My name is Lacie, and among other things to get by I work as Tarot reader over the phone. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, sometimes I get so stuck in it I forget what days are which, and to have a social life. That’s me, my bad as a person. I was a little scatterbrained, I guess. All the women in my family were, we were whip-smart but could get a little spaced out.
I've done this on and off for many years. Since I graduated high school, for me it was a way to stay connected to something my grandma taught me and gave me a job I could do from literally anywhere. I enjoyed helping people, I really did. I loved guiding people on their path in life. It felt like what I was supposed to be doing. I really love watching my clients grow as people, in romance but especially business. I spent hours nurturing people’s hopes and dreams.
It was great. I was an airhead who enjoyed mimosas and read tarot, it was a pretty chill life.
Up until two weeks ago. In all my time doing readings, I never claimed a gift, just common sense and Tarot knowledge. It seemed to be accurate enough, and I did well for myself.
I had a minor brain surgery. It was major to me, minor as far as brain surgery goes. Everyone assured me I’d be fine, and I was. I just brought back a little something extra.
I dreamt about Lou Reed in recovery, little did I know he'd be the first dead person I would definitely encounter (Even though my grandma thinks I’d been encountering them my whole life, I didn’t notice; at this point, it became impossible not to notice). It started with whispering in the cab on the way home. I listen to music a lot, so I would hear a sort of talking under my music. It seemed like elaborate remixes that weren’t there before. I really felt drowsy going home, so I let it pass.
I am trying to adjust graciously. I wasn’t raised by a gracious woman, therefore, grace was harder for me. I mean, it was coming as I grew up. So, good on me, I guess. Learn from the mess of my childhood. Yes, you can heal and grow, you don’t have to be a victim of your childhood trauma forever.
I am not, the pain in my neck is unbearable. The near constant talking is too much. The worst part is I don't know if it's me, or something wrong with my brain. Should I talk about it?
I settled on no. I didn’t want to alarm anyone. My friends might be cool, but my mom would be either calling an exorcist or booking me on talk shows. That I couldn’t be sure meant I had to be quiet for safety.
"You, the bratty girl," a voice called in the dark. I felt called out.
"Trying to sleep," I said finally answering. Totally annoyed.
"You think that matters?" the voice that seemed to be all around said with a laugh.
Between this and my device shocking me every five minutes, life was shaping up to be interesting. It was supposed to be something I couldn’t feel, but of course with me, things never go as planned.
I had always believed in an afterlife, my grandma spoke of it as surely as I would speak of California. Being confronted with it, however, is making me nervous. After all, it's one thing to know California exists, and then to suddenly move there while still maintaining your apartment in Seattle.