Wish Club

by Kim Strickland

  Claudia eyes wrinkled, like, Eeuw. “Maybe,” she said. She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked seriously at Dan, though, as if she were actually considering it. “Sure, maybe April needs my help. I think that baby does. I don’t know—whatever it is I’m supposed to do, do you think you could just humor me for a while? Just go along until we see where this leads? Please?”

  Dan sat back and crossed his arms with a sigh. He stared at his dish of soy sauce, green whorls of wasabi floating on top. Humoring her about buying a condo or a stack of books on witchcraft was one thing. Humoring her about a life-changing, a lifestyle-threatening event was quite another.

  He’d never even held a baby before. He was still having some doubts about wanting one of his own, much less someone else’s castoff. He thought about what he considered to be their already precarious financial situation and how much he wanted to get out on his own. He thought about smelly diapers and tripping over toys and never being able to go out, on the spur of the moment, to even a dismal place like this for sushi. Is that where all this would lead?

  He thought of living with Claudia for any length of time when she was in one of her drowning moods—moods that could suck him right down with her into a dark, swirling cesspool of doom and gloom. He thought back to her silence just now after their fight, to her silence last fall during their twenty-minute walk from where her purse had spilled on the sewer, and it was just that kind of quiet he knew he’d have to live with, for what? A week? A month? Longer?

  What were the chances this would lead to anything after all? Probably next to nothing. Surely they wouldn’t let her have this baby, just because she’d found it. Maybe it was just best to humor his wife and avoid a painful coexistence that could last for some indeterminate amount of time.

  Claudia was picking up a new piece of ginger and dropping it, over and over.

  Dan reached out his hand and put it over hers. He squeezed, gently at first, then harder, until she set the chopsticks down onto the wood-block tray. One rolled down off the block and onto the table.

  When he was holding nothing but her empty hand in his, he said, “Okay.”

  The crowds at Children’s Memorial Hospital were gone and, at this hour of the night, Gail and John had the waiting area to themselves.

  John sat in his chair and waited. After ten years of marriage and a total of twelve years together, he knew better than to say anything to Gail while she cried. It was best to let her purge her system uninterrupted.

  His arm was resting on the back of Gail’s chair and now that her sobbing had started to subside, he moved his arm down and enveloped her shoulder in his huge hand. He held some Kleenex in the other, and when she seemed ready, he handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and cheeks and blew her nose.

  “You know he’s going to be okay, right?” he asked, as if maybe she hadn’t understood the doctor.

  Gail shook her head. “I know. I know.” She sniffed, then started shaking her head in the negative. “It’s just that…that…” She turned her blotched face up to him. She took a deep quivery breath in through her mouth. “I…I just…I feel like I shouldn’t have…”

  “Shouldn’t have what?”

  Gail started sobbing again.

  “Gail, what…? You’re acting like all this is your fault.”

  Fear popped into her eyes and stayed there.

  “Gail? What is it? How could you be responsible?” He paused. Tried a smile. “What? Have you taken up a secret life as an arsonist or something?”

  Gail didn’t laugh. She exhaled a huge breath of air. “It’s Book Club. I think Book Club did this.”

  “Your Book Club has taken up a secret life as arsonists?”

  “No.” She shook her head, and this time she did allow a smile to pass across her face, very briefly, before she said, “John, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  A woman came into the waiting room with her young son while Gail explained to John, through her tears, the recent turn of events at Book Club.

  The woman and her son sat in the opposite corner of the waiting room, as if they were trying to get as far away from the crazy crying lady as they could. The boy appeared to be about two and was astonishingly awake for this hour of the night. He tugged on the fringe of a pink blanket she had in her arms, within which, presumably, a baby sister slept.

  “Agua mami. Agua.” The boy pulled and tugged at his mother and pointed to the drinking fountain. She whispered something quickly to him in Spanish and his face contorted into tears.

  “So you think it’s because you wanted more time to yourself,” John pulled his eyes from the little boy and looked back down at Gail, “and you made this, er…wish and that’s what caused the school to catch fire?” He shook his head, made a face as if to say, that’s goofy. “I don’t know anything about these types of things—psychics and fortune-tellers and—well, basically I think it’s all just a crock. And these wishes you’re talking about—the witchcraft stuff. I don’t know, but if you’re asking me, it’s kind of a stretch, don’t you think? Especially the part about wanting time to yourself causing the fire. Besides, the school burning down would have the opposite eff—”

  And then he got it. If the boys were dead…

  Tears started to stream down Gail’s cheeks again. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. John rubbed circles on her back. He wanted to tell her he thought she was being crazy, that all this witchcraft and wishing stuff was just in their heads. But she was crying so uncontrollably. There were few times in their life together he’d ever seen her this upset.

  John broke his own rule, leaned closer and tried talking to his wife while she cried. “Gail? Gail.” He paused, then decided to stay the course even though she hadn’t looked up. He stopped rubbing her back and took both of her shoulders in his hands. “I don’t know a better mother in the world than you. Whatever you think you did…I just don’t think anything like this could ever have come from you. I know you’d rather die than let anything happen to our kids.”

