Wish

by Alexandra Bullen

  Violet shrugged. “Does it matter?” she asked, flashing her sister a tricky smile.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. Violet had been back for less than an hour and already she was being difficult. “Kind of,” Olivia hissed. “I mean, you go to sleep and your sister is dead. You wake up, and she’s smoking butts on the balcony. It’s not exactly your average turn of events.”

  Violet took a deep drag off her cigarette and ashed it between the chipped-white bars of the painted iron railing. “Well,” she said, “you know how I feel about average.”

  Without thinking, Olivia reached forward and pinched the glowing cigarette from between her sister’s lips. “True,” she said, flicking the stub out over the balcony. “And you know how I feel about smoking.”

  Violet watched with wide eyes as the cigarette sailed to the sidewalk below.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But you don’t have to be such a grump. It’s not like any of this was up to me.”

  “Then who?!” Olivia demanded, her voice suddenly loud and brash.

  “Easy.” Violet flinched. “Just because I’m a ghost doesn’t mean people can’t still hear you.”

  “Then who?” Olivia repeated in a stern whisper. “Who was it up to? How did you get back here? And where have you been? And…what the hell is going on?”

  Violet looked long and hard into her sister’s eyes before opening her face into her trademark silly grin and tossing off yet another infuriating shrug.

  Olivia groaned, a familiar swell of frustration rising up from the pit of her stomach. It was a feeling as old and comfortable as any other she’d known, and one that usually resulted in the overwhelming desire to take Violet by the arms and shake her silly.

  And now, Olivia thought with a sudden pang to her heart, she could.

  She turned quickly to her sister and reached out her hands, laying one gently on each of Violet’s shoulders.

  They felt like Violet’s shoulders.

  Olivia cupped her hands firmly against the backs of her sister’s triceps, the tiny little bumps both girls had always shared, tickling the pads of her fingers like Braille. She pressed her palms over the bony mounds of Violet’s shoulders, and shook.

  Violet’s head waggled back and forth, her jaw shuddering, her eyes wide with alarm. “What the hell?” she demanded, wriggling free.

  Olivia slowly took her hands away and brought them back to her lap, shaking her head, a small smile creeping its way to the corners of her lips. “Just checking,” she said.

  Violet stood and looked out over the railing, heaving an exhausted sigh. “Fine,” she surrendered. “I can tell we’re not going to have any fun here until we get you some answers.”

  “That’s right.” Olivia nodded.

  “So…” Violet clapped her hands together. “Let’s retrace our steps!”

  Olivia smiled. This was one of their mother’s favorite games. Whenever Violet lost something—which was often—Bridget would appear out of nowhere to lead her through a step-by-step reenactment of the events leading up to the forsaken object’s disappearance. Violet would stomp around, refusing to participate, but without fail, their mother’s thorough investigation would always produce the missing item—keys in the cushion of the couch, cell phone on top of the toilet—and Violet would be forced to admit defeat.

  “Okay,” Olivia said, closing her eyes. “I was at Mom’s cocktail reception.”

  “Yeah, too bad I didn’t make it back in time for that,” Violet deadpanned.

  Olivia shot her sister a withering glare.

  “Sorry,” Violet said. “Proceed.”

  “Okay, then I was at the party.” Olivia’s voice shrank. “I was really upset.”

  “About what?” Violet asked.

  “About everything,” Olivia said softly. “The night was a disaster without you. I drank too much, I didn’t really have anybody to talk to, I was a total loser. I wished you were there.”

  Violet nodded, waiting for more.

  “No,” Olivia said, straightening her legs out toward the railing and turning to face Violet head-on. “Seriously. I wished for you. Out loud. In the cab.”

  Violet looked down at her sideways. “You mean, like…” Violet paused, scrunching her features together, the way she did when she had been called on in class and didn’t know the answer. “Fairy-tale style?”

  Olivia shrugged. “I guess,” she said, trembling panic seeping back into her voice. “I don’t know. All I know is that I wished for you, the glowing butterfly flew out of my dress and into the night…and now you’re here.”

