The Yellow Pages

Phasing back into reality was an uncomfortable experience at best. Peter felt as though his insides had been rearranged with a knife. Slowly, he sunk to the ground, clutching his stomach, resisting the urge to vomit. At that moment, he became certain of two things: he felt like shit, and he desperately needed a nap.

Swinging his way back home was an extraordinarily miserable experience. He didn’t bother finding an alley to change in so he could walk through the front doors of his building like a normal person. Instead, he launched himself onto his fire escape, throwing open the perpetually unlocked window and falling into his bed.

Peter slept for twelve hours straight. He awoke still tired. Peeling his suit from his body, Peter breathed a sigh of relief before grabbing the first available clothing from the floor and throwing it on. He moved slowly to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee and grabbing his phone to check his texts— 21 Missed Calls from Aunt May .

“Shit.”

Before he could move to return the call, there was a pounding at his door.

“Peter! Peter Parker, you open this door, or I will break it down myself,” May shouted.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m coming,” Peter scrambled to collect several loose pieces of trash and tossed them in the bin next to his sink before skidding to the entryway.

“Hi,” Peter flashed May with his signature grin upon flinging the door open to greet his aunt.

“Peter Parker, I am going to kill you,” she hissed, punctuating each word with a fist to his chest, “Where have you been?”

“Relax, May-”

“Relax? Relax?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was working on a project, and I just caught up in everything, and-” the second Peter’s mouth opened, the words came spilling out, a flood of practiced excuses, emptied out all over the floor.

“Oh, don’t you lie to me-”

“I- I swear, May, it won’t happen again, I’m so sorry-”

“And your apartment is a mess. How long has it been since you’ve picked up? Since you’ve eaten?” May continued on her tirade, pushing past Peter and into his apartment. 

“Not that long,” he muttered, wincing. “Can I get you some coffee?”

Peter followed behind May to the kitchen and watched from the doorway as she began to pilfer through his fridge, searching for something of substance to make him for breakfast. She pulled a pan from one of the cupboards and a pathetic-looking carton of eggs from the fridge, which she held limply in her hand while fixing him with a questioning glare.

“You are going to tell me exactly what happened and where you’ve been right now.”

Two days passed before Aunt May’s responses to his texts ceased in their dry and angry nature. He was working from home when she came by a few days later with Tupperware of lasagna and a rather large book in hand.

“I brought you dinner and a gift.” 

Peter cocked his head to the side with a questioning look in his eyes but moved aside to offer her entrance anyway.

“What is that?” He followed slowly behind her as she made her way towards the stove, placing the lasagna on top and reaching for a Sticky-Note from Peter’s drawer to write down instructions on reheating the meal. 

“The Yellow Pages. Well, the Yellow Pages from 2013. It’s an old copy, but I found it on one of my shelves while I was clearing out some of my books. I figured it might be of some use to you.”

Peter once again found himself looking at his aunt as though she was a lunatic.

“You said those other two Peters had found their MJs, no? Well, surely if the multiverse, or whatever you called it, had an MJ for each of them, it must have one waiting for you,” she explained. 

“May, you know I don’t believe in all that stuff. Besides, if I did have some sort of soulmate, she’s gone now. Gwen was my MJ.” His eyes flitted down to the counter, unmoving as he thought of Gwen. Of that night. 

“Peter, I know you miss her, but it's been eight years. You don’t have to believe in ‘all that stuff,’ but at least give this a chance. Besides, it might be good for you to at least consider seeing someone, even if it isn’t your MJ.”

“May, I-” he began.

“Just try,” she looked at him long and hard before returning to the yellow Sticky Note and finishing with the instructions, “it's the least you can do for me.”

That night, as Peter lay in bed, tapping away at his keyboard, the Yellow Pages seemed to glare at him from across the room, wordlessly begging him to open it up. To just take a look. Once more, fixing his gaze on the screen, willing himself to focus, he stared at the equation before him to no avail. It taunted him from behind the glass of his laptop.

Slamming the computer shut, he slumped back into his pillows, draping an arm over his eyes, resting for just a moment. Slowly, he lifted the elbow obscuring his vision to peek at the book again from across the room. No. I’m not ready, not yet. And yet, the voice in the back of his head tempted him, even as he flopped on his side to face away from his dresser. Come on, just take a look. You don’t have to go through with anything. 

