Decca

“I want to be Gus’s wife.” I plunked my empty wineglass down a little too firmly on Bethany’s coffee table and I caught it before the last few drops spilled out.

“Are you sure? That’s seems a little rash. Even for you.”

I glared at Sofia. “You’re supposed to be the voice of the maiden, not the crone. Where’s your youthful exuberance? Your avant garde impetuosity?”

“You’re the one who drank two glasses of wine and is now lying on our living room floor,” said the very mature thirteen-year-old. “Seems impetuous enough for the both of us.”

I sighed and sat up, the blood rushing too quickly from my head. I gripped the edge of the wooden table to stop the spinning. “Oh, Sof. We raised you too well.”

The first thick, fat drops of rain plunked against the wall of windows, hesitantly at first, then growing more rhythmic, promising a deluge.

“What did the cards tell you?” Sofia asked.

I froze, staring at my best friend’s wise-beyond-her-years daughter. The one I’d helped raise from toddlerhood. The one I’d taught how to brew medicinal teas and how to interpret the tarot and how crystals were totally useless and she’d be bonkers to believe they had any real spiritual value, but none of that mattered if they were pretty enough and made her feel like everything was right in the world.

I cocked my head, looking at her with fresh eyes. Sometime during the past few years, her hair had darkened from its light brown. It was now a beautiful russet with natural money pieces along the middle part. She had blue eyes and a strong jaw like her mom, a deep and innate sense of the spiritual, like me, and an utter practicality that valued reason above all else, like Soula, her second surrogate mother. After me, of course.

Sofia was growing into a woman before my very eyes. The very same eyes that were currently getting misty watching all that light and beauty glowing within her. I couldn’t believe how smart and talented she was. How hard she’d practiced her guitar for her soloist seat in the youth orchestra, or how she’d made captain of the middle school varsity soccer team after only playing one year.

I couldn’t believe what an old soul she’d turned out to be.

And I couldn’t believe she had to remind me to pull cards.

The cards were my everything. The gels over the stage lights that illuminated any problems or possibilities I encountered.

Maybe I was drunker than I thought.

So much for babysitting. Though by now, she and her mom were used to me crying into my wine about the esoteric nature of . . . stuff.

I hopped onto my feet, my head only spinning one complete rotation. “You’ll be my witness?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Let’s do it.”

I rifled through the deep contents of my purse until I found a deck of cards. They weren’t my cards; it was the deck I used for Bethany, but it’d have to do.

Lightning flashed, highlighting the jagged roofline of the adjacent funeral home. Together, Sofia and I counted the seconds until the thunder rumbled lazily through the air.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three— It shook the walls and rattled the objects in the room.

Sofia’s eyes widened with a gleeful smile. “That was a good one.”

I nodded. “Get the candles and the lighter. Hopefully the power goes out.”

I stood. My change in elevation gave me full view of the house across the parking lot driveway; of the almost imperceptible glow of the round stained glass window in the attic gable.

 “Does George have any incense? Like church incense? That might set the right tone for Gus.” Sofia’s stepdad was Gus’s brother. He wasn’t that churchy, but maybe. . . .

She shook her head, coming back into the room with an armful of jar candles. “I’ve never smelled anything like their church in here.”

“Okay. I have enough of a sense of his presence. What else?”

“Decca?”

“Huh?”

“I think you’re stalling.”

I sucked in a deep breath. I held the breath. I let the breath out in a long, wheezing deflation. “You’re right.”

I placed the cards in front of me on the coffee table and knocked twice, closing my eyes and asking my ancestors to guide my intuition. Calm washed over me when I picked up the cards again, riffling them first, three times, then altering my shuffle for something less invasive to their aura.

Sofia looked on from across the table. Solemn and intent. Silently, I asked the cards for guidance. My next steps in life. What changes were coming up that I should be aware of and how to navigate them.

What should I do about Gus?

Pain had radiated off him like a fever the other night.

I had longed to reach for him, tuck myself in his arms and give him something to hold onto.

To give him the softness he’d been denying himself for too long.

I could do this for him. I could heal him. I’d told him I would lay down my life for my friends. I’d helped raise this bright and brilliant young woman sitting across from me here, just because she needed more people to love her. I’d gone to classes and gotten certified in various birthing techniques when Soula announced her pregnancy, so she’d have someone familiar to doula her birth.

I could love anyone. And If I loved them, I’d do anything for them.

Lay down my life. Yeah. I could.

Maybe I could actually . . . marry him.

I giggled. I couldn’t stop. I was so giddy, so assured that this would work.

I’d never particularly cared one way or another about marriage. I could internalize every voice in the marriage/anti-marriage arguments without drawing a solid conclusion for myself. I was open all possibilities. I always assumed that if I was with someone and we both felt the urge to bond ourselves together in ceremony or legal proceeding, I’d be game. If that time never came, I’d be equally down. The point was, one way or another, I’d know.

I’d know.

I asked the cards anyway.

I pulled the Wheel of Fortune. Okay, perfect. Granny had my back. No matter what would happen, that wheel—the circle of life—kept turning. Just like the Journey song.

The Hierophant. Of course. The religious figure had been my significator for Gus for the better part of a year. I’m on the right track now. Spirit is here. Leading me somewhere.

