I shake my head at the memory. “The sisters left. I eyed the water bottle that the tarot reader had given me. What the hell is in that? But it was only water. What happened with Bethany exactly? I demanded.

“He explained, You grabbed my marker, started writing on your arm. I think you have the gift.

“Of course I didn’t believe him. The guy was leaving town and offered to sell me his table and chairs for ten bucks, put in a good word with the owner of the magic shop so I could still work in front of her store. He’d made a hundred and seventy-five dollars reading tarot in just two hours. After a full day waitressing, I’d only made twenty-eight bucks in tips. At that rate, I wouldn’t make the month’s rent. So I bought the table and chairs, figured I could try for a few hours after my restaurant shifts, vowed to keep things light and lovely, just play around.

“A few days later, I set up my table and nervously waited for customers. They actually came. After my anxiety burned off, it was surprisingly fun. I scribbled messages, hummed songs that burst into my head, and the customers were amazed. I still didn’t believe the tarot guy, but I was a crap waitress and it felt good to be good at something, you know?” More than a few people in the audience nod in agreement. They understand that need to be recognized.

“Soon, there were lines just from word of mouth. People came to see me. Late one afternoon an old man named Arthur asked if I could contact someone who’d died. He looked so miserable that I agreed and closed my eyes . . . A red barn door materialized. It jumped into my head, like a kid in a classroom with her hand held high, desperate for the teacher’s attention. I let the door swing wide and the tang of metal filled my mouth.

“Anything? Arthur asked.

“I felt a female energy cross the door’s brink but couldn’t see a face. The next thing I knew, I’d written a message in the crook of my elbow: No rush. I’ll be waiting. Take that watercolor class old Tiger—M.

“Arthur told me his wife’s name was Maribel and she’d nicknamed him Tiger. She’d been dead six months, and he missed her so much, he wasn’t sure he could hold on. After reading Maribel’s message, he said that as a young man, he’d wanted to be a painter but had chosen accounting to support his family.” The audience draws in a collective breath and I shyly smile. “Arthur kissed the bend of my elbow then walked off with light steps, like he’d sprouted wings.” I lower my voice to share, “His smile has never left me.”

Crossing the stage, I continue, “Six months later my business was going strong. I’d sprung for a black velvet tablecloth over the metal card table and I wore a midnight blue, sleeveless dress and used a metallic silver marker to draw stars, moons, and planets on the cheap cotton. It was pretty hokey, but I made enough to cover rent, eat more than ramen, and I’d quit waitressing.” I admit, “None of this is very flattering, but it’s important that you know that I didn’t always believe in myself.” Murmurs of disagreement ripple through the theater. Each time I reach this part of my origin story and the audience reacts with understanding and belief, I get a lump in my throat.