Hex, A Witch and Angel Tale

by Ramona Wray

  Before heading home, where Mom was probably wondering where I was, I swung by J’s house again, hoping to find Delilah and send her to the hospital to be with her daughter. But she was still nowhere to be found, the useless bum. And since she didn’t work on Wednesdays and Thursdays, checking out the diner where she waitressed, not for the money, but because it was a good place to shop for the endless supply of boyfriends she required, was a waste of time. My only choice was to try her at home again, later on.

  After that, I went straight home. The new day was dawning sunny and pleasant, but I did my best not to notice it. The last thing I wanted was to break down in the middle of the road over how blue the sky was and how green the grass, over how I’d never see either of them again. I may have been numb with the shock and grief, but I hadn’t completely lost my mind yet. I knew it was either keeping myself in check or morphing into a total nut case and ending up in the nearest madhouse. That wouldn’t do anyone much good, I thought with cold practicality. Because as long as there were still practical things I could grab hold of, it was still good. Practicalities kept me anchored to life. They didn’t let me go nuts, or worse, think about him. About what he had done to J. About what I was forced to do in order to clean up his mess. And what was coming right after.

  So I drove slowly, carefully, with the radio playing low in the background, the same way I’d done hundreds of times before.

  I found Mom in the kitchen, whipping up some waffles. Raisin was curled up next to the stove in a ball of black fluff that purred contentedly. Enya’s calming voice came from the CD player on the counter. Mom, a blonde vision in soft flannel pajamas dotted with daisies, hummed in tune with the song while gliding back and forth between the stove and the kitchen island. The waffles smelled great. The sun, a glowing red ball, sent bright lances of light through the trees and our windows, drawing funny shapes and patterns on the shiny floor. Mom looked beautiful and happy. It all was picture-perfect and I branded it deep in my heart. This was exactly how I wanted to remember our lives. Simple, here and now.

  “Morning, Mom,” I called from the doorway.

  “Good morning, honey,” she chirped joyfully. “You’re up earl — Wait.” She stopped, frowning. “How come you’re dressed?”

  Wasn’t that just like my oblivious mom? She hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t in the house.

  “Didn’t you see that my car was missing from the driveway?” Smiling, I walked over and wrapped my arms around her tightly, inhaling deeply that woodsy scent that, for me, would always be my mother. Images of her latest twelve hours assaulted me on the spot, but I ignored the sharp pain in the back of my head. In fact, I smiled. She and the girls had had one too many margaritas last night; Miranda looked especially funny while singing the national anthem.

  Regretfully, but too nervous not to, she pulled away. “Lillian Marie, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  Her beautiful face showed none of the signs a night of drinking with friends was supposed to leave on people. No dark circles under her eyes, no pronounced lines anywhere. She was just Mom, as fresh, young, and gorgeous as ever, but worried, her mouth puckered in a tight little frown as she checked to see if indeed I was in one piece.

  “Relax, Mom,” I said, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. And I’m not the one who was a naughty girl last night. Margaritas, huh?”

  She flushed, relaxing a notch, though she still didn’t move. My chest tightened as I took in her concern, the way her eyes ran over the length of me, searching for signs of damage. She loved me more than anything in the world. How she would cope with what the future was about to bring, I couldn’t even imagine. My eyes were watering again. I blinked and turned my back to her,

  walking to the fridge and pretending I was thirsty.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked again, softly.

  I had to tell her about J. But how did I do that without looking at her? Because meeting her eyes without bursting into tears seemed impossible. Setting my teeth, I turned around slowly, picking a spot just under her chin and carefully avoiding looking above it.

  “Is it Ryder?” she probed.

  My arms stiffened along my body, hands becoming fists, nails cutting into palms. I swallowed the bile in my throat. “No, Mom. No, it’s … well, it’s J.”

  My explanation filled her with relief and her chest dropped, as if she’d been holding her breath; J’s problems weren’t usually life-or-death territory. I opened my mouth to tell her the rest, but the phone rang, and, with an apologetic glance in my direction, she moved to answer it.

  “Good morning to you, too, darling. How are things?”

  Dad.

  “Actually, Lillian Marie’s up, too, so I’ll put you on speaker, okay?”

  She did so before I could attempt to pull off an emergency exit.

  “Morning, kiddo.” Dad’s voice filled the kitchen. “And how are my girls this lovely day?”

  Fortunately, Mom had returned to her waffles, which gave me the chance to wipe my eyes quickly. Hearing Dad’s rich voice was more than I could take.

  By some miracle, I managed to answer in a steady voice. “Hi, Dad. We’re doing fine. How’s life treating you down there?”

  “Not complaining. Been busy with this new client I told you about last week.”

  “The embezzlement guy,” I recalled automatically.

  Dad laughed his low-pitched laugh. My heart sank.

  “That’s the one. So, how about you? How’s school?”

  “Well, I sort of bombed an algebra test.”

  Mom glanced at me in surprise, and I lowered my eyes out of habit before I remembered that it didn’t really matter whether or not I passed algebra.

  “Algebra, huh? Well, maybe your old man can give you a hand with it this weekend.”

