The Past-Life Chronicles

5

"It's Saturday." Mom's voice rings across the kitchen as I empty a final handful of chips into my mouth before fastening the bag closed with a rubber band. I glance at her, my mouth full. She wears sage green robes with sheer sleeves and an emerald cape she must've ordered through one of those weird new age catalogs, because no big box retailer in its right mind would carry that.

"I'm on my way to circle." She grabs her purse off the countertop. "Wanna come?"

Ah, circle, a.k.a. coffee cake hour with a gaggle of middle-aged women dressed up for Ren Fest. Then again, it's held at Miracle's store, which is always full of great metaphysical books. I may be able to find something on reincarnation and past-life regression, like Travis Herd had suggested.

I look down at my hands, dusted with sour cream and onion, and wipe them on my jeans. "Sure," I decide.

Mom pauses. She seems surprised, but withholds a comment. "Grab your jacket, then. It's chilly."

It's sort of sad that I'm not doing anything else on a Saturday night. Even sadder than Henry, who's sequestered in his bedroom with nothing but his books and a bag of beef jerky to keep him company, because at least he's studying for Monday's bio-chem test.

I slip into my flats and zip up my jacket, then follow Mom out the door. Ash and Oak is about twenty minutes away down city roads, but there's never any traffic around here. It's BFE, Ohio, after all.

Relief is an understatement when we arrive. I'm grateful for the ground beneath my feet when I hop out of the Yukon. Little parking signs line the side of the brick and cinderblock storefront with phrases like Witch Parking Only - All Others Will Be Toad, and pretty much every car parked here has bumper stickers of rainbow pentacles or sayings like Goddess Afoot! and The Earth Is Our Mother.

I smile as we walk by Persephone's car. In the back window, she displays a bumper sticker claiming, Denial Is Not A River.

A handwritten sign hangs on the shop door, announcing that the store is closed for business, but all are welcome to the gathering downstairs. Mom walks behind me, carrying a bottle of sparkling champagne. I hold the door open for her.

As we enter, the aromas of incense and beeswax candles flood my nostrils and make me feel safe. The lighting is dim, and faint reiki music plays in the back room. A few women are gathered by the stairs, chatting. It's too dark to make out their faces, but I recognize the sound of Amethyst's deep voice and the smell of her Misty Lite cigarettes.

Mom heads over to greet them while I linger behind, taking in the tiny straw baskets of gemstones everywhere, dreamcatchers hanging on the wall, an outdated CD rack, and the locked glass case displaying crystal wands, goddess pendants, and other spiritual jewelry. It's been forever since I've been in here. The layout has barely changed, but the new products are pretty neat.

"I'm going downstairs," Mom calls to me. "Circle starts in ten minutes if you want to join us."

"Sure, Mom. I'm just going to look at some books for a sec." I head toward the back of the shop as the others descend the half-flight of carpeted stairs into a brightly-lit room where livelier guitar music is playing, probably some feminist pagan band like Spiral Dance or Inkubus Sukkubus.

The book section toward the back of the store is quieter. Cases of books and wisdom cards line the walls, divided into topics alphabetically: Astral Projection, Crystals, Druidism... I scan the handmade signs until I find a section on Reincarnation, where a few books by Raymond Moody and Brian Weiss are clumped together. I lift out a small handbook on regressions and page through its contents. I'm skimming over the introduction to gauge whether I like the writing style when a male voice breaches my solitude.