Tilda switched on a light to reveal that they were in a long corridor with colorful prints hanging on the walls. A black cat appeared from around a corner and looked over the two of them. Its eyes were an intense yellow, and as they rested on Olivia, she felt almost as though it was about to speak. She reached down to pet it, but the cat easily eluded her. “Julius needs to get used to you before he lets you touch him,” said Tilda.
“How will I know when that is?” Olivia asked.
“He’ll let you know. Now, the kitchen and pantry are down here on the ground floor,” she continued, “plus the garden, of course.”
“You have a garden?”
“I’ll show it to you tomorrow. For now, let’s get you settled in your room.” Tilda pressed a button, and Olivia heard the sound of a motor. Something beeped, and a panel in the wall slid open. Behind it was an elevator. Olivia was impressed. Even in her mother’s house, there was no elevator.
The two of them, along with the suitcases, virtually filled the tiny space. Olivia wondered what would happen if they got stuck. Aunt Tilda pointed to a button marked “Emergency” and said, “This opens the door so you can climb out.” The elevator began to move upward, without a sound. As they passed the first floor, Tilda said, “This is where the living room and the dining room are, though unless I have guests I usually eat in the kitchen so I can enjoy the garden.” The elevator moved on past the second floor. “This is where my bedroom and the library are. And now we come to the third floor, for guests.” She smiled. “You’re my only guest right now, so the whole floor is yours.”
As the elevator door opened, Olivia saw a cat sitting there waiting. “Is that the same cat?” she asked.
“Yes. He came up the stairway. Julius doesn’t trust the elevator.”
Olivia wondered how he knew which floor they were going to. She was soon distracted, however, when Tilda opened a door and said, “If you don’t like the decoration, we can have some fun changing it.”
Looking inside the room, Olivia felt as though she’d seen it before. There was a queen-sized canopy bed with a patchwork quilt and cherry-wood posts. The canopy cloth was made with a Kate Spade print that matched the wallpaper in the room. Directly across from the bed was a flat-screen television set, with a built-in DVD player. Against another wall was a desk that held a Mac computer. A vanity table, a full-length mirror, a generous-sized chest of drawers, and a cushiony-soft chair completed the furnishings. The floor was covered with a blue shag carpet that looked as soft as Mother’s lawn. Olivia walked into the room, feeling a bit dazed. Then she noticed that on one wall there was even a framed poster of Matthew McConaughey, shirtless of course. Exactly everything Olivia really wanted was there. In fact... it was a room that she’d imagined, when she was making up dream lives for herself.
“How did you know I liked Matthew McConaughey?” she asked Tilda.
“Oh, I guess your mother told me,” Tilda replied.
Olivia shook her head. Impossible. Mother had no idea that she liked Matthew McConaughey, or anything else for that matter. As far as Mother was concerned, what Olivia liked was what Mother liked.
“There’s a bathroom through there,” said Tilda, gesturing toward an open doorway. Olivia could see that the tiles and fixtures were dark red—also a fantasy of hers, but one that she knew Mother would only laugh at.
“Why don’t I let you get settled in?” Tilda said. “Come down to the kitchen when you’re ready and we can make ourselves something to eat. Or maybe order in a pizza.”
Olivia nodded. The kitchen. Fix something to eat. There was an idea. At home, Olivia wasn’t allowed to enter the kitchen because it was the domain of Mother’s cook, André, who didn’t make anything unless it was French. Pizza was out, because it was a poor imitation of quiche, according to André. Between meals, Olivia sometimes asked him for something to eat, but Mother had her on a strict daily calorie ration, and a snack was usually a piece of fruit or zwieback with a mushroom spread André made. “It’s easier to stay thin than to get thin after you’re fat,” Mother often said.
After Tilda left, Olivia kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. It was positively the most comfortable bed she’d ever been in. A feather bed, she guessed. She sank down, feeling the mattress wrap itself around her like something that loved her. She wanted to close her eyes and just enjoy the moment, but something was bothering her.
