Chapter Ten Lily
My back is killing me,” says the old woman next to me.
We are standing under a greenhouse in the perennials section on Friday.
Beside us is a long auction table with various items to bid on.
Some are potted plants, others paintings or experiences like a sunset cruise or a weeklong rental in Telluride.
Josie has donated several bracelets and pearl necklaces at Rose’s behest. It is my job to encourage guests to make offers.
Mom is somewhere in the back, making sure the hors d’oeuvres and drinks continue to flow.
A tray of bacon-wrapped scallops keeps passing by, but I am always interrupted by a question before I can grab one.
“My bunions are killing me,” the woman’s friend says next.
Both of them are wearing pantsuits in different shades of pastel, like an elderly version of the Powerpuff Girls. They are fabulous.
“You know, my knees are really hurting me lately, too,” I chime in. I’m trying to bond with them, but they also do actually hurt. My knees have been hurting since the day I turned twenty-five, another symptom of my interior decomposition.
The ladies stare at me, their eyes narrowed in accusation. “What do you know about knees? What are you? Sixteen?” the first woman, the one in the blue suit, says.
The other laughs heartily.
They walk away without bidding on anything, and I’m left alone again, leaning against the table.
I let out a blow of air, stroking the waxy leaf of a plant.
The event is the same as it always is, except for some inexplicable reason they have decided to bring in a fortune teller.
The lady sits in a little booth in the corner with a stack of tarot cards.
A hand-painted sign above her reads “Ten dollars for palm reading, fifteen for tarot cards, and thirty for past-life regression.”
The psychic keeps winking at me, ushering me over with a curved finger. It makes me shiver with unease. I have to look away. The woman is wearing a red shawl that looks familiar, but I can’t place why.
Before I can worry too much, I spot someone else I recognize by the art section of the auction. She’s standing next to a large frame. Inside are three-dimensional cutouts of butterflies flying off the white canvas to create the shape of the island. The price tag reads “Bidding starts at $7,000.”
The money seems like an unfathomably large sum: my entire savings.
Her name is Marie Chen, and she’s the owner of one of the most popular galleries downtown, the one I tried to drop my résumé at the other day.
I know this because I just recently read a profile of her in Nantucket magazine.
Marie is wearing an elegant blazer dress with gold buttons down the bodice.
I consider approaching, but my walk is interrupted by the sight of my mom, barreling through the crowd.
Josie quickly follows her, wearing small, pink kitten heels that make her have to take comically short steps.
“Come on, Rose.” Josie shuffles. “Don’t be like this.”
Rose keeps walking briskly, leaving Josie standing there, resigned.
I shoot her an apologetic look and follow my mom, taking Josie’s place in the race.
I catch up with her by the bar, angrily refilling a bag of ice.
There’s a harsh noise as the pieces crunch together.
Rose’s face looks flushed like she’s just been out for a long run, except my mom never runs and also never usually looks disheveled.
“What was that about?” I ask
“Nothing,” Rose says curtly.
“I thought we didn’t keep secrets.”
Without looking up, continuing to break the ice, Rose says, “That rule is for you, not me.”
“Wow.”
Rose finally looks into my eyes. Her pupils are wide as sand dollars. “Look,” she says. “I got in a disagreement with Josephine. It’s not a big deal.”
“About what?”
“I don’t need your judgment, Lil. Don’t worry about it.”
“When am I judgy?” Rose gives me an incredulous look. “Okay,” I amend. “I won’t be judgy right now.”
This makes Rose laugh a little, but then almost immediately, her face crumples back into despair. “I asked her to check with her brother and see if we can get Tommy—I mean, Thomas,” she corrects herself, “out of our place, ASAP.”
“And what? Leave him homeless?”
“He wouldn’t be homeless. I’ve been doing some research on him and I can assure you that he will be very much okay. After his service, he went on to study engineering and sold a start-up company a few years ago. He made enough money to retire at forty-eight. He doesn’t need you worrying about him.”
I ignore the admission of Google stalking. “But it’s so mean.”
