Hearts & Other Body Parts

by Ira Bloom

  Katy laughed. “Trust me, I could never get annoyed with Zack.”

  “You can always kill him, if it comes to that,” the spirit advocated. “I’d do it in a heartbeat. If I had a heartbeat.”

  “Aunt Becky!” Katy admonished. “You know I could never bring myself to do such a horrible thing, not even to a fly.”

  “A shame, ain’t it?” Becky quipped. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

  At three o’clock on Wednesday morning Veronica filled the electric Crock-Pot up with water in the kitchen sink by the light of her iPhone. She really didn’t have a clue what she was doing, just a dead certainty. Her grandma Sophie had imparted certain inalienable wisdoms to her as a very small child, and it had influenced her style of magic from that time on.

  Veronica, like Sophie, was a slow-magic witch. She was not flashy like her sister Katy, or ingenious like her sister Esme, but she bulled her way through her spells and charms through sheer force of intention and tireless ritual repetition. She was successful because she committed fully to every charm and spell.

  She knew a little spell. It was probably the oldest magic in the book. In fact, it predated the proverbial book altogether. For four days, Veronica had done almost nothing but pluck the petals off of flowers, sitting in the swivel chair in front of her vanity, chanting, “He loves me, he loves me not” over and over again. The petals plucked to accompany the half of the chant “he loves me not” she fed tirelessly into a flaming charcoal brazier. She wanted to destroy those petals: They had bad juju. Those love-me-not petals could not be permitted to survive and spread their toxic influence into the universe. Conversely, the petals that she’d plucked to accompany the “he loves me” part of the charm she saved in the Crock-Pot. These petals had the right intention, so she nurtured them, running her hands through the pile lovingly.

  She’d plucked an armload of roses and daisies she’d bought for half off from the florist, but most of the flowers were late-blooming perennials that had survived the frost and that she’d gathered from their garden: Michaelmas daisies and turtlehead and Helenium, and chrysanthemums, which took forever to pick apart, and perennial sunflowers. In the four days she’d worked at it, she’d filled the Crock-Pot up to the rim.

  As the final step, Ronnie set it to slowly simmer in her room. She could continue to chant her intentions while it steeped, to draw the cosmic forces of “he loves me” entirely into the brew. She still wasn’t entirely sure if she was going to drink the concoction as a tea or let it boil down until it thickened and use the residue to make a perfume to spritz behind the ears. Perhaps she’d mix it into her conditioner.

  Veronica put the lid back on the Crock-Pot, open just a tiny sliver to allow the brew to cook down. Tomorrow, she’d chant over the petals as they slow-cooked, and probably drink a cup of the tea. It smelled wonderful.

  Barry gave his three daughters hugs and stern instructions before they left for school Wednesday. He had a three o’clock flight for Amsterdam and wouldn’t be back stateside for two weeks. Whatever emergencies came up, the girls would have to rely on their own resources. They’d all been fighting for months it seemed, but they’d been getting along recently, so he hoped it was all over. He took Esme aside and spoke to her in private. He handed his oldest daughter, the dependable one, an envelope full of cash.

  “Esme, I’m sorry I have to leave you in charge again,” he said. “It seems like you’re the one I always have to rely on to take up the parenting responsibilities.”

  Esme shrugged. “I’m used to it,” she said. “I’ll watch them.”

  “While I’m gone, you’re in charge, sweetie.”

  “I was in charge when you were here,” she reminded him.

  He laughed. “I’m serious. You’re officially their mom while I’m gone. In loco parentis. Try to make Ronnie eat something. And don’t let her wear those cutoff denim pants without tights; I’ve seen bikini bottoms with more fabric. And if Katy gets gas again like last time, take her to a hospital or something. That wasn’t normal.”

  Esme gave her dad a kiss on the cheek. “Go and have a good trip. Don’t worry about us.”

  “If your sisters give you a hard time, tell them they’ll have me to deal with when I get back.”

  “That should leave them quaking in their shoes.”

  “Okay, tell them their mom will deal with them.”

  “That will work,” she agreed.

  Zack wasn’t in school on Wednesday. Esme missed him with an emptiness beyond reason. She couldn’t focus on the biology test she hadn’t studied for, and she felt awful whenever she saw Norm. His suspension had been only one day, but it went on his permanent record. Universities checked that stuff. After all the precautions Norm and his dad had taken to avoid trouble, it was Esme, his so-called friend, who’d gotten him suspended. Norm was avoiding her, waiting at his desk until she left after every class. She wished she knew how to apologize. When she tried to make eye contact, he looked through her, as if she were invisible. She’d tried to approach him in the parking lot, but he’d shunned her like she had leprosy or something. Between her lack of prep for the biology test and the tell-tale heart pounding in her chest when she looked at Norm, her final in her most important class was a complete disaster.

  Wednesday night in her room was a repeat of Monday. Esme sat in front of her mirror, holding the potion that would get her the boy she loved. But there would be a price to pay. And her demon cat might be waiting to collect. Would it be worth it, for Zack? In her gut, Esme knew no price was too high. But in her brain, she wasn’t so sure.

