Simon was listening, his eyes focused on his expanding collection of antique fish hooks, but his thoughts were miles away.
I waved one hand in front of him. “Simon?”
“I know what we need to do,” he said slowly.
“That’s great because I’m fresh out of ideas. I’ve been encouraging, I’ve been helpful with her buying and fixing up her house. We exercise together. I’ve been her friend, Simon. How does being her friend help her reach her path?”
“Because you’re a witch.”
“She can’t know that.”
“Which is why we’re going to have to be very careful about what we’re going to do. When I say ‘we,’ I mean you.” He grinned.
A feeling of dread began to wash over me. “What?”
“A memory trip.”
“No fucking way,” I blurted. Memory trips were used for people who really needed an attitude adjustment, not just a gentle push to guide them in the right direction. Ebenezer Scrooge is the most famous known person to have taken a memory trip, but that’s only because he got greedy and sold his story to a young author.
Simon grabbed a pencil and jotted down a note for himself. “I need to tell Samuel that he needs to add those little bombs you like to use into the android.” He read his note and scribbled over it. “Never mind. More trouble than it’s worth.”
“I’m not doing that. It’s too risky. I haven’t even done one before.”
“It’s not that hard. I’ll put together the permit and I’m sure it will get approved. I can’t imagine Fate saying no to this. Abby needs the nudge.”
I unclasped my hands and stood up. “I am not doing this, Simon. It will expose us. You need to let an experienced person do this.”
“You want one of the Ghosts?”
“Not Future. He’s still sensitive about his adult acne and keeps his face covered. It makes him look creepy.”
“Future thinks he looks mysterious.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. We all know what he’s hiding under that hood. He needs to just nut up and go to the dermatologist. What about Past or Present? All three of them can go in whichever direction, but they just choose to have a specialty.”
“It needs to be you. You’re the Influencer.”
“I’m not a time traveler, Simon! I wouldn’t even begin to know which events to show her that will push her in the right direction.” I could feel myself growing frustrated.
Simon’s voice lowered. “You’re doing this.”
I frowned and returned to my chair in front of my boss’s desk. I knew that tone well. There would be no more arguing. “Can I at least ask for help from one of them? They can pinpoint the events I need for her to relive more easily.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have Past send you the information.”
“What about a pill to give her afterward so she’ll think it was all a very vivid dream?”
“A pill? Just take her out for some pie.”
“Pie?” I asked skeptically. “How does pie make a person think that a literal trip down memory lane was nothing but a dream?”
Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t make the rules. Just make sure that she has some pie when you’re done.”
“Does it matter which kind of pie?”
“Apple, but that’s just me being partial to the stuff. It really doesn’t matter which one she chooses. She could choose a fruitcake pie if she wanted, but those aren’t too good.” He suddenly looked around the room anxiously. “Don’t tell Cindy that. She thinks I loved her little creation over Easter dinner.” He scrunched his nose. “It didn’t even smell good.” He reached into the mini-fridge he kept next to his desk. “Do you want a slice?”
“Why would I want something that you hated?”
“I’m trying to get rid of it.”
“It’s been a couple of weeks since Easter. I think you can toss it because it’s old.”
“No. Cindy always enchants her food so that it lasts at least a month.” He looked dreamily out the window. “If only she had made an apple pie.”
“Maybe next time,” I said hopefully.
“You take this pie off my hands and I’ll make sure Past sends you the information by tomorrow evening.”
“Deal.”
The next night I sat alone in my office, the windows open with a faint breeze rifling through the room. Flowers and trees were blooming as April was turning into May. Spring permeated the air and I loved it. I had already done my winter-summer switch in my closet, the warm clothes safely packed away downstairs until fall approached.
I yawned and stretched, focusing my attention back to my computer screen. I jumped out of my chair, startled to see Past staring at me. She chuckled to herself and floated out of the computer and over to the window. “It’s a really beautiful evening, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” I answered.
She turned back to me, her blue hair swaying around her. “I remember a night similar to this one back in the eighteenth century. Those were simpler times, weren’t they?”
“I’m sure that time period has its pros and cons.” I had heard that Past was a little odd. Clearly that had been an understatement.
Past looked at me sadly. “You poor thing. You don’t know. You have such a short life in comparison to mine.”
“Yeah, the thought keeps me up at night.” I leaned against the window behind my desk and crossed my arms.
She reached out and touched my face. Her hand was freezing. “You’re pretty, at least.”
“Thank you,” I said, suddenly blushing.
“I suppose you want the information Simon promised you.” Past floated over and hovered over my leather guest chair.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to map out the key points I need,” I said, my tone now sincere.
She fished into the pockets of her white gown that suspiciously looked like a certain Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress for the information. Past was known to enjoy trends, though she was usually a little bit behind. “I believe this will help you,” she said. The paper turned solid in her hand and she placed it on the edge of my desk.
