A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

vengeance on the man who had ruined her menstrual hut installation flew into my mind. I pictured her leading a silent fleet of women onto his lawn with bags of bloodied tampons, leaving them there as a warning. Vy, looking up at his window while the women did their work behind her, wishing she could climb inside and draw a different kind of blood. What would she want to do to me if everything worked out the way I hoped it would with this exposé?

“Now,” Margot said, handing the deck to me, “think of a question you have, something that’s been aching to be answered.” The cards had a weathered feel to their ridged edges. This was not a deck that Margot had just purchased. This was a deck that had seen some action over the years, that had absorbed the sweat of all sorts of hands. “Hold that question in your mind, concentrate on it, while you keep the deck between your palms.”

Vy took a noisy sip of her tea, sucking it through her teeth like a malfunctioning pool filter. Margot smiled at me gently. “Closing your eyes helps concentrate the energy too.”

I tried to make my face serene. “Okay,” I said, shutting my eyes. I didn’t have an Important Question, in part because the whole thing was silly, and in part because all that was running through my mind was a series of panicky thoughts: What am I doing here? What the fuck will happen to me if they find me out? I’m sitting very close to Margot—can she tell how much I’m sweating? Should I buy a prescription deodorant? Seconds ticked by. A new Beyoncé song began piping over the sound system. At a nearby table, a woman was talking about the promotion she’d just gotten while her companion shrieked, “Oh my God, yass, queen!” My panic momentarily faded, and I rolled my eyes behind my eyelids.

“Open your eyes now,” Margot said. “Shuffle the deck eight times, and then cut it into three stacks.” I did as directed, laying the stacks out facedown on the couch where she pointed, below the watchful gaze of The Magician.

“So what was your question?” Vy asked, brusque, her lips downturned. I’d thought my own Resting Bitch Face was bad, but I had nothing on her. She blinked very slowly, and very rarely. It was unnerving.

“Oh, I didn’t know we were supposed to say them out loud,” I said.

“Well, you don’t have to,” Margot replied. “Sometimes we can dig deepest when we seek answers in the privacy of our own hearts. But I can help you interpret everything so much more accurately if you do tell us.”

Right, she just wanted to help me. Not have me reveal the inner workings of my heart and mind in the guise of a fun little reading. “My question was . . .” I began, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Am I on the right path? You know, just generally, in life.”

“Mm,” Margot said, sympathetically. “It’s so hard to see that clearly sometimes. Let’s get you some clarity.” She tapped the stack of cards on the left. “This first stack represents your past.” In a graceful, fluid motion, Margot turned the top card over to reveal a fleshy crimson heart, violently pierced by three swords. Cool, promising start. “The Three of Swords,” she said, biting her lip. “This card generally means heartbreak. Sorrow. You’ve come through something difficult.” She looked up at me. “Oh, that makes sense. Your mother, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, and then to Vy, “She died.”

Vy sucked her teeth. “Sorry about that.”

“That must have been so hard,” Margot said, giving me her trademarked You Are the Only Person in This Room Who Matters™ look again. “Was it very recent?”

Dammit, she wanted me to talk about it, to cut myself open and show her my own pierced heart just like the one on the card. This was what cult leaders did: made you vulnerable as a way of binding you to them. I’d come here to make these women vulnerable to me, not the other way around. Besides, it felt cheap to use my mother as a tool for my own advancement any more than I already had.

“Yeah, it happened a few months ago, and it was awful,” I said, then redirected my attention to the stacks on the couch. “Here’s hoping my present card is more promising.” Vy blinked at me, probably picturing a seagull, refusing to swoop beneath the waves, beating its wings in great bursts of effort to stay above the spray.

As Margot went to turn over the next card, my stomach churned in anticipation. It wasn’t that I believed the card was going to change the course of my life. If anything, the power of these cards was that you read into them what you wanted to see, which helped you get more in touch with what you were feeling. Margot and Vy handled the cards almost as if they held a mystical strength, but they weren’t going to pull one over on me. I knew their game: the more they acted as if the cards could reveal something deep about my soul or destiny, the more authentic my reactions to them would be. The more they could gauge me, judge me. I sent up a silent prayer for a card that I could spin in some impressive way, featuring a warrior lady with a cool pet leopard, or maybe a gorgeous princess surrounded by abundance. Anything besides more bloody swords.

Margot laid the card out. Just a bunch of sticks, flying through the air in some harmonious motion toward their destination. “Huh, Eight of Wands,” Vy said. “Which usually means forward momentum.”

Hey, who didn’t like forward momentum? Margot bit her lip again. “But the card is reversed,” she said. “That can mean that you’re rushing into action without fully considering steps you need to take, leaving you likely to make mistakes or even bad decisions. Does that mean anything