by Wendy Mass
“Sleeping,” I reply.
“Or at church.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Maybe we should go.”
I stop walking. “To church?”
Lizzy points to an old wooden building right on the edge of the beach. THE ATLANTIC CITY SPIRITUALIST CHURCH. ALL ARE WELCOME. SERVICES BEGIN AT 9:30.
“We’re right on time,” she says, pulling me toward the building. From the looks of it, the church was probably once a T-shirt shop!
I pull back. “Are you serious? I can’t go in there!”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I’m part Jewish. We don’t do churches.”
“All are welcome,” Lizzy says, tapping the sign with her finger. “That means you, too.”
“Why do you want to go so badly?” I ask, suspicious. “Something to atone for?”
“Very funny. I just want to try it. Learning all that stuff about the universe has made me curious, that’s all. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”
“I don’t know. They could chase us out with pitchforks and torches.”
Behind us a woman says, “We got rid of the pitchforks years ago, didn’t we, Henry?”
“We sure did,” a man’s voice replies. “Except for that one time. But that guy really deserved it.”
Cringing, I slowly turn around. An elderly couple is standing a few feet away, holding hands and grinning.
“Sorry about my friend,” Lizzy says, approaching them. “He doesn’t get out much.”
“No worries,” the woman says. “We didn’t mean to make fun. We’re a wacky bunch. If you’d like to give the service a try, please don’t feel shy. You can sit in the back so you won’t feel awkward about leaving in the middle.”
“What do you say?” Lizzy asks.
Her expression is so hopeful, how can I say no? “All right.” I thrust my hands into my short’s pockets. “But you have to promise to leave if I ask you to.”
“I promise,” Lizzy says, pulling me toward the open door. As soon as I step through the threshold I relax a little. It really doesn’t seem too threatening. Long windows in the back face the wide beach with the ocean behind it. About twenty rows of folding chairs are set up in front of a small stage. Maybe fifteen people are already sitting down. I don’t see any crosses, or anything really religious at all. Then out of nowhere, a woman in a flowing white dress places a bible in my hand. I look up in surprise, but she’s already moved on to the next person.
“How come she didn’t give you one?” I ask Lizzy when I see she’s empty-handed.
“She said we’re supposed to share,” she says, pointing to two seats in the back row. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”
I follow, in a bit of a daze. “When did she say that?”
Lizzy rolls her eyes. “Right before she handed it to you.”
I shake my head and sit in one of the hard plastic chairs. The seats are starting to fill up with people from all walks of life. Some in dresses and suits, one guy in tattered pants without any shoes, a surfer complete with surfboard, and a few Goth teenagers. Everyone says hello to each other like they’re old friends. A few smile at us, and we smile back like we do this all the time. I open the Bible, and am surprised to find it isn’t a bible at all. It’s a songbook!
I turn to Lizzy. “What kind of church is this?”
She shrugs. “Beats me.”
I slide down in my chair. A few minutes later, the minister, or whoever he is, instructs us all to stand and to open to page three in the book. I expect to find a religious hymnal, but instead page three is the lyrics for “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” I do a double-take, and then tilt the page so Lizzy can see it. Mom is a big Bette Midler fan, and I’ve had to sit through the movie Beaches more times than any boy should ever be subjected to.
Lizzy giggles and whispers, “Did I ever tell you you’re my hero?”
I reply with the next line, “You’re everything, everything, I wish I could be.”
“Really?” she says, looking up from the page.
I mouth No and shake my head.
As the whole congregation sings about flying higher than an eagle, I actually feel moved. Hearing the song sung by this big group in this church on a beach is really uplifting. No one would guess that thirty feet away, people are playing blackjack and slots while extra oxygen is being pumped through the vents to keep the gamblers from getting tired.
Maybe this is why people go to church. For a sense of belonging, of escaping the everyday routine where people don’t generally burst into group song. I’ve only been here ten minutes, and I feel it already. I also feel Lizzy tugging at my shirt. It takes only a second to realize I’m the only one still standing. I hurriedly sit down.
