by C. K. Brooke
“Uh…because you don’t want to waste my money?”
“Dude, you’re going to have to let me start paying for things.”
He chuckles.
“I’m serious. Stop spoiling me. It’s not good for my feminine independence.”
“Fine. Pick the rottenest movie on Friday, and you buy the tickets.”
“Deal.”
“Now go enjoy your thousands of milligrams of sodium.”
I create an audible show of slurping up my ramen noodles into the speaker. “Mmm. Already am.”
He laughs again. “Gross.”
“‘Gross’ says the man whose mother claims he lives off of frozen pizzas and microwave dinners.”
“Yeah.” His voice deepens with a smile I can hear. “We don’t have to talk about what my mother claims.”
For a second, I wonder if he’s hinting at something. But Persephone wouldn’t… She hadn’t told him about the reading she’d done about me and Mason at the coffee shop, had she? The one with the Two of Cups?
I clear my throat. “I shall make motel reservations,” I say with mock formality. “Would you fancy the room with spilled beer on the carpet, or the one with dead bugs in the shower?”
“Let’s get the room with the unwashed sheets,” Mason says.
“Kinky,” I say, twirling a noodle around my fork.
“God, that came out wrong. I have to go. I’ve been sitting in my car in the apartment parking lot for like, forty minutes. My neighbors are gonna think I’m casing the joint.”
I glance at the call time on my phone. “We have been talking for over an hour. My battery’s about to die.”
“What percentage are you at?”
“Six.”
“Thor’s hammer. Go charge your phone, weirdo.”
“You’re the one who just used the expression ‘Thor’s hammer.’ Pot, meet kettle; kettle, pot. But yeah, I need to get up.” I stand and stretch. “Ugh. My butt’s numb.”
“Uh…” He laughs low, and the sound strikes me as suddenly sensual. “Nooo comment, Willow.”
“Huh?” I bump into my desk chair and grip the back to steady myself. “What does that mean?”
“It means no comment.”
“Yeah, and when someone says ‘no comment,’ it usually means they have a comment, so spill.”
“Can we have this conversation in person?”
There’s a conversation about my ass? “Come over and let’s have it,” I say brazenly.
“It’s midnight.”
“So? You’re still in your car. Get over here and say to my face whatever you want to say about my butt.”
“Right. Well, I’ve got to go take a cold shower now…”
“I’m flattered.” I can practically feel heat radiating from my face. “After that, will you come over?”
“An ice-cold shower. Goodnight, Willow.”
Three beeps in my ear let me know he’s ended the call. No less than a moment later, my phone powers down, as if the battery’s angry with me for draining it.
I throw myself onto the bed in a giddy tangle of tension and anticipation. This isn’t the first night Mason and I have spent the evening flirting on the phone together. But it’s definitely the first time the topic has ever turned physical.
I trace my lips, wondering if he wants to kiss me. I’ve never kissed a guy. What if I suck at it?
What if it’s obvious that I’d suck at it, and that’s why he hasn’t kissed me?
Knowing I need to pull myself together and plug in my damn phone, I get up and head into the kitchen. Greg has long since gone to bed, but Mom and Henry are up, Mom with her earbuds in as she clips coupons, Henry with a textbook on the kitchen table, chin between his hands. He looks ready to pass out, but only underlines something in highlighter, and turns a page.
I connect my phone to the charger on the kitchen counter. The screen remains dead, not enough juice to even flash the manufacturer’s logo at me.
“Hey, Henry?”
He looks up.
I hesitate, then ask, “If a girl mentions her butt, and a guy responds with, ‘no comment,’ what does he mean?”
Henry rubs his eyes, looking as if he might fall asleep on the spot. “No comment,” he mumbles.
10
After the movie on Friday night, it’s pouring rain. Neither of us brought an umbrella, so Mason and I bolt across the parking lot, drenching ourselves in the icy downpour. It seems the autumn weather has turned its back on us, no longer the Indian summer I’d grown accustomed to.
