Sylvie
“So you’re mad at Knox for being just like you. Afraid that he’s not worthy. Afraid to be seen for who he is.”
I’m looking at my knees. “Yeah. I know I’m a hypocrite.”
The woman snorts. “Honey, I think you and that boy are just two kids in a lot of pain. You should be proud that you both were able to put that aside for a little while and be happy together.”
“But what if I don’t deserve it? Happiness?”
“Well, that’s not up to you,” she says equitably. “Is it?”
“I guess not.”
“Think I deserved to get into a fender bender?”
“No,” I say, and I’m horrified. “Definitely not.”
“Then why would I think that about you?” She shakes her head.
“Someone told me once that grief is like a seashell. You start in the center and work your way out. At first you’re making these tight little circles.
You confront your grief every five minutes.
Then maybe a few times a day. Then a little less, a little at a time. I think guilt can be like that too.”
“How long does it take to get out of the shell?”
“Oh. You don’t. The shell goes on forever.”
Somehow that’s a relief. I don’t ever want to be off the hook.
“But each circle through it takes longer and longer. Gives you time to get wiser. One day you’ll greet the grief as an old friend of yours.”
“The guilt too?”
“Yeah,” she says. “The guilt too. Eventually, when you run into each other, it’ll be a chance meeting.
Like—like a tiny car accident. You and the guilt strike each other in the road.
There it is, looking at you, wanting something.
And maybe you smart for a little bit. But then you pick yourself back up.
Maybe”—suddenly, she smiles—“maybe, you take yourself to Staples.”
Blue and red lights, no sirens, as a police car pulls into the parking lot. The cop that gets out looks at us like he doesn’t really believe what he’s seeing. “One of you called in an accident?”
“Yep,” the woman says. “Lara Scheffler. I called it in.”
“I’m Sylvie Blake.”
Lara extends a hand to me, and I shake it.
The cop blinks. “You two didn’t know each other before this?”
“Nope,” Lara says.
“Because you seem pretty friendly.”
“Yep.” Lara reaches into the cooler. “Want a Diet Coke?”
The cop declines. He circles our vehicles, taking notes, and then disappears into his cruiser with our insurance information. It takes forever. I didn’t realize that, the last time. I hadn’t been in any state to notice.
“Where are you off to next?” I ask her.
“Oh. My uncle left me some land. Used to be a gas station, right off I-55. I’m gonna go check it out and see if I should sell it, or turn it into something.”
“It’s right off the highway?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Are you going to have a billboard?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she says cautiously. “Usually you pick the business out first, before you start throwing up billboards.”
I laugh. It’s surprised and horrified and it bursts right out of me. The world hates us, and it loves us in equal measure.
“Sylvie? What’s so funny?”
“Have you ever,” I ask her, “thought about calling yourself Miss Lara? And giving out psychic advice? You could charge sixty bucks a half hour! You could have a crystal ball and tarot cards, but just for show, you’d actually be hearing out people’s problems and giving them real, sound advice, like you just did me.
And then eventually, through your sheer empathy, wisdom, and know-how, you’d take over the midwestern psychic scene.
Everyone else would have to close up shop.
Including, say, a pair of feuding twin sister fortune tellers named Miss Tara and Miss Mara who, without their competing businesses, would be forced to reconcile their differences and be a family again! ”
“Huh,” Lara says.
“Although I guess after they make up, they could join forces to hate on you instead.”
“I don’t know if I really want a pair of psychic enemies.”
“Yeah. I can see how that would be a problem.”
“Still, I’ll take it under advisement.”
When the cop comes back to give us the okay, she pulls me into a hug. “Go find some happiness,” she says into my ear before pushing me back toward my van, back out into the wild.