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Authors: Elizabeth Flock
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momentum going.
“Hold on now. Hooold on—okay, I’m ready. Chair, be good to me, y’hear? One two three …”
And she’s up to standing. Every single time it’s a triumph.
And then she catches my arm, looks meaningfully at me, and, for the fourth time today, she asks, “You sure you’re doing okay, sugar?”
Like I said, she is one strange woman. I love her to death, but boy oh boy is she strange.
CHAPTER FIVE
Honor
Last year was not my best year.
Every December I go for my annual checkup with my psychic, Misty Rae, and every year, even though I tell her not to give me any bad news even if she sees it heading my way, she still always ends up telling me about some horrible calamity that will befall me and my family in the coming year. I spell it out clear as the Carolina sky—in fact, I beg her not to tell me—but it comes tumbling out anyway, and then it’s burned on my brain just the same as if I was cattle-branded. What can I do? You’ve got to take the bad with the good, I guess.
Last year on December 30, just like always, Eddie helped me get ready for the trip to see Misty Rae. Even though we’re estranged, he fusses over me, and I don’t let on as much but deep down I don’t mind it. So there he was in his driveway wearing that crummy old Cabela’s ball cap, lecturing me to turn off my cell phone but leave it on the passenger seat in arm’s reach, wear my seat belt, keep the radio down low. It comes with the territory Iguess. Eddie’s a police officer at Precinct 140 across Hartsville, over in what I call the sad section , though most people think of it as the bad section . Eddie comes from a long line of law enforcement—his daddy, his granddaddy, even his great -granddaddy were all on the force, and his brother is a firefighter, not that that’s law enforcement but still. Anyway, last year, just like always, Eddie came by, got my car all washed up and filled with regular unleaded (on the radio they said there is no discernible difference between super unleaded and regular unleaded so why spend that extra money), and put a note in the glove compartment: “for later,” it said on the front. Turns out he had Cricket write me instead of his usual “good luck and don’t let the bastards get you down” note I always secretly hated (because it made no sense! For one thing, I’m only going to see one person, one singular person not plural, and the second thing is—just because Misty Rae sees into the future, she is not a bastard. And plus, I’m not so sure women can be bastards. I’ve always thought of the word as being masculine).
Cricket’s letter was just precious, with the handwriting she will never be able to overcome because poor penmanship runs in the family, telling me how next year will be filled with rainbows and balloons and wonderful things we’ll all have together , and then she said we have an angel up in Heaven watching over us now so no matter what Misty Rae says, our angel will keep us safe . I went and had that letter laminated at the Kinko’s downtown. A few months later and she’s nearly a teenager, she’s gotten so sassy. She’s still my baby, but she isn’t even thirteen yet and I’m already losing sight of the little girl who loved rainbows and balloons.
In our session last year Misty Rae said Mother would get cancer though she couldn’t say what kind, and would need to have chemo which would make all her hair fall out. Of course that’s bad news for anyone, but in Mother’s case? Let me explain it this way: Mother’s hair is her best and favorite feature, still shiny dark brown, almost black, and without one single gray hair, I kid younot. So beautiful. She takes real care to keep it that way—once a week she mashes up an avocado and has her hairdresser, Krystal, use it in place of shampoo and yes it’s disgusting but Mother’s hair is thick and healthy and never been dyed so who am I to judge? It would kill her if her hair fell out. Especially
“Hold on now. Hooold on—okay, I’m ready. Chair, be good to me, y’hear? One two three …”
And she’s up to standing. Every single time it’s a triumph.
And then she catches my arm, looks meaningfully at me, and, for the fourth time today, she asks, “You sure you’re doing okay, sugar?”
Like I said, she is one strange woman. I love her to death, but boy oh boy is she strange.
CHAPTER FIVE
Honor
Last year was not my best year.
Every December I go for my annual checkup with my psychic, Misty Rae, and every year, even though I tell her not to give me any bad news even if she sees it heading my way, she still always ends up telling me about some horrible calamity that will befall me and my family in the coming year. I spell it out clear as the Carolina sky—in fact, I beg her not to tell me—but it comes tumbling out anyway, and then it’s burned on my brain just the same as if I was cattle-branded. What can I do? You’ve got to take the bad with the good, I guess.
Last year on December 30, just like always, Eddie helped me get ready for the trip to see Misty Rae. Even though we’re estranged, he fusses over me, and I don’t let on as much but deep down I don’t mind it. So there he was in his driveway wearing that crummy old Cabela’s ball cap, lecturing me to turn off my cell phone but leave it on the passenger seat in arm’s reach, wear my seat belt, keep the radio down low. It comes with the territory Iguess. Eddie’s a police officer at Precinct 140 across Hartsville, over in what I call the sad section , though most people think of it as the bad section . Eddie comes from a long line of law enforcement—his daddy, his granddaddy, even his great -granddaddy were all on the force, and his brother is a firefighter, not that that’s law enforcement but still. Anyway, last year, just like always, Eddie came by, got my car all washed up and filled with regular unleaded (on the radio they said there is no discernible difference between super unleaded and regular unleaded so why spend that extra money), and put a note in the glove compartment: “for later,” it said on the front. Turns out he had Cricket write me instead of his usual “good luck and don’t let the bastards get you down” note I always secretly hated (because it made no sense! For one thing, I’m only going to see one person, one singular person not plural, and the second thing is—just because Misty Rae sees into the future, she is not a bastard. And plus, I’m not so sure women can be bastards. I’ve always thought of the word as being masculine).
Cricket’s letter was just precious, with the handwriting she will never be able to overcome because poor penmanship runs in the family, telling me how next year will be filled with rainbows and balloons and wonderful things we’ll all have together , and then she said we have an angel up in Heaven watching over us now so no matter what Misty Rae says, our angel will keep us safe . I went and had that letter laminated at the Kinko’s downtown. A few months later and she’s nearly a teenager, she’s gotten so sassy. She’s still my baby, but she isn’t even thirteen yet and I’m already losing sight of the little girl who loved rainbows and balloons.
In our session last year Misty Rae said Mother would get cancer though she couldn’t say what kind, and would need to have chemo which would make all her hair fall out. Of course that’s bad news for anyone, but in Mother’s case? Let me explain it this way: Mother’s hair is her best and favorite feature, still shiny dark brown, almost black, and without one single gray hair, I kid younot. So beautiful. She takes real care to keep it that way—once a week she mashes up an avocado and has her hairdresser, Krystal, use it in place of shampoo and yes it’s disgusting but Mother’s hair is thick and healthy and never been dyed so who am I to judge? It would kill her if her hair fell out. Especially
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