  John loosened the grip he had on her shoulders but didn’t remove his hands. It took a long moment before Gail leaned into him, letting his big arms encircle her. She put her head on his chest and he held her.

  Down the hall, Andrew had finally fallen asleep in his room. He’d fallen down some stairs evacuating the school and had broken his ankle. There had been a bit of a pile-up, with a few other children falling down as well, but they weren’t hurt as seriously as Andrew and had managed to escape. Andrew had succumbed to the smoke.

  A firefighter had found him unconscious on the landing near the south entrance and, while he’d regained consciousness fairly quickly after they put him on oxygen, it was still going to be a while before the doctors would know the extent of the damage to his lungs. They’d done a blood test and taken X-rays, and initial reports were good, but the doctors also wanted a bronchoscopy. They’d just finished the test and Gail and John were waiting to talk to the doctor about the results. After the procedure, Andrew had dozed off, which was when the tears Gail had been fighting back had begun to fall.

  “Why don’t we go back to the room,” John said. “It’s been at least twenty minutes by now.”

  Gail looked at her watch and nodded her head against his shoulder.

  “If you want, I could run home in a little while,” John continued, “see how Ellen’s managing with the other two. I could grab some stuff for you, get your toothbrush, or a change of clothes.” He ran his hand through her hair. Gail didn’t look up, but she seemed to be considering it. “I’d be gone less than an hour.” He stopped rubbing her hair. “Unless you want me to stay.”

  Gail shook her head. “No. That’s a good idea. You should check on them. They had a rough day, too.”

  “Okay then.” John gave her a squeeze before he stood up. “I’ll walk you back to his room first. Can you think of anything else you need from—”

  “Angélica Pérez?” The nurse had her head down, looking at her clipboard,
when she stepped into the waiting room.

  “—anything else you need from home?” John finished his sentence while Gail stood up, but she wasn’t paying attention to him anymore.

  The nurse looked directly at the woman in the corner, “Angélica Pérez?” she said again, more loudly.

  The young mother was already trying to gather her things, but progress was slow. She stood up with the baby, the diaper bag slung over her forearm, and asked for her son to follow. They started toward the door, but all progress stopped when the little boy grabbed onto the drinking fountain as they passed it and started crying.

  “Portate bien. Vamanos a la doctor. ¡Date prisa!” his mother said in a harsh whisper, but her son refused to let go. The woman smiled at the nurse, who gave her a wan, impatient smile back. The mother tugged at the arm of her son, but her hands were full and he wouldn’t let go of the drinking fountain, both arms around it in an embrace.

  Gail and John had walked as far as the doors to the patient rooms, and John held one of them open for Gail, but she turned and, with her new limp, walked away from him and over to the little boy.

  She smiled at his mother. “¿Con su permiso?” Gail asked, putting her hands around the little boy’s waist to lift him.

  “Sí,” the mother said, and Gail hoisted him up for a drink, bending only her left knee, keeping her right leg out straight. She said, “Aprieta el botón plateado,” but he already knew what to do. After his drink he ran to grab his mother’s hand and they went through the door on the other side of the waiting room, which the nurse was holding open.

  Gail was still by the drinking fountain, watching them walk away. The mother stopped in the doorway and turned back toward Gail, giving her a shy smile and a slight nod, a silent thank you for another mother’s understanding. No words necessary.

  John stood watching his wife, marveling at her. It had been so many years since he’d heard her speak Spanish, he’d forgotten she could do it. It was like seeing her with new eyes. It reminded him of the girl he’d first met all those years ago in Buenos Aires—the mischief in her eyes, the artificially jet-black hair, the sultry way she moved.

  Her gait was syncopated as she walked toward him now, with her red nose and puffy eyes. She gave him a weak smile and John realized he couldn’t love her any more than he did right this minute.

  He held the door open for her and Gail hobbled through without saying anything. No words necessary.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The incongruous country smell of a wood fire filled the air on the tony city street. Chichi boutiques, restaurants, and galleries lined either side. Greta lingered on the front steps of her gallery instead of going back inside to lock up, which had been her intention before she’d stepped out here.

  It was the first week of March and the streetlights glowed, haloed by a foggy mist that made it feel even colder than it was. She looked up at the loft condos topping the storefronts to see if she could determine from which fireplace the smoke was coming. Greta inhaled another deep breath of the smoky air and closed her eyes, the smell summoning up images of buffalo plaid and s’mores, not the cashmere and saffron-infused polenta that filled this street.

  The rich smoke reminded her of her mother and her first circle gatherings, taking her back to the woods of southern Wisconsin and all those kind, mysterious women preparing for their rituals. She’d been so nervous before the first one. All of her mother’s comforting words had done nothing to stop the feeling that someone was jumping rope in her stomach. Her mother and her words of wisdom had, of course, been right. To Greta, going to circle had felt like coming home. At these gatherings of women with amazing gifts, no one thought anything of someone else hearing her thoughts, no one thought she was a weirdo for sensing things that other people, normal people, couldn’t sense.

  Greta took another big sniff of the smoky night air and stepped back inside Eleventh House.