I looked over it carefully. She had put everything in an outline form, complete with notes on what I needed to say. “You really went into detail here, Past. Thank you.”
“I had to. You’re an amateur at this.”
“That’s what I told Simon! I asked why you couldn’t do it.”
“This is your journey.”
“Past,” I said bluntly. “We both know that’s a line. It’s the person of interest’s journey. It doesn’t really matter who the guide is because it’s all a dream to them anyway.”
“Okay, it doesn’t actually matter,” Past admitted. “But Present, Future, and I are booked until Labor Day.”
I raised a brow. “That far out?”
Past threw back her shoulders defiantly. “We’re commodities. We stay busy.”
“Oh,” I said simply.
“Is that all that you require?”
I scanned the paper she had given me one more time. “Yes. Thanks again, Past.”
“Cheerio, then!” she said brightly, fading into nothing.
I studied the timeline that she had given me. There wasn’t too much on here, but clearly each event was significant. I scribbled out the words Past wanted me to say and jotted down notes regarding my own thoughts on each memory. I stopped, tapping the pencil eraser against my chin thoughtfully. How was I going to make Abby think that she was still dreaming when I woke her? I should have asked Past, but I doubted she would have answered honestly. I had heard the Ghosts liked to keep their techniques a secret so that they would remain valuable.
“You look like you could use some help,” Siobhan said, suddenly appearing in front of my desk. She took the same chair that Past had hovered over, sinking into it heavily.
“You look like you’ve had a tough day yourself.”
Siobhan warily wiped her eyes. “I had to b
reak it off with Percy. It just wasn’t working with the distance. I’m not able to tell him the truth, so I can’t just visit whenever I want. Distance puts a real strain on a budding relationship.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. It wasn’t meant to be. I didn’t get that glowing pit in my stomach when I saw him.”
“Glowing pit?”
“You know what I’m talking about. The glowing pit you feel whenever you’re around someone you adore. That person makes you so happy that you feel like you’re going to burst. Didn’t you feel like that when you were around Matthew?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know that he was the one you wanted to marry?”
“I was young and dumb. I didn’t know what real love was.”
“It sounds like you still don’t,” Siobhan said, frowning. “Have you even tried to date anyone since the divorce?”
“No, I have other things that are more important in my life that need my attention.”
“You really should put yourself out there again.”
“Why are you here? Did you want to pig out on some ice cream? Ice cream always makes a breakup feel better.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m really not that upset, actually. I am here on an official capacity, though. I’m a Muse. You need me.”
“I was trying to think of a way to ensure Abby thinks she’s still dreaming when we do our memory trip.”
“That’s easy. Go big.”
“Big?”
Siobhan leaned forward in her chair, excited. “You can’t be subtle. If she wakes up and the room is hazy, she’ll just think that her eyes are dry and she needs eye drops. If she wakes up and, say, there is a raceway in her bedroom, she will definitely think she’s still fast asleep.”
“I was leaning toward hazy,” I said.
“No. That’s not going to work.”
We were both quiet as I thought. Finally, I said, “A circus! Abby will wake up in the middle of a circus.”
“With lions?” Siobhan was skeptical.
“No, I’ll make them stuffed lions.”
“A circus has a lot of parts to it.”
“I’ll focus on one section, then.”
She sighed. “I did tell you to go big.” She smiled broadly. “A circus it is! I’ll even help you create it.”
The tent was a classic red-and-white vertical-striped dome with several circular sections roped off with matching velvet rope. In the center ring, I had created a few stuffed lions and they were in various positions pretending to perform tricks. Siobhan had created the lion tamer, though I did notice that it bore a strong resemblance to Percy. She was more upset than she was letting on, though I knew not to say anything. She would deal with her breakup in her own way, at her own pace.
The outer rings contained kittens performing the same tricks as the lions. Instead of being stuffed toys, I had made them look like animated characters that seemed to have recently jumped out of a cartoon.
The rest of the details remained blurry on purpose, the main focus being the trapeze I had made. It was high in the air and looked like it was made from mint candies. The safety net underneath was invisible. Siobhan had already vanished, leaving me alone to do the final checks on my creation. Satisfied, I snapped my fingers and was suddenly wearing long, black robes. I ran my hands over my hair, turning it bright pink.
I popped into Abby’s bedroom. She stirred slightly as I touched her hand and, without a sound, transported us to the circus. She woke up on the balcony, the trapeze tied off to its side.
“God bless America!” she screamed.
“Calm down, Abby,” I said soothingly.
“What in the hell is going on?” she demanded. She looked at my outfit and hair. “What are you doing? What is that you’re wearing? Is that pink hair? It’s one thing for the students to go nuts, but you’re an adult, Carmen. Come on.”
“You’re dreaming,” I said simply.
She pinched her forearm. “That hurts! I am definitely not dreaming.”
“It’s a very real feeling dream,” I insisted.
She looked around, noticing the rest of the circus. She squinted at the lion tamer. “Is that my realtor?”
