And she’ll make it sound so simple. If only that was how life really worked.
“We’ll just do a three-card spread,” she says, probably sensing my reluctance to give the reading any credence. “This is your pathway—The Wheel of Fortune.”
My father grimaces slightly over her shoulder. “Not my favorite card in the deck.”
“Don’t listen to your Bâbâ. That’s a fantastic card. It’s telling you to remember that things happen in cycles. You might be down right now, but the wheel always turns. You aren’t doomed to stay at the bottom.”
“And then when she’s back at the top, all she has to look forward to is the ride back down.” It’s an uncharacteristically pessimistic viewpoint coming from my father, but it’s one I’ve heard before. Every time this card has shown up in a reading for the last twenty-one years, in fact.
I put a hand up before they launch into further argument about the negative or positive aspects of The Wheel of Fortune and instead ask, “But how does that help as my path? I should just brace myself and know that eventually life will get better?”
My mother shakes her head. “No, of course not. It’s a card that suggests you do exactly the opposite. Don’t stand still and let the wheel push you down. You can actively work to get on the upside again.”
I nod, pretending to take it in. “So think of a way to make some more money.” Like I said before the cards came out. “Got it.”
“Yes. Like you could move home. Temporarily.” And there it is—the words she wants me to hear.
I grumble inwardly. “Next card, please.”
“The greatest obstacle,” she says, flipping another card from the deck. “Aw, it’s The Lovers.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “A relationship would definitely be an obstacle.” Seriously, it’s the last thing I need right now.
“The Lovers doesn’t just represent a romantic relationship,” my father says. “It can represent something more basic—an indicator that it’s time to develop your own philosophy and belief system. It’s time to decide who you are. What you believe in.”
“What you want to do for the rest of your life…”
“Mother!” I groan.
“Don’t get mad at me. I’m just a messenger for The Universe.” She seems to correctly interpret my skepticism. “Going on. The outcome.” She starts to flip another card, but halts when my father’s phone sounds with Peter Griffin from Family Guy shouting, “Who’s texting me?”
I smile as I always do at the notification tone I set up for him, then chuckle to myself when I think about how he most certainly has no idea how to change it. My anti-technology parents only have a cell phone to be notified when one of their clients has gone into labor, so both of them perk up anxiously while he reads the message.
“It’s Astrid,” he says, his eyes beaming. “Contractions are only six minutes apart. Got to hustle.”
My mother shrieks with excitement. “I’m not even dressed!” She hops up, abandoning the deck on the table and rushes to don her doula attire.
I watch after her, wondering what it feels like to love a job as much as she loves hers.
My father stands behind me, putting his hands firmly on my upper arms, and I know he’s directing his energy toward me. “Hang in there, kid. You’ll figure it out. And you’re right—the answer is not moving back home.”
I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t on my mother’s side. And grateful. It’s nice to not have that pressure from at least one of them.
He kisses the top of my head, and I soak up his affection, sending mine back to him. It might be hokey, but it makes him feel good, and he makes me feel good. “Thank you, Bâbâ. Asheghtam,” I say, using the Persian words to say I love you.
He squeezes my arms and says it back to me. Then my mother has returned, dressed in her swimsuit. Must be a water birth.
“Good luck!” I wave at them, promising to lock up when I’m done.
As I scoop up the mail, an invitation-sized card addressed to me attracts my attention. I slice through the envelope and find an invitation to an industry party hosted by Vida Gines. The date says it’s happening tonight. I consider for a moment. It’s not the type of thing I usually attend—her parties are geared toward her crowd, the serious pornmakers—but if I want more jobs, even just the femme porn variety, this might be the place to make some new connections.
Wasn’t that what The Wheel of Fortune was telling me to do? Look for new opportunities and the like. Not that I believe in that divination stuff. Not entirely, anyway.
It’s merely out of curiosity that I flip over the next tarot card, the one that would have been the answer to my situation. It’s The Star, my favorite card in the entire deck. As a child, I loved it because I loved the stars. I didn’t care what the seers said it meant—for me it always represented the shining jewels that lit up the night sky. For hours and hours I’d stare at the bright dots through the telescope given to me on my tenth birthday, listening while my parents recited stories of the Greek gods who resided in constellation form above us. Even then I wondered what was beyond their tales, wondered what elements made the balls of fire, what made them burn and glow and fall.
Of course that isn’t the message the reading is giving me now. In my parents’ absence, I try to conjure up the intended meaning instead. Hope, I think. Yeah, that’s it.