We slam the car doors against the clawing wet cold, and I lower my dripping hood.
“Just think.” Mason turns the key in the ignition and jacks up the heat, even though we both know it’s too soon for any warm air to blow out. “This time next week, we’ll be on the road to Elms Creek.”
I set my purse on the floor, realizing I haven’t told anyone else about our upcoming trip. I should probably mention it to Mom. We’ve both been busy working and haven’t had a chance to talk since Heather’s visit. I wonder if I should fill her in too on the disturbing details we uncovered through Henry’s regression. But it all seems so private, so personal to Henry…and to me.
Has Henry even listened to the recording of his session yet? I make a mental note to cover these topics with them when I get home.
It’s too rainy to go anywhere else, and I’m definitely not comfortable with the driving conditions. When we pull up to my house, I don’t want Mason to get soaked walking me to the door, so I insist he stay put.
“Thanks for the movie,” he says.
“Thanks for the popcorn.” I smile. I feel it soon fading, however, as he watches me, but doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t tilt his head, or lean any closer…
I am not going to make the first move. I’ll admit, I wouldn’t even know how. If he wants to kiss me, then he should grab hold of me and do it. But I’m not going to make a fool of myself throwing my body across the center console, only to realize that was never his intention.
As I’m about to open my door, bracing myself for another torrential onslaught, he says my name.
“Will you be at circle tomorrow?”
“It’s not a full moon.”
Rain patters down over the windshield, and he speaks up so I can hear. “I know. It’s new moon. Some of the coven is getting together to do a banishing ritual.”
“Are you going?” I ask him.
“Are you?” he returns.
“I’ll think about it,” I hedge.
“What’s there to think about? My mom’s bringing pie.”
I laugh. “Okay, maybe,” I relent. “See you, Mason.” I raise my hood, snatch up my purse and dart out through the rain. When I reach the covering of my front porch, I lift a hand. Across the threshold, I can’t see Mason through his dark windshield. But his car idles for a while in the driveway, and he doesn’t back out until I unlock the front door and go inside.
Sighing, I remove my coat and boots and put them away. My hair hangs wet past my shoulders, frizzing and curling in a way that tells me I won’t be running a brush through it anytime soon. I’m about to head upstairs, but change my mind and go down instead.
Mom is in the den on the lower level, hanging sparkly black garland with little plastic bats from the ceiling. Hocus Pocus is playing on the downstairs TV in the background, and I stop to watch for a minute. But I can’t bring myself to laugh at it like I used to. As kids, Heather and I used to love this movie. All I’m reminded of is the fact that we’ll probably never watch it together again.
Henry’s bedroom door is open, which I wasn’t expecting. I’d been planning on knocking, having a few extra seconds behind a closed door to come up with what to say. I peek inside to see him on his laptop, doing something other than studying, for once. He’s playing electronic solitaire, dragging and dropping cards to their suits, while moody guitar music hums from the speakers.
“Hey,” I say.
He startles.
<
br /> “Sorry.”
“Jesus, Willow. I had no idea you were there.”
“I would’ve knocked, but your door was open.”
“It’s okay.” He takes his hand off the mouse. “Come in.”
I step inside his room. The bed’s unmade, and there are some dishes and almost-empty chip bags rolled up on the nightstand. Otherwise, it’s pretty tidy. The walls are bare and nondescript. Nothing to decorate it, no personal touches to claim the space as his. He only moved in a year ago, after all, and has said he’s been planning to leave ever since. But with the cost of medical school, our parents convinced him to stay. I can tell he still feels my home is transient, a temporary living situation for him. I can’t say why, but it almost hurts my feelings he sees it that way.
I take a seat on the edge of his bed as he pivots in his chair to face me.
“Are you winning?” I ask, indicating the cards on his screen.
“Killing it. How was your date?”