  Olivia reached back for a few strands of hair, twirling them together around one finger and inspecting their dry, fraying ends. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk below. The sun was just coming up, and a few hard-core bikers were already zipping across the pavement. If she looked back at her sister, Olivia knew she’d start crying, or laughing, or both, and that wouldn’t get them anywhere.

  Violet cleared her throat. “Um, Olivia,” she began slowly, “what butterfly?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. It was bad enough she had to see it, but saying it out loud was like pouring a box of salt over a bloody, open wound. “There was this butterfly,” she said heavily. “I guess it was like a tag, or something, sewn into my dress—”

  “What dress?”

  “The dress the girl in the Mission made me,” Olivia explained. “After I took yours in to have it fixed.”

  Violet just stared at her. “Okay, so what happened to the butterfly?”

  Olivia threw up her hands. “I told you!” she huffed. “It flew away. Into the night. Bye-bye, butterfly. Hello, sister-ghost.”

  Violet didn’t waste any time with dramatic pauses, immediately erupting into a fit of hysterical laughter, kicking her bare feet against the iron balcony, her long, bright curls shaking out around her face.

  “Stop it!” Olivia commanded. “This isn’t funny. This is my life, okay? I have no idea what’s going on. You asked me what happened, and that’s what happened. All right?”

  Violet composed herself and looked hard into Olivia’s jumping blue eyes. “All right,” she said. “So then what? The wish, the magical butterfly, and what happens next?”

  Olivia searched the deepest spaces in her memory, trying to come up with something, anything, that could possibly explain even part of what had occurred since then. “And that’s it,” she gave up. “I woke up, and you were here.”

  Violet stared at her for a long moment, her blue eyes squinting and serious. “Okay.” She nodded. “I think we need to talk about this dress.”

  “We’re closed.”

  The tinny chimes were still ringing overhead as Olivia stepped carefully into Mariposa of the Mission.

  “She always says that,” Olivia whispered under her breath to Violet, who was as dumbstruck as Olivia had been that first rainy afternoon, eyes darting from one bald and haphazardly attired mannequin to another.

  During the walk over, Violet had coached Olivia on what to say when they got there, and Olivia had pretended to listen, but she’d been too distracted searching the early-morning faces of everybody they passed. Could they see Violet? Could they hear her? Or did Olivia just look like a lunatic, nodding to herself as she hurried along the sidewalk? After a few sideways glances from a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart, she was pretty sure the latter was the case.

  Inside the shop, Posey was spread out on the couch, her back to Olivia, with a new paperback open in her lap. This one had a tropical theme, with a brawny guy lounging against a palm tree and a busty bikini model straddling his lap in the sand.

  “Hi.” Olivia spoke tentatively.

  “What part of closed was confusing?” Posey closed the book quickly and looked up.

  “Oh.” She started. “It’s you.”

  Olivia nodded.

  Violet’s instructions had been simple: Olivia would explain about the dress. And the butterfly. And, without going into too much detail, she’d suggest that someth
ing, well, even stranger had happened overnight. And then they’d wait, for what was sure to be a logical explanation.

  But now that she was here, in the shop—which, the more Olivia looked around, was really just an old, grimy seamstress’s studio—the whole plan sounded a little, well…insane.

  “Hi,” Olivia repeated, exhaling and playing with the tips of her nails. “I was just…I mean, I just came to—” She could feel Violet’s eyes burning into the side of her face. “I mean…I thought I should…pay you!” Olivia spat suddenly. “For the dress! I forgot before, and then I remembered. So here I am!”

  Violet flopped her arms to her side and groaned.

  This had not been part of the plan.

  “Okay,” Posey said cautiously, standing and heading toward the register.

  Olivia reached for her wallet as Posey snapped open the drawer, which clanked and trembled into place.

  “You know,” Posey began, rifling through a pile of receipts, “I wasn’t actually worried about not seeing you again.”

  Olivia’s eyebrows wrinkled, and she wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe she saw the beginnings of a sly smile playing across Posey’s lips.

