The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  “Get whatever you like,” I tell the girls. “See, they have French fries.”

  “And onion rings,” Cleo says.

  I study her, trying to remember how old I was when I knew how to read a menu—or anything else, for that matter. “So, how old are you girls?”

  “I turned nine last week,” Romola says. “And Cleo’s gonna be four in April.”

  “That’s when my birthday is too,” I say. “April fourteenth.”

  “Hers is the twentieth.”

  Cusp child. Between the fish and the ram.

  “I’m having a big party when I’m twenty,” Cleo says. “And when I’m four, because April is number four.”

  Ah, don’t forget numerology. “Four is a lucky number to Native Americans,” I say. But not to the Chinese. Not that she needs to know that.

  “I thought seven is lucky,” says Romola.

  “Sure. And thirteen.”

  “Is not!”

  I shrug. “To some. The people your mom and I grew up with.” I hesitate, wondering how much they know about Viveka’s upbringing and if she’d want me to talk about it or not. “Well. They like the number thirteen a lot.” I tap my fingers on the table. “I’m sorry about your grandma. About Sadie.”

  Romola looks uncomfortable. Cleo’s mouth turns down at the corners.

  “You must miss her,” I say.

  “She’s in heaven,” Cleo says. She gives a big, dramatic sigh and suddenly smiles. “Mommy’s been here.”

  “She has?” I look to her sister, who has begun a busy perusal of the milkshake selection.

  Cleo nods. “I want pie.”

  “I want French fries,” Romola says.

  Viveka came here. When? Her family always lived outside of the city, and there’s no reason to come to a diner dive like the Penny unless you don’t have a lot of money or you’re depressed. But Cleo is right, I realize. Viveka came here with the coven once for breakfast after a dawn sun salutation in the Presidio. I remember this because she ordered a banana split at seven in the morning.

  ****

  I get the girls to brush their teeth and settle them in our spare room—sometimes Hillary’s room—after watching The Wizard of Oz, which I had to dig out of a box in our hall closet. I watch them for reactions to Glinda and the Wicked Witch of the West, but they seem entirely unperturbed, except when the Wicked Witch of the East’s toes curl and shrivel up under the house. Who doesn’t find that disturbing? They go to bed when I tell them to. I hear their voices through the door, but I don’t try to listen in. Some things, like the whispers between sisters, are especially sacred, especially to those of us who’ve never had one.

  It’s nearly ten when Cooper comes home. I’ve been going over what to say to him since the Lucky Penny waitress brought the check. He takes the news of our unexpected houseguests with his usual composure, although there’s a frown between his eyes. He has me repeat the story, starting with my friendship with Viv, if you want to call it that. I’m not sure I’ve ever mentioned her to Cooper. He listens, sitting upright in his chair, one finger pressed against his cheekbone while the rest of his fingers ever so slightly tap his lips. When I finish the tale, he takes his hand away, and there’s a red mark on his face that glows brightly before beginning to fade.

  “This is very odd,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “What do you suppose she’s doing?”

  I take a moment to reach out to her with my thoughts. I haven’t tried this yet, and I’m nonplussed by the results—I can’t find her trace. I know I’m out of practice, but how can this be?

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. Maybe she has magickal help. My first guess is Gru. But then why didn’t Viveka take the girls to Gru’s?

  “We’ve got to find her,” Cooper says. “This is unacceptable.”

  “But—” I stand up from where I’ve been sitting on the couch. “It’s too late now. They’re here and she’s gone, and that’s that.”

  He glances down the hallway, as if it’s just occurred to him that we really are not alone in the flat. “Well, when is she coming back for them?”

  “She said soon.” I pause, and even though it isn’t exactly true, I say, “And I believe her.”

  He looks at his lap. “This is all just so strange.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “I’m just not used to such…interruptions.” He stands up and takes my hands. “We have a routine, you and I.”

  “Well.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “Maybe this is good practice.”

  “Practice?”

