The Grift

by Debra Ginsberg

  “Like lie to him?” Marina asked. “You want to give me a script?”

  “I’m not saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Marina cut him off. The air around Max grew darker, she remembered, and she started feeling an unpleasant tingling sensation at the base of her spine. She didn’t formulate her next words; they just came tumbling out of her mouth. “You’re about to make a very bad decision,” she said. “You have to rethink it. It’s not too late. Yet.”

  Max’s expression never changed, yet Marina saw both fear and anger rise from him like twin plumes of smoke. “I knew this was a mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time. I know how valuable it is.”

  He had paid the check and offered to drive her back, but she’d turned him down, not wanting to be confined in a car with him for even the few minutes it would have taken to get back to her office.

  Marina turned away from the ocean and started walking toward the main road. If she were going to get any help, it wouldn’t come from the likes of Max. She hadn’t heard from either him or Cooper since that day. Perhaps Max had listened to her and made a different decision—not that she even knew what she’d been warning him against. Perhaps he and Cooper had gotten back together and were living happily ever after at this very moment. But even as she formulated the thought, Marina knew it wasn’t true.

  She felt something sharp under her feet and stepped back just in time to avoid cutting herself on a shard of broken glass in the sand. She wondered why her usually pristine stretch of coast was littered and then realized that she was several miles south of what she’d come to think of as her beach. This bit of shoreline looked beaten up and neglected, strewn with wrappers, broken bottles and cigarette butts. Just ahead, she could see a disheveled woman sitting and smoking at the edge of a rickety rundown boardwalk. No doubt this woman’s cigarette would soon be joining the other refuse on the beach.

  As Marina drew closer to her, the woman began to look familiar and the scene around her took on the softened glow of memory. Marina had the sense that she was looking at a live image from her own past. A few more cautious steps and Marina realized she was looking at her mother, but this time a much-younger, less-ravaged mother than she remembered. This version was attractive, even hinting at beauty. There was still some softness in the lines of her body, some luster left in her skin. And when she looked up, Marina could see that there was light in her eyes. Her mother—or this incarnation of her—regarded Marina without expression, exhaled a cloud of smoke and gestured toward the boardwalk. Marina followed her direction and saw what she was pointing at: an old woman sitting in front of a small table right in the middle of the boardwalk. This, too, had the unmistakable feeling of a long-buried memory, and Marina walked right into it, getting as close as she could.

  The old woman was some kind of antique fortune-teller, the sort one didn’t see outside of old movies anymore. Marina recognized her as the same woman she’d seen—had thought she’d seen—when she was walking on the beach with Gideon. But this time the vision didn’t evaporate when Marina drew closer. There was a stack of well-worn tarot cards on the woman’s felt-covered table. Next to the deck were four shiny, new, special-edition bicentennial quarters. Marina edged still closer. The fortune-teller sat with her head down so low that her chin was almost resting on her chest. She didn’t move as Marina reached over and touched the top of the tarot stack with her fingertip.

  “I know this game,” Marina whispered in a little girl’s voice. “I choose the man with the eight over his head.” Her hand trembling, Marina turned over the top card. The Magician stared up at her, the symbol for infinity floating above him. The fortune-teller’s head snapped up, making Marina gasp in sudden shock. Her eyes were completely white. Without opening her mouth, she spoke four words that thundered in Marina’s ears.

  “You have the gift.”

  The world contracted, the present scene and the memory of it blending into one. Marina watched as if she was looking through a camera’s viewfinder. She was five years old, saving those special quarters for ice cream—a rare treat her mother had promised her on this last hot day of summer. “Just let me do this one thing,” her mother had said. “Then you can buy your ice cream, I promise. Just this one thing.” She sat there and smoked her cigarette—angry, Marina knew, at the woman with the cards. Marina loved those cards—all those pretty pictures. But that day it was the same one that kept coming up over and over. Always the man with the eight over his head. Then her mother was yelling and yanking her arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “She has the gift.”

  “Now you know,” the fortune-teller said. “Look at your hands.”

  Marina looked down at her palms. What she saw couldn’t possibly be real, and yet these strange, unfamiliar hands were attached to her own wrists. The flesh was smooth. Her life lines were gone.

  “I tried to tell you once,” the fortune-teller said. “You have the gift.”

  “What does she mean, Mama?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. This crazy freak doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Marina looked back to where her mother had been sitting, but the place was empty. She’d been so angry that day, pulling Marina along like a dog on a leash, walking so fast that Marina kept tripping over her own small feet. It was so hot, but her quarters were gone and she never got her ice cream.

  What am I supposed to do? Marina asked without speaking the words out loud.

  “You must learn how to use the gift you’ve been given.”

  What if I don’t want it? What if I don’t want any of this?

  “You do not have a choice.”

  Why do I have it now?

  “The gift is always there. And now yours has been unlocked.”

  No, I—no…

  “You cannot choose to have the gift, you can only choose what to do with it.”

  Help me.

  “You must help yourself. You must learn how to use your gift.”

  I can’t do this.

  “You will. You must.”

