Bitch Witch

by S. R. Karfelt

  “My mother’s room!” That is not a good idea!

  “Sarah.”

  “Fine.” Sarah crossed her arms. “Where’s Henry sleeping?”

  “Oh, Lord. Here we go.” Paul’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “The only thing I can imagine worse than watching the two of you slobber on each other, is watching you make an ass of yourself while he’s trying to make amends to Kathleen.”

  “Bite me, Paul. Wait. What do you mean make amends?”

  Paul rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I’ll admit I’ve been enjoying it. I guess you will too, for different reasons. It’ll probably put some hope in that black heart of yours—once Kathleen knew Henry had returned to his senses, and she’d finally quit vomiting things I think she’d ingested back in high school, she did an about face. She went all, ‘I don’t think so, Henry. You can’t cheat on me and come crawling back.’”

  Sarah laughed. “I guess you can’t blame her.”

  “Of course not. I blame you.”

  “Why? I got caught in the same spell. I didn’t even cast that love spell.” Sarah took another sip of water and glared out the window.

  “You really looked like you were suffering. Do you think I didn’t realize what you were doing when you made him coffee? And not just some drip-type thing after all your lectures to me about how you can’t cook without casting. You practically danced beneath a full moon waving a wand the minute he walked in the door!”

  Sarah turned her glare on him. “I did not! I know I completed the circle of the spell, binding us—”

  Paul took one hand off the steering wheel to make an open handed gesture at her. “Thank you! At least you’re admitting it!”

  “Look, I never denied that! But the thing is, Paul, I knew after I’d touched Henry I was in deep. So I cast another spell with the coffee. It helped me see the truth about Henry. That way I could keep my head.”

  “Apparently that didn’t work very well.” Paul put both hands back on the steering wheel.

  “It worked fine. The problem was that Henry’s a pretty great guy. Even without a spell I would have been interested in him.”

  Paul snorted. “I call B.S. on that.”

  “Why?!”

  “Because I know both of you.”

  Sarah lifted her short legs to press her ruby red slippers against the leather dashboard of the car. She frowned out the window, blind to the setting October sun as she considered Paul’s comments. They were easier to think about than the dark matter beckoning in the distance or the anxiety churning in her gut.

  “How bad is Kathleen?”

  “Bad enough. You’re going to need to stay away from her.”

  Paul exited the highway and Sarah relaxed against the leather upholstery as the car moved over familiar back roads. “Bet you anything Kathleen has witch blood somewhere in her past.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That night before I cast the poison spell, I made her wine taste like vinegar and she drank every drop. Who does that?”

  Paul chuckled low in his throat. “Kathleen has the fortitude of a monk, and she hates wine. She once told me it all tastes like vinegar, but when she started dating Henry she was all over it because he is.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Look who’s talking. I’ve had a front row seat into your shenanigans, Miss My Car Uses Oil.”

  Sarah laughed, remembering. “That was pretty bad.”

  “You were both ridiculous.”

  “I’m not blaming the poison thing on her, but Kathleen was trying to provoke me that night.” Sarah sucked the rest of the water out of the bottle and forced it into the cup holder.

  “No kidding! Did you expect her to be friendly? Henry dumped her by text message for you, and you were rude and mocking from the second she walked in the door. She’s a good person, and she deserved better than that.”

  “She’s a catty bitch.”

  “Don’t you have any empathy? She hopped a plane to come see what happened to the man she loves, and you started poking pins into her!”

  “She was being a snoot and a snob.”

  “Yeah, well so was Henry, and you gave him a lap dance.” Paul parked in front of Sarah’s house and clicked open his seatbelt. “You ready?”

  Sarah looked toward the house. The morning glory had died. Heaps of October leaves were blown against the porch steps. She swallowed and whispered, “Yes.”

  “Say you’ll be nice.”

  “You know what, Paul? I’m not nearly as awful as you seem to think I am. I have no intention of hurting Kathleen.”

  “You mean this time?” He opened his door.

