About two years ago, a word appeared on my email’s word-of-the-day from Merriam-Webster: “abulia” — the extraordinary inability to make a decision.

Of all of the vocabulary words that fluttered in and out of my head and clogged the deleted messages of my email account, this one stuck. It was fun to say, letting it roll off the lips like molasses, like garbanzo. Plus, the idea of this condition fascinated me. I constructed an entire novel in my head around a character stricken with this affliction. And, in instances when abulia entered my life, I could inject confusion into polite cocktail conversation: “I suffer from abulia,” I would hiss in a whisper. Though some people would take a step back from me, few asked for an explanation.

Maybe it comes from reading too many tragic novels and then flipping back to the exact page, say page 203, where the first step toward disaster comes. “No, no, Oedipus,” I want to say, “Don’t walk down that road until your father is safely home.” Or, “Wait, Romeo, maybe you shouldn’t duel with your true love’s cousin.” Of course, the “if only’s” don’t really work when the death and despair are trapped in black-and-white. But sometimes I think it would be nice if I could flip ahead a few chapters in my life and see what was going to happen. After all, who wouldn’t want a magic crystal ball to peer into the future to see what lies waiting ahead on this or that path?

So when a big, bright sign appeared a few months ago on my normal drive from town to home advertising palm and tarot card readings, I was curious. There is something attractive about the ancient/New Age art of spiritual advising, even if it is campy and even if it is impractical. I’m not really a skeptic, though I am skeptical, and I’m not a believer, though I’d like to believe. I’m really just a bit curious, wanting a peek behind door number three, looking for hints about future decisions, and willing to risk a little bit of cash to see if there is some great secret I’m missing concerning what to do with my life. After weeks and weeks of driving by to check it out, I finally pulled in.

The only other time I've patronized a palm reader was in college, in the city, with slightly intoxicated and giggling girlfriends in tow. The only question I could think to ask was if I was going to do OK with my grades that semester. All of the other vague talk about dark-haired women and light-haired men was lost in hypnotic hand gestures and rich, burning incense. She was right about my grades, though I suppose she had a 50/50 chance at guessing right.

The atmosphere this time was quite a bit different. I stared captivated by the sign, blazing yellow and red and lights with carnival-like enticement. And I was a little confused as I walked to the door, not really sure where I was supposed to go or if I needed an appointment, and without the rampant recklessness of a carload of best friends and youthful silliness. The lady who answered the door looked at me so suspiciously I was sure that I was at the wrong place, but when I asked for the palm reader, she opened the door and welcomed me in. She was beautiful and calm, extremely sophisticated, and she called me honey with a foreign accent. Once inside I felt really, really strange — part silly, part scared.

And then the familiar feeling that I was in the midst of a David Lynch movie surrounded me. I checked out the living room, where Lifetime was blazing on the television and another woman cooked busily in the open kitchen. A young girl sat on the couch, and I started thinking that she must have a great story to tell, a perfect character, growing up with psychics.

The woman gave me the rundown of the options I had: a tarot card reading for $40, a palm reading for $40, and a crystal ball reading for $35. With the first, I would also get to ask two questions. Swirling with choices, I suddenly became tongue-tied, not only because 40 bucks wasn’t the small change that I thought it would cost, but because I was out of my element. I was a shopper who didn’t know how to tell what the heck I was shopping for. I felt stupid as I asked what the difference was in what you could learn from the different approaches, and I bit my tongue as I started to ask why the crystal ball reading was cheaper. Was it not as good? A special promotion?

I chose the cards, agreed to the $40 and was ushered to a private office off the kitchen with a large, business like desk. I sat on one side, she the other, and I suddenly felt like I was at the doctor. She told me to take the $40, hold it in my hand and make two wishes. I fumbled for my wallet, wondering if she wanted to see if I had the money and trying to remember what exactly it was I really wanted to come true while she began muttering something I couldn’t understand. My mind launched into sensory overload, reeling like a kid in a candy store, and I made out the words “blessed Jesus” and wondered why the hell we make wishes on money as I stared at the two twenties in my hand.

Simultaneously, I was fascinated by the objects cluttering her desk. They were an odd blend of crystals, beads, and ceramic images of Madonna, and I recognized a white plaster elephant like one that held rings on its trunk I used to have as a child. I was fully in the spell of the moment, and she calmly dealt out the cards into three stacks.

As she began talking and dealing out more cards, I became more and more nervous and more and more skeptical. I rubbed the money, anxiously waiting for her to stand up waving her hands and screaming that disaster was imminent, but she never did. She made several comments that I tried hard to apply to my life — yes, I do know someone in the hospital, but no, I’m not in a lawsuit, wondering when she was going to get to the really good stuff. I wanted to hear whether or not I was going to finally win the million dollar game at Ingles or if I should just stop trying. I wanted to know if my daughter was going to have a wonderful life. I wanted to know if I was going to live happily ever after. But the cards kept coming revealing only headaches and trips and I began to squirm like a worm under a microscope as she poked and prodded my personal life.

I excused her while she took a brief call on her cell phone, and I waited for more. I got it, but it didn’t really make sense, but I learned that for 50 more dollars, I could clear the obstacles from my path by purchasing a crystal. I told her flatly that I couldn’t afford it, and she smiled and gave me her card. “All right then,” she said dismissively, and I awkwardly gathered my coat and placed the $40 on her desk. Still in a daze, I exited the office into the kitchen where the woman was still cooking and where the girl was still watching television. I was in my car and two miles down the road before I screamed out loud, “Wait, I forgot to ask my two questions!”

Alas, I felt so silly I didn’t turn around and demand my answers. I was still dazzled by the mystery and the intrigue of the magic vibes of the spiritual world and still disappointed by what I learned about the future of my life’s story. What exactly did I learn? Maybe when I have more money I can seek more help to glimpse beyond the future’s veil for suggestions to guide my life decisions. Unfortunately, the treatment for abulia is not covered by my insurance. And spiritual advisors don’t work for free.

(Esther Godfrey lives in Swain County and is in a PhD program at the University of Tennessee.)