nancy werlock's diary s01 - episodes 1-7

by Julie Ann Dawson

  “But what about the paint?”

  “I don’t think it’s lead-based.”

  “You don’t think it’s lead-based?”

  “I wouldn’t chew on the sign or anything.” He crosses his arms and nods. “So, what do you think?”

  “Works for me.” His hands drop to his side and his shoulders sloop. “It looks really good!” He nods and brightens back up.

  “Took me all morning. That metal was a bitch to cut into shape.”

  “I thought you were helping your uncle today?”

  “I did. After I finished the sign. He let me use the shop and his materials and I helped him with some roof repairs.”

  “Well, tell him that I said ‘thank you.’ It looks great.”

  “Yeah, it was his idea to use ivory. I was gonna paint it white to make it stand out but he said in the sun the white would blind people.” He nods again and bites his bottom lip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He utters the worst six words you can ever say to someone trained in psychology. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Houston?”

  He walks toward one of the displays, running a hand through his hair. “They’re getting a divorce.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “How can it possibly be your fault?”

  “Aunt Ruth. She’s…she hasn’t been right since this all started. Uncle Harold. It wasn’t his idea to kick me out and all that. He told me that he always knew about Mom’s powers. Apparently my great-grandmother was a psion, too. Aunt Ruth was always weird about it, though. Apparently they didn’t even talk to each other. Auth Ruth used to say Mom wasn’t a witch. She was possessed. With me developing powers, now, it just pushed her over the edge.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She spends all day at church. Been telling her pastor that I’m ‘of the devil.’ Accused my Uncle of being bewitched for still talking to me.”

  “Your uncle told you all this?”

  Houston shakes his head. “He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong…so…you know.”

  Sometimes, being a witch sucks. When you have the power to read minds, you tend to use it. But then often, you wish you hadn’t because you learn things you didn’t really want to know. And for Houston, his natural psionic ability makes it painfully easy for him to slip in and out of people’s thoughts. Sometimes he still doesn’t even realize he is doing it.

  “None of this is your fault. You have no control over the actions of your aunt. Her issues with your mother are her problems, not yours. She may use you as an excuse for her behavior, but the seeds of her behavior were planted long before you were even born.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by the chime of the door.

  “Welcome to Three Wishes!” I say. It’s two college-aged women dressed like they are on their way to the beach.

  “Do you have like organic skin products here?” asks one of the women while the other gawks at Houston.

  “All of our health and beauty products are organic,” I reply. “Along the back wall.”

  “I’m gonna get cleaned up in the back,” says Houston.

  “Does he work here?” asks the gawker after he leaves. I nod. She takes a deep breath. “Oh…my.”

  June 9th

  I confess. Anastasia and Houston make a great team.

  Houston mounted the sign on an easel behind the booth. Anastasia had gotten some translucent blue silky material to drape around the sign and hide the easel. They had a more opaque cloth covering the table (all the better to hide the abuse it had suffered over the years). Anastasia stood at the front corner of the table, actively engaging people as they walked by with her excessively bubbly personality. Houston stayed behind the table, guiding customers to the products they didn’t know they wanted and gratuitously flexing when any group of females paused more than three seconds to gawk at him. I probably should have scolded him for using their surface thoughts like that. But it isn’t like he was engaging in actual mind control.

  I probably should have scolded him for showing off as well.

  With the booth under the sound care of the Dynamic Duo, I decide to enjoy the beautiful weather and mingle. It’s a perfect day for the festival. There is a slight breeze just strong enough to cool the air without disrupting any of the countless displays. Every shop in town has a booth in front of its location. Local restaurants have part of their parking lots taken over by additional booths from out-of-town shops (like Three Wishes) and private crafters. Occasionally, some overly aggressive driver would break the good cheer of the day by honking his horn as festival-goers crossed the highway. But otherwise all of the attendees are in a good mood and enjoying the positive energy.

  I make my way down to my favorite spot in the town: The Old Mill Antique Mall. It is one of the many historic buildings in Mullica Hill. The mill pre-dates the American Revolutionary War. Despite centuries of alterations and several coats of brick-color paint, walking inside the building has all the feelings of time travel. The mill is actually owned by a sort of collective of individual antique dealers who share the space. And by antique dealers, I mean people who deal in antique items that are quirky and unusual, not just the overpriced and fake collectibles.

  Mom often made it a point to stroll the tables a couple of times a month, looking for anything with a magical energy. You would be surprised at the number of magical relics and artifacts you can pick up at an antique shop.

  Just outside the mill is a booth featuring a huge pale yellow banner and a red cross “South Jersey Christian Family Resource Center.” I remember the brochure that is still stuffed at the bottom of my purse. There are several easels holding framed art projects that were obviously done by grade-school children. I don’t mean that as an insult. Frankly, every single one of them is better than anything I could do. I wander over to get a better look.

  “Isabel!” I exclaim.

