigarette in her hand.
“Vat do you vant?” she snapped.
“A refund,” I demanded.
With a roll of her eyes, she stabbed a finger at the crudely designed sign taped to the trailer that said, “No Refunds,” in bright red letters.
“Goodvye now.” She tried to shut the door in my face, but I kept it open with my foot.
“Your sign should have a disclaimer saying once you go in, you’ll never get out,” I growled. “You’ve haunted me worse than any horror flick I’ve ever seen. Worse than Saws.” She didn’t blink. “And I’m demanding a refund. Right. Now.” I was breathing a little harshly after that speech, but this confrontation had been a long time coming.
“Haunted, eh?” She inhaled on her cigarette, slowly blew out the smoke, and let the door fall open as she ventured inside the trailer. “Come in. We discuss this refund.”
All I wanted was my dang fifty bucks back as if its return would erase her presence in my life, but it seemed I wasn’t getting it yet, so reluctantly, I ended up following her inside.
Madame Richie took a seat at the round table in the corner and assessed me with a long look. “Ah, I do think I remember your face.”
I stared at her, unimpressed. “I would hope so. Because I won’t forget you for the rest of my life.”
“This is doing vonders for my ego.” She seemed genuinely pleased as she gestured to the chair across from her with her smoking cigarette. “Have a seat.”
I hesitated. This woman was a ghost who’d followed me around for years, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sit down with a phantom.
Her dark, painted-on brow rose. “You vant refund. You sit.”
The last time I stood here, I was a naïve fourteen-year-old cheerleader. Madame Richie may have given my young brain something to soak up like a sponge, but I wasn’t the same girl anymore. And I wanted my refund, damnit, so I slid into the chair across from her.
“You vill have to remind me vhat I foretold for you.”
“You said I would find the man meant for me and that he would take my breath away.”
She blinked false lashes. And then she laughed, head thrown back in pure amusement, cigarette perched between her fingers. Her laugh didn’t disturb me this time. It raised my ire as she laughed so hard a tear ran down her cheek. Because the suspicion I always had flashed in front of me like a neon sign.
I clenched my teeth. “I knew it! I knew that was one of your generic responses.”
Suddenly, she sobered, though still fighting her amusement as she wiped the tear away with sun-wrinkled fingers. “I plead the fifth.”
“Of course you do,” I grumbled.
She ashed her cigarette into a coffee cup. “I cannot offer you refund. But since I have distressed you, I can give you another reading.”
I scowled. “Are you crazy? Why would I want another reading when the last one wasn’t even genuine, and it also ruined my life?”
“How do you know it vas not genuine if it has distressed you so? It may have been fate.”
Fate. Please. Madame Richie just got lucky.
She inhaled, and smoke whispered from her lips with the words. “That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
I wanted closure from this visit.
I wanted to leave without her laughter over my head.
“I suggest you take it,” she said. “I do think I see great things in your future.”
Madame Richie was dangling a carrot on a string. Or rather, a piece of dog poop. But I guessed I was in such an awkward place in my life, I was interested to hear what generic foretelling she would come up with.
“Fine,” I answered, but then I narrowed my eyes. “But no laughing. Not a single chuckle,” I warned seriously.
It was clear she wanted to do exactly that, but she held it in by pressing her thin lips together. “Let us begin then.”
She moved the cloth-covered crystal ball to the center of the table and pulled off the cover with a flourish. She sure knew how to play the part.
She took a long look at me, then peered in to the ball with concentration. Tilted her head. No smoke appeared like it did last time. She probably didn’t have time to prep her parlor tricks since I’d arrived unexpectedly.
Lifting her head, she inhaled on her cigarette and deadpanned, “You are pregnant.”
I stared at her drily. “If I was pregnant, my stomach would be nearly as big as a basketball right now.”
She pursed her lips. “Could be small baby.”
“No.” Ronan’s baby? Yeah, right.
“Vorth a shot.” She shrugged.
She moved the crystal ball aside. “I do not see much now, so let us try the cards.” I didn’t know why I was still here, besides the fact I wanted her to work for the torment she’d caused me.
Madame Richie shuffled the tarot cards, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “So vat do you vant to know?”
Déjà vu on steroids slipped over my skin like electricity, raising the hair on the back of my neck. She asked me the exact thing six years ago, though instead of answering my question with something legitimate, she gave me a tiresome response about finding a man. I decided to ask the same thing again.
“I want to know what my purpose is in life.”
She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table.
I stared at it, my stomach on the floor.
The Devil.
A puff of Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke circled the card, a little humor in her voice. “Vell . . . this is interesting.”
Calmly, I got to my feet and headed to the door.
“That vill be fifty dollars,” she hollered after me.
raison d’être
(n.) a reason for existing
I took a Lyft ride to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”
Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at him was missing a large tuft of fur.
I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with him the next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.
On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me from behind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.
Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coincidence . . . But I refused to think about it again.
Khaos and I stood in front of my childhood home. I wasn’t thrilled about being here again, though I needed to grab the important things—such as my high school diploma, my birth certificate, other accolades I was proud of . . . and maybe a few pairs of shoes.