The 7th Tarot Card (3 page)

How was I to know I was headed for class six rapids?

“
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” —Confucius, Chinese philosopher

*******

Sunday began with the familiar drumbeat of rain on the roof. The weatherman on the local news predicted rain showers this morning, heavy rain this afternoon, and steady rain tonight. He ended his forecast by saying, “Hang in there.” Weather-related encouragement is important around here.

In light of that, my
primary objective for the day was exceedingly appropriate. Working out for as little as thirty minutes a day, three times a week, can increase your energy, your sense of wellbeing, and enhance your immune system. With tremendous self-discipline and multiple cups of coffee I resisted the urge to climb back into bed and resumed my quest for self-improvement.

From beneath
Spencer’s bed, I pulled my royal blue, five-pound weights and did a series of upper body moves. Then I progressed to the bench for a few chest flies and military presses. Every girl needs a workout bench for optimal chest fly results. Also, it’s one of the few pieces of exercise equipment that fits into my microscopic condo. Squeezed into my second bedroom between the bed and the wall, it also doubles as a handy suitcase holder for guests, or most often, Spencer’s dirty laundry.

My goal is to eventually progress to fifteen-pound weights, but that may take
some time, since I can barely handle five pounds, and it’s been six months since I started lifting.

I finished my reps,
set the weights down on the floor, and did some stretches. That’s when the phone rang, reminding me that I was expecting a call from potential boyfriend number two, Bladerunner. When I whirled to run to it, I kicked my bare foot into the weights I’d left there in my path.

Snap
.

Not a good sound to hear when accompanied by intense pain. Blade left a message on my voicemail about where
and when to meet, while I hopped around clutching my battered foot, wailing like a wounded hyena.

Within the hour,
I was sitting in the crowded waiting room of the local urgent care clinic, brooding over my swollen toe. I frowned. My vacation was not off to an auspicious start. Where was I going wrong? Maybe I wasn’t thinking enough positive thoughts. Maybe I needed to watch
The Secret
one more time.

T
wo
People
magazines and one Sudoku puzzle later, a young nurse led me to a small examination room, measured my height and weight, then left me alone to contemplate my miserable existence. After a short wait, I heard a soft knock on the door and I turned to politely greet the kindly, old physician. My jaw dropped. Into the room stepped the man of my dreams, Dr. Feel-Good. He was probably in his late thirties, had short sandy-colored hair and could have been Harrison Ford’s younger brother. Silently, I cursed myself for not getting a pedicure on my way to the clinic. I can’t have this cute doctor looking at my hideous, swollen toes and chipped red polish.

A stealthy
peek at his left hand revealed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I laughed hysterically at anything he said that was even remotely humorous. He advised me to buddy tape my toes and to stay off my feet for a few days. “Buddy tape—that’s so cute,” I said. He glanced up briefly from his chart, gave me a pained look, then returned to writing his notes. Apparently that’s all you can do for a broken toe. I thanked him profusely and lingered as long as I could, asking all the various toe related questions I could think up, in case he wanted to get to know me better and ask me out. He didn’t bite however, and quickly moved on to his next patient.

It was my toes. I know it was my toes. My toes did me in. From now on I vow to always have a perfect pedicure. They warn you not to leave the house
with torn underwear in case you get in an accident, but nobody warns you about your feet.

Limping across the parking lot to my car, I
applauded myself for avoiding a puddle, then stepped ankle deep into the next one. I glanced at my watch. There was just enough time to get to the drugstore, buy some toe tape and new socks, then head off to my luncheon with the girls.

We
’d decided to meet at our sacred gathering ground, the Nordstrom shoe department at Bellevue Square. I arrived late and limped up to the group: Colonel Julie, Laini, Amanda, and Carl. They were multitasking: chatting, exchanging photos, and furtively glancing around the tables for the perfect shoes. In unison they stopped and asked why I was limping. I explained, we hugged, Carl sneezed, then Amanda and Carl made a beeline for the designer shoe section.

Carl is Amanda
’s constant companion and confidant: a black and tan, short-haired miniature dachshund with an attitude. Small but fearless, he has the self-assurance of a Serengeti lion. I’ve seen him stare down German Shepherds and intimidate dogs twice his size with his menacing glare. His head poking out, Sphinx-like, through the open zipper, he traveled like royalty in a beautifully textured, Italian leather carrier that Amanda had slung over her shoulder. The carrier has two pockets on the side where she keeps little freeze-dried steaks and mini sushi snacks, although truth be told, Carl would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down.

We followed Amanda as she
zigzagged through the tables of exclusive designer shoes. Feeling a bit intimidated, I attempted to act as though I shopped there all the time. Amanda tried on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals in black and dark green that screamed ‘chic.’ As she paraded back and forth across the floor checking the fit and deciding what level of pain she could live with, I picked up a red, sling-back, patent leather stiletto pump which I really, really needed, turned it over, and winced at the price of six-hundred-fifty dollars. Let me think—mortgage or shoes, mortgage or shoes—it was a difficult decision.

A slender young salesman in an elegant black suit
and paisley lavender tie approached me. His friendly smile revealed exceptionally white teeth and the name badge on his lapel said Thomas. “Hello, miss, how can I make your dreams come true today?”

“
Well, Thomas,” I began, “if dreams were shoes, then mine would be these red beauties.”

He
nodded knowingly and took the shoe from me. “These are sooo comfortable, and they would look fabulous on you.” He urged, “You really should try them on. What size are you? I’ll bring you a pair in every color.”

“
Wish I could, Thomas,” I said, “I’d love to buy a couple of pairs, if it wasn’t for my recent foot injury.” That’s the beauty of a broken toe. It gives you an out. Thomas handed me his business card and told me to come back when my feet were ready for glamour.