Rolling over a final time to look at the Yellow Pages, he thrust himself out of bed and snatched the book, taking a seat behind his desk. He opened the book carefully, making his way to the Js, before uncapping a highlighter and scanning the first page. Eight names down: Mark Jackson. Peter highlighted the name before moving on. This was going to be a hell of a process.

As it turns out, Mark was a sixty-two-year-old married man. In fact, a good number of the folks on his list were married and an equal amount dead or moved away. It was out of sheer hopelessness that Peter had saved Marlene Jennings for last; such an old name must be an indicator of yet another septuagenarian happily married and awaiting grandchildren.

The air was cold as Peter trudged up the steps of 118-56 200th Street. It seeped through his skin, nestled inside his lungs, and stabbed at his throat as it passed by his lips. The roof of the house sloped into a sharp triangle, framing a single second-story window, and someone had taken the time to hang multi-colored Christmas lights just below the gutters, despite the fact it was only November (though Peter supposed they could also be remnants of the previous year’s holiday season). This was it. The last MJ on his list. He forced himself to feel hopeful despite the doubts weighing heavy on his chest. Pushing past the chain-link fence surrounding the small front yard, Peter moved towards the front door. After shifting his weight once more from his toes to the balls of his feet and stuffing the paper with the address haphazardly into his pocket, he raised a fist to knock. This has to be her.

He rapped nervously at the door. No answer. Glancing quickly at the first-story window, he could see the warm glow of lights inside the home, and if he listened hard, he could faintly make out the sound of music playing. Somebody was home. He knocked harder this time, with more determination. If this was his last MJ, he would do whatever it took to meet her. Still, no answer. As he raised his fist to pound at the door a third time, it swung open, leaving his fist dangling mid-air. 

“Can’t you read? The sign says no solicitors.”

She was short, the girl who answered the door, shorter than average from what Peter could gauge, and she was angry. As she yanked it open, strands of her hair, a warm copper color, flew out of her face, leaving her eyes, cased in messy eyeliner and glaring straight at Peter, exposed.

“S-sorry, I was just looking for a Marlene Jennings?” 

She laughed bitterly, as though she was aware of some cruel joke Peter wasn’t.

“You’re about seven years too late, she’s dead.”

Peter felt as though his heart had fallen out of his chest, and for a moment, the world felt so still, he could have sworn he felt it turning beneath his feet. His final MJ, dead. His eyes returned to the redhead before him, and he realized he was gaping at her. After consciously closing his mouth, he spoke again:

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did you know her?”

“She was my mother,” as the words fell from her mouth, she cocked her head to the side, curious, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I-I’m Peter Parker,” the words seemed to jumble up in his throat, pushing forward awkwardly from his lips.

“Okay, Peter Parker, why are you looking for my dead mother?”

“It’s- I’m not. Well, I am, but not your dead mother specifically. Sorry, that makes it sound like I’m actively looking for a dead mother. I’m not looking for a dead mother- or your dead mother. Sorry,” he trailed off, bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his neck out of nervousness.

“Katherine, who is that at the door?” A voice rang out from inside the home, growing closer as its owner approached from behind the girl he now knew as Katherine.

“No one Gran,” Katerine said, but the older woman was already pushing her granddaughter aside to get a better look.

“Gran, meet Peter Parker,” Katherine sighed in defeat as her grandmother eyed Peter up and down with curiosity.

“Parker?” the old woman’s eyebrows darted up in surprise, “You wouldn’t happen to know a May Parker, would you? She’s in my book club, you know.”

“Oh my god, Gran-”

“Actually, I do. She’s uh- she’s my aunt,” he smiled sheepishly at the redhead as she continued to glare in his direction, eyebrows only furrowing in the slightest as his admission. 

“Well, would you like to come inside, Peter Parker?” Katherine’s grandmother asked, shuffling away.

“I really shou-” Peter began, already subconsciously backing away from the girl standing before him, sensing her obvious mistrust and distaste at his presence.

“I just made a pot of coffee if you’d like some,” the older woman called out from the kitchen.

“I- actually yeah, that would be nice,” his eyes widened in surprise at his own sentiment, mirroring those of the girl before him. She seemed hesitant to step aside and let him in. Still, as her grandmother called her name from the kitchen, she allowed him to squeeze past before following him in. 