  “You know.” I look down at our abdomens, mine tucked beneath his. “When we decide to make a little Memphis-Cooper. A little Mooper.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It’ll give us some inspiration.”

  “Inspiration can be distracting.”

  “Inspiration can also be inspiring.”

  “How come you never say that when Hillary comes over?”

  I grimace. It’s true: much of the time I do find Hillary a buzz-killer of my maternal instincts. But I didn’t know it was so obvious.

  “Parenthood isn’t easy, Memphis.” He says this in his I’m-older-than-you voice.

  “Really? Because you make it look like a walk in the park.”

  He taps my nose. “Inspiration is inspiring. You and your tautologies.” He chucks me under the chin for good measure before heading down the hall to our room. He turns around right away and whispers, “They’re in the study, right?”

  “It’s also the guest room. Right?”

  He takes a deep breath and nods. I wait, watching him. He nods again and walks away.

  I turn to the window and search the night sky. The ritual I did the other night with Auntie Tess was for a waning moon, getting rid of garbage. We’re heading into a new moon phase and with a little effort I can catch some of its mojo—time for new projects. That seems fitting.

  I haven’t channeled in about two years. What if I’ve forgotten how? Now is as good a time as any to find out. I slip out the back door and down the stairs into the yard, making sure to stay out of sight of windows.

  I inherited this flat from a craft friend, Faris, who practices with a Persian flavor, when he decided to move with his boyfriend to New York City. The first time he invited me over, when he still lived here, we sat out in the garden and drank wine and he confided that we were sitting on a portal hot spot. They’re everywhere, places where the veil is a bit thinner. But I haven’t used it much, not since I got the news about Alice’s shattered body being found in a Gabon ditch.

  Before every ceremony, the high priestesses taught us coven kids how to meditate, but I’ve always been impatient with the counting backwards and the dropsy notes of a lute over the stereo and the visualization. Some people claim there are gods and goddesses they actually talk to, but I think of it more as a conversation with a better, smarter, and older part of myself. I call her Smarter Memphis. If there are gods, they have yet to show themselves to me, except in the form of fairies, animated inanimate objects, and talking animals, on occasion.

  I strip off my clothes and raise my hands, opening my eyes to let in the moon’s darkness. My breathing goes raggedy and I wait for it to even out on its own. My mind, for a fraction of a second, is quiet, which means the portal is opening. The next moment, it’s like I’m falling into darkness where no words or images or sounds exist. The night chill evaporates and the goose bumps on my flesh calm down. I feel my arms lower. And then I land and wait for Smarter Memphis.

  When I feel her near, I close my eyes and ask my favorite question, “What the hell is going on?”

  ****

  Later that night, snug in bed, I wake up. All is still. The clock reads 3:24. I wish I hadn’t looked because now I’ll be timing myself. How long will it take to fall back to sleep?

  Cooper slumbers soundly next to me. He was already asleep when I joined him in bed. Too late to tell him about my Arsenic Playground assignm
ent.

  I slip out of bed and pad down the hall to the girls’ room—already, it’s the Girls’ Room. They’re on either side of the double bed. This room is supposed to be for Hillary, but she hasn’t done much to make it her own. She really only sleeps over when she gets in fights with her mother or deigns to crash here after a night out with us. I’ve covered the bed with my butterfly comforter from college and put up a framed Renoir poster. Across the room are Cooper’s desk and his bookshelves and filing cabinets. I sometimes work at an antique secretary under the window next to my own bookcases.

  Romola sleeps on her left side—her heart side. Cleo is on her belly, her curly brown hair spread across her damp face. I lift it away, and she puffs out a breath, like thanks.

  Their bags are on the floor. Just clothes, schoolbooks, and toys inside. I tiptoe out and go to the kitchen. Viv’s envelope is where I left it on the counter. In the living room, I turn on a reading lamp and settle in on the couch with a throw blanket. I pour the contents of the envelope onto my lap and a pile of fifty-dollar bills cascades out. I count them quickly. There’s over two thousand dollars there. I don’t claim to know how much little girls cost to keep, but really, how long does Viveka intend to be gone?

