Intermission (8 page)

“Perfect,” I say.

“Oh god, Chloe! Do you remember when we had that huge fight over Ad-rock? I mean, I would still totally screw him, but c’mon! Our fights were pretty lame.” Natalie hugs me back and if it weren’t for the three geeks hovering across the aisle, I could stay in this moment all night.

 
 
12:55 a.m.

The summer sky is intensely dark and mysterious and I can’t see a single star. I don’t have a clue what time it is, but I’m sure our parents are beginning to miss us. Natalie and I reach the car but she stops suddenly and jumps up and down. I can’t tell if she’s excited or needs to pee—

“Chloe! Look!” Natalie points across the street toward a rundown shopping center. I try to see what she’s looking at and the only thing I can spot open is a little shack in the parking lot with Christmas lights and a neon hand. There’s a marquee that states,
Now Accepting Most Major Credit Cards
, but I can’t imagine why she would be so excited about that.

“What exactly am I looking at, Nat?” I ask.

“It’s a psychic! Let’s go!” Natalie quickly gets in the car and I follow. I guess having my future revealed could be cool . . . or not. Like, what if she reads my palm and my lifeline reveals an early death, or worse, twelve children! Oh, and I’m totally freaked by those creepy tarot cards with evil queens and sun gods determining my fate. Shit, I even overanalyze fortune cookies, and I spent a week sleeping on my parents’ floor after the Ouiji board mishap of 1990! I’m not sure I can handle the real thing.

Natalie parks the car and reaches over to shake my leg, “This is going to be fun! Maybe Grandma Jean or Kurt Cobain will show up during a séance!”

We walk to the little door of the purple building and search for the buzzer,
but wouldn’t she know we’re
here?
I pick up a large crystal from the window ledge but drop it to the ground when the door slowly creaks open. Fear governs the reflexes.

“Come in girls. I’m Madame Clarice, mistress of magic and temptress of the spirit world.” I bet she sells Amway, too.

Natalie and I cautiously take a step inside the dark room and hold hands. The place is exactly what I’ve seen on television, but it smells more like a bakery than witch’s lair. An entire wall houses spice racks and glass bottles and one of those bowls they have at Casa Mexico that serves guacamole. The room is darkened by layers of velvet and tacky silk scarves, but I can also see the faint light of David Letterman on a small television in the corner.

Madame Clarice leads us to a small round table with, no joke, a crystal ball. We move slowly, taking baby steps toward the center of the room. Madame Clarice may be the mistress of magic, but she looks like the seductress of sweatpants, and I’m really hoping this isn’t some sort of scam that will be aired on
Jenny Jones
. Her long hair is plaited into a braid with a shiny feather, but everything else about her is quite unremarkable and sweet.

“Have a seat, girls. I take all major credit cards and cash. No refunds if you don’t like the outcome and I can’t promise that I will gather enough energy to give a detailed reading. In that case, I will take 50% off and give you a coupon for another visit.”

“What kind of reading?” Nat interrupts.

“We can start by holding hands. I mostly rely on my psychic energy to fulfill requests about the future. If you want medicinal help or a tarot reading, well, that’s entirely different. But you,” she points to me, “You live in the present – why are you here?” Holy shit, she can see right through me.

“Oh, well, it’s my birthday and I uh – I want to know what to expect. I want a purpose.” I speak honestly, but not entirely truthful.

“Ah. I see. You want to make sure your actions don’t affect your outcome?” Madame Clarice raises a questioning eyebrow while securing a scarf around her head. I sit down across from her while Natalie rummages through a table of trinkets. “Please don’t touch, dear.”

“Madame Clarice, I’m not sure I’m a believer, but like you, well on a more amateur level, I tend to rely on my energy to guide my decisions.” I shift in my wicker chair as Nat sits quietly next to me. “But, well – I would like for you to tell me that my behavior doesn’t lead me to a ditch to die!” I laugh nervously.

