by Cat Bruno
“I’m much better at interpreting the heart line, or love line as some call it,” Matt admitted without any hint of defeat.
Around us, the others chirped and giggled, giddy with the mood-enhancing combination of sun and wine. Only Alexis still listened to Matt’s proclamations, as Toby declared he was starving and went in search of food. Asking her to leave would have been too suspicious, I figured, and, in reality, she would only hear Matt’s oracle literally, without any understanding of the deeper meaning. Toby, without saying a word, made it clear with his departure that he did not believe in Matt’s prophecies or his skills. What did I think? In that moment, my heart thumped faster and my hands grew warm and damp. Did I think him Pythia of Delphi, that most famed oracle in Greece? No, of course not, for he was not a woman, the sex most bound to earth and the messages the mother goddesses send. Yet there might be truth to his words, and I was relieved that only Alexis would remember what he revealed.
Sand stuck to my hand, adhering to the trails of sweat that had begun to develop. Matt dabbed at it with the corner of his towel and laughed at the folly of trying to read a palm on a beach.
“The heart line runs along the top,” he told me as he pointed to a line that started inside the mound below my index finger and traveled to the side of my hand. “This area here,” he mumbled as he tapped the heart line’s start, “Is called the Mound of Venus.”
“Since yours extends all the way to this plane, it indicates that you have very high expectations. Let’s examine the end of the line, just here,” he uttered as his finger rubbed the soft mound. “You have several downward splits.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I smirked.
Beside me, Alexis gasped.
“It’s not that great,” Matt said without apology. “Those breaks suggest that your marriage will be one that is easy to ruin.”
“How fantastic,” I dryly retorted.
“The line itself is not broken, but there is what we call an island. Right here,” he tapped just below my ring finger. “See this tiny bubble? Something or someone is blocking you from achieving total love.”
“I’m sorry,” he sighed as he released my hand, letting it fall against my naked thigh.
Before I could respond, Matt poured more wine for me and lifted the bottle to his lips.
A moment later, he continued. “What is most concerning is that your love line breaks in the middle.”
As quickly as I could, I replied, “Six years ago, I had a terrible breakup. For a long time, I did not want to be in love again.”
The lie had come swiftly to my lips. Too swiftly, and I feared that Alexis would interject and expose the untruth. She had been young then, and still a teenager. A glance at her from the edge of my gaze proved that she did not doubt my explanation.
“Oh yes, that must be it. Alexis, sweetie, can you grab us another bottle of wine?”
Once she had gone, Matt leaned close to me and grabbed my hand once more. Pushing against the center of my hand, he said, “This triangle here – right before the heart line separates – indicates some sort of accident. I only mention it as a warning, Dandelion. Keep yourself safe.”
Had I not been drinking, I might have panicked. Instead, I smiled and thanked him. As soon as Alexis rejoined us, I poured another glass for all of us. The less we remembered of this prophecy, the better.
“What about children?” my cousin asked without any indication that she had heard the other declaration.
Playing along once more, Matt cupped my hand between his.
“Most people think that the life line means how long one will live. That is just not true; what it does is reflect the energy and vitality you have. Yours is rose-colored and deep, which suggests you will have good health. There are no stars or short marks on your life line.”
With that, he stopped.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Matt said, “Maybe I was wrong.”
If he readied to say more, I stopped him.
“Tell me about children.”
After a few blinks to clear his thoughts, Matt told us, “Your Mound of Venus is thick and soft, which means you are fertile.” Turning my hand to its side, he added, “I can only see one vertical line here. Oh, this might be one, too. Perhaps two kids.”
“Only two?” Alexis asked with softly slurred words.
“Oh that’s plenty,” I moaned.
Toby, as he often did, appeared when I needed him most.
“Who wants to play some sand bocce?” he called out.