  Please help me. What should I do?

  “Go home,” the fortune-teller said. She slid Marina’s quarters into her pocket. “Now I go, too,” she said. “You will not see me again.”

  “Wait,” Marina said out loud. “Wait!” But the fortune-teller was already gone, vanished into the cold, gritty wind. Marina stood still, her hands curled into fists, staring into the airy space where the fortune-teller had been, trying to will her back into existence. Seconds passed, then a minute, then two. Marina opened her hands and looked again at her palms, expecting to see all the lines restored in the flesh. But her life lines were still missing and now she couldn’t be sure if they’d ever been there. All at once, Marina knew that she needed to leave the beach. Suddenly, the space was much too wide and the sky offered no protection.

  Chapter 25

  Go home, the fortune-teller had instructed, but Marina wasn’t heeding that advice. She got into her car and drove with no direction or destination in mind, so intent on escape that she’d gone thirty miles before she realized she had left her sandals somewhere on the beach and was leaning on the gas pedal with a bare foot. She turned on the radio and pumped the volume to the highest level it would go. If she filled her senses with the sight of freeway traffic and the sound of wailing guitars, Marina thought, there would be less chance that anything else—voices, visions, dead people—could get in.

  But neither the snarl at the merge of the I-5 and I-805 freeways nor Aerosmith’s ear-splitting plea for her to “dream on” could block out the thoughts in Marina’s head. First in line—the thought that kept circling like an animal biting its own tail—was that she was more frightened of being suddenly and truly psychic than she was of going insane. But what scared her more than having the gift was that she had no idea what to do with it. The gift had her, not the other way around.

  A descent into madness almost seemed easy com
pared to trying to impose rationality onto something that, until now, Marina hadn’t even believed existed. She had no choice now but to believe. As contradictory as it seemed, her rational self—the part of her that had guided all her decisions—insisted she accept the unexplainable and unbelievable as true. For Marina, this collision of realities was terrifying. She felt as if she’d been diagnosed with a disease that had no treatment, cure or prognosis.

  “You must learn how to use it,” the fortune-teller had said. But how? Marina couldn’t even figure out what it was. But no, that wasn’t entirely true. The gift (or curse, as she was coming to think of it) was a mad scramble of unfiltered dreams, visions and premonitions. It was information, Marina thought, suddenly hopeful. It was proven science that human beings only used a small fraction of their brains. It was as if—no, because the human brain wasn’t really designed to tap into that much information, even if it did have the capacity. And maybe this was what had happened to her. Somehow, the circuitry of her brain had come alive, allowing for this flood of supposedly psychic information. The potential had always been there, but some recent trigger had set it all off. Feeling something like relief, Marina clutched at this possibility of an explanation.

  Once more, her mind turned back to Gideon. He was the locus—the point where it had all started. The minute he’d walked up to her in the parking lot, her perception of the world around her had begun to change. The closer they’d become, the more distorted her view. And then, finally, when he’d put his hand around the ring—when he’d looked at her with that expression of loathing—and left her alone in that room…There was the trigger, Marina thought. Love and fear had literally rewired her brain.

  “You have the gift!”

  The voice was so loud that Marina looked to the side, swerving dangerously, even though the sound was coming from inside her own head. Angry car horns blared through her haze as she righted the steering wheel.

  “Go home, go home, go home, go home.”

  Marina didn’t know how long it had been since she’d paid attention to where she was going. She’d been driving blind, not looking. Now she saw that she was still going north on the interstate, her office and house several exits behind her. The gas gauge was deep into the red zone. She’d been driving for so long that she’d managed to drain her tank. Gripped with a sudden sense of urgency, she steered toward the next exit.

  “You have the gift—you must learn how to use it.”

  “Stop it!” Marina shouted. She took the exit too fast and swerved drunkenly. She needed to turn around, get back on the southbound freeway, but she didn’t know if she had enough gas. She spun around and headed to the Coast Highway. Better to run out of gas there than on the freeway.

  “You have the gift—go home, go home, go home.”

  The voice had become so loud that it was a siren in Marina’s head. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus on where she was going. Where was the music—what was wrong with the radio? She looked down at the volume control and punched it hard.

  Her eyes came back up to the road and a shock of fear coursed through her. What she saw could not be happening. Somehow she was driving north again, heading toward her house from the south, where she’d already been. She had not turned, had not steered. She had looked down only for a second. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Marina wasn’t in her own car. The hands on the wheel were not her hands. They were…

  I could just tell her I’m sorry.…Gideon’s hands. She was in Gideon’s head. She watched as one hand left the wheel and traveled to his chest. Her ring—his ring—rested there on the end of its chain. Her fingers—his fingers—felt its small weight and sharp edges.

  Because I love her.

  Her eyes—his eyes—shifted again. Her vision was hazy and vibrating. Marina was back in her car—back inside herself. But she was moving too fast. The road was a blur of conflated images; she couldn’t see where she was going. She swerved and banked, moved her feet along the pedals, heard the sound of screeching brakes and felt her body slamming into something hard and unyielding. The air left her lungs. And then there was nothing.

