Chapter 18 #2
“Let’s get this over with,” she says, sitting primly on the edge of her seat. “It’s not really fair, though. Because you already know us. You are us. You can make very good guesses about how we feel about certain things, because our minds work the same way.”
“Sure,” Psychic Marlowe says. “But we don’t know your circumstances. There would be no way for us to look them up either, would there?”
My Marlowe can do nothing but sneer.
Psychic Priscilla shuffles tarot cards while Psychic Marlowe opens a wooden box full of small crystals. They’re both taking it as seriously as Marlowe and I took Angel’s funeral scene in RENT back in high school, which is to say they are giving this everything they’ve got and then some.
Psychic Marlowe places the crystals on the table in some sort of pattern that must have meaning to her, while Psychic Priscilla continues shuffling.
Finally, Psychic Priscilla tilts her head toward my Marlowe. “You’re first,” she says.
I grin, eager for this to begin. I really do love psychics. It’s fun to see what solutions they come up with based on nothing more than a couple minutes in my presence. I like believing it can all be that simple.
Psychic Priscilla begins dealing her cards in a T formation on the table. In the middle of the spread, the death card stares back at us all.
“Off to a great start!” I joke.
No one laughs.
“You’re in a place of endings,” Psychic Priscilla tells my Marlowe. “And endings are always scary. But really, an ending is just an opportunity for a new beginning.”
“Ah. Very enlightening,” my Marlowe says.
“You need to return to your creativity,” Psychic Priscilla tells her. “That’s where your greatest romanticism lies.”
“Love breathes life into your art, and art breathes life into your love,” Psychic Marlowe explains. “In order to feel fulfilled in either place, you’re the type of person who has to have both. And in the past, you’ve tried to settle for just one thing. But you can’t do that anymore.”
“Your last partner didn’t really care about theater,” Psychic Priscilla says.
“Where are you seeing that?” my Marlowe asks. “I’m looking at some swords and wands and cups. And death.”
“Theater has always been your biggest passion,” Psychic Priscilla continues.
“You know deep down it’s one of your nonnegotiables.
Your next partner has to care about the arts.
” She places more cards atop the spread, regarding them for a while before she says, “It’s been a while since you’ve had a really good challenge, hasn’t it? ”
My Marlowe’s stern expression holds steady, but I can tell that her wheels are spinning.
Maybe it’s all this time in such close proximity.
I’m starting to recognize her micro expressions.
The subtle clench of her jaw. The tension in her throat.
The little tap of her index finger against her forearm.
“You crave that,” Psychic Priscilla explains. “It’s your sustenance.”
“It is,” my Marlowe admits.
Didn’t I tell her the exact same thing when we talked about Alice?
How is it she receives messages from every other version of me better than what I tell her myself?
I could’ve told her she needed another “artist.” Of course she does.
This is a woman who named her childhood dog after a queer playwright.
She might as well have rented a skywriter and broadcast the information that she wants to love a woman who understands theater.
“And you,” Psychic Priscilla says, gesturing to me. She has not reshuffled her deck or laid out any new cards. “You’ve had great success.”
“She can tell by the way I’m dressed,” I say to my Marlowe. But then I realize I left my expensive leopard coat in the last reality. I’m in a nondescript black mockneck dress, covered in a mess of blue and green paint.
“This success gives you a false sense of purpose,” Psychic Priscilla continues, undeterred by my interruption. “You use it as an excuse for not prioritizing your own feelings.”
My chair makes its own awkward creak as I cross my legs.
“You want it, though,” Psychic Priscilla says.
“Romance, real love. You’ve never experienced it before.
People wouldn’t expect that about you, but it’s true.
You’ve dated plenty, but it’s just been for fun, not for love.
” She taps on the nine of cups. “Deep down, you wish to be loved for who you are, not what you do.”
“Notice how she hasn’t said what it is I do,” I say to my Marlowe. Heat has started crawling up my neck, and I have no coat to pull up to hide the blotches.
“You perform,” Psychic Marlowe interjects. “For many, many people.”
“You always have, in one way or another,” Psychic Priscilla adds. “But now it’s your job. And lately, you’ve been burned out. You’re not sure you want to continue.”