This wasn’t just perfect, it was too perfect. Olivia had many of these same things in her room at home, but Mother had picked them out, and they weren’t exactly what Olivia would have chosen. Mother certainly wouldn’t have picked out a poster of Michael McConaughey. She had decorated Olivia’s room with circus posters.
How had Tilda known what Olivia wanted? It was even a bit creepy...
Olivia suddenly became conscious of two yellow eyes.
Julius, the cat, was sitting at the end of the bed. Staring at her.
Startled, she poked at him with her foot, but he nimbly dodged it. She tried again to nudge him off the bed, but without success. She was annoyed enough that she got up and yanked at the quilt, dislodging him. But he landed on his feet and continued staring at her from the floor.
She didn’t like it, and headed for the bathroom. Somehow, the cat anticipated that and slipped through the doorway a second before she did. Now, Olivia detected a mocking look on the cat’s face as it nestled in a corner of the room, which was fairly large and had a sunken tub.
Olivia glared at the cat, trying to think. It certainly wouldn’t let her pick it up and carry it out of the room. Then she looked at the sink and had an idea. There was a sparkling clean glass there, and she filled it with water from the tap. Then she turned, holding it up so the cat could see. “Out, or get wet,” she said.
The cat looked a little concerned now, but still didn’t move. Olivia flung the water in its direction, and the cat let out a yowl. It moved fast enough to avoid getting really wet, and Olivia filled the glass again. This time the cat headed out the door of the bathroom, but she followed.
“Not far enough!” Olivia called, chasing Julius. “Out of my room!” The cat got the idea, and when he went out in the corridor, she slammed the door behind him.
She stood there, starting to feel foolish. Nice start, she told herself. I’ve made my first enemy already.
Worse yet, Tilda found out what happened. After Olivia had a quick shower and a change of clothes, she took the elevator back to the ground floor. Tilda was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea and reading a book. Without glancing up, she said, “I understand Julius was giving you some trouble.”
She must have noticed he was wet, Olivia thought. “He just made me nervous, is all,” she said. She started to apologize for throwing water on him, but Tilda waved her hand as if to say it didn’t matter. “He’s just curious about everything, and especially you,” Tilda said. “You have to remember, he was a ten-year-old boy in his previous life.”
“Excuse me?” Olivia said.
“He was killed in an airplane crash in the Philippines,” Tilda went on. “But he started a new life with that mentality. You know how ten-year-olds are. Especially boys.”
Olivia looked at Tilda carefully for some sign that she was kidding. There was none. “Just imagine that he’s a pesty little brother,” Tilda added. “A furry one.”
Seeing the look on Olivia’s face, Tilda said, “Hasn’t your mother ever explained these things?” She made it sound like Olivia’s mother hadn’t told her about sex, or something equally obvious.
“Um... no,” Olivia admitted.
“It’s simply reincarnation, dear. Surely you’ve heard of that.”
Not wanting to appear hopelessly stupid, Olivia nodded. She did think she’d heard it mentioned in a movie, but had no idea what it could be.
Tilda saw right through her act. Frowning, she said, “Pay attention. Everyone has had a series of previous lives, and when we die, we’ll go on to another. Where we go next depends
on how we’ve done in our present life.”
A light went on in Olivia’s head. In the movie, someone had moved back to a previous life to correct some mistake they’d made. “I remember now,” she said. “But even if you did...”
“There’s no if about it,” Tilda said confidently.
“Well... how come people don’t remember? I mean, what difference does it make if you can’t remember your other lives?”
“Some people can,” Tilda responded.
“Like you?” Olivia asked.
Tilda merely shrugged.
“And how do you know about what’s his name... Julius’s... other life?”
“Cats are very intense,” Tilda said. “Julius and I are a good match for each other.”
“So you, like, read his mind.”
