Spin Doctor (11 page)

“Thanks for giving me permission to do my laundry,” I teased. Sigmund had another accident that morning on the throw rug
in the kids' bathroom. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing that could just be tossed in the hamper until there was more to be washed.

“By the way, if she quoted you twenty dollars, don't let her play ‘bait and switch' and try to charge you fifty for a few more cards.”

Mala Sonia glared at me; Amy looked grateful for something for the first time since I'd met her.

“Okay,” grunted Mala Sonia. “Rich lady buys cheapest reading.” Amy rose to leave, reminded the super's wife that she was still a respected litigator no matter how much her life has gone from being about briefs to breast milk in the past few months, and that put an end to Mala Sonia's derogatory quips at her “client's” expense.

“Now. You have question.”

Amy pursed her lips. “Yes. I do. I might as well know sooner rather than later, so I can revise my options, if necessary.” She looked down at the infant Isaac, who was fast asleep with a fistful of blankie tucked under his pink chin. “I want to know if my husband Eric is ever planning to pull his weight with Isaac, or am I doomed to single parenthood within my marriage—because this sure as hell isn't what I bargained for! Believe me, I can't wait to get back to my desk. I'd rather fight tooth and nail with a plaintiff's attorney than wipe up baby drool and shit any day of the week.”

“Never use word ‘ever' in your question. Bad for reading. So we just ask cards whether your husband is planning to help with baby—not ‘ever' planning. You understand?”

Amy shrugged. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

Mala Sonia deftly shuffled and cut the deck, fanned the cards out in a giant crescent, then asked Amy to select six without touching any of them. Amy pointed to a half-dozen cards in
evenly spaced intervals within the spread, and Sonia laid them on the table in the same simplified version of the Celtic Cross that she had used for Alice.

I sat on the couch and eavesdropped on Amy's reading, while washer number one rid my bathroom rug of Sigmund's fetid gift to the Lederer family. We learned that the Page of Pentacles represented where Amy's life had been until now, apparently filled with the desire for study and the application of learning.

“Well, that doesn't surprise me,” Amy snorted indelicately. “Four years of college and three of law school, a year of clerk-ship for a Supreme Court judge, then an associate at Newter & Spade. And even now, I'm learning something new every day. Mostly about different textures of poop.” Funny how she could act like such a sentimental mush-brain with Isaac when he was awake; and when he was asleep, or out of her line of vision or earshot, the other Amy emerged: the sarcastic one, dark and angry and full of contempt for motherhood.

The new mom didn't like hearing one bit about where she was in her life now. The upside-down Six of Wands referred to indefinite delay, apprehension, disloyalty, and only superficial benefit with inconclusive gain. Amy shook her head. “I had a feeling,” she said dolefully. “That's why I asked you for the reading.”

“Cards don't lie,” replied the Gyspy smoothly, echoing the rote phrase she'd given Alice. “But look, this is good news,” she added, pointing to the card representing Amy's near future. “Knight of Swords is bravery. Imagine a strong, dashing hero fearlessly coming to the rescue.”

Suddenly Amy's eyes shone. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit hasty. I'm still hormonal, I suppose. It must be all that breast-feeding. What's
that
card?” she asked, pointing to the fourth one Mala Sonia had laid.

“You in environment of near future—reversed Three of Pentacles. I hate to tell you, but will be sloppiness, money problems, lack of skill, lower quality, and preoccupation.”

“So I get my knight, but maybe he's not such a pro after all? Is that what you're saying? Leave it to me to get saddled with a second-rate hero,” Amy groaned.

“You're not
believing
any of this?” I muttered under my breath. PMS had most certainly taken over today. Although, I kind of like being uncensored. It's honest, it's real, and it's fine—as long as I'm not with a patient—when, while I'd like to think I'm still being “real,” every word must be chosen carefully or it could upset the emotional and psychological apple cart.