  Isabel’s head snaps in my direction and her eyes open wide. “Doctor! Doctor Werlock!”

  “You moonlighting?” I ask.

  “This is my sister, Gina,” she says as she points to the woman next to her. “Gina, this is Dr. Werlock. She has an office in my building.” Gina doesn’t seem happy to see me. I wonder if I accidentally cut her off in traffic or something. “It’s so wonderful to see you here. I never see you outside the office.”

  “I actually have a booth down the street,” I reply. “But my employees are running it so I decided to go check out the other displays.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Dr. Werlock,” says Gina with about as much sincerity as a tree stump.

  “It’ wonderful to meet you, Gina. Your sister is such a doll.”

  “Reverend Coleman, Doctor,” she says.

  Um, OK.

  “So how long has the center been open?” I say as the air around the booth gets thick with Gina’s…correction…Reverend Coleman’s…contempt for me. “I don’t remember Isabel mentioning it and I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

  “We’re a Christian center,” says Gina. “I doubt you would have been informed of it.”

  Allllrighty then.

  I say goodbye to Isabel and I head back to my booth and wave Houston away from Anastasia.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “I need you to be evil for a minute.”

  “Say what?” I ask him to go take a stroll down to the Resource Center’s booth and eavesdrop on Gina and Isabel. “Now by eavesdrop, do you mean ‘listen to their conversations’ or do you mean—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Should I mention I work for you?”

  “No! I mean, yes! Tell them you work for me and find out what they are thinking.”

  “Am I gonna get in trouble for this?”

  “No, of course not. It’s not a vulgar display of magic. It’s fine.”

  Houston nods and goes off on his covert mission. I take over his spot at the booth. He comes back fifteen minute
s later. I tell Anastasia to go take a short break, and she bursts off into the crowd to go shopping.

  “Well?” I ask as I bag up a customer’s purchase.

  “Drop your ward,” he whispers. I squint at him. “You don’t want to have this conversation out loud.” I drop the Iron Wall spell. I feel Houston make contact with my mind. I’m a little surprised by how quickly he makes the connection. His psionic abilities are growing exponentially.

  “You remember how you said you’ve lost a bunch of clients? Guess where they went?”

  “Gina’s stealing my clients? How?”

  “For someone so smart, you are sometimes very stupid.”

  “Wait, you mean Isabel?” I feel stunned and betrayed. Forget the legal issues regarding patient confidentiality and employee conflict of interests. I’ve known this woman for years. I always got her a present at Christmas. I sent flowers to her grandmother’s funeral. I’m the only one who ever remembered to do anything for her on Administrative Assistants’ Day. How could she do this to me?

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Anastasia returns with four bags of stuff and three spools of cotton candy. She hands a blue one to Houston and a pink one to me. I sulk for a minute while shoving cotton candy in my mouth.

  Karma’s a Witch

  June 13th

  I haven’t said anything to Isabel.

  I don’t even know what to say to her.

  She knows that I know. I can feel it. We barely talk to each other when I come into the office. I don’t know what to do about the situation. Legally, I have every right and just cause to report the issue to the landlord. I spoke to Mrs. Russell yesterday. I asked her if she dropped the brochure since they were the last client of the day. The poor woman. She thought I was calling to complain about littering in front of the office building and apologized. She said that Isabel gave it to her and she felt obligated to take it and when they got outside there wasn’t a trashcan so she dropped it on the sidewalk. I tried to put her mind at ease by telling her I just didn’t know if she needed it or not.

  “Oh, no!” she had said. “You’ve always been wonderful to us. Not really our business that you’re a heath— …not a Christian.”

  Houston insists that unleashing a gaggle of imps on the Christian Resource Center would not only be overreacting, but probably would reinforce their case. While it would give me momentary satisfaction, he is probably correct.

  Mother would say not to engage them. I understand her logic. You can’t win in this sort of situation. If I confront Isabel or Gina, it will get played out by the Center as an “attack” on their religious beliefs and I’ll be portrayed as the bad guy. If I inform her employer as to what she did and he fires her, it will be played out as an “attack” on their religious beliefs and they will probably sue him and me for religious discrimination. And in both cases, it will just be too juicy for the media to play up the fact that a respected psychologist also runs a magic shop. I can imagine the Tweets now.

  But it just feels wrong that she’s going to get away with this! What if she was luring away Michael Goldberg’s clients just because he’s Jewish? Scott Gibson is an atheist. Is it OK for her to redirect his clients to a Christian advertising company? Jerry Kimble in Suite 4A is gay, what if…

  GLAAD!

  I suddenly remember I promised to make a donation. I have a knee-jerk panic reaction that this is Karmic Backlash for my completely inappropriate comment the other day to Houston. But then I remember that this problem predates my verbal slip. Still, now is as good a time as any to clean up my Karmic slate.

  My office door opens without anyone knocking

  “Are you signing this thing?” asks Lou Migosi, who runs a conservative magazine and website out of Suite 2B.