After a few minutes of browsing and lusting after shoes I couldn
’t afford, Colonel Julie broke in impatiently, “Guys, I’m starving, let’s get something to eat before I faint.” Julie is a US Army colonel, martial arts expert, and built like a brick house. She’s five-foot-two on a good day, has spiky black hair, a pretty face, and a demure appearance. But don’t let her fool you—she’s all fire and hustle. Kind of like the proverbial steel fist in a velvet glove. Solid muscle and tough as nails, she’s brought more than a few men to their knees who underestimated her.

Julie
was in commando attire today: black jeans tucked inside knee-high black boots, and a clingy black tank top. Topping it off, a ruffled jacket in red, her signature color, softened her look with a feminine touch.

Following her prodding, we shuffled off to The
Barking Cricket, our default spot for lunch, looking forward to our usual banter and the sheer high spirits of our mini-reunions. The hostess showed us to a roomy, hunter green padded booth and we sat down and picked up menus. Amanda unzipped Carl’s bag and the little dog emerged wearing a shiny black bomber jacket with a faux fur trimmed hood. He shook himself out, looked around, then climbed into her lap and lifted his head over the rim of the table. His head swiveling slowly, he eyed each of us.

“
Hi Carl, you look so cute today! Love the jacket,” I said. Carl sneezed and drooled on Amanda’s sleeve, as he furiously wagged his little tail.

“
Carl’s just getting over a cold, so I had to dress him up warmly,” Amanda explained as she offered Carl a mini sushi. “He’s been such a good boy today, haven’t you, Carlsie?” she asked, adjusting his jacket. Carl took the sushi in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully as Amanda dipped a napkin into her water glass and carefully sponged dog drool off her emerald green silk blouse. Unbuttoned just enough to show a heavy gold chain and jeweled pendant, it beautifully complimented her silky, auburn hair.

Laini, a petite
blonde doll with long hair that she straightens with a flat iron, reached over to pet Carl’s head, and sniffled softly. She had just returned from an extended spiritual journey to India, and I wondered if maybe she’d picked up a bug along the way.

If Amanda
’s style was city chic, I would have to say that Laini was more urban cool. Her clothes reflect an edgy flair that look fabulous on her, but would look ridiculous on me. I don’t know how she does it. Her black leather jacket topped a simple white T-shirt, and a short denim skirt revealed fishnet stockings and black ankle-length boots. This cutting-edge fashion sense goes hand-in-hand with her quirky, metaphysical side. As a homemaker and part-time spiritual advisor, she does Tarot readings and past life regressions in her home in Juanita. If I had to sum her up in one sentence I would say she is sweet, gentle, ethereal, nurturing, mystical, and kinda spooky.

It was approaching eleven
-thirty A.M. when the waitress arrived to take our orders, so in respect for the morning hour, we decided on Cosmopolitans all around. Somewhere into our second round and halfway through our entrees, Laini pulled a tissue out of her jacket pocket and began to weep—delicate, quiet sobs at first—then she progressed into full blown blubbering. Like heat-seeking missiles, our heads snapped in her direction. We went into high alert conditions, DEFCON one. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s protecting our own and solving problems for our friends, especially when we’ve had a few cocktails. No one messes with sweet Laini. Not on our watch. Even Carl stopped chewing on his sushi and pointed his body at her like a fierce hunting dog cornering his prey. We waited in respectful silence for her to stop crying, blow her nose, and finally speak.

“
Guys, I don’t know how to say this,” Laini began in her soft, silky voice, “so I’m just going to blurt it out. Mark’s having an affair.”

Of course
, we were blind-sided by her revelation. No one could speak for a moment.

“
Oh, no, Laini. That’s not possible,” I finally said. “He’s crazy about you.”

Mark
, a skilled plastic surgeon and her husband of twenty years, has always been utterly devoted to her. They met in college and have been inseparable ever since. Even after all these years, they still flirt with each other. I find it sickening, in a jealous, small-minded sort of way.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” she said as she dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and you know how my feelings are.”

We all nodded. The girl does have a gift
.

“
He’s been acting strangely lately,” Laini continued, “like his mind is on something, or someone else. He doesn’t seem happy anymore, and yesterday I heard him whispering into the phone. When I entered the room he looked startled and immediately hung up.”

“
There could be another explanation for all of this, besides an affair,” I offered. Laini began to sob again. I looked across the table to Amanda for help.

“
Laini,” Amanda said firmly, “Are you absolutely sure about this? Do you have any proof?”

“
Well, out of the blue, he told me he’s going away for a few days on a camping trip with his friend, Bob. When I asked him why this came up so suddenly, he practically bit my head off. Said he needed to get away for a while; clear his head. I just know he’s going to meet someone. Yesterday I did something terrible.” She stopped, took a sip of her Cosmo, and stared off into space.

“
What?” we asked in unison.

Laini put her glass down and sighed.
“I searched through his pants pockets while he was in the shower and found a piece of paper with the words
Crystal Bell 2365
written on it. I don’t even know what that means. Is it is a woman or a drug? I’ve heard of crystal meth. Is it a new drug? Is he a drugie now?”

Julie
leaned in and asked, “Do you know anyone named Crystal?”

“
No. I even called his office. His office manager said she’d never heard of anyone named Crystal or Bell. She even checked his old patient files for me. Nothing. I’ve been stressed out of my mind, and I can’t sleep. I need a Xanax.”

Simultaneously
Julie, Amanda, and I dug into our purses and pulled out our bottles.

“
Thanks, but I probably shouldn’t mix it with alcohol,” Laini said as she plucked a new tissue from her pocket.
“Good point. Here take this for later.” I wrapped up a couple of pills in a cocktail napkin and passed them to her. Her small hand shook as she took the napkin and stuffed it into the side pocket of her black studded hobo bag.