Major Arcana: Sex, Love, and Tarot

"I am," said Rosemary. It sounded more like begging.

"No. You can't spend your life tethered to someone like me. Sacrificing what's best for yourself, because of my limitations. My disability. Don't you see? This is just the beginning. Next we'd have to find accessible apartments, or houses, and who knows where we'd find those, or how much they'd cost. And there's all the medical bills, the physical therapy. If we ever want to travel, we'll have to research it for months, make sure all the pieces fit together, that I can get around. You can forget about a spontaneous trip to Kenya, for sure. Or even Japan. Forget about buying a little piece of property in the country." His voice cracked as he spoke, and every word felt like a needle in Rosemary's heart. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life planning around all of that?"

"Only if it means I get to spend it with you," she answered, her voice soft and subdued.

Fabricio's rage seemed to be spent. Instead he looked profoundly, heartbreakingly sad. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, Rosemary. Stop. It has to stop."

He turned and began to roll away. Rosemary reached for him, crying out.

"No!"

He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she knew he wouldn't let them show. For herself, Rosemary was crying freely. Her cheeks felt sticky from the rivulets running down them.

"I'm going home now, Rosemary," he said.

She shook her head furiously, but he had already turned back. A sob escaped her, and she clapped both hands over her mouth to hold it back as he wheeled himself away. Rooted in place, she watched, shoulders shaking, through teary eyes. He went all the way through the gate and off down the street. Never once did he look back.

Chapter 20: The Hierophant

Rosemary returned home in a daze. She fell into bed and lay there, sleepless, for hours. In her mind, she replayed the scene over and over, trying to figure it out. In the end, she decided, it was down to some bad decisions—namely, her not telling Fabricio about Columbia in the first place—and, more direly, a serious case of bad luck. Either way, he seemed devastated. The way he'd looked at her, his face rigid with anger and pain, crushed her chest like a physical vise.

The only thing that saved her was work, and Rosemary was the first one surprised. Somehow the daily drudgery, the simple feat of calming a crying toddler or cleaning up a mess, soothed her. Latysha, always pragmatic, declared she was better off single anyway.

"If you start getting too old to have kids," she advised, "You can just go to one of them sperm banks. Probably better selection in there anyway."

Rosemary tried calling Fabricio several times, but he never picked up. She sent apologetic texts, then pleading ones, then desperate ones. He didn't reply. In a way, it was better that he never communicated with her. That way she could pretend nothing had changed; they were just on pause. Though her rational brain detailed the many reasons why this wasn't so, her heart refused to be convinced. The love she felt was real, astounding as that was. Rosemary's biggest problem was not knowing what to do next.

To her great surprise, the answer came from Sage. She called from New York on Thursday night, absolutely fuming.

"Do you know what our mother did?!" she yelled into the phone.

Rosemary found it hard to care at that moment. Mom had always done precisely what she wanted, when she wanted to. "No. What now?"

"She's on her way to Seattle. With—get this—and you'd better be sitting down because it's gonna floor you—her new husband."

"What?!" That made no sense. Mom was a free spirit, a wild child, the purest of hippies. She'd never been in anything resembling a serious romantic relationship, and had been outspokenly single for her entire life. How could she suddenly be married?

"That's what I said. She gave the usual non-explanation, said the guy had been waiting for her, yaddi-yadda. He's some kind of tribal shaman or something, who the hell knows. Doesn't speak any English, I bet. Probably walks around in a loincloth with twigs in his hair."

"Sage. That's not very nice."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm pissed off! Aren't you?"

"Not really. Just... stunned."

"Anyway, you'll get to meet him soon. Her flight lands Saturday morning and—surprise—she'd like to be picked up at the airport. So pass the word along to Parsley, okay? And Thyme. I just want to forget this random weirdness ever happened."

"That'll be hard to do, if she really is married."

"Yeah, well, you meet the guy and then tell me."

Something gratingly obvious then came to Rosemary's mind. "Wait... how did she even get enough money to buy a ticket home? Not to mention two? And what about visas and stuff for the guy?"

"Oh, that's easy. I paid for it all. Remember she said she needed cash to 'help a friend?' Turns out it's more than just a friend!"

"Wow. Well, I guess now we know why she was hassling you."

"Whatever. I'm used to it. Let me know when she and Chief Twig Hair get in, all right?"