  “Good morning to you too, Lou,” I say as I sit down at my computer. “You talking about the lease?”

  “Fifty percent increase!” he exclaims. I would say that his face turned red, but the truth is he always looks that way. It’s his high blood pressure.

  “I’m still reviewing it.”

  “Fifty percent, Nancy!” do you have any idea how much more business I need to do to cover that?”

  “I would guess fifty percent more?”

  “This isn’t funny. And no, it wouldn’t be fifty percent more. It would need to be around sixty percent more because a fifty percent increase in revenue would put me into a higher tax bracket and I’d owe more in taxes. So I need to make more than the fifty percent just to cover the extra I owe in taxes first before I can pay the higher lease.”

  “Who does your taxes, Lou?”

  “I do my own, why?”

  “You should talk to Goldberg. He specializes in small business accounting, you know.”

  “I don’t want him knowing how much I make.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got an Obama sticker on his car.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I’m still working out my options.”

  “I think if we all banded together we can force them to keep the rent the same.”

  “Is that why you charged in here? Rallying the troops?”

  “Yeah. We’re all impacted by this.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m going to continue in private practice.”

  “Is everything alright?” he asks, finally using his indoor-voice.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Just that with Mom passing I inherited the shop. And I was originally going to sell it, but it’s a family business. And it’s been doing well but it’s taking up a lot of my time. I can’t be both a shopkeeper and a dedicated marriage counselor. Both require too much time to do right.”

  Lou sits down in one of the chairs across from my desk. “That’s a good problem to have, I guess. You can make money doing either, right?” I nod. “Then just a matter of which you enjoy more.”

  “You have any idea how many years I spent getting my doctorate?”

  “Probably about the same as my son, who is now backpacking through Ecuador and volunteering with some hippie free clinic thing.”

  “You mean Doctors Without Borders?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s the one.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah, I’ll remember how wonderful that is every month when I write the check for his student loan debt.”

  “Admit it. You’re proud of him.”

  Lou shifts in the seat. “Ah. I’d be more proud of him if he’d get a real job and pay his own bills.”

  “Then stop paying his loans and tell him to come home and get a job.”

  “Nah. I already promised him I’d pay his loan for him until he gets back.” Lou looks almost sheepish. “I’m a sucker.”

  “You’re a good father.”

  “Which is why I can’t afford a 50% increase in my lease!”

  “Work from home.”

  “What? How?”

  “The same way you work here. Move all of your office equipment into a home office. It’s not like you actually have clients who come into the office or anything.”

  “I can’t work out of my house like some Avon lady. I need a real address for subscriber mail and all of that.”

  “Get a virtual office address.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like a PO Box, only it’s a physical street address.”

  “I’d be under my wife’s feet if I worked from home.”

  “You’re just too in love with having a fancy downtown office.” Lou huffs at me. “Just think of all the money you would save on the lease.” Lou shrugs. “And then you’d get the home office deduction and pay fewer taxes.” He perks up. “Talk to Michael about it. He’s very good.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “My mother ran Three Wishes for thirty years. That shop fed me and clothed me and paid for braces and piano lessons and summer vacations. I think I owe that shop more loyalty than I do this office.”

  “Damn hippies,” Lou says as he stands up.

  “So says the
man paying his hippie son’s school debt.”

  “Good luck to you, Nancy. Maybe I’ll go talk to Goldberg.”

  I feel ten pounds lighter after Lou leaves. Alas, the mirror in the restroom confirms the weight loss is figurative. But I feel better.

  I send an email off to my list of contacts to see who is accepting new clients.

  Effective July 1st, I will be closing my private practice to focus full-time on the operation of my family’s business. Some of you have already been kind enough to take on some of my clients while I dealt with my mother’s estate. I thank you for your help during this difficult time. I’m asking now to see if you are accepting new clients, so that I can provide referrals for my existing clients to professionals that I know and trust. If you are unable to accept new clients, I would appreciate information regarding any colleagues who may be available.

  I know. I know. I should leave it at that. Short. Professional. To the point. But, you know how it is.

  In the interest of confidentiality, please direct future correspondence on this matter directly to me. There has been an incident recently where some information was inappropriately obtained by the South Jersey Christian Family Resource Center in regards to some of my clients. While the information did not directly reveal client information, it did use inappropriate information regarding my mother’s estate to attract some of my clients to the Center.

  Juvenile, isn’t it? Petty. Self-serving. Delicious. Because I know exactly how my professional peers are going to respond. Not more than five seconds after hitting the send, I get emails and phone calls asking what exactly happened and what did the Center actually do. Using a relative to try to steal clients, and in particular using personal information about a counselor to “scare” clients, violates all sorts of ethical principles. Who needs a gaggle of imps when I have a gaggle of counselors on my contact list? Particularly when one of them sits on the Board of Directors for the Tri-State Mental Health Professionals Association?