by C. K. Brooke
How can I explain that I’m feeling a million different emotions right now on account of that bizarre video, which couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him? In fact, I don’t know what these emotions have to do with. My feelings don’t make sense, not even to me, and I’m the one feeling them.
There’s a creepy factor, yes. And I can’t deny, I’m a little intrigued. But running deeper than all that, there’s fear, and dread…and sadness. So much sadness.
Why?
Henry strolls into the kitchen. He glances at the kitchen table, which my mom and Seph have just cleared and are now wiping down, then leans casually against the countertop next to where I’m working.
God, Henry, why does your timing always have to suck?
Add ‘pissed off’ to my list right now. Can’t he just know when to leave me alone?
He takes a leftover slice of garlic bread from the basket and talks while he chews, which has got to be the most suave thing he’s done all day, including the whole outdoors-in-boxer-shorts bit.
“So.” Chomp, chomp. “You didn’t say hypno-guy was coming.”
I glare at him. “Does it matter?”
He tears off another slice of garlic bread.
I realize Mason has reentered the kitchen, holding a plastic container, the vessel of his mother’s heavenly homemade dessert. Seph pats the center of the table, and Mason lowers it.
“I’ll get the pie server.” Mom heads to the silverware drawer and rummages around, still chatting with Seph.
Mason glances over at me and Henry, a puzzled expression panning across his features. I can tell he recognizes Henry. But I can’t tell if he overheard our conversation.
After dessert, Seph and Mason don’t linger too long before hitting the road.
“Remember,” Mason says to me in farewell, “twenty-one days to make a habit.”
I thank him, nursing the small hope that we can mend whatever weirdness has just popped up between us so soon. But something tells me I may have blown it for good.
Before I can say anything else, he closes the front door against the autumn chill. I wait until I hear their car pulling out of the driveway, then I switch off the porch light.
I’ve been listening to Mason’s recording every night before bed, sometimes more than once. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve even managed to stay awake for some of it. It’s mainly just relaxing affirmations, reiterating how safe and confident I am, particularly in cars.
I wonder how it’s going to feel now, listening to his voice after tonight’s encounter. An encounter of which I have no idea, no conscious memory. Will it have the same effect? Or will it only overwhelm me with the exact shade of embarrassment that’s no doubt coloring my face right now?
As I retreat to my bedroom, I hear my stepbrother working the microwave in the kitchen. In spite of myself, I suppress a tiny smile. I hope he enjoys the lasagna. He needs the carbs to carry him through another all-night cram session.
A shadow moves in my doorway just as I’m winding things down. I turn to see Mom standing in her goddess night robe—it’s really just a glorified maroon Snuggie with a gold cord—cradling a familiar deck of cards.
I sigh. “Not tonight, Mom.”
“I’d really like to give you a reading.”
“I said, not tonight.”
She enters my room anyway, plopping down on my bed. “I think the cards can help shed some light on whatever we saw, and whoever that was, talking through you this evening.”
Chills glide up my spine, but I insist, “It was me. Just me. I’m not channeling spirits or anything.”
“How do you know?” she challenges. “You don’t remember what happened, do you?”
“No, I don’t, but…” I sit down beside her, massaging my tired face. “I can’t explain; I just know it was me. Because when I listened to Greg’s recording, it sounded…somehow…familiar. It was probably just some spontaneous recollection of something that happened with my friends when I was younger.”
The corner of Mom’s mouth lifts. “What friends?”
I twist my lips. Okay, she’s got me there. I’ve never exactly been Miss Popular.
“Honey.” Her expression smooths into seriousness. “Greg didn’t turn on his camera in time to record the whole thing. You said more.”
I watch her, bracing myself.
“You said something about…” she shifts her weight to the side, “a man.”
“I’ve never had a man, Mom,” I tell her flatly. And it’s true.
“I know you haven’t.” She gets to her feet again, pocketing her worn deck of oracle cards. They would have to wait for another night, when I was in the mood. Which probably wouldn’t be anytime soon. As she leaves my room, I hear her mumble, “Not in this lifetime, anyway.”
Nerves snake down my throat and into my chest cavity. I shut the door, my heart beating a little off-rhythm.
I need to regain calm. My eyes land on my phone on my desk. Mason’s recording.
Despite our experience this evening, I decide I won’t give up on my routine. I promised twenty-one days. I grab my phone, swipe past the missed messages (including the video I’d sent myself), and open my email app to find the message with the attachment, the one I’ve been listening to regularly.
Before I lie down, however, I hit reply. A new composition box, addressed to Mason, pops up. I think for a moment before I type.
Hey,
Just wanted to thank you for coming tonight. It was good to see you—and your mom’s pie was awesome. Hope you both have a safe drive home and a good night.
Willow
After hitting send, I drop the phone on the bed and head to the bathroom to scrub my face and change out of my cocktail dress into an oversized T-shirt. Once I’ve finished brushing my teeth, I return to my bedroom and plug the earbuds into my phone. It lights up, showing me that a new email has come in.
My heart gives a little leap to see that Mason has already responded. I tap open his email.
You beat me to it—I should be the one thanking you and your parents. I’m sorry again if what happened during our session tonight crossed any boundaries. I can assure you, that was not my intention. If you’d like to text or talk about it sometime, my cell number is in the signature. Take care.
My stomach drops a little. I’m not upset with him. Not really. Whatever happened, I believe he’s telling the truth, that he didn’t cause it, wasn’t manipulating me to say anything I wouldn’t have otherwise said.
I gaze at his cell number beneath the signature. The magic of smartphones has turned it into a convenient little link. I know it would be as simple as touching it to give him a text or a call, but I can’t work up the courage. I don’t want to bother a guy at eleven at night who’s just spent the whole evening at my house, especially when that evening hadn’t exactly been normal. Besides, he probably just wrote what he did to be polite. He wouldn’t actually want me to call him right now.