My mom shoots me a pointed look. Rose is now breaking the ice apart with a metal rod, using too much force.
“Sorry, sorry, not being judgy. I just feel bad for him is all. I mean, it was so long ago, and he seems like a nice guy now. Also, we could use the money for your new practice. What would you do without the rental income?”
“Time.” Rose snaps her fingers in the air. “Went by just like that. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was. But Josie’s brother assured me there’s nothing I can do to break the real estate contract now. We’re stuck with him. Josie said I was overreacting.”
“Did you tell her why you wanted him out?”
“No, of course not,” says Mom. “That would be humiliating.”
“Well, if it means so much to you, maybe it’s worth it.”
Rose pushes her shiny red hair from her face. She’s sweating slightly around the temples.
“It’s too late,” she says. “Just drop it. Okay?”
There’s an uncharacteristic tone to her voice. It sours her expression like she’s bitten into something rotten and foul. It’s such an unusual sight on my mom’s delicate face that I decide to let the argument go.
For the rest of the night, I help my mom with the event: wrapping up items that have been sold, pouring drinks, carrying plants and paintings into waiting cars, throwing out discarded napkins with multicolored stains in the corners, whatever is needed.
When the sky darkens and the twinkly lights turn on above, I finally muster enough courage to approach Marie, and to my surprise, it actually goes well.
She offers to take a look at my résumé, says they may be hiring someone soon for an associate role at the gallery.
By “associate role,” what she means is a glorified receptionist, but I’m thrilled.
I write down her email in my phone. When I do so, I see a text from Theo, the bartender from the other night.
Hiya, it reads. I talked to my boss today and they said you can come in for an interview tomorrow between 12pm and 3pm if you’re free.
My chest is warm and light. I haven’t been sleeping well in the last few days since I discovered that Henry is engaged. My stomach has been tied up in a constant state of nausea, unsettled, but now, it rests. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe everything will be okay.
It’s with this good fortune buoying me that I decide to approach the psychic who has been eyeing me all night. Walking away from Marie, I feel strangely invincible, ready to address my fate, my future, head-on.
There’s an undeniable magnetism that has been drawing me closer all night, some mystical aura to the garden with the deep denim-blue sky and the setting sun and the yellow lights reflecting off the greenhouse. Now or never.
“Hi,” I say to the psychic. “I’d like to do a tarot card reading, please.”
“No need for that.” The psychic smiles. It has an eerie effect on her face, like the moon’s shadow crossing over the sun. “I already know what I need to tell you. Give me your hand.”
I take a hesitant seat on the hard wooden stool. The psychic grabs me a little too roughly, tugging my arm across the booth. She bends my fingers back, pressing her thumb into my palm. Her skin is shockingly cool to the touch, and her nails are sharp and unpainted.
“You have a strong life line,” the psychic says, digging into the lines of my hand.
“Um. Well, that’s good news.”
The psychic’s eyebrows are tattooed on, and I find myself momentarily mesmerized by the deep brown color and the few patches where real hair is still coming through. The pigment is so dark it looks red.
“There’s a strong maternal presence in your life.”
I nod in lieu of answering.
“There is also death.”
“Oh,” is all I can say.
Sometimes, in the middle of my day, I will be momentarily seized by the idea that my life is not my life.
Something has gone wrong. I made one wrong turn somewhere along the road, and now I have ended up in this alternate universe where up is down and my boyfriend is in love with someone else and my dream job is ruined and Lottie isn’t around.
I think if only I could retrace my steps, I might find that one faulty screw that shook everything loose. I could go back. I could fix it.
“You will have two great loves,” the psychic continues without pause. “One greater than the other, but both have a first name that starts with the letter H.”
I can hear pounding in my ears. My cheeks and teeth throb as if my heart is trying to escape through my head. Then, the psychic says the singularly most ominous thing anyone has ever uttered at a fundraiser for mental health:
“You are at a crossroads in your life.” The woman’s tone is grave. “Choose your next steps carefully.”