The minister begins talking. He welcomes all the old faces and the new ones. Then he says, “Mankind is the eye through which the spirit of God views his or her creation. Let us today, on this beautiful Sunday morning, be vessels through which we can see the infinite. For there rests our true natures. We are spiritual beings having an earthly life. When our life here is done, we return to the source. What is life? Life is love. Do not make the mistake of thinking loving is easy; it is not. We must love ourselves, not just other people. We must be awake. Do not sleepwalk through your life. Enjoy it fully, because none of us gets out of here alive.”
People laugh a bit at the last part. Lizzy leans over and whispers, “Wow, that was deep.”
I nod. I’m thinking about what he said about returning to the source. Is that where my father is now? In the source? Just as I’d never really thought about the meaning of life before all this, I’d never really thought about what happens to you after you die. Even when Lizzy made me do that séance last week, I didn’t really think about it. Do we really get reincarnated like Rick said? Are Heaven and Hell real, and not just something they scare you with in Sunday school? Or is the end just the end, like a blank screen, over and out, thanks for the ride? I bet the meaning of death is tied to the meaning of life. This is something I really should have considered sooner.
The minister guy is still talking. “Now is the time for healing. Anyone who would like to participate, please take a seat in the row of chairs on your left. Our healers tap into the life force of the universe. They can help anyone who is in physical, mental, or emotional distress. They are waiting to help you.” He points to a group of about ten chairs set apart from the others. Each chair has a man or a woman standing behind it. People are starting to get up from the audience to make their way over to them.
I watch as the chairs fill up one by one. I turn to Lizzy to see what she thinks of all this, but to my utter disbelief, she’s not in her seat! Did the healing stuff push her over the edge, and she left without telling me? I look around wildly, and finally spot her in the last place I had thought to look—in one of the chairs in front of a healer-woman. My mouth falls open. The healer looks around sixty, with gray and brown hair hanging all the way to her waist. She has her hands on Lizzy’s shoulders and is whispering something in her ear. Lizzy’s eyes are closed, her hands folded in her lap. I blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing things.
In a minute, the woman moves her hands from Lizzy’s shoulders to the top of her head, and then back to her shoulders. Up and down the row, the healers are doing the same things. Some have their eyes closed, too. A line of people are waiting for their turn. One by one, someone gets up from a chair, thanks the healer, and another person takes the seat. I am dying to know what Lizzy is feeling up there. Not to mention why she went in the first place! Trying not to make any noise, I carefully unwrap the corner of one of my peanut butter sandwiches and nibble on it while I watch, fascinated.
Finally it’s Lizzy’s turn to open her eyes and thank her healer. She quickly makes her way back through the rows of seats until she reaches me. “Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm and causing me to drop my sandwich. Luckily it is still mostly wrapped. I bend down to pick it up from the floor.
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“Come on! Let’s go!” Lizzy says, a sense of urgency evident in her voice.
“Huh? Why? What was that all about up there?”
“Just let’s go,” she says. Then without waiting for me anymore, she heads out the front door. I quickly shove the sandwich back into my bag and slip out after her, leaving the songbook on my seat. I feel a little rude leaving in the middle of the service, but maybe not too many people noticed.
Lizzy is pacing back and forth outside. I can’t read her expression. She doesn’t look upset or angry or calm or contemplative, or anything, really.
“Lizzy?”
She stops pacing.
“Why did you want to leave? Why did you go up there?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, starting to feel concerned. “Why did you need healing? What did it feel like?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Don’t worry. I just really don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“But—”
She shakes her head.
We walk in silence in the same direction we had been heading earlier. Every few feet I sneak a glance at Lizzy, but she’s looking straight ahead. The stores are mostly open now, and the boardwalk has a lot more people on it. A group of businesspeople with badges around their necks hurries past us. There are a few families and some couples holding hands. We approach a woman sitting behind a table, but it turns out she’s offering temporary tattoos for five dollars, not fortunes.