“Let’s just say, I sense what he’s thinking.”
“Is that what you did with me earlier? In the taxi?”
Tilda smiled. “Actually, I think you made a connection with me when we hugged at the airport. Do you recall?”
Olivia thought briefly, and then remembered. “Yes... only I was thinking of you and Mother.”
“When we were about your age,” Tilda said. “Seeing you at the airport reminded me how very much you were like her... when she was just Susie B. Bettendorfer of Bettendorf, Iowa.”
“And not Bedelia Yearwood, the superstar.”
“Yes.”
“I wish I’d known her then.”
“Like I said... look in the mirror. You’re not very different from what she was.”
“But I never read anybody’s mind,” said Olivia. “Is it something you can learn?”
A buzzer sounded.
“That’s the pizza delivery,” said Tilda. “I hope you like anchovies.”
Of course I do. When Olivia sneaked a piece of pizza at the actors’ lunches on movie sets, she always ate anchovy. Nobody else ever seemed to like it.
Chapter Two
OLIVIA STRETCHED HER ARMS, feeling really good. She couldn’t remember when she’d slept so well. When she went back to California, she’d ask Mother to get her a feather bed just like this one.
A little wave of disappointment washed over her as she thought about that, because Mother would have some excuse for not doing it. Either it didn’t provide the proper support for her back or else it might set off Olivia’s allergies... there would be some reason why Olivia couldn’t have what she wanted.
Well, she thought as she threw off the quilt, that wasn’t true as long as she was here. Aunt Tilda might be a little crazy, and never really explained how she knew what Olivia liked, but it was clear that Olivia could have it.
As Olivia stepped into her slippers, she froze. Sitting on the floor, staring at her, was Julius. Olivia glanced at her bedroom door, which was shut tight. She sighed. “Okay, Julius,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You can get in here whenever you like. But if you don’t want to get wet,” she said, raising her voice, “then the ground rules are that you stay out of the bathroom.”
Julius licked his paw casually.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Olivia. But once she got inside the bathroom she locked the door anyway.
Tilda was already at the kitchen table, sipping from a teacup and reading a book. Olivia couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother reading anything but movie scripts. “What are you reading?” she asked.
Tilda shut the book and slipped it into the pocket of her dressing gown. “Something about moon phase correspondences,” she said. “It’s very technical. Would you like to make an omelet?”
Olivia smiled, because she was getting used to Tilda guessing what she wanted. Back home at breakfast André sometimes served omelets, which Olivia loved, but he told her that only men knew how to make them properly.
Tilda already had some eggs sitting on the counter. She broke them into a bowl, explaining that for each egg you had to include a tablespoon of water. “Or milk, if you like,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Then you whisk everything until it looks right.”
She pointed to some pans hanging on the wall. “Take down the cast iron skillet and put it over a medium flame.” When Olivia fumbled with the stove, Tilda showed her just how high the flame should be. “Then butter,” she said. After Olivia put a dab in the bottom of the pan, Tilda said, “No, lots of butter. Besides adding flavor, it keeps the eggs from sticking.”
But it’s bad for you, Olivia thought.
“Nonsense,” said Tilda. “Margarine is much worse.”
Lined up above the stove were some jars filled with dried herbs. Tilda selected one and shook it over the pan, where the eggs were now beginning to cook. “I like salt,” Olivia said.
“Put it on after the eggs cook,” said Tilda. “Not too much, or you’ll cover up the taste of the herbs.”
Olivia had always wondered how you turned the eggs into a flat little package, and was startled when Tilda did it just by jerking the handle of the pan. Once, then a second time, and there it was. “Plate, plate,” Tilda said, and Olivia grabbed one from a cabinet. Just in time to let Tilda slide the whole thing out of the pan.
“Mmmm,” was all that Olivia could say when she tasted it. Tilda was right—it didn’t need salt. “What kind of herbs are those?” Olivia asked.
