Summer of Supernovas (3 page)

“Now, Mrs. Carlisle…” The doctor’s calm, authoritative voice drifts from the hallway as he attempts to smooth Gram’s ruffled feathers. Yeah, good luck with that. Gram is all Taurus, all the time. And while she can be slow to rile, once she does—well, it’s best to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. Because you don’t have a prayer of stopping it.

When the doctor’s finally able to get a word in edgewise, he explains the procedural CAT scan and physical exams confirmed everything is normal, other than the small knot on my head and sizeable contusion on my left knee. But seriously, I would take countless bruises and knocks to the head, just to avoid facing Gram right now.

In true Genevieve Carlisle fashion, she bursts into another litany of questions. “How did this happen? Doctor, young girls don’t spontaneously drop from water towers! Just who in the name of Hades was responsible for this?”

Who in the name of Hades?
Despite the gravity of my situation, my mouth forms an involuntary grin. That is a phrase Mama used with regularity. Maybe she inherited it from Gram, or Gram from her, but I always thought of them as
Mama’s
words.

And Mama’s words are something that will stay with me forever. Like the smell of her burning sage—pungent, herbal, and sweet—and the beat-up card table she made mystical with a scrap of brilliant purple satin.

My mother always had a fondness for vibrant colors. Colors just like the ones in the van Gogh print hanging on the hospital wall. In fact, I bet I could pluck the exact shade of yellow from those swirling sunflowers that was the color of her favorite dress.

I close my eyes, letting my mind drift to the last time I saw her in that dress. It was an event I’ll never forget. Because it was the first time I ever saw my astrological chart.

There it was. My entire destiny neatly confined to 8½ by 11 inches of paper. Every cell in my six-year-old body fizzled like a shaken-up can of soda ready to explode. And my wide eyes devoured the paper with its scatter of funny shapes sprinkled about the wheel-like image. I didn’t know what any of it meant.

But Mama did.

“Tell me what you see, Mena?” Mama asked. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires in the candlelight.

“A chart! Like the ones you read for people. And it shows where all the planets were in the constellations the very minute I was born,” I proudly announced.

Mama held her finger to her red lips with a look of warning. “We must keep this our little secret. Your gram wouldn’t understand.”

The small, forgotten space on the third floor with its stacks of sealed boxes and dusty sheets was made for keeping secrets. I was not. But I would try.

“One day you’ll be fluent in the language of the stars,” she said. “But for today, I will read them for you. Okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” I squealed. Then quickly clapped my hands over my mouth.

Mama went on to explain how the pair of zigzaggy lines meant I was Aquarius—a truth-teller and seeker of life knowledge. How I must be careful not to let my free spirit and tireless need for independence cause me to push others away. I wasn’t judgmental, nor did I put on airs, but
horns of Taurus,
I could be as persistent as the itch of poison ivy.

“These wedges”—she tapped at the pie-like sections of my chart—“are called houses—there are twelve total. And each house represents a certain aspect of our lives. For instance, the First House is the House of Self,
who you are.
The Second, right here”—she pointed beside the First House—“is the House of Money and Possessions. Then we have—”

“
Ooh!
What about these symbols?” I asked, skipping a few houses around the wheel.

Mama quieted for a moment; her dark brows pinched together. “That’s the Fifth House. The House of Creativity and…” The word seemed to get stuck in her mouth. Clutching the chunk of amethyst on her necklace, she began rolling it between her fingers as she stared at my chart. And whatever stared back made the frown stretch lower on her face.

“And what, Mama?” My ballet tutu felt itchy. Or maybe I was just itchy to understand why the squiggles on my chart made her so full of sadness.

“Come here, Mena,” she said, quickly brushing her fingers under her eyes.

“N’kay.” I slid from my seat. The creaky attic floorboards moaned as my feet touched them.

Mama then lifted me, setting me on her lap. She always smelled like rain mixed with flowers. “The Fifth House is also the House of Love—of Heart,” she explained. “And I now see that this will be your greatest challenge to overcome. Just as it has been mine.”

I fiddled with the stone hanging from her necklace, trying to understand what could possibly be hard about love. Because it was pretty clear to me boys were gross and should be avoided like black jelly beans.

“You see, sweetheart, there was a time I thought I knew better than the stars. When I fell in love with your daddy, I thought it could be enough. But”—her head shook—“fate doesn’t always follow our heart. It follows this.” She tapped the paper. “Our astrological chart holds the key to all the answers. But you must
listen
to this wisdom, Mena—
especially
in matters of love.”

I gazed up at her. “I’ll listen, Mama. I promise.”

“And”—she frowned once more—“beware of Pisces. That is a poor match that would only bring you heartache.”

My head bobbed.

“Good girl.” Mama kissed my forehead and took off her necklace, placing it around my neck. “I want you to have this.”

I blinked. “But…it’s your favorite.” And of all her pretty, sparkly jewelry, it was my favorite, too. “How come?”