For the next few hours, we took turns rolling balls along the sand, laughing at how terrible we were and drinking more wine. Always more wine, in true Maenad fashion. Hours later, we all returned back to the house to shower and dress for dinner. While we waited for the last ones to ready, Matt apologized for what he felt was overstepping.
“You have a rare gift,” I told him. “Never make apologies for that, even when your prophecies are not what people want to hear.”
How much more I longed to say to him! In his gaze, I saw the gray clouds of self-doubt and wanted nothing more than to sweep them away with my breath until his eyes shined clear and lucid. You are no Kassandra, she who was cursed to speak the truth but have none believe her.
You have stars in your hair and a crown of laurel across your brow. Your fingers tingle with the pure waters of the sacred spring, where you dipped them so that the earth mother’s dreams might be revealed to you. Those fingers, quaking with powers more ancient than the gods, came to your lips in supplication. You sucked upon them like a babe to a teat, sipping the sanctity that only the earth goddess can offer. Once swallowed and swimming in your stomach, a touch of divinity soared through your blood and entered your bones. Your soul quivered and shook as the goddess’s tongue replaced your own. What pain, what fiery pain! Like none you had known or ever will know again. Her thoughts seared and branded you as a chosen one. Those few who can see what the sisters of fate have chiseled upon your stele. You are so blessed, my friend.
I said none of those thoughts, for the words were ancient and foreign and would have scared any who listened.
“Cheers,” I sang as I lifted a plastic glass shaped like a champagne flute into the air.
Before the morning came, I had vomited several times. Blood-colored bile stained the chaste waters of the toilet bowl crimson and covered my teeth with a coating of sinful grit.
Behind my eyes and across the back of my head, my skull felt as if it expanded, exploding with waves of pain. Each time I vomited, my throat burned with fire, as if poisonous lava erupted from my insides. For over an hour I felt like I might die. You already know that I didn’t. In hindsight, as far as punishments go, it was no worse than I expected, even though I wanted to sleep on the bathroom floor and slice open my head to ease the pressure and drink a gallon of milk to coat my fiery mouth.
What I did instead was drink more. Until I fell asleep and forgot that the gods were watching.
7 Days until I Do
Glitter and gold dust covered my trunk, as if Etna had erupted in revelry and not in anger and its ash sparkled instead of choked.
“Toby! Come quickly!” I cried upon discovery.
By the time he reached my side, I was bent in half and laughing.
“My lord, Dandelion, what happened to your car?”
Half out of breath, I explained that the lid had come off one of the containers while I drove to the reception hall.
“You’re telling me that you have a pound of glitter in your trunk?”
“Yep.”
Nodding his head vigorously up and down, Toby said, “Okay. This is okay. It will be fine. I can go back to the craft store and get more. Let’s clear out the trunk before it ruins anything.”
Within a few minutes, we had decided to drive my car to the nearest car wash. Once there, the two of us began emptying the trunk and vacuuming gold dust off of everything.
“Please tell me your veil isn’t in here.”
“I
t’s hanging up in my closet at home.”
“What about your shoes?”
“They’re with the veil. I think it’s mostly the table décor and some silk flowers,” I told him over the loud humming of the vacuum.
“And the guest book!” Toby yelled as he shook glitter from the silky cover.
Our time expired on the vacuum just as Toby held up a cell phone.
With a crooked and raised eyebrow, he asked, “Work phone?”
“No, just an old phone that I dropped in some water,” I stuttered uncertainly, unable to conceal the lie.
If he tried to turn it on, the false story would be exposed, but I did not rush to grab it from his outstretched hand. Toby eyed me, with questions on his lips, but he just tossed the phone onto the pile with the other items from my trunk. Right after the reprieve, I hurriedly filled the coin slot with quarters and sighed audibly as the thrumming returned. As Toby ran the long hose from side to side, I sorted through what had been in the trunk. Some got thrown away, although I tried to clean off everything that had been purchased for the wedding. Two stacks rose tall, one lined with items that needed to be vacuumed and the other mostly fine. With Toby occupied, I slipped the phone into my purse.