  There’s also a binder labeled For the Babysitter, with the medical records she promised. The girls have their mother’s maiden name, Murray, which Viv has kept too. No birth certificates, no indication of who their father is. No sicknesses either. They appear to be healthy, although there’s one note from a doctor on Cleo’s complaint about ghosts, which he has chalked up to nightmares.

  I put everything back in the envelope and go back to the bedroom, where I stick it in a drawer of my bedside table. The clock reads 4:13. I am about to fall asleep when a thought reels me back into wakefulness. Why did Viveka bother to include the note about Cleo’s ghosts?

  Chapter Eight

  In the morning, I call Auntie Tess and give her a quick we need to talk. She agrees to meet at the aquarium. This is Romola’s request—she’s working on a marine life home-school project.

  The girls sleep in. Over breakfast, I tell Cooper about the Arsenic Playground gig. He doesn’t hug me or give me congratulations the way I expected him to when Ned first told me about the assignment. It’s obvious what’s bugging him.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m taking the girls with me.”

  He raises his eyebrows over his reading glasses. “You are?”

  “Their mom knows.” I put my hand over his. “It’s okay. We’ll only be gone a few days.” Then I see the look on his face is not one of concern, but subdued relief. “And we’ll try not to drive off a cliff and perish in a fireball of gasoline and tire rubber.”

  He ignores this. “Where are you going?”

  “Santa Barbara, then San Diego.”

  “I take it you aren’t flying.”

  I give him a look. He knows very well that I’m suspicious of airplanes and avoid them at all costs. Since I reached adulthood, if I can’t drive or take a train, I don’t go. He also knows that I don’t like to be teased about it.

  “We’ll drive. They’ll pay for the gas.”

  “Well, if you can get a sitter tonight, I’ll take you out to dinner. That French place you’ve been wanting to try.”

  “You mean you’ve been wanting to try.”

  “Any excuse to eat good food.” He squeezes my hand.

  I promise him I’ll see what I can do. The girls wake up after he leaves, so there’s breakfast to get and hair to brush. When I catch a free moment, I call my dog-walking boss Justine and tell her I’ll be out of town. I also ask, since she’s a mom, if she has any babysitting leads, but she pretty much just laughs and laughs. “Oh, Memphis. You’re so cute. A sitter for tonight? Last minute? Ha ha ha!” I say good-bye and hang up.

  I still have my hand on the phone, the echo of Justine’s disbelieving hoots echoing in my ears, as Viveka’s girls come clambering up the outside stairs from the backyard. Our flat is on the top floor and the downstairs neighbor has two little kids. We share the back, which consists of a scraggly lawn and a sycamore tree. Though it’s a portal hot spot, I haven’t exactly put up a sign advertising it. The grass is often strewn with various plastic toys and someone has tied a tire with rope to one of the tree’s branches.

  I wonder if now is a good time to ask the girls what they know about their pit stop with me, a total stranger, but I hold back. I need them to trust me, and I have sensed their guard is up, especially Romola’s. Cleo is more open, but there’s a challenge there. A challenge, I’m sure, that she’s waiting with good-natured mischief for me to take up.

  “That’s a nice garden,” Romola says.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you think so.” I take my hand off the phone. “What did you do back there?”

  She shrugs. “Mostly we looked for birds.”

  “Portents,” Cleo chirrups.

  I laugh. “That’s a pretty big word for a three-year-old.”

  “Portents of doom and promise.” She giggles and tucks her cheek against her shoulder in a show of shyness. “The air is all wiggly in your garden.”

  Hm. That’s an apt description of portal vibrations.

  “She always talks like that,” Romola says airily. “Could we have a snack, please?”

  “Sure thing.” I jump up from my chair. Of course, they did just eat breakfast, but I suppose children have to nosh constantly. They’re growing, after all.