Rosemary cringed at the ethnic slur, but nodded anyway. "Sure," she said, realizing Sage couldn't hear a nod through the phone.

"Thank you. Hey, you're a great sister you know."

"Thanks," said Rosemary, with a weak smile. If only Fabricio would come back, she thought. I need him now, I need his stability and calm. It hasn't even been a week, and I miss him so much. Somehow, I'll fix this. I have to.

Parsley sighed when Rosemary relayed the news. This wouldn't be the first time she'd been the default chauffeur picking up their mother from various unplanned adventures, but understandably Parsley was tired of the role.

"Fine, I'll do it," Parsley grumbled. "But you all owe me, you know? I'm keeping a tally of times I have to corral the crazy. Just wait till you get a car, and then it'll be your turn."

"Why do you think I still take the bus?" Rosemary said, cheekily.

When she told Thyme he seemed unsurprised.

"Typical Mom," he commented. "Can't wait to meet our new stepdad. Wonder what made her finally tie the knot, after all those casual hookups."

"I guess she'd feeling her age," said Rosemary. "I know I am."

"Yeah, but your biological clock is ticking and stuff. Mom's already done her procreating, so she has no excuse!"

"Maybe she's just lonely. Ready to commit to someone, to have a partner," Rosemary said. She felt a pang in her chest, realizing she was describing herself.

"That doesn't sound like Mom. But we'll find out soon enough, I guess."

Thyme kindly agreed to ride in the car with Parsley, leaving Lorenzo at home to put together some inoffensive vegetarian Mexican food. No telling what kind dietary restrictions Mom might have assigned herself these days. They called from the airport on Saturday, saying Mom was safely in hand, along with her beau (whose name remained unclear) and copious luggage, including a live parrot that took hours, a stack of paperwork, and a call to Sage in order to clear customs. Wow, I do not envy them, Rosemary thought, smug as she helped herself to a large bowl of ice cream. A depressingly typical post-breakup ritual.

It was only eleven on Sunday morning when Parsley called.

"Rosemary, you need to get over here. Mom is driving me crazy," she said, sounding truly desperate.

"What's going on?"

"The parrot is a hellion. It's already attacked Lorenzo three times, and Mom refuses to move it from the kitchen, so it just screams at us all day. Meanwhile, she keeps making comments on my altar layout, moving my crystals around. She woke up at 6 today, chanting, and she smudged the whole house with sage! I'm serious, Rosemary, if you don't come over I'm going to throw her out."

"All right, all right, I'm on my way." With a giggle, she added, "I wonder if parrot is any good in soup?"

"If it keeps up this racket, we're gonna find out."

With all the bus connections, it was almost one o'clock before Rosemary arrived. Luckily, Lorenzo always had leftovers, and she was fantasizing about some reheated enchiladas as she rang the doorbell. Seconds later, Mom opened it and pulled Rosemary into a hug even before she could draw a breath.

"My baby girl!" Mom trilled, crushing her tightly. "I missed you!" Then, pushing back, she gazed long into Rosemary's eyes. "You're sad. I can sense it."

For all her hippie-dippieness and talk about psychic energy, Mom truly was sensitive to others' feelings. She never failed to notice when someone was a bit off. It had really sucked in high school, when Rosemary had felt obligated to reveal every awkward crush, daydream, and girl-fight, all under her mother's overwhelming attention. Some things never change.

"I am a bit sad, Mom. But I'll figure it out. I'm glad to see you."

Clearly Mom wanted to dig, but she restrained herself. Instead, taking Rosemary's hand, she hauled her into the house, chattering about musical transcendence along the Honduran coast. For a woman of her age, Mary Cooper was a dynamo. Her blond hair was thick and long, straight from the 1960's, with heavy bangs giving her face an impish frame. She was thick around the middle, but fit, with arms muscled from drumming and strong dancer's legs. Not for the first time, Rosemary hoped she'd age as well as her mom.

As they walked through the living room, Lorenzo poked his head out of the kitchen. Evidently frazzled, his eyes had a dazed look and his smile was shaky. Somewhere behind him, a parrot cursed.

"Hey Rosemary!" he said. "Thank God... I mean, I'm so glad you're here! Have a seat in the living room, okay? I'm bringing snacks!"

He just wants Mom out of his hair for the afternoon, thought Rosemary. Hard to blame him. Of course, that means now I'm saddled with her...

