with spicy remoulade. Afterward we run across a tea room on Chartres Street offering psychic readings.
“Let’s do it,” Angela says cheerfully, turning to me. “I’ve always wanted to.”
Inside we look at the menu and Angela pays thirty dollars for a palm reading. They serve each of us a cup of mint-flavored green tea and we enter a back room with a psychic named Charlene. She looks like a normal fifty-something woman, no head scarf or theatrics, wearing a plain white blouse and long black skirt.
She examines Angela’s left hand. “You can be an impatient, headstrong woman,” Charlene says. “This can be your biggest weakness or your greatest strength, depending on how you use it. Within the coming months, you’re going to be faced with decisions that could change the course of your life. Trust your instincts when making these choices.”
Amused by her predictions, Angela flashes me a quick smile. Charlene notices and tells Angela, “You’re in an important relationship with someone right now. This relationship will be threatened in the near future. You should persevere through these problems. Because if you do, your relationship will emerge renewed and stronger than it’s ever been before.”
The reading soon ends and Charlene lets go of Angela’s hand.
“How accurate are your predictions?” I ask her.
“Very much so,” she says. “I have a very sharp psychic capability.”
“When did you realize you had this gift?”
“When I was about seven,” she says. “I used to read the palms of my classmates. The teachers didn’t like it though. They told me I was channeling evil forces and they weren’t above using physical abuse to try to make me stop.”
“Really? For some reason it doesn’t surprise me there’s a correlation between being abused as a child and growing up to believe you have supernatural abilities.”
Charlene looks at me and says, “I sense you don’t believe in what I do.”
“Do I have to pay for that reading?”
“Let me read your palm,” she says.
“I’m really not interested.”
“Maybe you’re scared of what you’ll hear.”
“I am scared. Not of my future, but of money magically disappearing from my wallet.”
I pick up a copy of today’s newspaper and Angela and I walk to Jackson Square. The sky turns overcast, quickly darkening, and appears as if it will rain soon. I sit on a metal bench in front of some bushes in which I see a grey cat sleeping. Angela walks in the square and talks to some artists who display their work for sale, though they now pack up because of the impending weather.
I browse the newspaper. I look up and see a young man in his mid-twenties riding a bicycle. He has close-cropped hair and tattoos down his arms. He stops and asks Angela a question. They talk a moment and I look back at the paper. I flip to the second page and see the headline “Teenage Girl Goes Missing in Florida.”
My heart quickens as I read, “Angela Selby, age 17 … vanished after quarrel with parents … feared kidnapped … ‘Angela is a model teenager and the best daughter anyone could ask for,’ her parents said. ‘Anytime we and Angela have ever disagreed, we’ve always talked things out. She would never run away. Whoever is responsible for her disappearance needs to come forward immediately. We will not rest until we have our daughter back.’”
I feel like I can hardly breathe. I stand, fold the newspaper, and look up to see Angela trying to nonchalantly speed-walk over to me.
“I think we should go,” she says. “Some guy said he recognized me.”
We start walking quickly back to our hotel. It starts drizzling. “From where?” I ask.
“He said he saw a picture in the paper. It said I was missing.”
“What did you say?”
“I just laughed and said that it wasn’t me. I said I live here in New Orleans and I must just look like whoever he saw.”
“Did he
“Let’s do it,” Angela says cheerfully, turning to me. “I’ve always wanted to.”
Inside we look at the menu and Angela pays thirty dollars for a palm reading. They serve each of us a cup of mint-flavored green tea and we enter a back room with a psychic named Charlene. She looks like a normal fifty-something woman, no head scarf or theatrics, wearing a plain white blouse and long black skirt.
She examines Angela’s left hand. “You can be an impatient, headstrong woman,” Charlene says. “This can be your biggest weakness or your greatest strength, depending on how you use it. Within the coming months, you’re going to be faced with decisions that could change the course of your life. Trust your instincts when making these choices.”
Amused by her predictions, Angela flashes me a quick smile. Charlene notices and tells Angela, “You’re in an important relationship with someone right now. This relationship will be threatened in the near future. You should persevere through these problems. Because if you do, your relationship will emerge renewed and stronger than it’s ever been before.”
The reading soon ends and Charlene lets go of Angela’s hand.
“How accurate are your predictions?” I ask her.
“Very much so,” she says. “I have a very sharp psychic capability.”
“When did you realize you had this gift?”
“When I was about seven,” she says. “I used to read the palms of my classmates. The teachers didn’t like it though. They told me I was channeling evil forces and they weren’t above using physical abuse to try to make me stop.”
“Really? For some reason it doesn’t surprise me there’s a correlation between being abused as a child and growing up to believe you have supernatural abilities.”
Charlene looks at me and says, “I sense you don’t believe in what I do.”
“Do I have to pay for that reading?”
“Let me read your palm,” she says.
“I’m really not interested.”
“Maybe you’re scared of what you’ll hear.”
“I am scared. Not of my future, but of money magically disappearing from my wallet.”
I pick up a copy of today’s newspaper and Angela and I walk to Jackson Square. The sky turns overcast, quickly darkening, and appears as if it will rain soon. I sit on a metal bench in front of some bushes in which I see a grey cat sleeping. Angela walks in the square and talks to some artists who display their work for sale, though they now pack up because of the impending weather.
I browse the newspaper. I look up and see a young man in his mid-twenties riding a bicycle. He has close-cropped hair and tattoos down his arms. He stops and asks Angela a question. They talk a moment and I look back at the paper. I flip to the second page and see the headline “Teenage Girl Goes Missing in Florida.”
My heart quickens as I read, “Angela Selby, age 17 … vanished after quarrel with parents … feared kidnapped … ‘Angela is a model teenager and the best daughter anyone could ask for,’ her parents said. ‘Anytime we and Angela have ever disagreed, we’ve always talked things out. She would never run away. Whoever is responsible for her disappearance needs to come forward immediately. We will not rest until we have our daughter back.’”
I feel like I can hardly breathe. I stand, fold the newspaper, and look up to see Angela trying to nonchalantly speed-walk over to me.
“I think we should go,” she says. “Some guy said he recognized me.”
We start walking quickly back to our hotel. It starts drizzling. “From where?” I ask.
“He said he saw a picture in the paper. It said I was missing.”
“What did you say?”
“I just laughed and said that it wasn’t me. I said I live here in New Orleans and I must just look like whoever he saw.”
“Did he
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