  “Dad, no offense, but you’re a lawyer. What do you know about polynomials?”

  He laughed again. This time, a couple of tears broke the dam; I hurried to wiped them away.

  “Such smooth flattery,” he replied. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  Sarcasm. His specialty.

  “How’s the weather up there?” he asked.

  “Still unusually warm and beautiful.”

  “Good, good. Listen, I’ve been thinking, why don’t we go camping this Saturday? I feel like I’m not spending enough time with you two. Especially you, Lily. We’ll have time to get on those polynomials then.”

  My throat constricted. “Camping? On Saturday?” I repeated like a robot. “Sure, that’ll be fun. Got to go now. Bathroom. Love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you too, kiddo. See you tomorrow night,” he added, as I, more or less, ran out of the kitchen.

  Behind me, I could hear Mom taking over the conversation. She’d tell him everything she’d done since yesterday morning, since he’d called last. They always talked in the morning, for what seemed like hours. Even with the challenging living arrangement, they were still crazy about each other. More importantly, I told myself, staring back at my image in the bathroom mirror, they had each other. They’d be fine. They had to be! But J, she didn’t have anyone; her joke of a mother didn’t count for much. If she never woke up, who’d cry for her? She had no one but me. She really was my sister, the one I never had in this lifetime, and she was my parents’ second daughter, too. The three of them, they would lean on one another, I told myself, nodding repeatedly. They’d be fine. And I would be, too. Saving her was the right thing to do. As for the dying … well, that couldn’t be helped.

  I watched the tears coursing down my cheeks like never-ending, hushed streams. I didn’t whimper. I didn’t make a sound. When I was ready to face Mom again, I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth mechanically, and breathed in deeply. Then I headed back into the kitchen.

  She was already sitting down to eat. “Oh, good, I was wondering where you were. Your breakfast is getting cold.”Then she saw my red eyes and jumped right out of the chair.

  “That’s it
. Lillian Marie, you’re going to tell me what’s going on and you’re going to do it right now!” she squeaked in that mousy voice she always got when she was scared.

  I let it all out in one breath, “It’s J, Mom. Something happened to her last night. She’s in a coma.”

  The news knocked her back into the chair, her face instantly ashen; the tears wasted no time in starting to flow. Steeling myself against the new burst of pain, I put my arms around her and held on for as long as I could. Secretly hoping that some of my strength would seep into her. She would need it even more than I.

  Luckily, she wasn’t as fragile as she looked. It didn’t take long before she sprang into action as if propelled by dozens of Duracell batteries because, like me, she burned with the need to do something about it. Something concrete. Of course, she being herself, that translated into putting together a bundle of healing crystals, incense, some of my candles, and such and heading to the hospital, intent on murdering whoever dared forbid her to fill J’s room with her Wiccan paraphernalia. God help the fool who crossed her!

  Before she left, she also made sure to call Principal Turner’s office and let the school know what had happened. As for me, I was ordered to sleep for a couple of hours, after which I was to check my stock of healing plants and figure out some miraculous mix for a new batch of candles, designed specifically to help J wake up. Mom had always had supreme confidence in my powers, and with good reason, too. I once brought back a neighbor whose heart had literally stopped for a minute after drowning in a water hole in the woods. The candles, laced with my special blood, actually worked miracles. The potion I’d put together for J would, too.

  But I guess even miracles come at a price. And God knows I’d had my share of them! The lives I’d saved, the people I’d healed, the families I had brought back together — my whole adult life had been about sowing hope where before there was none. In my own little way, I had tried to and actually did make the world a better place. I even got to kiss a boy. Miracles … I rejoiced in them so completely.

  But nothing comes free of charge; the world would tumble into chaos without that kind of balance. Part of me wasn’t even that surprised that it was time to pick up the tab. If I squinted, I could almost see the fairness of it.

  Chapter: Twenty-Three

  Even as Mom flew out the door, I decided against spending my last hours sleeping. Checking my supplies, though, was advice worth taking. The inventory revealed ample quantities of lavender, sage, frankincense, carnation oil, eucalyptus, various berries so, pretty much everything I needed. Fresh pine needles and some spring water, I listed in my head, and it would be all set. Actually coming up with the mixture? There was never a magic formula for me to follow, no written instructions in some musty old book kept hidden in the attic. There was only me, my mind, and my blood. They’d always done nicely; hopefully, they wouldn’t let me down now, either.

  One thing I always did before putting together a new formula was spend some time alone. Also, I burned a little incense, usually frankincense and benzoin, because it helped clear my mind. Supposedly it boosted psychic abilities, but I didn’t know about that. Mostly, I just liked the way it smelled.

  Up in my room, while loading the silver incense censer with the little aromatic chunks, I found myself smiling. The incense burner had been a birthday gift from Mom. My sixth birthday, to be exact. I swear, if it hadn’t been for Dad, I would have never even seen a Barbie!

  Tears came again. I shook my head, willing them away. The incense fumes helped, as did deep, even breaths. I shed my clothes mechanically, trying not to think about how, if I left them all over the room, for once it wouldn’t matter. But no, I was meticulous about folding them, setting everything in its usual place. More tears came. At times, the air didn’t seem to go deep enough into my lungs; it hurt, just trying to breathe.