  “Just shut up.”

  Light illuminated the doors under the porch roof in a golden glow. Sarah froze halfway up the front steps.

  Paul stumbled at her sudden stop, his arm still around her. “What are you doing?”

  Sarah’s mouth had gone so dry she couldn’t form words. She pointed at the front doors. The glass in them that had crackled three years ago after the death of her family had changed again. Instead of the familiar crackly cobwebs etched into frosty glass, colorful vines and flowers gracefully flowed over crystal clear glass. Most metaphorical dark matter messages had a basis in the laws of physics. This glass had healed itself. It wasn’t possible. It now looked like the Morning Glory that grew around the house in the summer.

  A shiver ran up her back.

  “What?” Paul said. “The doors? They’re new. Kathleen picked them. We had to have a lot of the windows replaced too. When you had your little hissy fit you blew out half the glass in the house. Henry took care of it.”

  “Oh.” Sarah laughed a dry exhalation of relief. “That was nice of him.”

  “Hardly. It was getting cold. He left a stack of receipts for you. Make sure you pay him back. He can be a real jerk about money. I was afraid to offer him some of your piles of cash. I didn’t want him to think you’re a drug dealer or something. He’s pretty down on you.” Paul fished in his pocket for the key, and then took Sarah’s elbow to escort her across the threshold. All the blood in her head felt as though it drained down, and she could hear her pulse beating inside her ears. Automatically she reached further than Paul for additional help. Even knowing she’d rejected it forever, Sarah’s mind and heart swept through the old house, looking for dark matter like the drug it was. It surprised her that she couldn’t sense it even in the basement.

  It really left the house! It was both a relief and a disappointment.

  Sarah didn’t make it any further than the sofa in the living room. She let go of Paul’s arm and dropped face first onto the old gilt-edged couch. It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Maybe Paul had been right. She should have stayed in the hospital. Sarah pressed her face against the soft material, breathing in the familiar dusty scent of old jacquard silk. She closed her eyes to protect them from the light. The house seemed far brighter than she remembered.

  Paul tossed a warm blanket over her back and turned on You’ve Got Mail, putting her laptop on the coffee table near her head. Meg Ryan was missing her mom.

  What must that be like?

  Sarah slept as though she’d fallen back into a coma.

  When she woke, Paul watched her from the opposite sofa.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  Sarah sat up, pulling a pile of warm blankets closer. They were the thick white ones from her bed, and even her pillow had been tucked on the end of the sofa. “Some. Thanks, Paul.”

  “No problem,” he said, pointing at a cup of tea, a bowl of steaming soup, and crackers set on the coffee table. “You’ve been asleep for over twenty-four hours. I was beginning to think about taking you back to the hospital. I will if you don’t eat and drink and pee. The soup isn’t much more than broth. I don’t think you should start with much else. But it’s from that Wegman’s supermarket. It’s good, I had some.”

  Sarah pulled the bowl closer and picked up a spoon. Her stom
ach snarled as she spooned soup into her mouth. “You’re a good friend,” she said between bites. Her stomach roared in appreciation or protest. She couldn’t tell which, and didn’t care. The soup tasted warm and too salty and wonderful. “You know I don’t expect you to cook for me, but hell I do appreciate it.”

  “You’re letting me stay here, not to mention my brother and his fiancée.”

  Sarah shot him a dirty look. “Where are they?”

  “Henry took some soup up to Kathleen a few minutes ago. He’s been trying to feed her something every few hours. She’s not really eating well.”

  Sarah looked in the direction of the staircase.

  “He said he was going to go back to bed,” Paul added.

  “What room is he in?”

  “Please. Would you please try not to be nauseatingly jealous? I don’t think I can take it again. Henry’s not sleeping with Kathleen if that’s what you’re worried about. Not that he wouldn’t be if she felt better, or if she didn’t currently hate his guts.”

  Paul’s tone made her smile.

  “You’re doing it,” Paul accused. “It’s not very attractive.”

