Kaylie’s tousled brown hair partially hides the tears crawling down her young face. “I got into a fight with my grandmother the night before she died,” she chokes out. “Is she OK? Is she with us?”
She gazes into a cup of coffee, then looks at Kaylie sheepishly. “One li’l question for you,” she says, drawing the words out. “How’s your husband’s sexual energy?”
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In a mint green bedroom on the far south side, Jorianne, a psychic, is seeing Kaylie and eight of her friends one at a time. Downstairs, some wait their turns while others discuss their readings. “What I liked was when she asked, ‘Do you wanna hear everything?’” says a woman between bites of lasagna. “I don’t know if I wanna hear everything, but everything’s turning up roses according to her.”
“No, except some tumor she saw growing.”
“Is there something wrong with your car?”
“I’m not one that remembers dreams.”
“How’s she doing?”