“It looks like him, doesn’t it?”
“Those lions aren’t real,” she said, ignoring my question. She sat on the balcony’s floor, crossing her legs. “This isn’t real. This cannot be happening.”
“It’s just a dream.”
“It feels awfully real to be a dream,” she argued.
“Why would I have pink hair and wear black robes in real life? I like Harry Potter, but I’m not dressing up unless there’s some kind of convention. Why would you be in a circus with Percy and fake lions and animated kittens? Why would you be on top of a balcony where a trapeze is waiting to be used?”
Abby took in her surroundings once again. She stood up and poked the trapeze. “If this is a dream, it won’t matter if I fall, will it?”
I peered down where the invisible safety net loomed. “It won’t.”
She leaped off the balcony and I nearly yelped from shock. The safety net caught her easily, though she did bounce high into the air a few times before settling on her back. She screamed the entire time.
I appeared on the ground next to the safety net, which I had now turned pink to match my hair and so that it could be seen. She rolled off it and looked at it with wonder. “What a dream,” she murmured.
“Glad you like it. Give me your hand.” Without waiting for a response, I grabbed her hand and I transported us to the first memory.
Abby was in kindergarten. Her mouth widened into a yawn as she awoke from nap time. She dutifully rolled her red-and-blue mat and put it inside her assigned cubby hole.
“What’s this?” the adult Abby asked.
“I don’t know. This is your dream.”
“I miss nap time.”
“Me, too.”
“I used to hate them when I was a child.” She laughed softly. “I’d love to have one every day now. I would if it didn’t interfere with my bedtime later.”
We watched as the younger Abby began pulling off toy bricks from the shelves. A group of girls waved her over to their play group and Abby ignored them. She stacked the bricks in a way that she made a wall surrounding her. With a loud roar, she crashed through the bricks. “I’m Godzilla!” she yelled.
“Look at how happy I am,” Abby said wistfully. “I loved those toy bricks. Those girls would make fun of me for playing with them because they were ‘toys for boys,’ but I didn’t care. I loved them.”
“Why didn’t you care what they thought?”
Abby tilted her head thoughtfully. “I guess because I was young and inhibited. Their opinions didn’t matter to me.”
“Would it matter now?”
“Do you mean do the opinions’ of five-year-olds matter now that I’m an adult?”
“I’m suggesting that if there was a scenario where you could play with toys as an adult, would you still choose the bricks or would you go play with the other adult women?”
“That’s a weird question.”
“Fine.” I touched Abby’s hand and we were transported to another time. Abby was in a classroom with large, bright fluffy letters across the entrance that spelled, “Welcome to Second Grade!” At the back of the room, I spotted eight-year-old Abby at a small piano.
“Not the piano.” Abby groaned.
Her younger self sat ramrod straight on the bench, her fingers lightly hovering over the keys. “Every good boy does fine,” she whispered to herself.
Her instructor filled the rest of the bench with her girth and was pointing at the musical notes in the songbook in front of her. “Stop saying the phrase each time you play. Abby, you really should have learned these notes by now.”
“I’m sorry,” Abby apologized. “I just can’t remember them. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“It should. You’ve been playing for
six months now. You’re falling behind the rest of my students.”
“I’m trying. I really am.”
“I don’t see how,” the instructor argued. “If you were really practicing, you would know your notes by now and wouldn’t have to think about it each time I ask you to play. You can either stop wasting my time or you can start studying like a good girl and make use of your parents’ money.”
Abby started to cry and the instructor looked at her earnestly. “That’s enough, Abby,” she said sternly.
“I practiced for hours each week,” the adult Abby snarled. “I really couldn’t grasp the concept of music. If she had been more patient with me, I might have. Not everyone progresses as quickly as others.”
“Is this why you decided to become a special needs teacher? To be patient and kind to those who don’t learn as quickly because someone wasn’t that way with you?”
Abby looked at me, her expression sad. “I never thought about this moment when I wanted to become a teacher. It just felt like a calling.”
“Sometimes we bury bad memories because they’re too painful, but they etch who we are later. I think this is part of what swayed you to achieve the profession you have today.”
“Maybe,” she murmured thoughtfully. Younger Abby was still crying as she tried to match her instructor’s graceful movements across the keys.
“I don’t want to see this anymore.” Abby’s jaw was tense, her eyes flashing.
“You’re the boss.” I sent us to another scene, one that took place a year later. Abby had learned the notes and she was playing very well for someone so young, but her face was sullen and withdrawn.
“Abby, you need to show more heart!” the instructor snapped. “It’s like watching a chicken get its head cut off listening to you play. It’s just pathetic.”
Abby immediately stopped playing. She yanked down the key cover, nearly slamming the instructor’s fingers in the process.
“You nearly broke my fingers, young lady! You just wait until I tell your parents about your little outburst.”
A Witchly Influence Page 13