Reading Houses, Writing Lives

On a glittering August morning in 1979 at the edge of a salt marsh in Kennebunkport, Maine, made a psychic sick. had never consulted a psychic before, though as a child had wished could accompany my mother and grandmother and take a turn having my cards read whenever they went over to Salem to a woman named Lal. Mother and Granna were two of the least spacey women I've ever known, smart and pragmatic and as ordinary in their beliefs and habits as two single matrons, one widowed and the other divorced, could be; and can't imagine what lured them to Lal. But off they went to her, more than once in my recollection and perhaps before, returning deeply convinced of the accuracy of her predictive powers. Whenever asked to be taken to Lal with them, Mother and Granna told me was too young. And then Lal stopped doing readings. She couldn't bear, they said, the accuracy of her insights when they involved disaster. So never got my turn, and never gave my loss much thought. Then one day over lunch my friend Liz began to tell about a wonderful psychic she'd recently visited, and felt my curiosity rekindle. Why don't you give it a try? my husband asked. (George never does anything weird himself, but he's very good at egging me on.) We were on vacation, without commitments, and the opportunity to take my children to Kennebunkport, where I'd spent part of my childhood summers, appealed to me. So took the psychic's number and gave her a call that night to make an appointment. On the scheduled morning we found the house easily, just across a little bridge on the main road into the village, and George dropped me off. He and the children would drive down to the beach and play for the hour or so I'd been told the reading would take. felt a little nervous and shyer than usual. The psychic, whose name I've long since forgotten, was very young and very pretty, with dark eyes and smooth, swingy dark hair set off by a delicate white summer dress. She led me through the house into a beautiful kitchen with an antique table and chairs at one end, overlooking through wide windows the silvery green marsh. We sat there, chatting a little awkwardly as set up my tape recorder, which Liz had recommended use so that I'd forget nothing. She took a deck of cards and began to lay them out, speaking in a light voice. have no idea what she said, having lost the tape years ago. Perhaps a minute or so passed before she put her hand to her forehead and complained of a headache. She tried to go back to the cards, then put her hand up again. There's something wrong with my eyes. My vision is so blurred can hardly see the I have multiple sclerosis, told her as if to offer reassurance. I have a scotoma, a blurry spot, in my right eye. She tried to attend to the cards again, without much luck. I just feel terrible, she said. I don't know what's wrong. Maybe eating something would help. She took a reddened peach from a bowl on the sideboard behind her and bit it. She laid out a few more cards. I'm not sure here, she said, squinting as if to focus. I can't tell what these mean. She seemed reluctant to talk about the cards. Look, you don't have to go through this, said. I can leave

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