Page 25 of War on Christmas

“Enter.”

The door cracks open, and, to my surprise, not one, buttwoblonde heads poke through. My mom and Bethany. I must have been more lost in thought than I realized, because I didn’t even hear Bethany arrive at the house. I’m not surprised, though. I’m sure she’s here to get advice or just vent to Mom about what happened with Abi last night. She’s always turned to Mom for comfort in a way I never have.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Bethany asks, pushing her way through.

She reaches to flip the light switch on but pulls her hand back at my muttered “Don’t.”

My mom, more timid, tiptoes in Bethany’s wake, looking cautiously around the room. But aside from some dirty laundry and the tiny altar of amber, lapis lazuli, and onyx I’ve set up on top of my dresser, it’s the same as it’s always been. Hecate jumps from my lap and pads across the nightmarish pink carpet to greet our visitors, sniffing them both until they each scratch behind her ears. She’s the troll under the bridge, and her currency is ear scratches.

“It’s a new moon,” I tell Bethany as she and my mom walk to the bed and sit side by side. In the shadowy light, they could easily pass for sisters, their straight, careful postures identical. “I like some quiet and contemplation on new moons, and I find it easier to contemplate in the dark…and the quiet.”

I watch them both for a reaction. My spiritual practices—tarot cards, crystal magick, and astrology—aren’t for everyone, and I’m used to people jumping to conclusions. It’s why, until now, I’ve never discussed my magickal beliefs openly with my family (other than Thad and Abi, of course). Not that I expect them to race to the garage for pitchforks and tiki torches. I just figured it would be one more tally in the “Ways Freya Is Weird” column, and really, aren’t there enough of those already?

However, my brunch conversation with Jeremy is lingering, and not just the impromptu hand holding. His quiet anguish as he discussed his mom haunts me. Feelings aren’t a competition; the pain of his family experience is different from mine. Apples and oranges. Still…when I voiced my own family complaints next to his, the situation with the Nilsen crew didn’t seem quite so insurmountable. As different as I am, I’ve always known I have a place to go if I need it. A safe home and food on the table. A family to spend the holidays with when my cat wipes out my savings account. Hearing Jeremy’s story has me taking these things a little less for granted, and if I want to make more of an effort with my family, being more open about my life seems like a decent first step.

There is also, of course, the specter of that reversed Hermit card hanging over me. I should isolate myself less? Fine. Takethis, tarot deck.

My mom’s eyes widen slightly, and her voice straddles between awe and nervousness. “Are you like…a witch?”

Above all else, my spiritual practices are solitary. If Iama witch, I don’t want a coven; I want to be left alone. My only interactions regarding my craft come from watching #WitchTok videos and occasionally commenting on my favorite magickal blog,Hope & Stardust. A lot of theHope & Stardustreaders refer to themselves as Hot Mess Witches, but labels have always seemed unnecessary to me. However, if Iamgoing to be saddled with a label…I don’t totally hate this one.

I shrug. “I guess so.”

“Ooh!” Bethany coos.

If I’d been expecting shock, I would have been seriously disappointed. It reminds me a little of Leo’s coming out story, which consists of his family staring at him incredulously until his mom finally whispered, “Oh, honey, we’ve known for years.”

Bethany shoves a bottle of wine, which I just notice, into my mom’s lap, and hops from the bed, eyeing my tarot deck with excitement. My mom, for her part, doesn’t have much reaction at all. She’s already focused on unscrewing the wine bottle as Bethany grabs my deck.

“Oracle cards,” Bethany says, nodding. “I want to order some decks to carry in the shop.”

My lips tilt into a smirk. “Not oracle cards. Tarot.”

Truth? I’ve been pulling cards for Abi since we started video calling each other regularly a couple years ago. I never explicitly told her she couldn’t tell her mom, but I assumed she wouldn’t because we didn’t know for sure how Bethany would react. As I watch her flip through the deck with avid curiosity, though, I realize I should have given her more credit. Then her face scrunches up with horror, and I hear myself cackle, knowingexactlywhat is coming.

“Tarot is just soscary,” she says, holding up the Death card, which features a leering, skeletal face. “I really prefer my angel oracle deck.”

“One,” I say, holding up a finger, “life is scary. Two”—I flip up a second finger—“it’s not about literal death. It’s about reaching the end of a cycle or stage. So, chill the fuck out.”

I’m pleasantly surprised, though. Bethany is the poster girl for “Positive vibes only!” which isn’t my thing, but her spiritual beliefs are still way more interesting than I anticipated. Like good Midwesterners, we’ve avoided talking about anything close to religion since my junior year hexing incident. I’m now realizing that I don’t know anything about Bethany’s spiritual beliefs.

My mom hands me the wine bottle, and I grab it, watching Bethany as she continues to flip through my deck. I don’t see any cups at this impromptu party, so I tilt the bottle to my lips.

“So how is my favorite niece doing after her grand adventure?” I ask, handing the bottle to Mom. Bethany returns my cards with a deep moan.

“Oh, you know, it’s basically all my fault,” she says, flopping back onto the bed. “I’m too overprotective. All the other kids do it. I’m turning her into a social pariah.”

I cringe. I felt like a total asshole busting Abi by taking her home to Bethany and Drew last night, but she didn’t leave me a choice. She was too far gone for me to cover for her if she came here. And ultimately, hiding it from Bethany didn’t feel like the right thing to do.

“Can you do one for me?” my mom asks, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

“Can I do a what?” I ask, confused.

“A card? Or is it called a reading?” Mom’s lips twist to the side. She’s nervous. Not about the tarot cards, but about getting the words right. She’s worried about offending me.

“Are you sure? You don’t have—”

“Oh, I know I don’t,” she assures me, then takes another drink of wine before handing it to Bethany. “I had one done at a fair as a teenager. It was interesting.”

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