“It wasn’t a…” I give up, tucking a sheet of hair behind slouching shoulders. Thunder rattles through his little awning window. “I came to ask if you listened to the recording yet.”
“What recording?”
“Hello? The one Mason emailed you?”
“Oh. No, I’ve been busy.”
“Well, listen to it, okay? It’s important.”
He heaves a sigh. “Willow, anything I might’ve said while—”
“You need to hear it, Henry.” I don’t know how else to emphasize it. He needs to hear it in his own words, the words that came out of his friggin’ mouth. The words that have been replaying in my brain for days.
I slide off his bed.
He looks affronted. “Where are you going?”
“I have to talk to my mom,” I mumble.
He follows me out of his room. “About this?”
“No—well, sort of.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You would if you’d listen to the damn recording!”
Mom looks up from the assortment of black and purple candles she’s now arranging on the bookcase. “Quite a storm out there, eh?”
“Mom, Mason’s taking me to Missouri next weekend,” I inform her.
She sets down a candle on a mirror saucer. “Have fun. Text me pictures.”
“Wait, what?” Henry demands.
I turn to him, insistent. “It’s something I have to do. You’d understand if you listened—”
“To the stupid recording, I get it. But you said Mason’s taking you?”
“Is there a problem with that?”
“Yeah.” His nostrils flare. “There is. You’re nineteen. You’re not leaving the state with some guy you just met.”
“He’s her best friend’s son.” I indicate Mom, who’s arranging Halloween candles as if an argument isn’t breaking out in front of her. “He’s not just ‘some guy.’”
“Will you open your eyes? He’s trying to hook up with you!”
“And you aren’t?”
My stepbrother casts a bewildered glance between my mother and me, as if horrified I would say something like that in front of her. Newsflash: I would say anything in front of my mom.
“Look, I know what my intentions are.” He smacks a hand over his chest. “I’m only looking out for you.”
I’m ready to pull my hair out. “My mom married your dad last year. That does not make you my guardian, and it sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to tell me what I can and can’t do. As for Mason…”
I let a breath go. Four dates, and nothing’s happened. Maybe nothing will. “We’re just friends. So stop trying to make it into something it’s not.” It feels like I’m saying it more to myself than to him, and the words taste like sawdust in my mouth.
Henry’s expression loses its harshness. As his gaze softens over me, a flutter of something unnamable, once dormant, touches my chest, like a caged bird lifting its wing.
Confused, I glance away. “Anyway, we leave next Friday.”
“Melinda, are you hearing this?” Henry now appeals directly to Mom.
She doesn’t answer, instead sliding a black taper candle into a gaudy silver Victorian candelabra. I seriously hope she’s not planning on lighting all these candles for Samhain. On top of rowdy teenagers egging or TP-ing our house, I don’t want to have to worry about a house fire.
“Where did I put the jack-o-lantern?” she asks herself. She fishes through the open tote, causing all kinds of contraptions to clang together.
“Mom?” I prod.
“Found it.” She lifts out the tackiest plastic pumpkin head I’ve ever seen, sets it on an end table, and plugs it in. It bears a triangular grimace, making me wonder why anyone would’ve paid actual money to have it. If anything, I’d pay someone to get rid of it. She angles the scowling pumpkin to face the TV, which is now playing an ad for a crappy chain restaurant.
She’s staying out of it. Fine.
“I’m going to take a bath,” I announce. It’s freezing down here, and I need to warm my cold, sad bones.
“Use my sacred Dead Sea salt,” Mom calls after me as I climb the steps.
#
The power goes out as I soak in the steamy tub. Luckily, I’d lit a few candles before getting in, and placed them around the sink. The bathroom mirror reflects their flames, amplifying the light in the small room.
When a sheen of sweat begins to bead on my chest, I step out and dry off. I change into a pair of fleece pajamas and wrap up in my night robe before blowing out the candles. I use the flashlight on my phone to guide my walk up the hall toward the flickering candlelight and murmuring in the kitchen.