“Very well. Give me your hands and try to clear your thoughts.” Madame Clarice closes her eyes and sighs heavily. I try to think about nothing but that’s impossible, so instead, I think about the chords of a Dolly Parton song.

“Do you have a love potion?” Natalie asks.

“Please, be as quiet as possible,” whispers Madame Clarice. Natalie rolls her eyes and bites her lip.

After several minutes of silence and hand holding, Madame Clarice finally speaks. “You will have everything you want because of your impetuous nature. You will sing with pride. You will grow a tree.” I scrunch my nose at that last declaration and Natalie snickers in disbelief. “Would you like me to finish?”

“Oh yes, please,” I say.

“Love will strike on a summer’s night after you’ve gained the wisdom from the twenty-fifth year. He will be tall and handsome but with very few words.” Madame Clarice opens her eyes and locks them on mine. “I see no death in ditches.” She releases my hands and smiles slightly.

“Thank you,” I say.

“My turn! Will I shag Brad Pitt?” Natalie asks sarcastically.

“For this to work, you need to clear your thoughts and remain silent. I do not answer specific questions because I can only see what your soul offers.” Madame Clarice places her hands on the table and Natalie willingly gives it a go.

“Okay, I’m ready – but only the good stuff.”

“You, my love, will speak to the stars. You will find your home among the people. Your true love will be charming and handsome—”

“Woo-hoo, Prince Charming!” Natalie interrupts.

“Dear, please don’t break the concentration. You will also grow a tree.” Madame Clarice opens her eyes quickly to peek at Natalie and gives me a little smirk. “Oh, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you will have a huge ass and whiskers on your chin.”

“What? You can actually see that?” Natalie falls dramatically over the table and even though I know the psychic is joking, it’s a mean joke to play after the night we’ve had. “Is there some . . .” sniff, sniff, “magic potion to stop it from happening?”

Madame Clarice stands elegantly from the table and walks to her wall of herbs and bottles. She takes a tiny purple bottle and wraps it neatly in a scarf. Natalie looks up, tears watering her eyes but hopeful for a mystical cure.

“Girls, the gift of psychic ability is not to be taken lightly, but it’s merely a reading of the present energy – the future can always be altered. Free will, dear,” Madame Clarice stares at Natalie, “is your greatest gift. You will be rewarded with an entire sky of stars. And you,” she tilts her head at me, “you have an energy that is complex yet simplistic. Your aura is a contradiction – only one man will be able to interpret your psyche.”

I place my arm around Natalie’s shoulders as she wipes back her tears. This is quite possibly the strangest moment we’ve ever shared and I’m dying to know what Nat thinks about all this.

“What’s in the bottle?” Natalie asks.

The psychic hands the wrapped bottle to Natalie and smiles compassionately. “The bottle, dear, contains hope. It will give you the power to dream. And for you,” she looks at me with sympathy, “you will find the connection between impulse and purpose. Look for balance in the perfect song.”

Wow.

“Okay, girls, that’s all I got! Seventy-five dollars cash or credit but I will have to charge a service fee of $3.95 if you use Discover.” Madame Clarice walks over to a fanny pack and a handheld credit machine as Nat digs in her oversized bag for cash. I take forty dollars from my wallet and add it to Nat’s eighteen. We charge the rest on my emergency MasterCard, which I’m sure Dad will flip over when he gets the statement, but this
is
sort of an emergency.

“Thank you so much, Madame Clarice! Besides the fat ass and the whiskers, I’m embracing my future.” Natalie jokes.

“Yes,” I mumble.

“You are more than welcome. Happy birthday, dear. Cancers are my favorite people.” She smiles sincerely and leads us to the door.

In the dark, starless night, we start our drive back to my house. We’re both uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, neither of us certain about what we just experienced. Natalie lights another cigarette and I lower the radio to get her opinion. She is the most straightforward thinker I know, and always challenges my romantic idealism.

“Well? What do you think it all means?” I ask.