Breathe, Decca. Breathe.

The Page of Pentacles. My significator for me.

What do you have to show me about Gus and me, Spirit?

I shuffled the cards until they flew out at me with undeniable attention. Look at me! they called.

The Knight of Swords. Plunging headfirst into action.

The Two of Cups. Commitment. Soulmates.

The Lovers. True partnership in harmony.

The Page of Cups. Trusting in my intuition, even in the face of unique circumstances.

Holy shit, I knew.

I knew.

By the time Bethany and George had gotten home from their monthly date night, I was ready to bolt out the door.

Only I’d forgotten about the rain.

The wooden steps leading down from the apartment were slick with age and mildew and in my haste, and alcohol-induced clumsiness, my heel slipped off one of the steps halfway down and I skidded the rest of the way on my ass, landing in a puddle on the cracked concrete, inches deep. My entire backside was instantly soaked through.

My breathe left my body in a rush. When I remembered I could breathe again, I wiggled my ankles. I hadn’t rolled them. That was good. Arms? A bit sore on my right elbow when it knocked into the step on my initial descent. The rest of me was equally unscathed.

Just wet. Very very wet.

Rivulets ran under my hair, behind my ears. I resisted the urge to wipe the itchy sensation away when more trails would inevitably follow.

Standing frozen in the funeral home parking lot, I let every frigid raindrop of this freakishly cold summer storm soak through my sweater, dripping into my bra. My skin pebbled. The tingling awoke something inside me, but it wasn’t helping my feet move any faster.

I took a step toward the front door, then froze again.

Minutes ticked by. Hours, maybe.

Great. Just what I wanted right now. To look like a drowned rat in front of . . . well . . . I still hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to go through with it yet, and standing here getting soaked down to my bra wasn’t helping me move any faster.

Was I really just about to hang my fate on a whim and a tarot card spread?

I just needed a few more minutes to solidify what had been churning over and over in my mind, like waves in the open ocean, making my heart clench and my stomach roil.

No. It wasn’t going to go that way. I wasn’t going to bring myself to the point where I was physically sick from the back and forth worry of decision-making.

I’d already made my decision. Now, I had to let him make his without being afraid of the outcome. I would be brave, dammit.

It was only a question.

Nothing rode on his answer. Either way, we’d remain friends, just as tight as before. Even tighter, maybe.

There was nothing to be embarrassed about. No good reason for my overabundance of caution. Definitely no reason to feel this brick nestled in my intestines, dragging me down, rendering me practically immobile with a fear that had come upon me almost as suddenly as this storm.

I counted the drips plunking onto my belly from my soaked cotton sweater. I wanted to rip it off and wring it out. Maybe he’d say yes if I knocked on the door in only my black jeans and my sheer black bralette with the snake embroidery twisting over the cups. I’d love to see the look on his face, if only to know once and for all if he saw anything more than just . . . platonic . . . about me.

If he said yes, would he ever see me as real partner? As a lover?

I doubted it. And that line of thinking wasn’t good for my state of mind. Or my purpose here. That wasn’t the goal. This was purely practical. This was what friends in need did for one another.

Focus, Decca. Remember the cards. Remember Granny. Lay down your life for your friends.

I’d always loved the rain. It restored the land, fed the streams, gave life to the flora of Granny’s garden on our side of the mountain where my family came from.

On the flip side, I knew the devastation it could cause. The mudslides, the floods, the drownings of humans and animals alike.

But everything beautiful had an ugly side. Every tarot card had its reversal. And I didn’t know if this storm foretold of renewal or disaster.

I stepped out of the downpour and under the protection of the wide front porch. The floorboards needed a refresh. Warped from the soaking rain, they squished under my feet.

In all the years I’d been coming to visit Soula in her ancestral home, then Bethany, once she took ownership of half the property, I couldn’t remember a single time when I’d walked through the front door. I’d never noticed the brass plaque next to the door, dating the house from 1878.

Smythe & Co. Mortuary was a giant Victorian bastion. A relic of that golden age when death had first been outsourced. When funerals moved out of the intimate bosom of the home and into what were often generic and impersonal institutions. Not that Smythe was generic or impersonal. But there was an inherent feeling of loss that care of the deceased was now provided by strangers rather than loved ones.

Instead of it being embraced as the final rite of passage, death became something to fear, a thing of disgust and abhorrence.

This house stood for a lot of things I disliked about the death care industry, but it was also the home to some of the people I loved most in the world. My friends and my found family.

The sign didn’t detract from my mission, but it did give me pause. What was I doing here? Was I really about to do this? What if he said no? What if he said yes?

 I raised my fist and pounded on the heavy walnut door, hoping George was right, and Gus would be the one to answer it.

Another stream of water slipped down my scalp. My long hair was thoroughly plastered to my face. My sweater and jeans needed to be wrung out and my toes swam in a pool of water inside the too-big rubber boots I’d borrowed from Bethany.

It wasn’t a great look. But my looks didn’t matter much for this task. Beauty had nothing to do with this. He wouldn’t say yes. He’d be out of his mind to take me up on my offer.

I raised my first again, but before could knock, the door flew open.