  To hide her eye roll Sarah gulped some of the hot tea, holding the mug between her hands to warm them. “Does Kathleen know about me?” At his blank look she added, “That I’m a witch, Paul.”

  “Of course not. She wouldn’t believe that if we told her anyway.”

  “I have ways of making you believe.” It hit her with sudden horror that she didn’t. Not anymore. She put down the mug.

  “You can really be a you-know-what,” Paul said.

  Sarah plopped several crackers into the soup and jammed them into the bottom with her spoon. “But Henry knows I am. I mean, he believes it now, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, Sarah, he does. He also believes you tried to kill Kathleen.”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  “He could hardly miss you snoring in the middle of the living room. You sounded like a pack of San Francisco sea lions.”

  Sarah straightened, spoon in hand. “Did I really?” Witches didn’t sleep deep enough to snore. “That’s odd.”

  “Are you more embarrassed by the fact that your crush heard you snoring than the fact that you tried to kill his fiancée? Because that’s messed up.”

  Scowling, Sarah scooped soggy crackers onto her spoon. “He’s not my crush, and I wish you wouldn’t say I tried to kill her.”

  “This is the part where I’ll again point out the facts. You almost killed her. I suppose everyone has those brief flashes of anger, but most people aren’t witches. You’re like a loaded gun.”

  When he put it like that, it made her new lack of ability a little less terrible.

  Except now I have no defense against even a loaded gun.

  “After your warning shot, she vomited for weeks. The medical community tortured her trying to figure out why. She lost close to twenty pounds, weight she couldn’t afford to drop. Kathleen barely weighs more than a bag of bones and hair anyway.”

  Despite a guilty shiver, Sarah gave him a self-satisfied smile. “You don’t like her either.”

  “The way I feel about Kathleen has nothing to do with her size, and I didn’t say that I didn’t like her!”

  “You didn’t have to. Why’d you ever go out with her? Isn’t that how Henry met her? When she was on a date with you?”

  “It was a blind date, and I think she’s perfect for Henry. They get each other. They’re both as deep as the kiddie pool, and as pretentious as lip filler. Don’t take that wrong. I love them both.”

  “I don’t think Henry’s like that.” Sarah stuffed another spoonful of soup into her mouth.

  “Well, you don’t know him, or you would.”

  “She is, though she is beautiful in that big hair suntan way.” Sarah ran a hand over her mess of dark hair. It felt greasy. “Shit! I need a shower!” Lifting an arm she sniffed. “I smell like a horse!”

  Paul shrugged. “You smell better than you would if you’d have died. Barely, though. Good lord, Sarah, you were in a coma, and they did wash you. Besides, you seem to forget that Henry doesn’t care what you smell like anymore. Homicidal tendencies are a real turn off for some men.”

  “Shut up. This has nothing to do with him!” Though she sure didn’t want to come face to face with Henry like this. “What room is he sleeping in again?”

  Paul leaned against the back of the sofa with a sigh and scratched the backside of his horse tat on his bicep. “You’re just never going to stop asking about him, are you? Your near death experience taught you nothing. I don’t know why I’m making jokes about Henry and Kathleen. Maybe you are shallow enough for him. Henry is sleeping in your bedroom. I knew you didn’t want us to use most of those rooms upstairs. I wasn’t sure if it was worse to use your room or the room you keep all those clothes in—”

  “Paul! Deal. I was only asking because I didn’t know if I could go upstairs to use my shower! Do you care if I go take a shower in your room? And would you mind bringing me some clean clothes from upstairs?”

  “It’s your house, so of course I don’t mind. What do you want? It is three o’clock in the morning. Pajamas or clothes?”

  “What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter. I got fired so I’m not going to work—wait,” Sarah said, remembering. “Did someone named Jackie come visit me in the hospital?”

  Paul’s somber expression vanished. “How did you know? Could you hear what was going on? Doctor Shaw said maybe you could!”

  “I remember bits and pieces.” Sarah thought back. “Mostly it was darkness—and not good stuff. I’m trying to remember the semi-conscious bits. You asked her about my job!”

