now again.” She started her shuffling a second time, and I wondered if I’d gotten it wrong, made a mistake. I started to form the question, but snapped my mouth shut when she gave a small shake of her head in my direction.
“Stop,” I said again.
The tiniest of smiles inched its way up the corner of her face.
“Okay, let me lay out the cards.”
Gypsy Rose placed a series of cards on the table, one after the other. They were brightly-coloured, garish-looking things, full of shapes and objects, some of which I recognised and some of which I didn’t.
“Is there anything specific you want to know?”
The words stuck in my head.
Yes, when is my dad going to die?
Sure, will he remember me at all?
Okay, let’s start with am I going to have a mental illness and lose control of my words and movements?
“Oh you know, just general stuff.” I smiled, and bit my lip.
“Well, let’s look at love,” Gypsy Rose said, busy studying the cards in front of her. “All you young girls want to know about love.
“Your true love …” She scanned the cards, searching for something in their garish images. “He is someone you have already met.” Yes, and his name is probably Dave, and he’s left me. “Someone with … a familiar family situation.”
That was odd. I racked my brain, trying to think of any kind of tie between Dave and my family. Both his parents were alive and well. They didn’t have any diseases, and both of their parents were living still, too.
Maybe she meant parents I knew, and that’s why they were familiar.
Maybe.
“What about my family?” The words escaped without my realising.
Gypsy Rose studied my face, squinting those grey eyes. I felt like a rabbit, caught in her gaze, unable to look away.
She turned back to the cards, studying them intently. She was silent for a while as she read them. She picked one up, put it back down. She looked at the remainder of her deck again. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she looked at me once more.
“What do you want to know?” Her voice was softer this time.
“About my dad,” I replied. I knew you weren’t supposed to give too much away to fortune-tellers. If you told them everything, they’d predict based on information you’d given them.
“Your father … He is … he is sick,” the woman said. She didn’t meet my eyes, shuffling her hands. They never seemed to stop, those hands. They constantly fiddled and tidied, a flurry of activity.
“Yes.” My voice was as minute as a grain of sand.
“Something with … something with his head.” It didn’t seem like the words were coming to her as she spoke them. The way she looked at me, licking her lips, made me feel like she knew exactly what she was talking about—she just didn’t want to say it.
“There are very tough times ahead for your family,” the woman said, slowly shaping each word. “It will be a tricky year.”
“How tricky?”
Gypsy Rose raised her painted on eyebrows at me and I immediately returned my gaze to the cards on the table. Her look spoke volumes; more than I needed to know.
“Do you have any siblings?” she asked, again breaking the silence. I shook my head.
“Will the sickness—will it get me, too?” The words came out, and I choked back a sob. I prayed to the gypsy gods that I wouldn’t start to cry, not here in a ramshackle studio set in an alley with a cranky old fortune-teller.
“It will affect your whole family,” the woman eventually replied. She leaned over to the bookshelf and pulled down a box of tissues from the third shelf, placing them to the side of the table next to me. “No one in your family will be the same.”
So, was I going to get it, or wasn’t I? Did she mean I was going to be affected because Dad was sick? Or affected in fected? And what did she mean, tricky? Obviously it was tricky. My dad coming home would be tricky. My dad having an incurable disease was freaking impossible.
The heat in the building got too
“Stop,” I said again.
The tiniest of smiles inched its way up the corner of her face.
“Okay, let me lay out the cards.”
Gypsy Rose placed a series of cards on the table, one after the other. They were brightly-coloured, garish-looking things, full of shapes and objects, some of which I recognised and some of which I didn’t.
“Is there anything specific you want to know?”
The words stuck in my head.
Yes, when is my dad going to die?
Sure, will he remember me at all?
Okay, let’s start with am I going to have a mental illness and lose control of my words and movements?
“Oh you know, just general stuff.” I smiled, and bit my lip.
“Well, let’s look at love,” Gypsy Rose said, busy studying the cards in front of her. “All you young girls want to know about love.
“Your true love …” She scanned the cards, searching for something in their garish images. “He is someone you have already met.” Yes, and his name is probably Dave, and he’s left me. “Someone with … a familiar family situation.”
That was odd. I racked my brain, trying to think of any kind of tie between Dave and my family. Both his parents were alive and well. They didn’t have any diseases, and both of their parents were living still, too.
Maybe she meant parents I knew, and that’s why they were familiar.
Maybe.
“What about my family?” The words escaped without my realising.
Gypsy Rose studied my face, squinting those grey eyes. I felt like a rabbit, caught in her gaze, unable to look away.
She turned back to the cards, studying them intently. She was silent for a while as she read them. She picked one up, put it back down. She looked at the remainder of her deck again. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she looked at me once more.
“What do you want to know?” Her voice was softer this time.
“About my dad,” I replied. I knew you weren’t supposed to give too much away to fortune-tellers. If you told them everything, they’d predict based on information you’d given them.
“Your father … He is … he is sick,” the woman said. She didn’t meet my eyes, shuffling her hands. They never seemed to stop, those hands. They constantly fiddled and tidied, a flurry of activity.
“Yes.” My voice was as minute as a grain of sand.
“Something with … something with his head.” It didn’t seem like the words were coming to her as she spoke them. The way she looked at me, licking her lips, made me feel like she knew exactly what she was talking about—she just didn’t want to say it.
“There are very tough times ahead for your family,” the woman said, slowly shaping each word. “It will be a tricky year.”
“How tricky?”
Gypsy Rose raised her painted on eyebrows at me and I immediately returned my gaze to the cards on the table. Her look spoke volumes; more than I needed to know.
“Do you have any siblings?” she asked, again breaking the silence. I shook my head.
“Will the sickness—will it get me, too?” The words came out, and I choked back a sob. I prayed to the gypsy gods that I wouldn’t start to cry, not here in a ramshackle studio set in an alley with a cranky old fortune-teller.
“It will affect your whole family,” the woman eventually replied. She leaned over to the bookshelf and pulled down a box of tissues from the third shelf, placing them to the side of the table next to me. “No one in your family will be the same.”
So, was I going to get it, or wasn’t I? Did she mean I was going to be affected because Dad was sick? Or affected in fected? And what did she mean, tricky? Obviously it was tricky. My dad coming home would be tricky. My dad having an incurable disease was freaking impossible.
The heat in the building got too
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