No hairy moles here

Healing by prayer, she has blessed candles that she gives to those who believe, --an advertisement for Psychic Mrs. Gina

I'm sure it was just a mistake that I didn't received the blessed candles, because I am a believer. I believe in other worlds and other lives, I believe in destiny and fate, and I believed, before I'd even met her, in Psychic Mrs. Gina and her Palm and Card Readings.

Call me weak, but I felt that if Mrs. Gina read my palm, then all my problems would be solved. The paper I had to write would be indefinitely extended, our toilet would be unclogged, and the crowd of unfamiliar men and women on my floor visiting for Head of the Charles would mysteriously disappear.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the door to Mrs. Gina's private office--no tinkling bells, I noticed. This was a good sign. Not that she needed to be alerted to my arrival: She was already there. Mrs. Gina, the key to my future, the eye into my destiny, the woman with one foot in this world and one in another, Mrs. Gina the Psychic, her face hidden behind pitch black Ray-Bans.

With my heart in throat, I approached her, unsure you eager. "Mrs. Gina?" There was no turban on her head, no hairy moles on her face, and no mysterious crystals hanging from her neck. This psychic could go from reading cards in Cambridge to dealing cards in Vegas. Her jet black hair hung loose, her rhinestone earrings dangled low, and she was wrapped in a clinging black dress with a dangerously plunging neckline. "Come back in five minutes." With that, I left, astounded and confused.

What could she mean, I thought, as I walked around Inman Square for what seemed an eternity. Is she preparing her thoughts, consulting with her conspirator on the other side, or simply psyching me out? Five minutes later, she was sitting exactly where she had been before. And where she had been before, and was now, was not the dark, frightening room of seances and sinister doings I had imagined, but an airy, pale blue front porch. The sun was streaming in, and icons of the Virgin Mary and praying hands decorated the otherwise sparse walls.

"Give me your hand," she commanded gruffly, and as she firmly gripped my right hand with both of her own, I knew she also had a firm grasp on her task. "Make two wishes," she said, and after a few feeble protests (short term or long term? Wait, wasn't I paying her to tell me things?)

I relented. After that, I have only vague memories of what ensued. She had me in her spell. Her hands still holding my hand, her eyes glued on my face, she delved into my future in an thick Italian accent. "I see a man in your future, in seven months or seven years, do you understand?" I cringed. Please let it be the former, I thought.

"I see money in your future, in two months or two years, do you understand? I see two husbands: one at 25, and the other when you are 32, do you understand?"

My head was spinning. How would I ever remember these predictions later, when it mattered"

Pretty soon, however, I was swept into the rhythm of her words, and I understood everything without understanding a word of what she was saying. With a deft turn of my hand, she doomed me to four children, did I understand? She went on like a whirlwind, about family, and success, and friends, and the future, and before I knew it, she threw the ball in my court. "Do you have any questions?"

Where could I begin? After a dazed attempt to extract more information from her, I withdrew my hand. No, I sighed, and sank into my white cane chair. I understand.

Are you alone with your secrets? If you need someone to solve them in confidence, see Mrs. Gina in her private office.-an advertisement for Psychic Mrs. Gina

Despite the fact that this way only a "partial reading," the five-dollar special, I had caught a glimpse of the future. And knowing the future, I believe that everything will fall into place. It's already stared: when I came home, the toilet was unclogged, the floor was cleared of coeds and luggage, and the paper, I am sure, will get done. Do you understand?