"The whole thing was just magical," Mom was saying. "We were all out there, dancing under the full moon, as the music lifted us up on silver wings... I was high off it, honestly, even though I didn't use a single drug. I never felt a high like that—"

"Oh!" Rosemary blurted, cutting her off. Seated on the living room couch, like an apparition, was a strange man reading a newspaper. He looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately fixing on Rosemary like shining black pebbles. His skin was very dark, a deep mahogany, and his hair and moustache were pure black, except a few startlingly white hairs. He wore a traditional woven shirt, quite loose, tan with embroidered flowers, incongruously over a pair of slacks. No shoes. Overall, he gave the impression of a dignified noble, somehow transplanted into Parsley's suburban living room. With a start, Rosemary realized this must be Mom's husband. With slow, deliberate movement, he nodded a greeting.

"Ah, here you are!" said Mom, darting over to give him a kiss. "Sweetie, this is my wonderful husband, Esteban!" She giggled, adding, "Actually, that isn't his true name, but it would be way too hard for you to try and remember his Miskitu name, so he lets you call him by his Spanish one."

"Nice to meet you, Esteban," said Rosemary.

Mom giggled again. "Oh, he doesn't speak English! Only the Miskitu tribal language, and some Spanish. He and I don't need words to communicate; ours is a marriage of the souls."

Rosemary wondered how the souls decided whose turn it was to do the dishes, but didn't think her mother would appreciate that question.

Meanwhile, Esteban gazed at her with his piercing black eyes. He said nothing, gradually lowering his paper until his face was pointed openly at hers. Mom sat there, tranquil as a saint, with a small smile tickling the corners of her mouth. After a few long, silent moments, Rosemary began figeting.

"Esteban is an Old One," Mom said, mysteriously. "He knows things the rest of us don't, for his soul has lived many lives before." With a broad grin, she added, "When we met, Esteban told me his soul and mine have been linked together throughout all the ages. It's a rare generation that we meet, but when our two halves rejoin into one whole, then finally we are at peace. At least for the rest of this life, we can live as we were always intended to: together."

Rosemary was still digesting this when Lorenzo appeared, carrying a heaping tray of steaming quesadillas, tortilla chips and homemade salsa. His salsa was unbelievable—even better when made with fresh tomatoes from his own garden, but as the season was too early for that, he did wizardry with the supermarket offerings instead. He set down the treats with an apologetic smile, winking at Rosemary. No doubt he sensed the weirdness hanging heavy in the air.

At that moment Esteban spoke. His voice was arresting; deep and evocative, like the crash of a wave onto shore. The intensity of it made Rosemary jump in her seat. Although she couldn't understand, she was able to identify the tonality and flow of slow, thoughtful Spanish.

Lorenzo's brow furrowed. He asked a question in Spanish too, and then sat down in the armchair across from Esteban. Glancing over at Rosemary, he said, "Esteban says he wants to talk to you. He asked me to translate. Is that okay?"

"I guess," said Rosemary, startled. She hadn't expected this. Mom just smiled.

"Your spirit is hurting," Esteban said, through Lorenzo's careful translation. "It is a fresh wound to your heart. Sometimes wounds scar, and heal quickly. But this is the kind that can last."

As he spoke, his eyes rested on Rosemary's face. She felt him studying her, and somehow she knew that he saw her like no one else. He could look through her exterior and right into her heart, to her innermost worries, fears and hopes. At that moment, it felt like she was finally face to face with someone who understood. It was like a lungful of cold sea air, bracing and inspiring. Catching his eyes with hers, she nodded.

"Someone has left, and you wish this person was still with you," Esteban went on.

"Yes," Rosemary breathed.

"I do not know this person, but I believe their soul and your soul are connected. Like my soul comes together with your mother's soul. It is the same for you and this person."

Rosemary's heart thudded. It was what she'd been sensing for some time—and Fabricio had said too, in his own way. The Tarot had been leading her toward him, and now they were apart, she felt it like a physical ache.

Calm and dignified, Esteban nodded. He seemed inexhaustibly wise, as if he had lived this situation many times before, and emerged from it stronger. Wisdom, Rosemary thought, can only be hard earned. It never comes easy.