  “What do you mean?” Olivia asked. Violet nudged her eagerly.

  “I don’t know.” Posey shrugged. “Something just told me that you might have some…questions.”

  “Oh,” Olivia stammered. “Well, I mean, I’m not sure I know how to—”

  “For the love of God,” Violet whispered. “Just tell her!”

  Olivia shot Violet a stern look before turning to Posey. She was about to return to her broken explanation when she realized that something in Posey’s posture had changed. She looked somehow taller, like her neck was stretching farther away from her body.

  She looked like she was trying to listen.

  “Posey?” Olivia asked.

  Posey glanced quickly back in Olivia’s direction. “Yeah, I just…” Posey swatted the air. “I just thought I heard something. That’s all.”

  Olivia’s heart was thumping so violently in her chest she was positive her whole body was vibrating.

  “You were saying?” Posey asked.

  “Well,” Olivia continued, “about the dress. Something kind of…out of the ordinary…did happen while I was wearing it.”

  “Really?” Posey asked, shoving the register drawer shut noisily. “Like what?”

  “You know, I mean, nothing too weird, but just”—Olivia talked in circles, buying time—“I think I saw a butterfly.”

  Posey stared at her blankly.

  Olivia felt small beads of sweat forming at the nape of her neck, and her tongue flicked anxiously at the corners of her mouth.

  “Was it a monarch?” Posey asked, making her way back to the couch and lowering herself into one corner. “I haven’t seen many yet myself. Usually the city is just swarming by now.” She picked up a piece of loose fabric and began folding it into quarters.

  Olivia cleared her throat, searching for Violet out of the corner of her eye. Violet made a rolling gesture with her hands, cocking her head toward Posey and urging Olivia on. “Um, no.” Olivia took a deep, musty breath. “It was glowing. It was a glowing butterfly. And I think it came from my dress.”

  Posey continued folding, smoothing out the creases with her hands and placing the fabric on the arm of the sofa. “And?” she asked, almost impatiently.

  Olivia looked to Violet, who shrugged. “And…” Olivia continued, unsure of where to go next.

  Posey picked up another swath of fabric and lined up the edges, the corners of her mouth pursing as she began to whistle softly.

  Suddenly, Olivia’s cheeks were burning and her hands shook at her sides. “‘And’?” she repeated, her voice cracking as it grew more intense. “What do you mean, ‘and’?! I just told you that a butterfly, a glowing butterfly, flew out of my dress. The dress you made me. I was in a cab, I was crying, and there it was. And something tells me you know why. And. You’re going to tell me about it.” When Olivia had finished, her mouth was dry, and the throbbing was back behind her eyes. Violet was standing, mouth agape, and inching a bit toward the door.

  This was not part of the plan, either.

  Posey stared up at Olivia, her narrow yellow-specked eyes blinking furiously. Her thin, pale lips were still pursed, the memory of a whistle between them, when suddenly they parted, and a wide, toothy grin divided her face. “All right,” she said.

  Olivia stared at her. “All right?”

  Posey nodded. “I guess there are some things I could tell you,” she said. “Like, for starters, I was just messing with you about the monarchs.”

  Violet chuckled from over Olivia’s shoulder.

  Posey gestured to a chair in the corner, piled high with thumbed-through pattern books. “Have a seat,” she offered. “You can put those anywhere.”

  “I’m okay,” Olivia insisted, planting herself firmly on two feet.

  Posey gave her a look and shrugged.

  “Okay,” she began, “but you’re probably going to want to sit down for this.”

  9

  “Any questions?”

  Olivia sat tall in a straight-backed wooden chair, her hands poised lightly on her kneecaps, her eyes trained on the foggy storefront window. The neighborhood was waking up around them, already teeming with morning errand-runners and the trendy Sunday brunch set. Everybody—hipsters; stroller-pushing young moms; grumpy, haggling homeless men—seemed to walk past the shop without even seeing it.

  Olivia wondered, not for the first time that day, if she was dreaming.

