Flash

The Wisdom of Madame Marceau

Why, oh why, did I let Tracy drag me into this? She was always so sensible until she met Madame Marceau, who opened her eyes to impossible possibilities. After that, it was a crazy downhill ride into a sinkhole of insanity.

Suddenly, Tracy, my best friend, my SENSIBLE best friend, my anchor in the real world, whom I could trust to steer me away from my self-destructive impulses -- suddenly, Tracy thought she could jump off a cliff and grow wings on the way down.

First, she started a romantic relationship with some crazy trucker whose body was mostly covered with blue tattoos. She quit her job and started riding around the country with him and his smelly dog. And then ... she put all her savings into a bitcoin scam because Madame M. said it would reap huge profits. To be fair, Madame also told her when to get out, while things were still peaking just before the crash. And what did Tracy do with her windfall? She bought a fleet of eighteen wheelers and started a trucking company! She says she and her loverboy are making money hand over fist, and she's never been happier in her life, but I know she is just covering up because she doesn't want to admit that she made a humungous error in judgement.

So here I am, seated across from my archenemy, Madame Marceau. She's not as impressive as I imagined. Without her star-studded violet kaftan, I would mistake her for my cleaning lady. If I keep my wits about me, it shouldn't be unduly difficult to find a way to expose her for what she is, so that Tracy will come to her senses.

Madame M. asks if she can hold a personal object of mine. I pull a gauzy scarf out of the pocket of my slacks and hand it over with a flourish. 

 She tilts her head and looks right through me. "This doesn't belong to you. I need something ... more personal ... for my reading."

So she passed the first test. She must have seen something in my body language to tip her off that I was going to try to trick her. I smile and try to look innocent. "Sorry -- wrong pocket."

I reach down and hand over Tiny, the childhood toy I have never been able to let go of. Tiny is a lamb, about four inches long, with giant eyes and a very human smile. Madame M. smiles. "Lovely vibrations. Someone you loved very much gave it to you."

"Yes," I say. My aunt Janet, the week before she died in that terrible accident. But I'm not going to reveal any details. Let Madame figure it out, if she's so smart!

"What do you want more than anything in the world?" Madame asks.

"I thought you were supposed to tell me that," I say smugly. She won't guess this one, because I have told absolutely no one.

"Hmmm. This is very strange." She looks at me with her piercing hazel eyes. "The thing you want most is the thing you most fear."

"Really?" I say. I am not about to let her trick me into giving her any clues.

"You want to go home. But you don't want your heart to be broken twice."

I say nothing because I can't speak. Memories are rolling over me like an avalanche, squeezing my chest until all my breath is gone. My heart is pounding frantically in my ears, but the noise can't drown out my thoughts.

I was six years old. Old enough to know better than to fool around with something I didn't understand, Father said. But I didn't. I just wanted to play.

Father had rented a giant yellow bulldozer to clean out his drainage ditches. It sat on top of a grassy knoll beside our front pasture field, like some prehistoric monster poised to attack. While Father was busy fixing a hole in the fence, I clambered onto the bulldozer and sat proudly, manipulating the levers and making engine noises. Mother came out of the house with Aunt Janet trailing behind her. They had spent their day getting ready for Grandma's special birthday supper. Seventeen friends and relatives had been invited.

When Aunt Janet saw me, she stopped and waved. "Come on down and give me a hug!"

A hug from my favourite aunt was even more wonderful than pretending to drive a bulldozer. I started to climb down, hanging onto one of the levers for support. It moved, and the bulldozer started to roll forward. I screamed, convinced that I was going to fall. More screams echoed mine.

The bulldozer rolled down to the bottom of the incline and stopped. I scrambled down, weak with relief. Aunt Janet was pinned under the caterpillar tread of the bulldozer, staring into nothingness.

Father started yelling at me, and Mother screamed at him for not keeping a closer eye on me. She ran into the house while Father started the bulldozer and backed it off Aunt Janet. I stood, frozen with horror, willing her to get up and smile her most impish smile and tell us the whole thing was just a prank.

Father bellowed at me to get into the house. I ran as if all the demons of hell were after me. I've been running ever since.

I can't remember the days after that, or the months, or the years. I was on autopilot, completely numb. I remember leaving home when I was sixteen, trying to make a life for myself. I would never have made it without Tracy's help. And now she's starting a whole new life without me.

I want to cry, to scream, to protest. But I just sit there, not making a sound.

Tears spring into Madame Macrceau's eyes and roll down her cheeks.

"I don't know what happened," she says, "but I know you were a child and meant no harm. Life can be very cruel."

I look in her face and I know she understands. "Will my mother ever forgive me for ruining her beautiful dinner?" I ask. I don't dare say what I really want to say. Will she ever forgive me for killing her sister?

"That I cannot tell you," Madame M says. "But I am a mother too, and I know that I am willing to forgive almost anything."

I stand up, my knees shaking. "Thank you," I say, meaning it. I don't know what happened, but something inside me has changed.

I have stopped running.

I am going home to face the truth. No matter what it is, it's better than not knowing.

Maybe Madame M has a special gift after all.