Mom and Greg are talking at the kitchen table. It takes me a moment to notice Henry, who’s leaning against the countertop, phone in hand. A pair of earbuds are plugged into it, but he isn’t wearing them.
He looks up as I approach. It’s too dark to make out his expression. But his tone is serious when he says, “We need to talk.”
I steer him down the hallway to my bedroom. Once we’re inside, I set my phone down, face-up on my desk, illuminating the space as best I can. “Did you listen?” I ask him.
He nods.
I can’t bear the silence. “And…?”
“And it was creepy.”
I hold my breath, waiting for the—
“But…”
There it is.
“There are plenty of sound explanations for what might’ve happened, what could’ve caused me to say…” His shadowed face tightens. He doesn’t elaborate.
“What explanations?” I cross my arms over my fluffy night robe, feeling more like a bitter housewife than a nineteen-year-old on a past-life investigation. “Give me one. Because everything you said as Ray Sanderson resonated with me. I remembered it, Henry.”
“I don’t doubt you do.” He pushes my door half-shut. “Because it could’ve been from a book, a movie, a magazine article—a story we’ve both read or saw, that would cause us to remember the same—”
“It was real.” My voice rises an octave. “I felt it. You did too.” The memory of the strain in his voice, the tears in my eyes, during his hypnosis closes up my throat. I don’t want to look at him. At the same time, I can’t look anywhere but.
“Or we could’ve been subliminally influenced,” he adds. “I don’t know what these hypno-quacks really do.”
“Stop it.”
He rubs the back of his neck, lowering himself onto my bed. Even though his skepticism is grating, I somehow don’t mind when his head hits my favorite pillow. I come around to sit beside him.
“Have you ever heard of Bridey Murphy?” he asks.
“Is he a rock singer?”
Henry issues a snort of amusement. “She was an Irishwoman from the eighteen-hundreds.”
“What about her?”
“Okay, so, I was doing some reading. And in the nineteen fifties, a hypnotist put an American housewife under hypnosis. She came up with all these detailed memo
ries of being a turn-of-the-century Irishwoman named Bridey Murphy. She remembered everything—her house in Cork, her parents’ names, husband’s name and profession…even her own funeral.”
I turn to him in fascination. Why hadn’t I read this story on a website like Travis Herd’s before?
“The hypnotist even published a whole book about it,” he goes on. “It spawned all types of discourse and conjecture about ‘past lives.’” He makes air quotes around the words. “But a little bit of digging by some real scientists eventually brought the truth to light.”
He shifts, bringing his arms behind his head. I lean back against my headboard to watch his profile. “It turns out, when she was a kid, this housewife had lived across the street from an immigrant named Bridie Murphy Corkell. All of the stories she relayed to the hypnotist in her regression could be chalked down to stories she’d heard—and forgotten she’d heard—from her Irish neighbor, back when she was a child.”
“So the housewife was lying? It was all a hoax?”
“No one said anything about hoaxes. The woman honestly remembered the stories, and genuinely misconstrued them as her own memories.” He shrugs. “I doubt the hypnotist would’ve known any better, either. That’s why everyone jumped to the wrong conclusion. But the whole claim has since been debunked. It was just a case of cryptomnesia—forgetting the true origin of a memory, even thinking it’s your own. As far as science is concerned, there’s no such thing as reincarnation.”
I close my eyes. “But you had to have felt something when you listened to that file. I know you did.” I reopen my eyes, but don’t voice the rest. I know I did.
Like reflections dancing over water, my chronic dreams, inborn fears, and the ineffable closeness yet resistance I feel toward my stepbrother all ripple across my consciousness. “These aren’t just names and places we’re rattling off. I feel real emotions about…”
About us.
Much as I’ve tried to push it away and make it disappear…as tall as I’ve tried to make the wall I’ve been building between us since the day we met, I must’ve known that, eventually, I would have to face the truth.