  After all, Posey, who was curled into a ball on the couch, using her small, nimble hands for emphasis, had just finished explaining to Olivia that she—Posey, Mariposa of the Mission—was magic.

  A magical seamstress.

  And now the magical seamstress, maker of magical dresses, weaver of mystical fabric that spat out glowing butterflies, granting a single wish to its wearer, wondered if Olivia had any questions.

  Violet was crouched over the kiddie desk by the door, leaning forward on her elbows. Olivia stole a glance in her sister’s direction and saw that, for the first memorable time in the history of their lives, Violet was speechless.

  Olivia felt a laugh escaping, a sort of guttural reaction to the complete absurdity of the situation. But it had been so long since she’d made a sound, or even swallowed, that a low gurgle caught in the back of her throat, eventually working its way up to a powerful cough.

  “Would you like some tea?” Posey asked, making as though to stand.

  “No!” Olivia said, and then realized that she was yelling. “Sorry, no. I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Okay.” Posey nodded. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. And I don’t really have any explanation for it. My grandmother didn’t, either. It’s just something we’ve always been able to do. Sometimes, some people, we just know when we see them. That we have to help.”

  “So you knew,” Olivia said, whispering now. “When I came in with the dress?”

  Posey shook her head, her short, crooked bangs falling down over her eyes. “I knew before you walked into the shop.”

  “What does that mean?” Violet asked, looking up from the tiny desk, her head cocked to one side.

  And then, as if in direct response to a question Violet hadn’t asked—because Violet technically wasn’t there—Posey continued:

  “It means I’ve seen her around. I knew before she ever came inside.”

  Posey looked directly at Olivia as she spoke, and Violet hopped up from the desk. “Can she hear me?” Violet whispered.

  Olivia looked back at Posey. “Can you…” Olivia started carefully. “Who were you talking to, just then?”

  Posey spread her sticklike legs out in front of her on the couch. She was wearing old, faded jeans that fell short of her ankles, but not in an intentionally stylish way. More like they were old favorites she couldn’t bear to throw out.

  “Your sister,” Pose
y said flatly. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  Olivia looked from Violet to Posey, Posey to Violet. “But you can’t—”

  “I can’t see her, no,” Posey said, pointing and flexing first one foot, then the other. “I didn’t wish for her, did I?”

  “But how did you know that I did?” Olivia asked.

  Posey threw up her hands. “Your sister dies. You have a magical, wish-granting dress,” she said, laying out the ingredients. “What else are you going to wish for?”

  “But you didn’t know it was magic,” Violet prompted Olivia from the corner.

  “Yeah,” Olivia agreed. “I didn’t know it was magic when I made the wish.”

  “So?” Posey asked.

  “So how could you know that I accidentally wished for Violet back?”

  “You mean, other than the fact that you’ve been taking cues from the corner of the room since you got here?”

  Violet and Olivia looked at each other, before Olivia hurriedly looked away.

  “Regardless,” Posey continued, swinging her legs down and walking slowly to the other side of the room. “There are some things we need to talk about.”

  “Okay,” Olivia said, following Posey behind the hanging quilt in the corner. “Like what?”

  “Like rules,” Posey said, crouching down and opening a hidden, rounded door. Cool, damp air rushed out, encircling Olivia’s feet, as Posey reached into what appeared to be a neglected crawl space. She fumbled around with one arm before pulling out a heavy, leather-bound notebook and plopping it onto the floor.

  Olivia knelt beside Posey to get a closer look. Loose, yellowing pages shuffled out from one side, and a cloud of dust escaped in a poof around their faces.

  “Hold on,” Violet, who was standing over Olivia’s shoulder, interrupted. “Does Harry Potter know she stole his diary?”

  “Sorry about the dust,” Posey said, squinting and waving her hand through floating particles. “I haven’t opened this since, well since my abuela died, I guess.”

  Olivia nodded and shifted her weight forward. The aged brown leather was embossed with the initials M.M. in shiny gold print. Posey flipped open the cover, which was slowly pulling away from the thick, frayed binding, and carefully turned through the pages.