  He walks up to her front door and stands still in front of it. He is holding a bunch of roses wrapped in silver paper. Their scent is thick and strong. He knocks, softly at first, and then louder when nobody answers. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe I shouldn’t have come, he thinks. But no, I love her. I need to tell her that I’m sorry for leaving her that way. It was cruel, even if…But I’ve thought about it—thought about her. I’ve done nothing but think about her. I need to tell her that. I need to listen to her side of the story. And then maybe we have a chance. He knocks again and waits for an answer that doesn’t come. She’s probably working. It’s not that late. I’ll go to the office, he thinks. He turns around, ready to go, but something stops him.

  “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. I am here, Marina tries to tell him, but nothing comes out of her mouth, because she is inside him and this is not her mouth. It’s too dark and she can’t see. Everything is black.

  She swims through layers of darkness, trying to work her way to consciousness. She opens her eyes but it’s too dark to make out shapes or colors. This is not her body, not her mind…but she hears the thought. It’s too dark in here to do what I need to do. She reaches with arms that are not hers and takes the flashlight from her back pocket. It’s small but the beam is bright. She flicks it on and moves it cautiously. She sees pieces of her office illuminated in the moving spotlight. There is her table, her tarot cards, her candles. Witch. She feels the thought run cold through the mind she is sharing. Goddamned witch. Witches deserve to burn. She smells gas, strong and pungent. She coughs, the sound harsh. She reaches into her waistband to touch the gun she’s tucked in there, feels its reassuring weight. She feels a surge of anger. All of this psychic bullshit—it shouldn’t be allowed. There should be laws to protect people from being taken advantage of this way. But nobody ever does anything. Now it’s time. She hears a noise and startles, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the wall. And now she wonders if she remembered to lock that door behind her. She clicks off the flashlight and stands still, breath held. It’s dark now. Too dark to see.

  She is outside, walking in the dark. There is no moonlight, no streetlights. She is walking as fast as she can, but her feet are bare and she can’t get there, can’t reach him. She smells smoke and roses, both smells getting stronger as she moves forward. There—there, she can see him. She tries to call out, but no sound comes from her throat. He is walking too far ahead. She tries to run, but rocks cut her feet. He stops walking and turns. She knows this place. Stop! He can’t hear her. Now she is right behind him, the distance closed, and he is at a door. He touches the handle. No! Stop! Everything goes black.

  Who is that rattling the door? It’s not her—damn it, not her. Hand on the gun—just hold onto the gun. What the hell is he doing here? Bad timing—very bad timing. This wasn’t in the plan, but there’s no other option now. At least here in the dark there is the advantage. Just have to get a little closer. He’s moving forward. “Marina?” One long, still second and then, “Marina, it’s Gideon. Are you there?”

  Time to move.

  She wakes up with a start, the smell of smoke and roses clinging to her, suffocating her. She can’t see anything, it is so dark. She is in her car and the smell of gas is burning her throat. How long has she been out? She has to find him. She pushes the car door open and stumbles out into the darkness. Where is the moon? She starts walking, but she doesn’t know where she’s going. She should have put her shoes on; why didn’t she put her shoes on?

  She starts running and the rocks cut her feet, but she doesn’t care—she has to find him. She sees him now, too far ahead. He is going to turn. Stop! He can’t hear her. The door. He is at her office door. Stop! He starts to turn, but then he stops, leans in. She screams and everything goes black.

  No evidence—can’t leave any evidence behind. Must take everything and the
rest will burn. Fire cleans, purifies. Burn it down. Must burn it down.

  She comes to with a start, the smell of gas and smoke choking her. She tries to move, but her limbs are too heavy. Smoke fills her lungs and she can barely breathe. She closes her eyes and sees him walking. He turns the corner. She’s too late. There is a flash of light and then everything goes black.

  She wakes up coughing from the smoke. She is standing on the street in bare feet. She can see everything now. The night is illuminated by flames. Her office is on fire and the whole building is burning. She doesn’t move, doesn’t call his name.

  He is already dead.

  Marina came to, groaning and coughing in the dark. The smell of gas was strong and clinging. Her head was throbbing and her entire body felt bruised. Consciousness was so slow to come that she thought she was still locked inside her dream. She turned her head with effort, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She was in her car. Reality came through in increments. She had been driving. She swerved, the ground rushed up. She had gone down an embankment. How long had she been here? Her brain, sluggish from concussion, struggled to connect images and meaning. The road, the darkness and the fire gradually linked together to form a patched-together narrative. Gideon was at her office. Someone else was there, waiting. Waiting for her. Gideon was in her office. Her office was on fire. That last image was what finally brought Marina to full consciousness.

  The driver’s-side door was stuck, so she had to crawl across the seat to get out on the other side. She scrambled, tripping in the dirt. It was dark, but she knew where she was going. She could feel his presence—it was so close. She started running. When she reached the Coast Highway, it was as if she’d been thrown back into the thick of her dreams. The feel of the road under her bare feet, the rocks pressing into the soft spots on her heels and the panic that she was going to be too late. Marina kept running.