Amy's fifth card, standing for the best she could hope for in her question scenario, was the Emperor in the reversed position, indicating immaturity and lack of strength, and a weak character or wishy-washiness, bolstering the information she received from card number four. So, if Eric Witherspoon was expected to come to the rescue of his overworked, overwhelmed wife and devote some serious quality time to his family, Amy wasn't about to get the man she'd bargained for. In one of her sessions, Alice Finnegan had explained her late grandmother's “name game” analysis of people's personalities based upon their names, using her ex-boyfriend—Eric Witherspoon—as an example. I seem to recall that Irene Finnegan had warned her granddaughter of the man's lack of resiliency.

“Oy, just my luck,” Amy muttered to Mala Sonia. “Hey, do you ever give
good
readings? Positive ones, I mean, where things turn out wonderful in the end?”

“Last card,” smiled Mala Sonia, pointing to the upside-down King of Swords. “The outcome to your question.”

“So,
nu?
”

Mala Sonia tut-tutted. “I think you are already unhappy. I
think maybe you just pay me and we call it a little cheap entertainment.”

Amy frowned. “But
you
take these readings seriously, right?”

“Cards don't lie,” repeated Mala Sonia. “I just have gift to interpret.”

“All right,” sighed Amy. “Just tell me the damn outcome so I can go upstairs and put Isaac down properly.”

“
Bi-lacio.
No good. Twenty dollars before baby naps,” the Gypsy reminded her.

“Here!” Amy thrust her hand into her pocket and withdrew a crisply folded bill. “Now, the last card, please.”

“Outcome: reversed King of Swords,” Mala Sonia repeated.

“Oh, sorry, you not like, but you said you want to know to make decision in advance. Outcome is cruelty. Conflict. Selfishness. One who causes pain and sadness.”

To me this all seemed a bit too familiar. Hadn't Mala Sonia given Alice a similarly dire prognostication?

“Right, then. Thanks for your time,” Amy said dispassionately. She looked like she was trying very hard not to cry. Perhaps someone had told her back in law school that there's no crying in moot court or something. Isaac still slept like the innocent he was. “Well, Mommy's got some thinking to do,” she cooed to the slumbering infant. “It seems like Mommy just confirmed that she actually has
two
boys at home.”

I can relate,
I wanted to tell her, but she left the room too quickly.

The heavy scent of Mala Sonia's perfume, something laden with musk and citrus, lingered in the air like a pall over the reading. “Did you have to be cruel?” I asked the Gypsy. “She's already going through so much now as it is.”

“Then you profit too, from negative reading, Mrs. Lederer. Ms. Baum will talk about it with you privately, yes?”

“But I don't charge her for my advice. There's a difference.
One of many between us, for starters. Look,” I sighed, running my hands through my hair, something I always seem to do when I'm a bit at sixes and sevens. “For a pragmatic woman, schooled in the law, she seems to really believe in your superstitious hocus-pocus. The reading clearly upset her. Couldn't you have softened the blow at least? Maybe lied to her just a little about what the cards represented?”

Mala Sonia invoked her litany. “I interpret cards.
Cards
don't lie. You think it's just
darana swatura
—magical and superstitious stories? Hah!” Her dark eyes were filled with disgust. “Like you, I am a professional,” she added, waving her manicured hand so that the emerald refracted the light from the fluorescent tube overhead. “You tell me, would
you
ever lie to one of your clients—to ‘soften the blow'?”

TALIA

Navigating on crutches, Talia propelled herself into the laundry room. “This is why they never tell dancers to

‘break a leg!'”

I blanched and my hand flew to my throat. Her right leg from toe to thigh was encased in a huge brace. “Jesus, what happened?!” I gasped.

“I tore my ACL.”

“My God, I am so sorry.” I shook my head. “I'm not even sure what that is.”

“ACL? Anterior cruciate ligament. There are four key ligaments that connect the bones to the knee joint, y'know? Well, the ACL is one of the most important of them. It provides stability to the knee and helps minimize stress in the knee joint. A tear can happen a lot of ways, like from overstretching it.”

“You poor baby.” I felt awful for her. “Is that how it happened?”

