Page 36 - WTP VOl. X #6

Maggie shuffles along the sidewalk and shivers, longing for a hint of April sun. In the center of her small Massachusetts town, she passes the rain- bow-colored sign as it flashes and dims. She stops, takes a few steps backward, and squints up at the flickering letters: ATTENTION GRIEVERS, TALK TO YOUR LOVED ONES. PSYCHIC MEDIUM AVAILABLE. She has never noticed the neon lighting. This brick building has always been a law office. She glances around, wondering what else she’s missed in these last six months, since her son died.
A woman sits on a nearby stone wall, puffing on a cigar and gazing out at the ocean. Her black hair is streaked with gray. Next to her is a bundle of belong- ings, including a sleeping bag and pillow. Pete would have said, “You should paint her.” Just after his eigh- teenth birthday, shortly before the accident, he’d become fond of artwork that depicted people staring out into fields or forests or bodies of water. Now that he is gone, her only child evaporating into an other- wise ordinary autumn night, she cannot ignore this kaleidoscopic sight—this sign.
Maggie pushes the door open, the wind chimes sounding as she walks in. A bald man with a silver beard stands behind a counter; he leans forward, places his hands on its surface. “How can I make your day better?”
Behind the counter, gems and crystals line shelves; rings with large stones and handkerchiefs are for sale. Maggie can still smell the woman’s cigar, now mixed with the sweet spice of incense. “I’m wonder- ing if you have a brochure?” She notices a difference in the way she’s been speaking lately, morphing statements into questions as if she’s forgotten how to be certain.
“This is perfect timing. We’ve had a cancellation if you’d like to see the medium—Charese.” He waves his hand toward the bright pink curtains in the cor- ner, tied closed with gold ribbon.
“No.” Maggie clears her throat. “I’m on my way to work. I’m just wondering about your services?”
“We take appointments too, dear.” He folds a sheet of shiny paper into a square, and slides it across the glass as if imparting a secret. She stuffs it into the pocket of her nursing scrubs. The man bows his head, and studies her like a doctor assessing his pa- tient. “I hope we can help.”
Maggie peers around. A lemon tree perched against the yellow wall, the webbed nets of dream catchers strung to feathers, a statue of a laughing buddha,
his mouth frozen open. The decor is like nothing she’s seen in years, not since she and Sam wandered around a voodoo shop on a trip to New Orleans. Mag- gie feels as if she’s witnessing this awkward interac- tion from outside of it, she and the man behind the counter locked inside a transparent bubble. From
the periphery, she observes the man’s glossy head, the cash register with the clunky keys, the woman who has lost her grown son tugging the strap of her purse, ready to flee. Although she has not been able to paint since before Pete’s accident, she is practical- ly able to shade in the colors of this scene—the hues of silver and orange, the black periphery where their bodies meet the room. She wonders if this is what it’s like for Pete now—if after all these months he hangs on the edge of existence, a weightless body searching for ground.
The man coughs, and she sinks back inside her skin, her uncomfortable, foreign skin. “Namaste,” she says, and walks out the door. The misty air coats her face. She smells the burning scent of the cigar, but when she turns toward the bench, the woman is already gone.
~
In the sterile hospital room with the fluorescent lights, Maggie tends to Mrs. Gallagher’s mastectomy wound. She is slow with the bandage, changing it with patience and care, as she did Pete’s diaper when she was a young mother—knowing that this time to- gether is fleeting. “How’s that?” she asks, as the older
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Spiraling Through the Sky
Gina troisi