  While the long shower washed away the tears, it didn’t do much about my fear, which I was secretly hoping would leak down the drain, too. When it was time to put on some clothes, I stood in front of the closet thinking that nobody had ever written a book about the appropriate wear for the day you died. I tried to find my thoughts funny in their morbidity, but no smile came. I guess there really wasn’t any funny left in the funny girl, after all.

  But as I reached for some jeans, I stopped. No, I thought, shaking my head, none of this today. No jeans, no hoodies, no roomy, boyish gear. No more trying to be invisible. It was my chance to let the world see me as I was, a girl and a witch, neither of whom seemed to have much of a future, unfortunately.What was the point in hiding anymore?

  Trouble was, of course, that I didn’t own a whole lot of girly clothing. Heck, I usually didn’t stray much from browns and grays. But, as fate would have it, a few weeks ago Dad had bought me a dress, something he thought I might like to wear to prom. It was no extravagant evening gown, since he was clear that I’d never come near anything like that. Red and soft to the touch, it was a simple spaghetti strap frock, with a tight bodice and a flared skirt that ended below the knees. Very 1950s. Okay, so maybe in the 1950s it wasn’t meant to be worn over a T-shirt and paired with canvas sneakers, but still, a dress is a dress, right? I even used a little mousse on my hair before blow-drying it and was rewarded for my effort with a head full of beautifully defined ringlets, falling almost to my waist.

  The mirror showed me the girl I could’ve been. A trace of the woman I could’ve grown into. Peaches and cream complexion, emerald green eyes, a willowy body crowned by long, wavy hair. What do you know? I could almost glimpse the girl with hair of fire and eyes filled with spring, and, in doing so, the ghost of Ryder’s words made me flinch. My lower lip trembled and I bit it hard. The pain was good; it almost drowned the one in my chest. “There,” I whispered, smoothing my skirt. “Pretty as a picture.”

  That’s when I first heard the bike. The rumble of the engine grew closer and closer until I could hear it just under my window, where it stopped. Three seconds later, the doorbell rang insistently. I didn’t move. The girl in the mirror looked transfixed, her eyes widened and glistening with unshed tears, hands nervously kneading the folds of the skirt, mouth opened in a soundless sob. I barely recognized myself anymore.

  When I didn’t answer the door, he called, first the home line and then my cell. Again and again and again. At least now I knew how he could get reception up here; it had to be a halfling thing.

  “Lily, come out,” he called from the porch.

  I collapsed instantly, then somehow crawled to the darkest corner of the room, where I curled into a ball.

  “I know you’re in there. Come on! We need to talk.”

  Whimpering, I bit my knuckles and pulled my knees tighter against my chest. My heart boomed in my ears.

  “Lily, baby, please! This is important. We’re running out of time.”

  I shook my head, crying, reality reduced to the saltiness of my tears. He’ll go away, he’ll go away, he’ll go away, I chanted, rocking myself back and forth. And it was then, while hiding, crying, and shaking in that dark corner, that I finally admitted the truth. The one I’d felt crawling under my skin, pushing to come out, demanding to be acknowledged. Anger swept through me, even more bitter than the tears. Because it wasn’t fear that kept me cowering in the dark, unwilling to face him. No, I wasn’t stupid, I knew he needed me. Until I bled myself to save J’s life, until I worked my mojo, he wasn’t going to touch one hair on my head. He had to first be sure that he would be granted another hundred years in our world. Before I did that for him, he couldn’t risk hurting me.

  So why was I hiding? Because I was ashamed. Ashamed of still having every cell in my body reaching out to him. Even now, a few hours away from the moment when he’d end my life, my body and soul mourned not my imminent death, but the loss of him. Even after everything he’d done and all he would do, to J, my parents, and to me, I still craved his closeness. His touch and the peace I felt when he kissed me. I craved feeling unbroken again. Made so by him.


  See, I wasn’t hiding from him; I was holding myself down from running to him.

  They say the truth will set you free; what a load of horse poop! My truth filled me with everything but freedom. I felt ashamed and guilty because by still loving him, I was betraying J, my parents, and everything they had taught me to be. I hated myself so ferociously it even scared me. I felt all kinds of things now, but free? No, not that. Quite the opposite. The truth was that, even if he hadn’t hurt J, even if he hadn’t backed me into a corner, I still would have given him what he needed: my blood, my power, my own life. When push came to shove, I never would have said no to him. Never would’ve stopped loving him, either, not even as I drew my last breath. Tonight, as I walked into the unnecessary trap he had so cleverly set up for me, I’d go on loving him still.

  I was exactly where he needed me to be. In his power.

  He called my name for such a very long time. Eventually he stopped but it took a while before I heard the bike being revved up. Then he was gone, but I still couldn’t crawl out of my hiding place. How could I face Mom now? How could I stare into my best friend’s intubated face again? I didn’t deserve to be anywhere near them, didn’t deserve either of them. Their pain, present and future, was my fault, and I couldn’t even muster the decency to hate the person responsible for it? How stupid can a person be? How ungrateful? The poster-child for dysfunctional, that’s who I was.