Sometimes, I wish that I had discarded the phone with the other, unsalvageable things. Thrown into the large metal bin that got emptied regularly, the only evidence of my other life would have disappeared without a trace. But that is not what I chose.
Over an hour later, we stopped by the craft supplies store and purchased what had been damaged or trashed. When I reached into my purse, my fingers brushed against the phone.
“That’s $56.19,” the big-haired woman repeated.
I’m not sure how long I had been standing there with my hand nearly curled around the phone, but I mumbled an apology and grabbed my wallet.
Back in the car, Toby and I laughed at what had occurred and returned to the Inn. For the rest of the day, the two of us cut and tied flowers, filled the towering vases with golden gems and rocks, laced wreaths and ivy into long, weaving strands, and tucked fairy lights into the garland. That was only for the gift table. There was so much to finish by Saturday that he promised to bring an assistant with him the next morning. I had taken the week off of work, and we agreed to meet at nine.
It will not surprise you that, several miles later, I pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. To seem less suspicious, I ordered a large coffee in the drive-thru and parked at the edge of the lot.
For the first time in weeks, I turned on the burner phone.
My friends, can I admit to you that I have never felt so alone as I did when I realized that Mickey had not texted? The phone’s screen – a generic wallpaper of faded clouds – reflected nothing except the blue-green sky. No alerts. No messages. No updates. No calls, not that he would ever dare.
Is this what abandonment feels like? A disappointment so deep that you feel as if your lungs cannot expand and your heart has hardened?
I wept into glitter-dusted hands outside of that fast-food spot. I wept until I could no longer breathe through my nose and my cheeks stung beneath the salty tears. Was it hours that I sat alone in my car? I think so. Around me, lights had flickered on and shined blue-white starbursts onto my dashboard and across my legs. It was nearly 10:00 pm when I turned the phone off. What I did next should be the end of my story.
First, I erased everything from the burner phone and utilized the factory and date reset option. Then I turned it off. Next, as I had kind of predicted, I dropped the phone into my nearly untouched cup of coffee and watched it sink. Once the lid was back in place, I gently swirled the contents, making certain that no part of the phone remained dry. While I waited, I pulled down my driver’s side visor and opened the mirror.
For the next five minutes, I wiped streaks of mascara from my cheeks and below my eyes. I reapplied eyeliner and ran a powder-dipped brush all across my face. Instead of lipstick – which seemed too unnecessary and obvious – I smoothed chapstick over my lips and tasted cherries as my tongue ran alongside the lower one. After a swift combing of my hair, I pulled it back into a tight, neat ponytail. One final glance into the car’s mirror assured me that my look was final: a perfectly pretty Midwestern girl.
I stepped out of my car and into the shadows, like a true daughter of night – black yoga pants and a black tank top hugged my body closely, although my sneakers blended shades of teal and gray. Above, thick clouds masked the moon, but I was not surprised to find Selene hidden. Her avoidance was only part of my punishment.
Still, the moon goddess watched. Seated sidesaddle on her silver-maned steed, Selene’s dark eyes gazed down. She, too, had once loved a mortal man. How true and fine their love story was! When Zeus asked beautiful Endymion what wish he might make, the mortal asked for eternal sleep so that his love Selene might always comfort him. Yet I could get no message back from my beloved.
She pitied me, no doubt.
Was she the only god watching as I stepped onto the highway? Did Selene alert the others so that they could peek down from the golden gates of Olympus as I walked toward the shining circular orbs? Did her white-fleshed mare rear and bray in warning? What of the stars, those same ones that Mickey and I had made love beneath? Do you think that Draco hissed in anger or approval?
And Heracles, my love? Did he weep as the car approached?
Drops of rain beaded along my arms and prickly bumps formed across my skin. One of the gods fought for my redemption. One tried to convince the others to grant me freedom.
I did not want forgiveness.
Just open the gates and allow me entry, I begged.