“Chervil mostly,” said Tilda. “Basil. Some other things. I grow them myself in the garden.”
Olivia wanted to call André and tell him her aunt made better omelets than he did.
“Call him when you can make better omelets than he can,” said Tilda.
“Aunt Tilda!” cried Olivia.
“Oh, it won’t be long. With a little practice you’ll be able to make one.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean... well, it’s a little creepy how you always know what I’m thinking.”
Tilda looked disappointed. “I thought it would make you feel more at home.”
Olivia couldn’t help laughing. “Aunt Tilda,” she said when she caught her breath, “at home nobody cares what I’m thinking.”
“Then they’re not paying attention,” said Tilda.
You got that right, thought Olivia. She saw Tilda was about to comment, but then changed her mind.
Instead, Tilda took another sip of tea and casually looked Olivia over. Olivia became self-conscious. Tilda was going to say something about her appearance, she knew it.
“What would you like to do today, dear?” Tilda asked.
Well, that was a surprise. “Do?” Olivia asked, sounding stupid even to herself.
“Whatever you’d like,” Tilda said with an encouraging smile.
The first thing that popped into Olivia’s head was that she wanted to go to the mall. Fortunately, she reminded herself in time that there weren’t any malls in Manhattan.
“Plenty of stores, though,” said Tilda. Then she put her hand over her mouth, even though her eyes were twinkling. “Sorry,” she said.
Olivia sighed. “Stores it is.”
“Maybe some clothes for school?” Tilda suggested.
“Oh, Mother already bought me all kinds of outfits.”
“Like that one?”
Olivia looked down at herself. She had on a lime-green ruffled blouse and a khaki skirt with beige knee socks. A pair of green pumps completed the outfit. Mother had said the combination looked lovely. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t judge anyone by the clothes they wear,” Tilda responded. “But at your school, some will.”
“And they won’t like this kind of outfit?” Olivia’s voice rose. Maybe coming here is going to be a terrible idea after all, she thought.
“Let me put it another way,” said Tilda. “Would you like to be invisible?”
“How do you know all these things?” Olivia said. “Don’t tell me you can make me invisible.”
“The first step toward being invisible,” said Tilda, “is not to call attention to yourself.”
Olivia felt like crying. She wa
nted to tear off her outfit, but that wouldn’t solve the problem, because practically everything she’d brought in her luggage was pretty much like it.
“It’s not a terrible outfit,” Tilda said. “Really, it’s lovely.”
“That’s exactly what Mother said. So why do you—”
“But it’s not what you wear in New York if you want to be invisible. That’s all. We’ll go shopping. You’ll see.”
And they did. Surprisingly, they walked. Not even a taxi this time. It was a good thing Aunt Tilda had made Olivia go upstairs and change out of heels into running shoes. Olivia wasn’t too happy about that, because she ordinarily wore her Nikes only in the gym and didn’t want to get them dirty on New York sidewalks.
There were lots of scary-looking people on the sidewalks too, but somehow Olivia felt Tilda could protect her from them. A couple of times, Tilda even stopped to talk to people Olivia wouldn’t have dared to make eye contact with. One was a man wearing what looked like three or four black ski jackets so that he looked like a dark Pillsbury doughboy who needed a shave. As Olivia stepped a bit closer, she wrinkled her nose. A shave and a bath, she decided.
“Are you taking your meds, Danny?” Aunt Tilda asked the man.
He nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah, you know I always do.”
“Had anything to eat yet?”
He smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m not hungry yet.”
“Here,” she said, handing him a couple of dollar bills. “Make sure you get something in your stomach.”
He nodded and quickly zipped open two of the jackets, tucking the bills into the pocket of the third one down.
“Do you think he will?” Olivia asked after they had moved down the street.
“Will what?”
“Get some food.”
“If he feels hungry, he might. But if Danny misses his meds, he starts to act strange.”
Be Careful What You Witch For Page 2