Absence of Faith by Anthony S. Policastro

barely touched the box as
she stood on her toes. Finally, she could no longer hold the
stretch, already out of breath and puffing hard. The cards tumbled
off the shelf and spilled onto her worn, dirty Persian rug. She
struggled to bend over and pick up the cards - all faced down
except one. She stared at the Death card and shuddered slightly and
her hands began to shake, but she quickly blew the thought out of
her mind and continued to pick up the Tarot cards.
    The woman slowly stood up, still
out of breath, and moved cautiously to the flowered, overstuffed
couch in her tiny apartment. She placed the cards on the
dust-covered glass coffee table and waited. She knew that in eight
minutes her seven thirty appointment would knock on the door. She
knew he would be five minutes late. At exactly 7:35, the door
thundered with a knock.
    "Come in," she struggled to get
out. The door opened and the young man with brown hair down to his
shoulders entered the cluttered room. He looked exactly like she
had seen him in her mind's eye two weeks ago when she talked with
him on the phone to schedule the appointment. She knew he would
wear his faded yellow t-shirt with several holes around the seams,
and she knew he would be her last appointment that day.
    "Hello, Kyle," she said as if she
knew him.
    The young man hesitated at her tone
then said, "Hi."
    "Sit down. Would you like something
to drink?"
    "No."
    The tall, young man moved his lanky
frame into a worn rattan chair next to the sofa. The interwoven
straw let out an agonizing sigh as if it were too tired to hold the
man's weight. The woman watched him carefully.
    "Is this your first time?" she
asked.
    "No. It's fifty, right?"
    "Yes."
    Kyle dug into his black jeans and
pulled out two twenties and a ten. He handed the money to the
woman. She took the bills and stuffed them into a pocket located
somewhere in the lower part of her boring paisley dress that
floated on her body like a bed sheet flapping in the
wind.
    "Okay. Let's start," she
said.
    The woman leaned over and picked up
a small silver wire that looped to form a lower case letter "l".
She held both ends of the wire, closed her eyes, and shook the wire
in front of Kyle. Then she opened her eyes.
    "You were not born here. You were
born in Asia...Vietnam I think. Your father was an American
soldier, but your mother was not an American. She was Vietnamese.
Your father was killed there and you have never met him, you don't
know him..." The woman shook the wire again. A frown formed on her
bulbous head.
    "Your father has been trying to
contact you. He is very troubled...he is standing behind you right
now!"
    Kyle quickly turned and saw
nothing. His eyes were wide and he tapped his fingers on the arm of
the chair.
    "How do you know this?"
    "I don't know. I just tell what I
see."
    The woman shook the wire at Kyle
again.
    "You will meet a young girl who
will betray you, but she will have good reason to do so. She will
see things differently from you," the woman said. "You have met
this woman before...she will be your lover, and then your
enemy."
    She shook the wire again. "I see
you in a soldier's uniform, but... I can't see your face. I know
it's you though. It's another time...everything including the
clothes the woman next to you is wearing is from that time. I
see...I see...a Nazi insignia on your shirt sleeve!"
    The woman opened her eyes and took
a deep breath. "I saw one of your past lives," she said. Her
forehead began to shine slightly. "I better open a
window."
    "No, wait. Tell me more. I want to
know more about this past life."
    "I sensed something very evil
there, something that was trying to get into me...something that
wanted to leave that time and enter ours..." the woman looked
deeply into Kyle's eyes. He shifted his weight and the chair
groaned again.
    The woman took a deep breath, and
then shook the wire again.
    "I see you again. You are standing
next to a table, a map table. You have stood there many times
before...you