---
You’ve most likely flipped through the remaining pages and realized that I did not die that day, despite my attempt. When I woke, the golden gates did not swing open, and the Horae sisters did not sing to me in welcome.
What happened? I do not know. There was no one around me; no arms cradled me as I tried to rise. No one whispered prayers or offered assistance. A mesmerizing rhythm of cars buzzed by me as I lay across the sidewalk, and I pulled my legs close. My hands reached for my head and wiped at my brow. Where I expected to see blood, there was none. Slowly, I stood. Bits of gravel and soot fell from me as I shuffled backward and away from the road. Along my left arm rose a rash-like scrape, but even that did not bleed.
No, the blood came from where I least expected it.
What a fool I had been to think I understood the gods. It was hubris that made me believe that I knew what punishment would come. My friends, have you learned a little along the way? Do you recognize my folly? Are you screaming at the pages with alarm and guidance? Dandelion, you ask, how did you not suspect what would come next?
Some of you know; others might have guessed. But for those of you who, like me, did not predict the gods’ next move, let me continue.
By the time I reached my car, the pain ruptured my midsection. Streaks of fire flared until I thought I would collapse. Half blinded by the pain, I made my way into the restaurant, and, finally, into the bathroom. Screams lay dormant on my lips, but threatened to erupt with each wave of agony. I stuffed wads of toilet paper into my mouth to silence the outbreak. As my mouth watered, the paper dissolved and ripped, but I only spit it out and added more. Over and over I repeated this, until I felt my pants dampen.
I tore at them, pulling them off as if serpents had intertwined around my legs.
There, on that toilet that reeked of bleach, I stared at my hands as blood drained from my uterus.
Two children, he had said. One line faded and one sharp. I found them, those lines that Matt had read now speckled with blood and cinders, and watched as one disappeared.
The old gods require blood. And they took it from me that night.
In a roadside restaurant’s bathroom that neared its closing hour, I miscarried Mickey’s child. If you’re wondering how I knew it was his, I will tell you. I have no secrets from you, my loves. Not any more.
William and I used condoms, and had since I stopped taking birth control pills a few months prior. After we were married, he would no longer need them, of course. It is just this kind of combination of pain and pleasure that the gods like to manipulate. I should have known what was to come. I should have always known.
“Miss, are you okay in there?”
It was not Selene who saved me that night. It was a dreadlocked, nose-pierced girl from Columbus who lifted me off the floor of the oversized stall and helped me clean up the blood. Without saying much, she scrubbed the stall until her rags turned pink. The scent of the lemony disinfectant caused my stomach to churn and my mouth to water. So that I would not vomit, I leaned against the edge of the back wall; the multi-colored square tiles cold against my exposed arms. This girl, a teenager it seemed, hid no judgment inside of her teal-lined eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated as she offered me paper towels to place inside of my pants.
Shrugging as she threw away the worst of the cloth rags, she said, “I was coming to clean the bathroom anyway.”
As I began to explain what occurred, she interrupted. “Shit, I know. I’ve had a miscarriage before. You’ll bleed for another day or two if it was still early. I had one last year.”
“You look so young,” I mumbled, embarrassed by my own remark, but too weary to stop the words.
“20. Old enough, I guess. We have some pads somewhere. Stay here while I go find them.”
After she left, I used the small sink inside the stall and washed my hands and face. The cheap soap stung, but I ignored the burning pulses until I could smell the blood no longer. That odor is what I remember most. Not the pain or the humiliation or the sadness. Just that bitter, heavy smell that reeked of iron and ash, like a dying fire’s blackened embers. How similar flame and blood smell and taste, two tools of destruction.
I never learned the name of the young woman who resurrected me, but a few days later, I mailed a $500 prepaid gift card to the restaurant’s address. Inside, I enclosed a thank you card addressed to, “The woman working the late shift with the dark dreadlocks and hooped nose ring.” Even now, I like to think that she received it.