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. What does anything mean? What do the lyrics to Pink Floyd mean? We’re both destined to grow some trees – whatever the fuck that is! I avoid nature at all costs, so maybe she saw a money tree?” Natalie blows a puff of smoke and coughs. “She did say I will talk to the stars and you will sing with pride or whatever, so our dream of being famous will happen!” Natalie tosses the cigarette out the window and digs for her gum.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that she specifically said I will find love when I’m twenty-five?”

“I guess, but Chloe, the woman was wearing sweatpants and a head scarf and that bottle she gave me was empty. Don’t interpret every little detail as truth.”

I raise the volume on the radio, trying to appear as unaffected as my cousin, but the truth is, I don’t want Nat to hear my rampant imagination. Madame Clarice
vaguely
assured me that everything would be great . . . I will have a music career that I’m proud of. I will find my true love
because
of my purposeful spontaneity. This is good news, I can basically plan to be impulsive . . . pass up on the annoying, childish relationships and float from meaningless job to job and just hang on until the right moment. Simply waiting will prepare me for my future . . . and those impetuous actions will bring me joy . . . and he’s waiting for me . . . tall, handsome and quiet.

July 3, 2003

“Chloe! Great news – huge!” Natalie leaps across our tiny kitchen, clumsily knocking my bowl of cereal into the sink. “Oh, sorry.”

“What’s up, Nat? I gotta leave for work in five minutes,” I sigh.

Nat is an assistant event planner in a trendy SoHo office and our schedules never seem to mesh. I’m usually on my way out the door to the bar when she comes bouncing in from her day job. But who cares? We’re living in New York City in an amazing TriBeCa apartment with anything we want in a one-block radius. (No really, an illegal ferret dealer and Cuban cigars are within one-block from our front door.)

“Tomorrow is your birthday and we’re doing it up New York-style. The Fourth of July is like a big deal around here and you’ll have to get used to sharing your day with America.” Natalie fishes for a Snapple from the refrigerator and continues excitedly. “You know Molly, my boss? Well, she graciously gave me the keys to her bungalow on Fire Island! We leave in the morning and won’t be back until Sunday!” Natalie grabs my hands and jumps up and down, forcing me to jump along with her.

“That’s awesome, Nat! Is it like the Hamptons?” I ask, still confused with the layout of New York. It’s taken me three months to realize Houston Street is pronounced
House-ton
.

“No way! The Hamptons are sophisticated and snobby, but Fire Island is a hedonistic orgy of booze and bad decisions. It will be so much fun!” Natalie walks to the hall closet to get our travel bags while I devise a plan to get out of work early tonight.

“I really have to go, Nat. I’ll try to be back by eight. Thank you, it sounds perfect!”

Natalie drops the bags in the hallway and runs toward me. “Chloe, you will love it, but – well, how do I say this in the nicest way possible? Um, how’s your lady garden?”

“Meaning?” I ask. I know my garden hasn’t been plowed or trimmed in several months, but it’s not like I’m an undiscovered rainforest.

“Meaning – I’m making you an appointment with Sue Ling. She’s on Eighth, next to the Au Bon Pain with the rats. Promise me you’ll get there by nine?”

“Fine. Can you pack my bag?”

“I will, just for my favorite cousin with the amazing body, gorgeous green eyes and a voice that can melt a hockey rink.” Natalie smiles and flutters her eyelashes.

“Ha ha. I get what you’re doing, and I promise I won’t embarrass you. I can clean up real nice, gee golly gee.” I kiss her cheek and head out the door to work.

“Fire Fucking Island!” She chants through the door.

I moved in with Nat back in April after a year-long, uneventful tour with an unknown band (think Canadian
Toadies.
) I’d made a deal with Dad that if I finished my degree in business, he would support my career in music. So basically, my poor dad supported me while I spent twelve months in the backwoods of Canada playing taverns and hippie festivals. I made approximately six hundred dollars and slept with every member of the band. I was traveling and performing . . . but mostly, I was waiting – for something. After a year living as a slutty bohemian and the constant nagging from Natalie to move to Manhattan, I finally made the practical decision to get my ass in gear and try to be an adult. Dad supports this decision 100%.