Pregnancy? That feels like a sign that this will be my month for the two glowing lines on my pregnancy test.
“You can have mine. I hate coconut,” Farah says.
I accept the glass from Farah, but before I take a sip of the frothy white drink, I check with Rini.
“Does that affect my reading, drinking another sign’s smoothie?”
Aimee laughs. “Wow, you are such a rule follower, Margot. Live a little and try some Virgo juice.”
“Enjoy your welcome smoothies in any way you wish. The Sun Worship excursion is at eleven a.m.,” Rini says. “Farah, your reading is next.”
I carry my smoothie upstairs to my room and look for a place to set down my drink, but the glass is sweating and I don’t want to ruin the furniture. I grab a couple of tissues from the nightstand and fold them into a makeshift coaster. I notice the fresh flowers on the desk and a note on my pillow.
Good morning, Pisces. When you leave here at the end of the weekend and everything is fine, it will be clear you spent all that time and energy worrying for nothing. Do you know you have the ability to change your outlook? Enjoy the next two days rather than working yourself up. Your problems will solve themselves.
Your problems will solve themselves? That’s not a thing. Problems ignored become bigger problems. I toss the card back on the bed and hope Rini’s readings are better than this laughable wisdom. At least I can hold on to the first sentence. By the time I leave, everything will be fine. I pray that’s true.
On Ted’s pillow, I see his horoscope card. He won’t even read it. He wasn’t impressed with Rini’s reading last night, and now I don’t know what to expect for mine. I collapse on the bed and stare into space, listening to the geese honking until my eyes focus on the flowers on the desk. How did they get up here if I saw Rini walk in with the tray of smoothies?
I think of the door I heard slam earlier. Rini must have taken a detour to our rooms using the back staircase before she got the smoothies. I scan the room for any other new touches, evidence of her presence. I spot a square on the wall in the space between the window and the bathroom. It looks like the laundry chutes Aimee and Adam have in their beach house, but bigger. There’s no handle, no pull tab to slide, but I know how to open the tiny door.
As I did with the space beneath the stairs, I press my palm flat and pop the door open. There’s a small white plate sitting on a gray box, and on the plate a single perfect raspberry. The scale of the plate makes the space inside the dumbwaiter look massive in comparison. I pick up the plate and inspect the perfect red berry with its tiny hairs and glistening skin.
Raspberry. At eight weeks, your baby is the size of a raspberry, the pregnancy sites proclaim. Next to the random plate is a brightly colored rectangle that reminds me of a mass card from church. I pick it up and turn it over. Upon closer inspection I recognize it as a tarot card, the word EMPRESS emblazoned on the bottom. I slide my phone out of my pocket and search for the meaning of the Empress. The Google sidebar makes me gasp.
Meaning: The Empress is traditionally associated with the divine feminine and maternal influences. If you are hoping to start a family, consider this your sign to buy some pregnancy tests. If not, The Empress can also represent the seed of new romance, art, or business.
I stick my head inside as if I could see the magical fairy who left me this perfect sign. Instead I see the pantry below through the cracks in the dumbwaiter shaft. My heart’s aflutter reading those words. I want to run through the hallway waving the tarot card like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, but part of me also wants to hold it close to my vest. If this is a sign of what’s to come, I have plenty of time to share. This moment is just mine. I put the card back in the dumbwaiter and wonder why it wasn’t on the bed with the daily horoscope. I decide to investigate in my brother’s room.
The first time I saw a dumbwaiter was when Nana brought us to the English countryside for spring break in high school. All the massive homes of the wealthy had these rope-and-pulley delivery systems so they could avoid exposing guests to the staff while they entertained.
I’ll use this discovery as an excuse to reminisce with my brother. I knock on the door and push it open. I hear the shower running. I take a quick look around the room, but Adam has no flowers or horoscope cards. I search for the outline opening in his walls and spot it next to the closets. In his bathroom, the water splashes against the marble shower floor.
I sneak into the room and close the door behind me. I pop open the dumbwaiter and find a similar setup for Adam: a small glass vase of flowers and daily horoscope cards. No plate, no tarot. I’ll have to ask Rini about that later, but for now my curiosity gets the best of me. With one more glimpse toward the closed bathroom door, I pick up Adam’s card.
Good morning, Scorpio. More than most people, you know the power of connection—as well as the pain and shame of a disconnect. Repent (and don’t deny it, as your ego wants) and deep healing shall occur. For both of you.
I hear the shower knob squeak and the water come to a halt. I rush out of my brother’s room with glassy eyes. His horoscope confirms my greatest hope for this trip. That we will reconnect and it will heal us both. I don’t even need repentance, I only want my brother back.
FARAH
Precisely at 10:00 a.m., I knock on Rini’s study door. I announce myself the way I do in an exam room: a quick, sharp double rap. I crack the door and Rini waves me in.
The first time Aimee and I were in Rini’s study I didn’t notice the Tiffany lamp on each side of her desk. The shades are identical, multicolored at the top fading down into aqua blue. I’m reminded of the water Aimee plunged into yesterday. Lately, everything reminds me of Aimee.
“So, do you have any topics of intrigue this morning?” Rini asks.
“Actually, I do. Why is the back of the house different in style from the front of the house?”
Rini gives me a look of annoyance. “I meant about your life.”
“It’s a valid question.”
“It’s for privacy. It makes it harder to track down guests from the water because they’re looking for the house they could see from the road.”
“I thought it was poor planning,” I say.
“Quite the opposite,” Rini says with a slight smile.
“Very clever.”
“Let’s get into your chart. Your sun sign is Virgo. My teacher called them the healer of the zodiac. You’re a doctor, is that right?”
“Exactly like I wrote on my forms for our stay, yes.”
Rini doesn’t look ruffled, but maybe she should be. Her reading better go deeper than the Daily News horoscopes, or this Virgo will have a field day on Yelp.
“You’re a perfectionist grounded in reality,” she continues.
“What does that mean?”
