soothsayer

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The first time someone told me that they always read the end of the book first, I thought they were joking. I laughed and they looked wounded. The kind of vulnerable pain that doesn’t ease with apologies, though I tried them. Maybe she could sense that I still thought it was silly. Honestly, it offended my sensibilities in a way I wasn’t ready for. I didn’t think I cared how other people read but, I mean, the end is at the end. You read it at the end. 

I don’t care about it the way I used to. Teaching for years and talking to people about books so much, I understand that reading isn’t done one way, and that some things don’t work for some readers. [insert things that don’t work for me] 

I still don’t read the ending first or even skip to the last chapter when I’m midway through. But I get the impulse now. I wish I could do it in life, honestly. I hate that quote about if it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. But I still want to know — not hope, not believe — that I’ll be okay in the end. 

I know we’re not supposed to know what happens. I’ve read the right stories and seen all the Back to the Futures. Knowing how it ends leaches the present dry. And maybe there really is no set ending, no inevitable destiny. Maybe it’s all too wide open to be determined.

I shudder. Possibility yawns like a cavern of oblivion beneath the narrow path I’m shuffling along. 

Would it help, to know the future? Could I sleep in and not feel guilty? Could I stop obsessing over never having enough money and always spending too much of it? Could I wrest my lungs out of the grip of my anxiety, take a fucking breath for a change?

Probably not. But it would be nice to turn these pages, just for a glimpse. 

When I was younger, the idea of a Creator seemed so obviously unreal. I was always surprised to learn that people really believed in it. I thought maybe they were teasing me, the way my uncle would pretend to be in pain when my baby cousins smacked their tiny hands against his broad chest. He would fall to his knees, his face a grotesque mask of agony, wailing. It was a committed performance and he wouldn’t stop until the aggressor put their stubby arms around his neck and slobbered a kiss against his cheek. Then he’d suddenly be fine, his face relaxing into a smile, no tears to be seen. He never said he was playing. For all the kids knew, their mercy healed him.

I thought religion was like this: stories and games meant to teach us how to behave. Stories about liars who were punished taught us not to lie. Listen to authority, even if it asks you to sacrifice your child. Be good or you’ll be drowned in a flood. I couldn’t believe that these things actually happened anymore than I believed my three-year-old cousin had broken my uncle’s leg with his marshmallow fist. 

But I understand some of it, as I get older. I understand the yearning for meaning. I understand not wanting to feel like you’re alone. I understand fearing death and the idea that the end is the end. 

Maybe it’s as close as we’ve gotten to skipping chapters: narrowing the end result down to two possible outcomes.