As we approach, I hear the butler explaining, “Jamilla only speaks Arabic and French, but I’m told we have a translator for the group.”
Hmm, I wonder who told him that? I study Lisa, my enthusiasm for this special treat waning. There are very few people I trust on this rooftop right now.
Lauren thrusts her hand into the air, thrilled to provide such a critical service for everyone here. She introduces herself to Jamilla and listens intently to the woman’s response.
“She says that the person she is reading should sit next to her,” Lauren says.
Kelly addresses Layla with a buoyant smile. “Want to go first, Layls?”
I know Kelly is just trying to make up for what happened downstairs, but I don’t want Layla anywhere near this crystal gazer. Even if she isn’t a producer plant, I don’t trust Lauren to translate truthfully.
Layla sidesteps the bench, taking a seat to Jamilla’s left. Jamilla pats the pouf of Layla’s hair, exclaiming delightedly, and poses a question to Lauren, who claps her hands together, hooting at whatever it was Jamilla said to her.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. Elle est sa fille.” She points to Kelly, saying to Stephanie, “She thought Layla was yours!”
“Why is that funny?” Stephanie wants to know.
“Jesus, you are in a mood tonight.” Lauren reaches for a sour fruit tart, checking to make sure the cameras are watching. I eat carbs.
“Let’s let Jen go first,” I intervene. “This is more her beat anyway.”
Jen purses her lips in what could be considered a smile. “I believe that wellness of mind and body is the best predictor of the future, but sure,” she shrugs, “okay.”
Jamilla shuffles the deck, fanning it out for Jen and motioning for her to pick one. She pats her chest, instructing Jen to press the card to her heart.
“Fermer les yeux et penser à ce que vous derange.”
Jen turns to Lauren.
“Close your eyes and think about what troubles you,” Lauren translates for her. Jen complies with a gamely sigh through her nose, clamping both hands over the card as though trying to smother it.
“Ouvre tes yeux.”
Jen arches one eyebrow, eyes still shut.
“Open your eyes,” Lauren says.
Jen flutters her eyes open. Jamilla motions for her to reveal the card on the table: The Lovers. Jen runs a hand through her longer hair with a laugh. “Okay,” she says. She’s nervous, I realize.
Jamilla begins the reading.
“The Lovers do not always symbolize love,” Lauren says, when Jamilla pauses to take a breath. “Especially when somebody places the card upside down like this.”
The group leans forward, elbows on thighs, to get a better look.
Jamilla rattles off a long spiel that Lauren seems to have trouble with.
Seems to.
Seems to.
“Can you say that again?” Lauren asks.
Jamilla repeats herself, and Lauren nods along, brow cinched, in a commendable effort of trying to understand. “She says that a reversed Lovers card can indicate that you are at war with yourself, and that you are struggling to balance your own internal forces.”
Jen produces a polite hmm! As though Jamilla’s reading is interesting, but doesn’t resonate.
“That’s all?” I say. “It sounded like she spoke for a lot longer than that.”
“That was the essence of it,” Lauren says with a celestial smile.
“Toi,” Jamilla says, suddenly, beckoning Stephanie. “Je veux te parler.”
“She wants to talk to you,” Lauren says.
Jen gets up—almost eagerly, I note—but Stephanie makes no move to trade positions. “Why?” she asks in a surly way.
“Get over there and find out!” Lauren places a hand between Steph’s shoulder blades and shoves. The plane of Stephanie’s back hardens in response.
Jamilla says something else that sounds urgent.
“She says it’s important!” Lauren exclaims.
Stephanie sighs irritably. We all watch, collectively holding our breath, as she decides to finally get up and move into Jen’s spot. She plunks down next to Jamilla with category-five attitude and, without awaiting instruction, pulls a card, holds it to her chest, and shuts her eyes. She’ll do this on her own terms.
She opens her eyes and places her card on the table at Jamilla’s untranslated behest: The Hanged Man, upright. Jamilla says something short and unemotional.
“So,” Lauren says. “The Hanged Man is a willing victim. He makes personal, financial, and professional sacrifices in order to accomplish a higher goal. You are the ultimate martyr.”
“No shit,” Stephanie says, and, just like the pink chipped polish on her toes, this response is pronounced and out of character. We have a funny contest at the end of the season—which Digger required the most bleep censors in the editing room. It’s usually a toss-up between Lauren and me, but Stephanie, the group’s wordsmith who prides herself on more thoughtful articulation, has always come in last place.
Jamilla is speaking again. When she finishes, Lauren takes a moment before translating. “You are giving too much of yourself to someone. Someone who doesn’t give enough of himself or herself back to you. You let him or her hurt you time and time again.”
Steph leans back, getting comfortable, a dangerous smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. “Is that so?” she asks, nodding, thinking it over. She strokes the underside of her chin, ruefully. “Ask her to narrow it down for me, Laur. Is it a him?” She looks directly at me. “Or is it a her? Because really,” her laugh tinkles, “I could go either way.”
My hands and feet go numb. It is chilly up here, so close to a woman I thought I knew so well. Because the Steph I knew cared deeply about the dog and pony show. She was hell-bent on protecting her pride. If I wanted, I could turn to the cameras and say you can’t use this or fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshit, which we do sometimes to blemish the shot if it isn’t to our liking. But doing so would only draw more attention to Stephanie’s oh-so-unsubtle insinuation that we had a thing. It won’t make Lisa let go of that theory, it will only make her latch on harder.
Lauren translates Steph’s question for Jamilla. Jamilla closes her eyes, thinking about it—is it a him or a her? Lui, she says to Lauren, after an airless moment.
“Him,” Lauren says to Steph.
Stephanie pouts. She wanted this to be about me, I realize, feeling dizzy.
Jamilla continues to speak.
“You let him hurt you because you believe, in your heart, that he loves you,” Lauren says. “But he has given his heart to someone else.”
Stephanie sidles up closer to Jamilla, her lips parted in absolute elation. “Is that someone sitting here tonight?” She wiggles her fingers, spookily.
Jamilla looks to Lauren for assistance.
“Go on,” Stephanie whispers, at a silly, horror-movie pitch, “ask her.”
Lauren moves an inch away from Stephanie, but she does ask Jamilla the question.
“Oui.” Jamilla nods, and Stephanie claps her hands and woot-woots.
“The person is here?” Stephanie cries. “Oh, goody goody gumdrops! Wait, okay.” She shimmies in her seat, excitedly. “I’m going to point, and I want her to tell me to stop when I’ve pointed to the person my husband has given his heart to.”
Stephanie raises one arm without waiting for Lauren to communicate her request to Jamilla. For a moment that feels incalculable, she rests an arrow-straight finger on Kelly.
Kelly starts to say, “This is”—but before she can finish, Steph directs her finger around the circle, stopping for a fraction of a second on Jen, then me, then Lauren. When she’s finished implicating all the Diggers, she raises her arm and points above our hairlines at Lisa, Marc, and the rest of the crew. Stephanie explodes with a hoarse laugh, one that sounds like it’s skinned a layer of tissue off the back of her throat.
“I have to tell you,” Stephanie says, wiping away tears of joy, “I was skeptical, at first. But this is the most accurate reading ever. She didn’t stop me on anyone—which is the God’s honest truth. Vince is the Goal Diggers’ bicycle. Everyone take a ride! We should have brought him instead of your fancy new electric bikes, B. Kel, would you have let Layla ride him?”