  Facing her gallery with her hands on her hips, she refocused her mind from the ancient past to the not-so-distant future. What was it going to be like having an opening with so little art? She could joke that Trebelmeier was a minimalist. Or perhaps she could stand, straight-faced, staring at an exposed expanse of brick wall and pretend that was the art. “Don’t you get it? It’s so powerful.” Greta grinned, knowing for certain she would find someone that would agree with her, like those New York art critics who wrote rave reviews about a minimalist wood sculpture that was actually just the stand for a metallic piece of art that had been lost in transport.

  Jill hadn’t returned her latest phone calls. Her opening was in two weeks and still Greta only had the original handful of finished paintings. She’d been prodding Jill for months, telling her she’d like to see a few more works, that the amount she had was a little too thin. Greta had never had to think about canceling an opening before, although she knew it happened. But she didn’t want it to happen to her next weekend. Everything was in place. Advertising was paid for, deposits on the catering were paid.

  Advanced publicity had been good, too; Jill was generating quite a buzz and this could prove to be her breakout show. But when she’d mentioned that to Jill, Jill had responded with an unemotional, “Well, we’ll see.”

  But that was Jill. In the years that Greta had known her, she’d never once been able to penetrate that exterior. The only things Greta could ascertain about Jill she’d had to learn the old-fashioned way, the way everybody else did—by observing her from the outside. Jill was so reserved and closed-off, as though she’d constructed a protective wall around herself. It made Greta sad. What was it that she was protecting herself from?

  Greta locked the front door and took her nightly wander through her gallery, lingering in front of her favorite pieces, never knowing how much longer they would be in her care. When she got to the back she turned off the main lights and went down the hallway to her office. One of her mother’s paintings hung on the brick wall just outside, and she remembered watching her mother paint it, up in her attic studio. As a child she’d loved to watch her mother paint, the quiet, fluid-like way she worked.

  “There’s beauty in just about everything,” her mother had told her when she was working on this one. “You just have to stop and look for it.” Greta remembered her putting a daub of paint on her brush, then pointing its newly rust-colored tip at her. “And usually,” her mother had said, turning back to the painting, “if you know how to see the beauty”—she had dabbed at the painting, concentrating—“you’ll know how to see the magic, too.”

  Greta stood in front of the painting for a long while, watching the smoke rise from the factory chimneys and the stars begin to twinkle in the darkened sky.

  “Good night, Mama,” she said, before turning out the light and heading back to her office to finish up the day’s work.

  Mara pulled the small paper bag out of her purse and set it on her kitchen table. Myrrh. If she’d known it was going to be that hard to find, she might have called off this whole project. She’d phoned every New Age store in the city trying to find some, but it seemed there recently had been a run on myrrh. Everyone was fresh out. She’d had to drive all the way out to a western suburb just to get it, fighting Friday-afternoon traffic and wasting the only half-day she got from Dr. Seeley each week.

  She pulled a Hostess cupcake out of her purse too and took a bite. She’d had to stop for gas on the way back and she’d been kind of hungry, so she’d decided to pick up a snack as well.

  Mara needed the myrrh for a cleansing spell, since she’d decided she would try to break that haywire abundance wish by herself. It shouldn’t be too hard, she thought. She’d read how to do it in her books, and now she finally had all the necessary ingredients.

  And there was no time like the present, because the boys and Henry had baseball practice after school today, which on Fridays was usually followed by pizza at Ranalli’s. They wouldn’t be home until after seven.

  She hadn’t told Henry about the wishing yet and she didn
’t think, in light of his newly hirsute condition, it was something she should tell him about now. At least her wish for a singing career hadn’t begun to manifest. She couldn’t take any more insanity.

  Mara licked the last bit of cupcake off her fingers, set out the piece of paper with the new, improved spell she had written, and began collecting the rest of the ingredients she would need: cinnamon, lemon peel, salt, and bay leaves. She would do the wish reversal right there in the kitchen, at the table.

  Mara lit a short green candle and turned off the lights. After a few deep breaths to relax her mind and focus, she reached into the bag to remove the tiny vial of myrrh essential oil, which had cost a fortune. If she hadn’t chased all over town for it, she never would have bought it. Nineteen ninety-five for half of a fluid ounce!

  The paper bag crinkled in the otherwise silent room when Mara tossed it down to the floor next to the table to get it out of the way. She dabbed some of the pricey oil on her index finger, then started drawing a circle around the candle with it, rewetting her finger with the oil several times to complete the circle. Mara sprinkled the cinnamon and salt on the oil, then rested the lemon peel in the concoction, chanting:

  Oh Great Goddess hear me pray,

  Please cleanse my abundance wish today.

  Eliminate extra hair from Henry,

  The weight from me, and do not tarry.

  I ask you with deep sincerity,

  To replace “Abundance” with “Prosperity.”

  Mara repeated the chant several times, as they had at Book Club, although during her third time through she’d had to pause to scold Tippy, because he’d started playing with the paper bag on the floor, climbing inside and making a racket.

  When she finished, she sat at the table and watched the candle burn for a long while, listening to Tippy push the paper bag around the kitchen floor.

  “I hope that does the trick,” Mara said out loud, patting her hand on her poochy belly, which rumbled its request for the other cupcake.