Anything

“Fill it up.”

I held the little blue sachet, probably three inches squared, in front of an old wooden rack of herbs which sat atop a few silky colorful scarves and was surrounded by trinkets and baubles and stones of all colors. The ancient black woman who’d given me the bag, sat about ten feet away, smoking a cigar at a table covered similarly in scarves and layers of material. I could feel her watching me. The rack held small square bowls in wire holders, each one with a supposedly different magical plant, though they all looked the same to me. I glanced back at the woman but there seemed to be no change in her posture or face. I wondered if she had moved anything but her jaw, lips and tongue. I hurriedly chose fingerfuls of five of the little bowls and shoved them unceremoniously into the pouch.

An hour ago, we had been at the beach, watching the sun go down. Corinda swam, though it was getting cool out. The sun was setting. “Last wishes,” she’d said, and stripped down to her underwear, her tits flopping side to side as she jogged into the water. I smiled watching her. She was less than genuine most days. Her stories never seemed to carry with them the appropriate facial expression or tempo, and one could almost never tell if they were true. This moment, though, was real. I could feel her pain and happiness as she stood up to catch the sun drift below the horizon, and then jogged back to me and donned her clothes.

As we walked along the beach, a carnival came into view, and Corinda become elated. “Let’s check it out,” she’d said, more an order than a request, and I followed behind her excited steps, my feet sliding in the sand.

Almost immediately Corinda saw an opportunity in a couple who were quite distracted by the taste of each other’s mouths and slipped a wallet from their unsuspecting purse. I stood a few feet away where I could pretend to watch a little boy swing the mallet on an old-time strength game and cause a scene if there was any trouble, but she was beside me shortly, pulling me away. We shared some fried pickles and a funnel cake, the only thing we’d eaten that day, and I began to feel some of her excitement, my belly welcoming the overdue filling.

When we came to the fortune teller, she traipsed through the door, but I lagged behind. I’d follow her anywhere, but this was too much. I had no patience for pretend psychics and rigged readings. I wouldn’t follow her in. I’d wait at the door of the tent and watch the passersby. A few minutes passed and she emerged, looking disappointed.

“She won’t see me.”

“Just as well,” I said, and started to walk on.

“No.” Corinda was stern, serious. It was a look I had only seen once, a week ago at the oncologist when she’d been told she had six weeks left.

“What?” My impatience showed.

“She won’t see me. She wants to see you.”

“Why me? Why’d you tell her I was out here?” I felt angry, but I didn’t want her to know. I chastised myself for questioning her. “I’m sorry. I just hate psychics.” I made little bunny ears with my hands around the word.

“I didn’t tell her you were here,” she said, defeated.

“Well, come on,” I sighed and waved my hand at the tent for her to go in, but she shook her head.

“Just you.”

I sighed audibly and entered. It was heavy with smoke, and the old woman held up the blue pouch between her finger and thumb. Her nails were at least and inch and a half long and adorned with jewels.

“Heh,” I scoffed, thinking about how much it must cost for those nails to be kept up. ‘She must make a ton of money off people like Corinda,’ I thought.

“Take it,” she growled. Her voice sounded like tires on gravel, and though I wanted to stand just inside for a few minutes, long enough to appease Corinda, and then leave the shit show, I walked to her and grasped the bag. She motioned her cigar at the rack and table, and my legs moved to it, maneuvering around mystic relics that I cynically thought of as movie props and stood at the table.

Once I’d filled the bag, her cigar hand welcomed me to sit at the table and my legs once again walked to where she’d asked.

“Sit,” her voice gurgled. I sat. She held out her hand and I placed the bag in it. “Nina,” she whispered, “weathered, weary soul.”

My heart quickened. Surely Corinda had told her my name.

“You doubt much,” she continued and closed her fingers around the bag. With her cigar in her mouth, she lit a candle on the table and placed the bag in a brass bowl beside it. In my mind, I saw myself taking the cigar and setting fire to the tent with the old woman and myself inside. I imagined Corinda running in to see me and the old witch sitting at the table, unmoved as the tent burned.

“You are not afraid of death,” came the woman’s growl, “but you will not burn tonight.”

I tried to hide my surprise and hoped the darkness and smoke covered my wide eyes. Lighting another match, the woman shifted in her seat and removed the cigar from her mouth, touching the little fire to the blue bag. It lit immediately and filled the room with a sweet, calming aroma. I felt as though I were drifting in the wind. I could hear the woman speaking, her scratching voice sliding into me, but I could not hear the words, and then I felt a sharp pain in my back on the left side.

“Corinda...” I felt the name come from my lungs.

“I’m here,” came her voice in my ear. “Let go.”

My eyes fluttered open to see her face, and the ceiling. Lieing on the floor, in her lap, in her arms, I felt a glowing pain. Her eyes were bright. She grasped something behind me and then the pain again, so excruciating I cried out. I could hear the woman chanting as Corinda held up her and the knife we’d decided on. The knife she’d given me and begged me to end it with. “We’ll go to the beach,” she’d said. “And we’ll stay in the van and when I’m ready, we’ll go into the ocean and do it there.”

“You’re sure?” We’d had the conversation over and over, but when the doctors gave her the news, it finally seemed like more than a dieing woman’s desperate thoughts. It was real then. That face told me it was real. And I’d agreed. “Anything. I would to anything for you.”

Holding me there, Corinda smiled, the blood streaming down her hand and wrist. “Anything, Nina. You would do anything,” she said. Her chest was heaving and even in the dark and smokey tent, I could see her skin was flushed. My breath was failing. I could only muster a short and gurgled, “Anything for you.”