Peter felt a blanket of warmth drape itself across his shoulders the moment he set foot in the house. It was small, much smaller inside than it had seemed outside, but in a way that felt endearing, rather than stuffy and uncomfortable. As he walked past the living room, his eye caught on the ragged-looking quilt draped across the back of the couch and the unfinished puzzle domineering the coffee table, a still-steaming cup of tea sitting beside it.

In the kitchen, Katherine moved past her grandmother to pour Peter a cup of coffee, much to the older woman’s dismay.

“Katherine, I can do it myself. I don’t need your help,” she chided.

“I know you can, Gran, but I got here first. It’s only fair I do it. Besides, I was gonna make myself a cup anyways,” she replied easily, pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling it with the steaming brown liquid. Peter easily clocked her statement as a lie as his gaze passed over the untouched cup of coffee beside the laptop at the kitchen table. Without looking him in the eye, she passed him the mug in her hands before taking a seat at the table behind him and returning to her work.

“So, Peter Parker, may I ask what brings you here?” Katherine’s grandmother asked, leaning back against the counter, once again taking him in.

“Nothing reall-”

“He was looking for Mom,” Katherine cut him off without looking up from her screen, and Peter withheld the urge to shoot her a glare.

“What do you need with my daughter?” the older woman asked, suddenly more defensive than before. 

“I-” Peter felt as though his brain had short-circuited, and he suddenly became very interested in the slogan on the breast cancer awareness mug in his hand ( save the ta-tas ) as his mind scrambled for an excuse. 

“Well, see, I went to this psychic a while back, and she read my palm- you know psychic stuff- anyways she told my soulmate’s name would start with an M, so I picked up an old copy of the Yellow Pages and thought why the hell not? And now I’m here…” he trailed off, once more bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his neck as the old woman fixed him with an even gaze. Behind him, Katherine’s eyes lifted off her computer screen, brows once more furrowed as she looked at the boy up and down with newfound distrust.

“ Fucking weirdo ,” she muttered below her breath so only Peter could hear.

“Ah, so you’re a hopeless romantic,” a small smile crept across the old woman’s lips as she spoke.

“Yup, that’s me,” Peter willed his toothy grin to look convincing. Katherine only snorted behind him.

“May I read your cards?” the older woman cut in, and what he knew was a question sounded like more of a demand.

“Gran-”

“Sure,” Peter nodded.

“Sit,” Katherine’s grandmother instructed, pointing to the empty seat beside her granddaughter before exiting the room.

“You know, they have all that stuff online now if you want an updated version,” Katherine supplied, once again focused on her computer screen.

“What?”

“The Yellow Pages, you can find all that online. I assume you were using an outdated version. I doubt any version from the last six years would have my mom’s name in it,” she answered, finally looking up to meet his gaze. 

“Oh, yeah, I knew that.”

“Sure you did.”

Katherine’s grandmother re-entered the room then, deck of cards in hand. Moving to take the seat across from Peter, she cleared some of her granddaughter’s papers to make space for her spread. Her fingers, old yet nimble, cradled the cards delicately as she shuffled, allowing a couple of cards to fall out.

“The first three cards, Peter Parker, represent your past,” she hummed as she placed the three cards that had fallen from the deck in a row one by one, talking all the while.

“Your first card is the Three of Swords. It signifies a deep sorrow or loss that has been experienced. Your next card is the Five of Cups. It conveys regret, mourning, and suffering. Your final card in this row-” she was cut off by a sharp intake of breath beside him.

“Jesus fuck,” Katherine whispered, gaze fully fixed on the cards before him.

“What? Is that bad?” Peter asked, indicating the final card before him.

“Some might not consider it to be the best card to pull-” Katherine’s grandmother began.

“Yeah, because it is literally the worst card in the entire deck,” the younger girl jumped in, quickly cutting her off.

Peter stared down at the card in dismay: The Tower.

“Your past is clouded by significant destruction and pain,” the old woman regarded him with transparent pity in her eyes.

“That seems like an understatement,” Katherine scoffed, standing to pour more coffee in Peter’s now empty cup with a wince in the direction of the spread.

“On the bright side, the reading can only go up from here given that you pulled the shittiest cards in the deck,” she smiled jokingly in his direction, and even though he knew it was because she felt bad, he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Let’s see what the present holds for you, boy,” the old woman said, beginning to shuffle the cards once more as Katherine set his mug back down beside him.

“The Hanged Man,” she explained, placing it below the Three of Swords, “this card signifies self-sacrifice and time taken to reconsider one’s path. Every move you make now is critical and necessary and must be treated as such for you to progress on your path.”

