The Palm Reader's Error

The layoff paperwork sat on Mara's kitchen counter, a white stack next to a wilting bag of spinach. Two decades at the same cable company, evaporated by a spreadsheet somewhere in Seattle. She was forty-eight, and her palms were sweating against the cold granite.

Her mother had always said: trust the palm reader, not the economist. But the palm reader in Chinatown had seen a long life line, steady work, and 'at least three more promotions.' That was six months ago. Now Mara's severance package would last eighteen months if she was careful, and the only thing her life line revealed was that she'd underestimated how expensive dignity could be.

Outside, lightning cracked the October sky—a weird electrical storm for Portland, the kind that made the hair on her arms stand up. She'd spent the morning watching the stock market enter bear territory, her options underwater, her retirement bleeding out in real-time. The cable guy was coming tomorrow to disconnect her service. The irony wasn't lost on her: half her life spent ensuring other people had internet, and now she'd barely afford her own.

Her phone buzzed. David, her ex-husband, wanting to know if she'd reconsidered selling the house. 'The market's terrible, Mar,' he'd said yesterday, like she hadn't spent twenty years knowing exactly when to buy, when to hold, when to fold. He'd meant well. He always meant well.

Mara picked up the spinach, threw it in a pan with olive oil and garlic. Some things were still certain: fire made food taste better, markets always corrected eventually, and palm readers were wrong at least as often as economists. She plated the spinach, poured a glass of wine, and watched lightning illuminate the backyard. The storm would pass. Everything did. She just had to decide who she'd be when it did.