“I did it coming down from a jump. I twisted my knee as I landed, and
pop!
You could practically hear it, I swear. Just my fucking luck, y'know! A complete tear; not even a partial one. They did an MRI and said no way it could heal on its own, so I had to have surgery. The doctor said I probably had it coming since I'd been stressing out my knee for a while. Before the tear, I never told anyone in the company about my knee pain because I've had a hard enough time getting cast. I don't want them to see me as injury prone. Then I had a choice: to stay up in Saratoga to get it repaired or to come back to the city for the operation, and my mother—who never did see my performance in
Jewels
—decided that she knew best and insisted that I stay upstate. And get this: did you know that female athletes—and don't ever let someone try to convince you that a ballerina isn't an athlete—are more likely than men to suffer an ACL injury?” Talia rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, goody,” she added sarcastically. “And, y'know, athletes who are loose-jointed run a higher risk than those who aren't. Dancers again. Double goody.” She pointed to her leg. “You're looking at a complete surgical reconstruction.”

I gave her a sympathetic look. “My God, I'm sorry.” I hesitated to ask the burning question. “Are…will…when are you going to be able to dance again? You are going to be able to, right?”

Talia frowned. “I'm looking at several weeks of P.T.—physical therapy. After that, who knows? The doctor told me it'll take six to eight weeks before I can resume ‘normal physical activity.' But ‘normal' for me isn't exactly ‘normal' for other people, y'know? So,” she added, “since I hate to talk and since I can't sit here and do it without moving around, I'm out of here. Sorry about the therapy sessions, but I'll see you back down here
again
whenever.
” She turned on her crutches and hobbled out of the room before I had the chance to suggest that she reconsider her decision.

ME

“I so don't want to do this,” Molly moaned. “None of my friends have family picnics.”

“Can I bring my sketch pad?” Ian wanted to know.

“Of course.”

“I want to draw the fat Russian people!”

“Ian!”

“What?”

“That's not nice. And we're headed to Coney Island, not Brighton Beach.”

Ian shrugged. “Same difference.”

“Not!” Molly sneered.

It never ceases to amaze me how my intelligent, extremely literate kids regress by the decade whenever it comes to family outings. I've had enough to deal with from Eli, who's been hemming and hawing about whether he'll be able to join us this year, because of his looming
Gia
deadline.

It's a tradition in the Lederer family—an annual homage to my Nathan's hot-dog cravings during my pregnancies—that on a sultry August Sunday we all schlep out to Coney Island on the subway with a picnic hamper (containing a full complement of Zabar's delicacies—for those of us, like Molly, who disdain the “dogs”). We dine on the beach, take a dip in the surf (at least an hour after eating, of course), stroll the boardwalk, and ride the Cyclone (a
couple
of hours after eating).

Eli had really disappointed me—and he knew it—when he
said that he wasn't going to be able to make it. “Maybe you and I can go out to dinner sometime or something, to make up for it,” he offered, somewhat noncommittally.

“At the risk of sounding like our adolescent daughter, it's not the same thing,” I replied, trying to avoid slipping into an angsty whine. I steered him into the kitchen and lowered my voice. “We do this every year; you've had deadlines in the past and never missed a celebration. Is…” I felt my stomach clench. “Is…there something…I should know about?”

Eli briefly glanced at the microwave before looking me in the eye. “No. No, there's…nothing. It's…I'm on unfamiliar turf with this
Gia
novel and it's taking me longer than usual to finish the book. Susie, the muse doesn't always sit on your shoulder whispering creative things in your ear. I can spend all day and half the night at the studio and still get nothing accomplished. Writers block can strike graphic artists too, you know. And when I'm not working on the book, when I know a deadline is looming like the shadow of Godzilla, I have to be honest with you—since you're always trying to analyze everything anyone does or says—I have to say that it makes me feel guilty to take time off and…and
party,
when I should at least be
trying
to get some writing done.”

I slipped my arms around his waist. “Coney Island is one day a year,” I said earnestly. “Hey, you missed our anniversary this year. Can you at least give me—or if not me, the kids—their beach day?”