"The solution is simple, although it may not be easy." There was a pause; Lorenzo listened carefully, crinkled his brow, and asked for a repeat. When he turned to Rosemary, he said, "He used kind of unusual jargon, like old fashioned words, but I think I understand... he says in order to fix it, you have to go back to where it started. And begin again."

Although he could not have understood all this, Esteban sagely nodded again. Then, apparently finished, he reached for a quesadilla wedge and popped it whole into his mouth. Lorenzo shrugged, stood, gave Rosemary a conciliatory squeeze on the shoulder, and made a hasty escape.

Mom turned with a beatific smile. "I told you," she said, "He's an old soul." Then, with a happy sigh, she reached for her own handful of snacks. "Now, sweet pea, Parsley told me you're finally doing a Tarot journey. That's wonderful! Tell me all about it."

*

When she got home that night (driven by a grateful Lorenzo, who appreciated the break from listening to his mother-in-law), Rosemary had been completely New Age'd out: her aura had been cleansed by her mother, which somehow involved crystals; she'd been pulled into an after-dinner chakra meditation with Parsley; and they'd both sat together and communed with their spirit animals, searching for Rosemary's not-yet-appeared (perhaps imaginary) inner beast. Mom swore she saw glimpses of the panther, while Parsley insisted it was a seal. Rosemary rather thought her spirit animal was a bottle of wine, which thankfully was waiting back at the apartment.

As she reached for the bottle of Merlot (already opened; halfway empty) her sleeve brushed against the Tarot bag. Might as well, she thought to herself. I've already done just about ever other New Agey thing on the block... at least Tarot can give me actual insights. Sometimes. Maybe.

With a teetering full glass of wine in one hand, she scissored her free fingers into the pouch and half-hazardly grabbed the nearest card. When she pulled it out, she met The Hierophant.

What a strange title, was her first thought. I'm not even sure what that means. The Hierophant appeared to be some kind of priest or wise man. He sat enthroned, one hand holding an open book covered in arcane symbols, while the other was raised in a sort of blessing. His throne was decorated with a motif of keys—the keys to what? She wondered. What is a hierophant, anyway?

For the first time, she actually went to Google for help. The definition, according to her search engine, was: a person, especially an ancient priest, who interprets esoteric principles or sacred mysteries. That's when it began to make sense. Mom had said Esteban was an Old One, or an old soul; a person whose soul had lived many lives and returned with some of the wisdom it had gained in the past. Rosemary's logical side rebelled at the idea, but with it staring her in the face, she had to cave to the clear direction of the Tarot: it was pointing her straight at Esteban. And his advice.

"He said I have to go back to where it started... where it started... where..."

Suddenly it hit her. She knew what she had to do, where she had to go. At that point, she could only pray that Esteban—or rather, his old soul talking—was right. This might be her only chance to fix it. She had to begin again, and do it right this time.

Chapter 21: The Empress

The Empress gave her strength and encouragement. From the first moment she saw that stately woman, visibly pregnant, enthroned regally on a chair adorned with pomegranates, Rosemary knew everything would be all right. What she didn't know was when or how the situation would work out. Just as The Empress must wait, cradling the mystery of her unborn child within her, and the unknown circumstances of its impending birth, Rosemary bided her time.

She went to the Seattle Art Museum every day. Somehow, she felt certain that this would be where she and Fabricio reconnected. Throwing all her reservations out the window, Rosemary spoke to her boss about going to half time, with the view to quit as soon as her college plans were in order. Although unhappy, the boss worked it out. Rosemary's daily routine became four hours at the daycare in the morning, and the rest of her time at the SAM.

Day after day, she grew reacquainted with the collections. Through the hours, she fell into the abstract wonder of Aboriginal designs, until she felt as if she could travel along the hidden trails within. Each pale-skinned Madonna from the European section became a personal acquaintance, as Rosemary traced the lines of their painted faces, their expressions of wonder or grief, tranquility or terror. Once, she began to cry before the intricacy of a carved salt cellar, a masterpiece of African art over three hundred years old. She saw herself in the scene of lovers in a garden—a Persian miniature—and it seemed to her a version of paradise, for the man stroking his lady's cheek was, in her mind, Fabricio. On another occasion, she spent an entire hour staring at one of the American landscapes: a view of the Puget Sound in a storm, bursting with light, its clouds and water so richly painted Rosemary could feel sea spray on her skin. As she spent more and more time at the museum, she began losing herself in it.