“Look at that,” I say to my Marlowe, forcing cheer. “They nailed it.” I turn to the psychics. “I do want all of these things, and I do perform. I’ll be sure to write you a glowing review on Yelp. Very good stuff. Let’s wrap it up. I think you’ve won over Marlowe.”
“There’s someone you can’t let go of,” Psychic Priscilla continues, disregarding my request. “Someone whose approval you’ve convinced yourself you can never get.
You’ve told yourself you’ve stopped trying, but you haven’t.
And now that you’ve been in communication with this person again, you’re afraid to trust that it can be different this time.
This is a cycle you need to break before you can make any meaningful partnerships.
This could be the key to unlocking the rest of your life. ”
Psychic Marlowe places another crystal on the table. “You’ll have the opportunity to do so. Very soon.”
“It will be uncomfortable,” Psychic Priscilla says. “These kinds of things often are. But it’s also necessary. There is so much good waiting for you on the other side of your pain.”
“Our Dallas is missing,” I blurt, needing to regain control of the direction of this conversation.
This hasn’t gone at all how I envisioned, and I’m feeling the threat of the kind of tears I only ever let myself cry in private.
The ones I’ve always been good at saving for later.
Somehow, we’ve made it this far here without giving any of our spiel.
The psychics haven’t asked, or even seemed that curious as to how it’s possible their duplicates have shown up at their door. They haven’t even questioned the paint.
I force them into listening to a shortened version of events, letting myself get lost in the summary until my wave of tears ebbs and I feel like Cilla once again.
“You know, our Dallas lives nearby,” Psychic Priscilla offers.
“He doesn’t work at the school, right?” my Marlowe asks, finally jolted out of whatever trance the psychics cast over her that made her forget she’s supposed to be the logical, quest-for-knowledge one of the two of us.
“No, no,” Psychic Marlowe says. “He retired after our senior year.”
My Marlowe fist pumps. “I knew there was no Dallas who would ever do Grease.”
“Oh, never,” Psychic Marlowe says, smiling. “You could get in that Memory Machine a million times and still not find a Dallas willing to budge on that.”
“On Thursday nights he performs at a drag bar that’s not very far from here,” Psychic Priscilla says. “You guys should go see him. He would love that. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”
Aren’t they lucky? They have a beautiful marriage, a psychic business, and a Dallas who wants to be helpful instead of evasive.
“That would be great,” I say, eager to escape this house I once found so comforting. “Would we be able to grab a shower and a change of clothes beforehand? We made a mess of ourselves in the last reality.”
“Of course,” Psychic Marlowe says kindly. “We have plenty of stuff for you two to wear.”
“Kind of perfect to get to borrow clothes from myself,” my Marlowe says.
Psychic Priscilla looks at my Marlowe. “I’ll put on a pot of your favorite tea.”
“She doesn’t drink tea,” I say. “She drinks a cold brew with a pump of lavender and a splash of half-and-half. Light ice.”
“I might drink tea,” my Marlowe counters. “Let me try it,” she says to Psychic Priscilla.
It’s so small. Nothing, really. But still, witnessing my Marlowe’s willingness to try something new from the hands of anyone other than the real me breaks the tiny thread of composure I’ve managed to reclaim.
I make it away just in time, bolting up the stairs to the bathroom and starting the water, letting it run over my hands as paint swirls down the drain in hypnotizing circles.
I wash the paint from my skin and hair, letting the ritual of the task soothe me the best it can.
The psychics are right. All I’ve ever wanted is for someone else to want me around.
It doesn’t matter that I’m seeing proof that another me has figured out how to break that curse.
Every other Priscilla seems to have something going for her.
Doctor Priscilla has esteem. Teacher Priscilla has Jaz.
Stranger Priscilla has the blessing of anonymity.
And this Priscilla has love.
It’s a cruel twist of the knife that I have to wear her clothes, which are waiting for me in a neat pile on the other side of the bathroom door. I peek my head out to grab them, then get dressed in her image. She’s lent me a flowy lilac sundress with a gauzy lilac cardigan to match.
It would be so easy to put this on and become another character. Psychic Priscilla is dreamy and ethereal and oh so all knowing. But she’s not me. And if I want what she has, I can’t keep performing anymore. From here on out, I have to take on my most difficult role yet—I need to be myself.