Crooked Words Page 22
Grandmamma will win. Easily—and not only due to the effects of Oscar’s knee and her laudanum use on her balance.
Arrah makes a small squeaking noise, but bends over and scoops up the Wheel of Fortune from the floor. “I … ah, milord…”
Oscar isn’t even sure what Arrah is asking, but the real problem here is Sydney. She glares, but it’s only an expression, and while a nobleman’s face and voice and words might hold power in the outside world, here it’s as good as meaningless, and Sydney seems to know that, for she doesn’t even as much as flinch. “Why—fuck, why are you doing this?”
Indeed, she just rolls her eyes, sits back against the loveseat. “Because I love you, idiot, and I want you to stop hurting yourself. I’ll keep on doing this until I find something that gets through your thick head!”
She can yell and argue and explain and go over all the words they’ve said so many times before, waste her breath on a case that she can’t make, for Sydney is as stubborn about Oscar as Oscar is. She can start the same old argument she won’t win while Grandmamma stands in the doorway, for Oscar’s lover and grandmother are firm allies in the matter of what they believe to be Oscar’s health and how it should be handled. She can speak, scream to the wind, and it will be useless—it will be insanity, the kind of irrational insanity that comes from believing if one just says the same failed argument often enough and loud enough, the world will change despite a long and tired history of failure. There’s no growth in that kind of thinking, no health, no reason, no point at all in trying to make the same case for the umpteenth time. How many times has she talked about this with patients? How many times has she—
Fuck. Fuck.
Damn it, she might have figured out that arguing with Sydney about her health and madness is insanity, but isn’t arguing with the cards—the universe, according to Sydney and Arrah—just as irrational and insane?
“I hate you,” she says, and she scowls at Sydney—scowls, because she’s afraid she’s going to burst into tears in front of the fucking tarot reader.
Arrah looks back and forwards between the two of them and then begins to shuffle the cards.
“Ignore her, Mistress Piper.” Sydney breaks into a broad, satisfied, cat-like grin, her brown eyes sparkling. “She only says she hates me when she realises I’m right.” Her smile and her voice softens; her eyes linger on Oscar’s face. “I forgive you, love. Now stop pouting and shuffle the deck.”
There’s nothing she can say to that, either, but sit there, and scowl, and try not to cry, and take the wretched deck when Arrah hands it to her, slide the worn, warm cards through her fingers.
“I want you to explain what the cards mean as you lay them out, Mistress Piper,” Sydney says when Oscar hands the deck back to Arrah. “Just because Oscar decides it’s pointless to argue and it’s not scientific to deny the universe doesn’t mean she’s open to listening to the cards. She’s not. We need to get her thinking.”
She has no response to that, either.
In fact, the only possible, worthwhile, sane response, the only response that isn’t a repetition of everything that has never worked … is to listen.
Arrah glances at Oscar and nods. Her face relaxes into a kind of pitying, grandmotherly calm. “Of course, sir.” She straightens the silk and lifts a card from the top of the deck; her hand only slightly trembles as she lays it down on the table. “Ah. Your current situation. Death. Time … time to cut the dead wood from the tree, however painful this might be, so you can flower and grow.” She presses her lips together, but when Oscar says nothing, continues speaking. “I have the impression, milord, that you have perhaps spent many years … not doing this?”
They all look at her expectantly: her grandmother from the doorway, her lover from the loveseat, and the tarot reader from the floor by the table. Quite possibly that can be another arrangement of cards, if one cares to look the scene symbolically—something very little different from the deck of cards in Arrah’s hand.
Oscar sighs and slumps her shoulders forwards. “According to—” She stops and shakes her head, knowing damn well Sydney will have something to say to that. Wouldn’t Oscar have something to say to that if this happened with a patient, after all? “Yes.”
Grandmamma’s slippers patter across the floorboards until she sits on the armrest of Oscar’s chair, sliding one strong arm around Oscar’s shoulders and tugging her close until Oscar’s head falls against Grandmamma’s chest. The contact shouldn’t make her cry, given that she’s never lacked for affection, but for some reason it does—hot, relentless, shoulder-shaking tears that seem all the more poignant, and loud, for Oscar’s struggle to keep them silent. Sydney stands up and rounds the table to perch on the other armrest, and she just makes it worse when she leans over and wraps an arm around Oscar and Grandmamma, threading the three of them together in one warm, united tangle of family.
They hold her, running hands through her hair and down her back, until the tears ebb and Oscar can raise her head, rub her hand over her face, all the while floating in the strange emptiness that follows a good cry—or a good embrace.
Arrah, thankfully, just reaches for the next card and lays it across the first. “Ten of Swords. Your responsibility to this situation. This card, milord, is regrouping and healing—the situation will be dire, but you need to take the opportunity to learn to care for yourself despite this.”
Nobody else speaks, but Oscar’s never heard such an exclamatory silence.
“I’ll … I’ll…” She stops, swallows. “There may be … is something to that.”
This time Sydney doesn’t snort or laugh; she just gives Oscar’s left shoulder a soft squeeze and holds her tight as Arrah turns over the card that represents Oscar’s past. The Devil, of course, all wicked horns and teeth. Bondage. Oppression. An inability to be who one is. She’s heard it all before from far more eloquent readers.
She sighs and nods.
This time, she tries to listen.
Acknowledgments
The stories in Crooked Words were written over the space of four years, a period of the most upheavals in my life since—well, being born. There are many people who deserve sincere and everlasting gratitude for their love and kindness and support. A non-exhaustive list of the people who made this collection a reality include:
The many awesome teachers in the Professional Writing and Editing TAFE program at Victoria University for not only being kind and supportive in and out of class, but allowing me all manner of extra-curricular projects and opportunities. I would not have had the skills to create this book without you—in fact, I shudder to think at what this book may have been without your teachings. Particular thanks to Lucas McKenna, Julianne O’Brien, Susanna Bryceson, Tracey Rolfe and Michael Kitson for going above and beyond the call of duty.
The many awesome friends I’ve made in and out of class: the acceptance I’ve found at Victoria University amongst my wider classmates has been unexpected, relieving and wonderful. Special thanks go to Emanuel Cachia, Janet Singleton, Craig Henderson and Melody Soan for always providing helpful, considered, wise feedback and advice in workshops and out; and to Melanie Higgins for being a supportive ear. It’s been an honour to work with you.
The many awesome friends and adoptive parents I’ve found and made since first taking that frightening step of posting a story on the internet, all of whom encouraged, nurtured, sheltered and supported an anxious, broken soul in writing and life. You saved my life by being there for me at a time when I had no-one else. Kimberley Beattie, Emily C, I.D. Locke, Saskia, Frogs, Meep, Charis, Nae—with all my heart, thank you. These stories could not be if not for you.
And, for going so far beyond the call it astounds me: Hania, psychologist extraordinaire. You’re amazing and wonderful and I’ll never stop being grateful.
About the Author
K. A. Cook is a masculine-presenting, genderless, feminist queer driven to write about non-binary and unconventional souls, mental illness, chronic pain and stro
ng women. Currently a Professional Writing and Editing student and an editor-publisher in the making, K. A. dreams of starting an e-press publishing queer non-romance genre fiction. In the meantime, K. A. spends their time collecting swap cards and fashion dolls, blogging and coming up with ever more inventive ways to turn their life experiences into fiction.
K. A.’s other books, stories and non-fiction articles can be found at
https://queerwithoutgender.wordpress.com/bookshelf.