In the Cards

 This is a true story. I imagine Memère is smiling at this.

* * *

The Tarot reader didn’t look up as she flipped over her cards.

“You’re here for someone else.” It wasn’t a question. 

“My grandmother,” I said.

The reader nodded. “I see one-oh-three.”

I said nothing and played along. Memère was ninety-seven, lucid and still cheating at cards. She wasn’t going anywhere.

A little more than three years later, I got The Call from my mother.

The Tarot reader came back to mind and I thought, Memère made it to one hundred, not quite your prediction. Then I realized the date: today was October third. 

Not one oh three, but ten three.

Girl Trouble

In his bedroom, Mason filled his Batman pillow case with everything he would need while living on his own: two trucks, three pairs of underwear, one box of Captain Crunch and his teddy bear.

He dragged the pillowcase down the hall, found his mother waiting at the front door.

“Did you remember to bring a pillow?”

No, Mason thought, the case was filled with more important things.

“What about a sleeping bag?”

Running away was more difficult than he imagined. But he had no choice. His parents had brought home a new baby.

Worse, the new baby was a girl.

Much Worse

 In the back seat of a police cruiser, I chewed my bottom lip. How could I tell my parents—my strict parents—I was arrested for shoplifting?

I ran the scene through my head. Dad would shout, tell me I’m no longer accepted in our family, then show me out the front door.

I wondered if any of my friends’ parents would take me in. Or would I have to survive on the street, beg for money and food?

What happened was so much worse.

My father looked at me and said, in a quiet voice, “You really disappointed me.”

Last Word

 Fine is the classic female response. More warning than response, really.

I have used it often, but the last time I used it is forever burned in my memory.

I punched in his number, didn’t bother with any preamble when he answered. “Can you pick up some milk on the way home?”

Frank’s response was also without prelude. “You know I’m busy.”

I hated when he did that, as if I’m telepathic. “Fine,” I snapped.

I should have said no problem. See you later. I love you.

Anything but that.

I smooth my hand over his headstone and whisper “Fine.”

False Hope

Officer Spence looks up from his notes. “When did she leave?”

I look at my watch. “Maybe an hour ago.” Exactly two hours and forty-three minutes.

Spence makes a note. “What was she wearing?”

I frown. “Jeans and a t-shirt.” I close my eyes. “A yellow t-shirt”

She was wearing a dress with bright poppies that danced when she walked.

“What about her hair?”

I stare up at the ceiling. “Um, short, dark, spiky.” Long, red, curly. It smelled like lavender and felt like silk.

Spence puts down his pen. “We’ll find her.”

I nod. “Thanks.” I won’t let you.