  “So, are you going to drink it, or what?” Kasha asked her.

  “Yeah. I’m going to. Zack is too important to me.” But she made no move to drink the potion.

  “Maybe I’ll come back next year,” the cat said. “I spent three hundred years as an accountant in hell and every minute was an eternal agony, but that was nothing compared to watching you with that potion. Veronica would have drunk it Monday, not that she needs a beauty potion.”

  “If only I knew what was going to happen,” she explained for the thousandth time.

  “Just drink it,” Kasha prompted. “Nothing bad is gonna happen to you. You can trust me. I wouldn’t steer you wrong just to harvest your soul and drag it to hell.”

  “Trust you?” she asked incredulously. “Trust a demon? I don’t think so. My mother warned me never to trust you. She said you’re evil.”

  “Who are ya gonna believe?” the cat argued. “Me, or your lying mother?”

  Later that evening, Esme studied the family grimoire for some solution to her dilemma. There were caveats all through the book about this spell or that potion, but there was never anything specific about the worst-case scenarios for their misuse. Damnation seemed to be the most common threat. Her reverie was broken by a sudden ruckus up in the attic among Katy’s dogs. Kasha launched off the armchair, tore around the room, and skidded under the bed.

  “What is it?” Esme asked, startled.

  Kasha peeked a whisker out. “That mutt Kilroy sounds just like a hellhound,” he complained, coming out from under the bed with as much dignity as he could muster. “You have a visitor.”

  Esme’s door opened to a concrete landing with stairs up to ground level. She flipped on the outside light. Norman loomed on the landing. She opened the door to confront him: “Norman, do you have any idea what time it is?” she scolded halfheartedly. It was an ungodly hour for a visitor, but she was relieved to see him. The guilt was only half of it.

  “Don’t you have a clock?” he returned, checking his wristwatch. “It’s a little after ten.”

  “What in the world are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I need to talk to you,” he insisted. “I’m worried about you. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus. I need to say my piece and get it out there. Then you can take it or leave it, but at least I’ll know I’ve done everything I could.”

  If Esme hadn’t been so
happy that he was even speaking to her, she’d have slammed the door in his face. But this was Norman. He used to be someone she could talk to, and she needed someone to talk to. She couldn’t sleep or think, either. “Ten minutes,” she allowed, opening the door all the way and stepping back. When he entered, she turned on him with a finger raised in warning: “Not one word about Zack.”

  Norman tried to raise an objection, but restrained himself. “Esme,” he struggled. She’d effectively shut down his argument at the onset. “I’m worried about you. And I’m not giving up on you, no matter what. Maybe you don’t think of me as a friend anymore, but I still have … I can’t stand to see you like this.”

  “I’m fine,” she promised. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

  Norman started to pace, thinking. He needed to get through to her. Her mind was shut down, she was resistant to reason, opposed to rationality, blinded to reality. He needed to jump-start her brain. “I believe you’ve changed,” he offered. “Your brain isn’t processing information the way it did a few months ago. Do you agree with this diagnosis?”

  “No, I don’t agree,” she asserted. “What’s this based on?”

  Norman counted off on his fingers: “One, your grades have gone to hell. You’ve gotten straight As your whole life, and now you’re flunking tests and not turning in your homework. This alone should be enough to indicate that your brain isn’t functioning the same.”

  “Conjecture,” she argued. “The one might imply the other, but your inference is precipitate.”

  “Can you provide a better explanation?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she replied. “Maybe I’ve continued to process information the same as always, but concluded that there were more important things in life than just getting good grades.”

  “Well played,” he conceded. He counted out on a second finger: “You told me once that you didn’t wear makeup because the beauty industry exploited women and tested products on animals. But you’ve taken to wearing lipstick and eye shadow.”

  “I’m entitled to change my opinion,” she argued. “In fact, it’s the mark of an evolved brain to be constantly formulating new opinions and re-evaluating old ones. The brains that are resistant to change are the ones that can be said to be inflexible.” She missed arguing with Norman. He was the only one who could really challenge her. “Also, I use cruelty-free makeup.”

  “If a brain changes away from personal integrity and toward conformity, would you still argue that the brain is demonstrating flexibility? I’d argue that an exceptional brain that gave in to societal pressure was not challenging itself.”

  “A spurious argument. Perhaps it’s challenging itself in different ways.” Esme waved a hand toward the lab equipment on the makeshift workbench. The beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners were all cleaned and organized, but the sheer inventory of equipment was impressive.

  “Working on a cure for cancer?”

  “No, an antidote for stupidity. I need test subjects for the clinical trials, so stay in touch.”

  He laughed. “Okay. None of my business. Still on point two, your appearance: You told me you wore those thick glasses instead of contacts because you didn’t have time for people who judged you based on your looks instead of your brains. So what’s with the contacts?”

  “I don’t have to justify anything to you,” she replied, fidgeting.

  “That’s not an answer,” he challenged.

  “You have five minutes left, Norm,” she said, glancing at her watch.

