The house the year we moved away. Mrs. Rice lived next door, just past the red outbuildings.
I must admit to a creepy obsession with and an uncanny skill at reading the tarot, since I was 12 years old. My father found me one evening in the basement of our 1800s house (I remember it was a tall rectangle of brick that listed a little to its right. In a previous life, it had been a hospital for the mentally insane); the basement light was out and I was at a little wooden table reading tarot cards by the light of 100 candles; well, all the candles I could find in the house, anyway…red wax dripping everywhere, like a crime scene.
He was always a bit leery of me, my father.
He was not into the weird gypsy stuff my mom believed in. (“Our family comes from a line of…
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