  I pull out some newly purchased crackers and peanut butter from the cupboard and set them up with a cutting board and butter knife.

  “Who were you calling?” Romola asks. “Our mom?”

  This question, naturally, pains me. “No, sorry. Cooper and I have dinner plans tonight. I’m trying to get someone to stay with you for a little while this evening. You don’t mind, do you?”

  She licks peanut butter off her fingers and shakes her head.

  “I’m sure your mother got you babysitters now and then.”

  Romola nods. “Mostly people from our church.”

  Their church. Does she mean a real church or is this code for a coven? I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms. “What church is that?”

  “Holy Revival Redeemer.”

  Sounds evangelical, I hope in a good way. I try to keep an open mind about these things. “How long have you and your mommy gone to church?”

  Romola makes a face. “Like, forever. We were baptized.”

  “You remember that?”

  “No. I was a baby. But we’re going to do it again when we’re fourteen. So we know that we really want Jesus Christ in our hearts.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I like Jesus Christ. We could have rolled. As a kid, I asked Auntie Tess about him, and she said he was very cool (my words, not hers). But I think of all the dastardly deeds that have been done in his name through the centuries—particularly to ladies of my ilk—and I get a little itchy.

  “What about your dad?” I ask. “Does he go to your church too?”

  Romola looks at me sharply with her eyes just like her mother’s. She continues to chew her cracker. Cleo, who all this time has been concentrating on making and consuming little square sandwiches, looks up at me. “Our daddy is Jesus.”

  Exsqueeze me? “Your daddy—he’s—his name is Jesus, you mean? Like, in Spanish? Hey Zeus?”

  Romola swallows her bite. “No. Our father is Jesus Christ. He’s our only father.”

  Surely she must be joking. But she isn’t laughing. I consider that I have in my care the daughters of Jesus Christ—who, I’ve read, probably looked more African or Arabian than all those European artists would have had us believe for the past 800 years. More Sephardic than Ashkenazi. “Have you ever seen your father?”

  “Duh,” Romola says, but not in a mean way. “He’s the holy father. He lives with us.”

  “Is he married to your mom?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah! He’s the preacher.”

  Wow. Viveka h
as left the building. And by the building, I mean the craft.

  Cleo hops down from her barstool and belches. She looks at me with widening eyes and giggles in that coquettish way. “Could I have some cold fresh juice, please?”

  I open the fridge and pull out the chilled grape juice the girls chose at Trader Joe’s yesterday. She receives the glass I pour for her with a polite thank you.

  I have much to mull.

  Cleo studies the magnet-cluttered refrigerator door as she sips her drink—bills to be paid, opera tickets, take-out menus. I always get magnets as gifts, mostly sent to me by my parents. There are butterflies, flowers, and seashells, and various tourist destinations— Paris, Bangkok, Tokyo, Marrakech, São Paulo. Cleo stands on tiptoe and slaps at a photo of Hillary. It’s her latest school portrait and she is looking like the blossoming blond California girl that she is.

  “She can babysit us,” Cleo says. She licks her lips, sighs a wet, rattling sigh, and smiles up at me sweetly. Portents of doom and promise.

  Chapter Nine

  Cleo can’t tear herself away from the jellyfish. They’re in a room, dim and peaceful, lit with black lights that turn their glowing white flesh a phosphorescent violet. I don’t mind hanging out in here. It’s more peaceful than any other place I’ve been in ages, but Romola is eager to move on. She needs to see the seahorses because that’s what her report is about.

  Auntie Tess is just as fascinated with the jellies as I am. She stands with her mouth open in a child-like O, nose almost touching the glass already smeared with the prints of dozens of other aquarium-goers. Cleo presses her hands on the carpeted bumper underneath the window. Her eyes hardly blink.

  I slide my hand under Tess’s arm and gently lead her away from the glass. She breaks her gaze on the gelatinous creatures, but her eyes are still full of wonder. “To think, such beautiful animals taste so good.”