Pen Pal(66)

I push the memory aside and say firmly, “I’m sure. It has to be about something else.”

Destiny looks at me as if she knows all my secrets, and they’re really bumming her out.

“All right, sugar. You know best. Just sit on it for a spell when you leave. Think it over. And in the meantime, I’ll pray for you.”

Why the hell do people keep telling me they’ll pray for me? Fiona said the same damn thing!

Irritated, I stand. That’s when I realize I left my purse in the car. “Sorry, but I have to run out to my car to get your money.”

Destiny stands too, folding her hands at her waist and smiling at me. “Oh, there’s no charge, sugar. The reading’s on me.”

So now I’m getting the pity discount, same as Eddie the handyman gave me. I must be much worse off than I realize if my face inspires such charity. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

I back up, eager to get out of this house. Destiny doesn’t offer to walk me to the door, she simply stands there smiling sadly, making me feel worse than when I walked in.

As I’m closing the front door behind me, she calls out, “Safe travels, sugar!”

Somehow, that strikes me as the most ominous thing she said of all.





30





Dear Dante,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m not so well, myself. Actually, I think I’ve blown past unwell and landed squarely in Crazytown, USA, where I’m currently running for mayor.

Have you ever felt like your life is out of your control? Like there are unseen forces pulling the strings, and you’re just a puppet dancing around helplessly, getting jerked this way and that?

That’s how I feel. Helpless. Lost in a storm.

Also more than a little pathetic because the only person I can talk to about my problems is someone I’ve never even met. Who is currently incarcerated for reasons unknown to me. Who might be a serial killer for all I know. (That wasn’t a dig. I’m just pointing out facts.)

Though it’s probably better this way. I doubt I could tell someone I know that a fortune teller named Destiny told me I have psychic baggage, my housekeeper is trying to convince me I’m being haunted, and I’m seriously entertaining the idea of having a séance because nothing “normal” makes sense anymore. Normal went out the window when my husband died.

Also…I’m falling in love.

It’s only happened to me once before, so I’m not much of an expert on the subject. All I know is that I feel incredible when I’m with him and like shit when I’m not. I love making him smile, and I hate making him sad. Which, unfortunately, I seem to have a knack for.

I’m all messed up, Dante. Do you have any words of wisdom for me?

Sincerely,

Kayla





31





Dear Kayla,

You asked if I have words of wisdom for you. The answer is yes. Here they are: You are not controlling the storm, and you are not lost in it. You are the storm.

I’d love to take credit for that, but it’s from a writer by the name of Sam Harris. He was arguing that free will is an illusion, which I’m sure you’ll agree is a thoroughly depressing idea. Bypassing the dour philosophical stance, however, I really like the perspective that chaos isn’t outside us. It’s always within, even if we perceive it to be otherwise.

You’re the chaos. You’re the storm. You’re the one creating the high winds and choppy seas you have to navigate. You’re the source of everything that’s happening.

In other words, you’re the one with the power.

The question then becomes what are you going to do with it?

Sam Harris would tell you I completely wrecked his argument and I have no idea what I’m talking about, but we’re not listening to him.

Listen to yourself, Kayla. Stop and really listen.

You’re the storm.

What is all your thunder and lightning telling you?

Dante





32





I say crossly to the letter in my hand, “If I knew what all my thunder and lightning were telling me, I wouldn’t have asked you for advice!”

Maybe Dante was sent to prison for being criminally irritating.

With a sigh of frustration, I slap the letter down on my desktop and stare glumly out the window into the rainy afternoon.

More damn rain. It’s like the weather is in on some evil plot to drive me even nuttier than I already am.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve had contact with Aidan. Every day that passes is drearier and more depressing than the last. I’ve developed a severe case of insomnia to go along with all my other problems, and I still haven’t found a therapist.

The other day when I visited the building where Eddie said Dr. Letterman has his office, there was no Dr. Letterman listed on the directory.

I don’t know why I went to that pothead Eddie for help, anyway. He probably only has a single functioning brain cell left.

Not that I’m in any position to judge. I’ve been drinking so much wine, I should buy stock in the grape industry.

When I hear the sound of laughter, I lift my head and look toward the window. The laughter comes again, bright and bubbly, though I can’t see anyone out in the yard. Curious, I go to the window and peek out.