  He grinned at her. “Yep, and you didn’t get fired, although I suspect they didn’t really think you were going to make it. Still. They can hardly rescind it because you lived.”

  “They sent me flowers!” Sarah banged her soup spoon against the low table, disappointed to realize she hadn’t noticed them. Remembering what else had happened, she smiled and leaned back on the sofa. “You got me my job back! What day did you say it was?”

  Paul shook his head. “No way. I helped you sneak out of that hospital, but I am not taking you to work any time soon. How can you think about going anywhere right now? For starters Sarah, and don’t take this wrong, but you look half-dead—no, you look mostly-dead. For another thing, nobody pops out of a coma overnight and goes to work.”

  Sarah rubbed a hand up and down her arm. “I don’t have the energy to do anything yet. But it’s hard not to cast if I don’t keep myself busy. If I backslide now, Paul, I’ll never be able to get to this point again. Ever.”

  “Ever try jogging? It’s repetitive and soothing.”

  She stood. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Paul laughed. “Too soon? You have a pile of bills, if you’re looking for paperwork. For now you need to eat and sleep. And shower.”

  “All right,” said Sarah, heading for the room she thought of as Paul’s. “What did Henry say when he saw I was home from the hospital?”

  “Just get in the shower. You smell like a zombie looks. Wait. You look like one too.”

  Sarah flipped him the bird as she hurried toward his bathroom.

  “WHAT KIND OF flowers?”

  Freshly showered and bathed since only one hadn’t cut it, Sarah sprawled across Paul’s bed waiting for him to finish his shower. She examined her pruney fingers, a side effect of falling asleep in the bathtub. She felt much better now.

  “What?” Paul yelled back, and she heard the shower door slam shut behind him. “Hey, did you use my razor? This is gross!”

  “Maybe. What kind of flowers did my work send to me at the hospital?” Sarah ran her fingers through wet hair, fanning it around her head on top of Paul’s pillow. It needed to be cut. She squinted in the glare of the overhead light, determined to drink a couple gallons of water that day or whatev
er it took to wash the meds out of her system.

  “I don’t know. The kind in a vase,” came the muffled reply. “It looks like you shaved a chimp in that shower.”

  “But what color were they? What kinds of flowers? What kind of vases? Were they small or big?”

  “Big and flowery and lots of them. Get out of here. I need to get clothes out of my dresser.” Paul peeked around the corner of the bathroom wall at her.

  “So get them,” Sarah said. “I’ve always wanted to see all your tats anyway.” She sat up and her wet hair ran rivulets down the Snoopy sweatshirt Paul had chosen. Her pants were too loose, and she recognized them as from her too-small pile. It was a heady feeling sliding into jeans two sizes smaller than usual, but she definitely hadn’t lost twenty pounds like Kathleen. Maybe five. After six weeks in a coma I lost maybe five pounds. Life is so freaking unfair to short people.

  “Don’t think I won’t march right out there,” Paul said, hovering behind the wall.

  “Waiting,” she taunted.

  Paul stalked around the corner with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t taken the time in a while to appreciate how beautiful he was. For some reason it had never occurred to her that Paul would look every bit as good as Henry; perhaps even more so soaking wet and wrapped in a nice fluffy white towel, with all of his tats gleaming and slick against lean muscle.

  Paul stopped at the foot of the bed and put his hands on his waist. “Well, at least you look like a clean zombie now. You do need to eat a bit more.”

  Sarah dropped back onto the bed and put her hands over her stomach. “Maybe not just yet.”

  “You’ll have to force yourself at first. I’m serious. You look like a vampire heroin addict between fixes. Your eyes are freaking me out.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “They’re like a strung out rabid raccoon. You look hungry. Feral.”

  Sarah sat up. “Shut up, Paul! I am hungry, but not for food! I want dark matter. I want to fling open the doors and run naked into the woods where it lives and beg it to take me back and make me feel better!”