“Wanna get one?” Lizzy asks, breaking her silence.
“It’s just one surprise after another with you today.”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“Why?”
“Why not? It washes off in a week.”
I guess I can’t argue with that. We walk over to the board that shows all the different designs. “How about this one?” she says, pointing to a set of Chinese symbols. Underneath it is the English translation. I lean closer to read it. LIFE.
“Don’t you think that’s appropriate?” she asks. “You know, since we’re on this whole meaning-of-life quest.”
“Where would you put it?”
“On my upper arm, I guess.”
“Like a sailor?”
“Trust me,” she says, rolling her short sleeve up onto her shoulder. “It’s not gonna say ‘MOM’ in a big heart.”
“Y’all ready?” the tattoo woman asks, cracking her gum. I don’t think the tattoos that cover her own arms are temporary.
“It’s just her,” I say quickly, backing away and pointing at Lizzy.
“Which one’d ya choose?” she asks.
Lizzy points to the one she wants.
“Ah, life,” the lady says in her Texas drawl. “That’s a fine choice.” She directs Lizzy to sit down on the stool. She then wipes Lizzy’s arm with a tissue. “To get off any sweat,” she explains. “We want a nice clean surface.” She takes out a very thin brush, and a bottle of henna. Glancing over at the design every few seconds, she begins painting it on in tiny strokes.
I clear my throat. “You wouldn’t happen to, uh, know of any fortune-tellers around here?”
“What kinda fortune-teller?” she asks. “We got the kind who can tell your fortune with cards, and one who can hold an object of yours and tell ya who you’re gonna marry. And we got some regular palm readers, too.”
“Palm readers,” I say.
“Jeremy!” shouts Lizzy, “Don’t bother the woman while she’s putting on my tattoo!”
The woman laughs. “Don’t worry, honey. I been doing this so many years I could tap dance and fry an egg and still not mess up. So what kinda palm reader y’all lookin’ for?”
I realize I don’t know much about her at all. “Well, she’d be old. Very, very old.” The woman laughs again, and this time her brush actually slips a little. She quickly wets the corner of a paper towel and fixes it. Lizzy glares at me.
“Old compared to me?” she asks. “Or old compared to you? Kids your age think everyone over forty is old!”
“Old compared to anybody,” I say. “And she has an accent. Like, Russian or something.”
The woman finishes Lizzy’s tattoo and stands back to give it a final look. “Russian, you say? Big hair? Big—” She pauses and then says, “Teeth. Big teeth. Sound like her?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “My dad never mentioned her teeth.”
She chuckles. “Check out the little shop right past the Tropicana, a few casinos down the way. I think they speak something funny like Russian in there.”
I start to say thank you for the information, but at the same time Lizzy says, “Hey, you must know a lot about life, you know, from working here?”
I feel my face reddening, but I don’t stop Lizzy from asking what I know she’s about to ask.
“I’ve seen it all, honey. Why you askin’?”
“We’re on a quest to find out the meaning of life,” Lizzy explains. “We kind of have a deadline.”
The woman makes one final flourish with the tiny paintbrush on Lizzy’s arm, then stands back to admire her work. With a satisfied nod, she says, “Five bucks, please.”
Lizzy stands up from the stool and twists her shoulder so she can see the tattoo. “Cool.” She digs into her pocket and hands over a rumpled five-dollar bill.
“The meaning of life,” the woman says, tucking the bill down the front of her shirt. “That’s an easy one. God’s love gives life meaning. I just follow the path He sets out in the Good Book. That’s all I need to know. You follow His guidelines, it’s almost like a map through life to Heaven. You don’t ever gotta worry if you’re making the right choices or not, ’cause it’s all right there for you.”