“Because I love you.”

Throwing my arms around her, I pressed myself like a second skin to her sunny yellow dress. “Love you, too, Mama.”

“For longer than the stars will shine above,” she whispered.

The snap of the curtain as Gram flicks it aside with the force of a matador tugs me out of the past. And while the subtle ache of missing my mother still lingers, I force myself to focus on my present quandary.

“Mena!” She throws her arms around me briefly before pulling away. “What in heaven’s name—let me have a look at you, child.” Sure enough, the lines on her face grow more determined as she inspects the bruise on my knee and the small bump on my head. Now, last I checked, there wasn’t an MD after her name, but I have the good sense to keep quiet and let her finish. “Hmm.” She holds my chin, gently directing my head left then right.

“Gram, I’m fine, I swear.
Gram
”—I end her exam by retreating back into the pancake pillow—“I’m
okay.
See?” I smile widely, proving once and for all I’m alive and well.

“Well, I’m delighted to hear it.” She places her hands on her hips. “Because you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady. What in blue blazes gave you the notion to scale that tower?”

I consult the hospital wristband on my arm, which offers no helpful answer. “Uh…” I gulp and squirm under Gram’s steady gaze. “The Milky Way?”

Her mouth puckers like she’s swallowed vinegar. “
Tell me
this does not have to do with
astrology.
Because I believe I’ve made myself quite clear about spending too much time with your head stuck in the cl—”

“It’s astronomy,” I correct under my breath. I mean, technically, I
was
up there to see the Milky Way. Gram doesn’t need to know the superfluous details.

“Oh? Is that meant to be amusing, Wilamena Grace?”

To avoid digging myself deeper, I answer with the only response she’s keen on hearing. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Now start talking.”

Gram’s not mad. Not anymore anyway. Following last night’s hospital discharge and my glowing health pronouncement, I was forbidden by Gram
and
the city of Carlisle from ever climbing the water tower again. Which is tantamount to telling a bird not to fly. I memorize their exact words and vow to find a loophole once the ladder’s repaired.

But I won’t be curtailed by yesterday’s debacle. No way. I reason when you survive a forty-something-foot drop, things have nowhere to go but up.

And it’s Sunday—an auspicious day for an Aquarian. The card in my hand confirms today’s stroke of luck. His signature is scribbled on the front, along with the words “admit two.” I flip over the Carlisle Community Hospital business card, rereading the compact slanted writing on the back.

Wil (aka Gravity Goddess),

Deepest apologies. Please accept this olive branch.

I hope you can come.

Grant (aka Gravity Amateur)

PS This is your ticket.

PPS Absinthe—Sunday 8 PM

Absinthe is a hot music club on the city’s west side, featuring up-and-coming indie bands. It’s damn near impossible to gain entry without having an in, which I’ve never had…until now.

I tap the card on my thumbnail, ignoring the unexpected swell of nervousness. But I have no reason to be nervous. The day could not be better aligned. I pocket the card the nurse had discreetly given me, and smooth on a layer of my signature red Parisian Pout lipstick—the only makeup I wear most days.

“Gram?” I shove my keys and phone in my purse and heft the overnight bag onto my shoulder. “Gram? I’m leaving!”

“Hold on!” she hollers from the kitchen, moving to the entryway as fast as her arthritic knee allows. She pushes a basket into my hand. “You be sure and give these to Irina. Lord knows that girl could stand to have some meat on her bones.” Gram’s convinced all the problems of the world can be solved with baked goods. As the aroma of banana-nut muffins funnels to my nose, I’m not inclined to argue. Really, who doesn’t find peace in simple carbs?

“Thanks. I’ll be back in the morning. Oh, and bleed ’em dry at bridge club.” I turn to leave.

“Mena”—she catches my elbow—“you certain you’re well enough to be out and about?”

Okay. Subtlety isn’t Gram’s modus operandi, but it’s recently dawned on her I’m graduating in a year. I’m not a kid anymore, which…she knows. Still, it’s a massive change in her thinking.
Change.
Nothing is more excruciating to a Taurus.

“We’ve gone over this already, Gram. The doctor said my vitals are perfectly fine. I’ve rested all day and can report zero headaches, blurred vision, or dizziness. Now, I’m gonna be late. And so are you if you don’t finish up that order.”

Carlisle Confections has been Gram’s business for over three decades. She makes delicious designer cupcakes and treats for the overprivileged who can afford them. She’s a sort of Monet of the baking world. And, not to brag, but I know my way around a baking tin. Gram’s had me assisting since my motor skills were reliable enough for precise measurements. Too bad I don’t possess one iota of Gram’s decorating panache. Nope, I leave that in her capable hands.

I kiss her soft cheek, perfumed by cinnamon and toasted nuts. “You worry too much.”

“You give me plenty to worry for, child,” she barks as I skip down the warping front steps of our old Victorian. “You keep away from that water tower!”

“I will!”

Which for today is the honest-to-God truth.