  Norm counted out on his third finger. “That thing in the hallway, with Shattuck. I propose that the reason you got me suspended, which was definitely uncool and not like you, by the way, was because I was challenging something that had become a fundamental tenet of your worldview. Your brain shut me down right away. Two months ago, you’d have been able to at least listen to what I had to say and process the information in a rational manner, taking into consideration that I’m a scientist and your friend and a rational person.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sorry that happened, Norm,” she said, an apology of sorts. “But you need to know when to back off. And you can be intimidating, you know.”

  “Do you agree that your brain shut me out?” he asked. “Stop trying to sidestep the issue.”

  “You could be biased,” she argued. “You could have been telling me that stuff because of your feelings for me. I think you’re jealous of Zack.”

  Norm smiled. “I’m glad it was you who brought Zack into the discussion. Now I get to use him in my rebuttal. I admit that I’d considered that my feelings for you might be influencing my analysis of the situation. But my father happens to agree with me on this. In fact, the whole hypothesis about the cause is his. And he’s never met you. Ball is in your court.”

  Esme searched her head for a counterargument to this, and found only fuzz. There was this area in her head that she couldn’t get into regarding Zack. She trusted Zack. She loved him. She couldn’t accept that he was anything except a great guy whom she couldn’t live without. She stared into Norman’s face blankly for a moment, then glanced at her watch. “Time to go, Norman,” she said.

  Norman checked his own watch. “I still have two and a half minutes,” he said. He counted out on his fourth finger: “Next point, your sisters. I’ve seen Katy and Veronica both hanging on Zack—”

  “Where?” she asked frantically. “When?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked. “You seem agitated, is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, calming herself. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, it’s weird. You love your sisters, and the guy’s dating all three of you. Does that seem right? You’re making fools of yourselves. If you were thinking straight, you three would have figured out which one of you would date him. But it looks like—this is my observation, anyway—it seems like you’re all trying to undermine one another. Is he really worth it, to ruin your relationship with your sisters? Why would you even want a guy who flirts with half the girls in school? If your heads were on straight, you’d all see that. Two of you would back down. Or all three, if you had any sense.”

  “You seem to have this all figured out,” Esme stated flatly. He’s right! He’s absolutely right! Every word of it! “So how long have you been stalking us, Frank N. Stein?”

  “Please,” he replied evenly. “These ad homonym attacks are beneath you.”

  “Time to go,” she said unequivocally. “I mean it this time.”

  Norman stared down at her, looking for cracks in her armor, looking for any indication that he’d gotten through to her. He shrugged. “I tried. And I’m not giving up on you. I hope you’ll call me, if you ever need to talk about it.”

  Esme showed Norman to the door. He looked dejected. She held the door as she watched the giant trudge up the eleven steps to ground level. “Norm!” she called after him.

  He turned at the top of the stairs. “Yes?”

  “Not that I agree with you, but what’s your hypothesis? Why do you think I’ve changed?”

  “Oh, that’s an easy one,” he answered. “You’re thinking clear as a bell, as long as we don’t discuss Zack Kallas. But when we do, your mind shuts down, and you can’t process any information objectively. I think you’ve been mesmerized by a guy who exudes extremely strong pheromones that have addled your neurohormones, leaving you highly susceptible to post-hypnotic suggestion.”

  “Yeah. Just as I suspected. You’re nuts,” Esme said, closing the door. She returned to the bed, where Kasha had lain through the entire discussion, grooming himself. She flopped down backward onto the mattress.

  “He’s right, you know,” Kasha mentioned. “Zack’s a vampire. It’s what they do.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she sniped, tossing a pillow at him. In response, Kasha laughed, an unpleasant sound coming from a demon cat. “What’s so funny?”

  “ ‘Ad homonym attacks,’ ” he chortled. “Get it? ‘Homonym
’ as a homonym for ‘hominem.’ ”

  Norman was always coming up with clever stuff like that. She missed it. Zack’s jokes were pretty lame in comparison. She kicked off her shoes and rolled over on her side. It didn’t really matter, did it? You don’t get to pick who you love, it just happens.

  Esme’s sleep was unsettled that night. She had only two more school days before Christmas break, and Thursday night would be the last chance to take her potion if she wanted to regain the edge for Zack’s affections. At school, she and her sisters had achieved a kind of détente, because they could monitor one another. But there was no way she could police her sisters for two weeks over the break.

  She couldn’t bring herself to drink the potion. Her head was fuzzy, but she knew the risks were too high. It was like what Norm had been talking about. He made a lot of sense, except for the stuff about Zack. Which she couldn’t remember very well. There was a cloudy area in her brain, whenever she thought about Zack. She could see his smile clearly in her mind. His accent sure was cute. She hugged herself a little, imagining she was holding him. She loved him, that was for sure. So, that was good, wasn’t it? She decided that it was. She couldn’t remember what the original point had been. She focused, and sat up in bed abruptly. Norm was right! There was definitely something wrong with her mind.

  In the light of morning, Esme knew what she had to do. She couldn’t get Norm’s words out of her thoughts. Her decision meant abandoning Zack to the mercies of her sisters, but she needed to take a day off school and get her head straight. Otherwise, Thursday night would just be a repeat of Monday and Wednesday.