She looks like she’s about to say more, but a family of six with big cameras around their necks have swarmed the table.
“But how do you know you’re following the right religion?” Lizzy asks. “The right path?”
The woman raises her eyebrows like no one’s ever asked her that before. Then she smiles. “I don’t know it in my head, honey. I feel it in my heart.”
“But—” Lizzy is cut off by a crowd of noisy college kids who have swarmed the tattoo display and are daring each other to get the ugliest ones.
“Uh, thanks for everything,” I tell the woman loudly, grabbing onto Lizzy’s arm before she can pry any more.
The woman looks up from her new customers and nods at us. “My pleasure, honey. Hope y’all get good fortunes.”
As we walk away, Lizzy says, “I just don’t understand how there can be so many different religions with everyone thinking theirs is the right one.”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s why there are so many wars.”
Lizzy doesn’t answer. Her head is twisted around and she’s busy admiring her tattoo. I have to steer her away from bumping into people.
“Does it bother you that no one will be able to read that?” I ask. “Unless they’re Chinese, that is.”
She shakes her head. “I know what it means; that’s enough. I can’t wait to watch my dad freak out until I tell him it’s only temporary.”
We walk past the Tropicana, and just like the lady had said, we’re right in front of a shop that says PALM READINGS, FIVE DOLLARS.
Neither of us makes a move to go in. “I guess everything on the boardwalk is five dollars,” Lizzy jokes.
I still don’t move. “What if she’s not there? Or worse yet, what if she is? What am I going to say? That if she hadn’t given my dad that fortune, he might have been more careful?”
“Do you really believe that?”
I shrug. “Maybe a little.”
“I thought you were going to ask her where the keys are.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”
I take a deep breath and push open the door before I can change my mind. “I’ll never know if I don’t try.” We step into a room covered in pink-and-orange silk tapestries
. Incense burns on a table in the middle of the room. Crystal balls of all sizes line the shelves. A beaded curtain separates the main room from another behind it.
“Okay, this place is freaky,” Lizzy says. “Let’s make this short and sweet.”
I step up to the beaded curtain. “Um, hello? Anyone?”
I hear a rustling sound in the back. A hand with long bright-pink fingernails pushes through the curtain. I jump back and almost knock a crystal ball right out of Lizzy’s hand. The woman attached to the hand isn’t more than thirty years old. She doesn’t look like she has very big teeth, either.
“Zat is not a toy,” the woman says, taking it from Lizzy and returning it to the shelf. “Now, vould you like a reading?” She looks expectantly at us.
We shake our heads. “We must have come to the wrong place,” I tell her, turning toward the door.
“Nonsense!” she exclaims. “No von comes into Madame Zaleski’s House of Palm by mistake. Greater forces, zhey have brought you here.”
Her name, Madame Zaleski, rings a bell. Dad must have said her name once.
“Are you Madame Zaleski?” I ask.
She gives a little curtsy. “At your service. Now, who is zhe first to go?”
“But you can’t be her,” Lizzy says, peering closely at the woman. “You’d have to be at least ninety years old!”
The woman narrows her eyes. “You zink I look ninety yeers old?”
“No, no, of course not,” I say, glaring at Lizzy. “Is there another Madame Zaleski who used to work on the boardwalk? Like, thirty years ago?”
The woman’s face softens. “Ah, Grandmama. She taught me everyzing I know. Shame vat zhey did to her.”
Lizzy and I exchange a look. “Um, what did they do to her?” I ask.
“Zhey kicked her off zhe boardwalk, zat’s vat zhey did! After twenty years!”
“Why?” Lizzy asks.
The woman brushes off the question with a flip of her hand. “Over a piffle! A nothing! Zhey said she vas scaring people. Zat she told zhem all zhe same thing.”
A chill begins to crawl up my spine. I force myself to ask, “What did she tell them?”
She waves her hand again. “Zhey claim she told all zhe men zhey vould die ven zhey vere forty years old.”