“This next card signifies your crux,” she stated.

“My crux?” Peter’s brows furrowed.

“Think of it as your conflict: what you must overcome. Your crux is the Five of Swords. It signifies not only defeat but self-defeat. While you have always had to overcome the obstacles laid down by others, you must now confront those you have placed in your own path,” she said.

“The final card that defines your present is Death-”

“You said I already got all the bad ones,” Peter groaned, his voice taking an accusatory tone.

“Death is not a bad card. In fact, it symbolizes rebirth and closure. This, my boy, is a good omen. You are in a period of conflict at the moment, Peter Parker.”

Peter winced, but the old woman only laughed.

“Do not be afraid. It is in the most difficult moments in life that we do the most growing. It won’t be easy, but periods such as these are always worthwhile. Enough about your present, though. Let’s look into the future,” she smiled, quick fingers shuffling the cards a final time.

“Ah, the Ten of Swords. The closure you seek is coming your way,” she stated.

Peter’s eyebrows raised as she picked up the nest fallen card from the deck. The Lovers.

“Try not to look so surprised. It’s unflattering on you,” Katherine laughed from behind her computer.

“Does this one have some sort of double meaning too?” Peter questioned.

“Nope,” the old woman stated bluntly, “sometimes the cards tell you exactly what you think they’re telling you. Right now, they are suggesting a union-”

“Probably in a friend type of way-”

“No, I don’t think that’s what the cards are saying.”

“Are you sure?” Peter squeaked.

“Yes. Now, stop interrupting,” Katherine’s grandmother chided, “The Queen of Wands.”

She smiled to herself as though she knew something he didn’t, and he studied the card, begging it wordlessly to tell him what it was. It was more worn than the rest of the deck, by an almost imperceptible amount, but he noticed nonetheless. Perhaps she drew this card often, or perhaps she just liked it the most, but he knew in an instant it was special.

“This person carries a more feminine energy. The Queen of Wands signifies creativity and independence. They will be optimistic, beautiful, and perhaps friendly. I’m sensing a name that begins with the letter K-”

Beside him, Katherine choked on the coffee she was sipping before abruptly standing up and beginning to collect the cards from the table.

“That’s enough, Gran. I think he’s finished. I’m sure we have bothered poor Peter here long enough, so you can be done now.”

As she scrambled desperately to push Peter from his chair, her arm nicked his mug, tipping it over. Peter quickly caught it, but the damage was done as its steaming hot contents landed on his lap. He shot up in pain while Katherine’s hands traveled to cover her mouth.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay. It’s fine. Do you maybe have a bathroom that I could use,” Peter quickly cut off the string of apologies, looking to her for directions. 

“Yes, sorry, through the living room and down the hallway to your left,” she rushed out, already moving across the kitchen to grab some paper towels. 

“Really, it’s fine. I’m just gonna try to clean this up,” he promised, moving towards the restroom.

As Peter stood in his underpants, washing his pants in a stranger’s sink, he found himself regretting having ever taken Aunt May’s advice. Slipping back into his jeans, he noticed the massive wet spot surrounding his crotch. He quickly shrugged off the flannel he had thrown on for an extra layer beneath his winter coat and tied it loosely around his waist. 

Upon exiting the bathroom, he could hear faint arguing from the kitchen.

“You are unbelievable! I can’t believe you would say that to him,” Katherine hissed.

“That was your card. The cards do everything for a reason-” her grandmother began.

“Oh my god, enough with the cards-”

“Besides, he’s cute, and God knows it’s been years since you’ve seen anyone-”

“Gran!” Katherine screeched indignantly. Peter smiled in spite of himself at the argument.

“Katherine, you’re twenty-five. You know I was married at nineteen.”

“Yes, Gran, I know,” she sighed exasperatedly at the older woman.

“You’re not gonna be able to have kids forever-” she teased.

“And I’m leaving,” Katherine stated, and before Peter could move, she whipped around the corner, coming face to face with him.

“Hi,” she laughed nervously.

“Hey,” Peter offered, bringing his hand to the back of his neck to scratch at the skin.

“Were you-”

“Leaving? Yes,” Peter supplied, moving towards the door as she trailed behind.

“Well, thanks for the visit,” she said before wincing at the words that had just left her mouth.

“Thanks for having me? Goodbye, Katherine.”

“Goodbye, Peter Parker.”