Two of Wands, or Hanged Man, Reversed

Apparently, everybody in my family has just been waiting to see what I was going to do about George. Mama’s certainly relieved, and the one thing I’m grateful for is that she didn’t throw it back in my face when I told her I’d had him arrested. She just said she was glad I finally stood up for my daughter. I’ve already been interrogated. The police came to our home. They wanted to know why hadn’t I reported it before now. I told them that I hadn’t known it was going on until recently, and my daughter didn’t want me to do this, but I had also recently discovered that my husband had abused his own daughters. And, much to my chagrin, I had to describe to them in great detail how I found out. I even had to show them Shanice’s room. But, just like they said he would, George has already posted bail. They need concrete evidence in order to hold him, and unless Shanice agrees to be examined or is willing to be interviewed on videotape once she’s home, George could be walking around loose on the streets for the rest of his life, free to do this to more little girls. They assured me that Shanice wouldn’t have to go into a courtroom if she consented. As things now stand, all we have is a court order that prevents him from calling our house and he can’t come within a hundred feet of me or Shanice when she does get home.

I don’t know what else to do to convince her to undergo the examination or to get her to agree to testify against him. I explained all of this to her and Mama. I told them that a person called a child advocate—which means they’re on Shanice’s side—would ask her questions that would indict George. I told her that the whole interview might only take an hour. That it would be videotaped and used in court. Without doing both, they can’t prosecute him. She still won’t do it.

I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. And my future is so up in the air at this point that I don’t know what I’m doing from one day to the next. Not knowing is not a crime, and it’s also one of the reasons why I came here to have my cards read. I’ve heard Zina is good. Very good. She’s young. Can’t be more than thirty-four or thirty-five. She’s Indian. And pretty. There’s a red dot between her eyes. I think this means she’s married. She’s dressed in a red-and-blue silk sari that looks like it wraps around her at least four or five times.

About fifteen or twenty candles are burning in this small white room, which has a window that looks out to a little courtyard. The smoke from the incense smells like jasmine. Zina has just unwrapped her cards from what looks like a Chinese silk pouch. It is purple and orange. The edges of the cards are quite bent, probably from so many readings. I’m sitting directly across a table from her. She shuffles for quite a few minutes.