I’ll talk to him eventually, after I’ve had time to process the evening. I return to his original email and open the attachment. As the familiar music begins, I turn off the light and settle into my bed. Immediately, I’m drifting off.
I jolt awake at one A.M., my nightmare having recurred in full color, more vivid than ever before.
4
It’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’ve finished work early. It’s sixty-five degrees outside, a pleasant autumn day, and I feel like some fresh air would do me good. I slip on my favorite pair of black and neon blue tennis shoes and leave the house, heading up the sidewalk. A block away around the corner is a little coffee shop that has the best chocolate chip muffins.
The neighbors’ houses are quiet as I pass. Golden sunlight radiates from the orange and red-colored leaves of the giant oaks that line our street. A breeze rustles them, and a few leaves float to my feet. Mom likes to do a Samhain ritual where she writes on a fallen leaf with charcoal all the bad habits and situations she wants to leave behind, then bur
ns the leaves in the fire pit. Samhain (or Halloween, for all of you Muggles out there) is the witches’ new year, when we set our goals and plan for the year to come.
The sun is warm on my back when I arrive at Cuppa Joe’s. After crossing the small parking lot, I pull open the door. The café is full of the sounds and smells of brew. An older man relaxes in a chintz armchair by the front window, reading a book and sipping from a steaming to-go cup. The girls behind the counter look busy but friendly, wiping down equipment and restocking the little red stirring straws. One of them pops behind the register to greet me.
“A chocolate chip muffin, please,” I request.
An enthusiastic voice behind me interrupts the transaction. “Willow?”
I turn. A newspaper lowers to reveal wild curls. Sitting at one of the bistro tables is Persephone. It’s then when I inhale the scent of sandalwood, mingled with that of the brewing coffee. How had I not noticed?
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I like to stop in occasionally for the organic tea.” She indicates the white ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. “Come sit with me.”
The barista serves up my muffin and I pay. With my treat on a dish and a Styrofoam cup of tap water, I take a seat opposite Persephone. I unfold the paper napkin in my lap. “Is it your day off?”
“Yep.” She lifts her mug to her mouth for a sip. “How ’bout you?”
“Done early.” I poke apart the muffin with my fork.
We make small-talk while I snack and she drinks. When my plate holds nothing but crumbs, I give it back to the barista and recycle my napkin.
“So.” Seph swirls the dregs of her empty mug. I wonder if she plans to read her tea leaves. “Have you given any more thought to what happened on Saturday?”
“Oh. Not a lot.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Why? Has…um, Mason said anything?”
I still haven’t replied to his email, or taken him up on his offer to call him. I haven’t wanted to bother him. Really, I’m not of those girls who’s full of drama. Aside from the car-phobia thing, I’m pretty lowkey.
“I haven’t spoken to him.” I can’t read Seph’s expression, but she surveys me over the rim of her cup. “But I have a theory.”
When she fails to continue, I prompt her with a light laugh. “Which is…?”
“I think what we stumbled upon was a past-life memory.”
The sound of a coffee machine gurgles, a microwave behind the counter beeps, and someone’s cellphone buzzes. I stare at Persephone, nonplussed. “What? Like, I was Queen Elizabeth or something?”
“Most of us were never queens. But you, Willow Raven, are an old soul. I’ve known it since you were little. And something’s back there, in your soul’s memory…something you haven’t resolved.”
My mouth feels chalky with the bitter aftertaste of semisweet chocolate. I take a sip of water to rinse it.
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.” She holds up a hand. “Two-thirds of the world’s religions believe in reincarnation. Wiccans happen to be in the majority on this one.”
“I know, but…” I shake my head. Of course I know what reincarnation is, and that most witches believe in it. But to me, it’d always been just a concept, a matter of speculation—like black holes or infinity. Not something tangible that I could uncover and witness for real, firsthand.
The bell jangles as someone new enters the shop. I lower my voice. “Have you ever experienced a past-life memory?” I ask her.
“I believe I have.”
“How?”
“Through meditation.”
“But how did you know what it was? How were you sure it wasn’t just something you saw on TV or made up?”
“No one’s ever sure.” She lifts a shoulder. “But I asked my spirit guide to show me the past, and that’s what I saw. She never lies to me.”
Spirit guides. Another Wiccan belief I’ve held to the same plausibility as extraterrestrials and angels. I mean, sure, it’s possible they exist, in some other dimension…such as, in the human imagination. I’ve never truly tried to contact mine, out of the suspicion that I may not actually have one.
“What did she show you?” I ask cautiously. “I mean, if it’s something you want to share?”
“I saw a young soldier, bleeding in a field. He was maybe fourteen.”
The fine hairs on my arms tingle at her eerily candid confession. “Was that everything?” I wonder if there’s more. Does she know which war the boy fought in, what century it was? What had he been fighting for?
“It was fleeting,” Persephone answers. “I wasn’t shown any more, because I wasn’t meant to know. The soldier and his short life are meant to stay buried, unknown to my present self. We aren’t meant to remember much about the past, or else how would we ever move forward?” She nudges her empty mug and coaster to the end of the table, wordlessly inviting the barista to collect it. “Every detail from each lifetime is accessible to us. But we’d never learn what it is to be human if we retained everything in the records.”
“Records?”
“The Akashic Records,” she clarifies, “wherein lie everything that’s ever happened, or been experienced by every soul in existence.” Her eyes twinkle, reminding me uncannily of her son, as an idea appears to occur to her. “Let’s do a reading!”
I groan. “Not you, too.”
She reaches across the table, sets her hand upon mine. When she meets my eyes, I feel like she’s seeing into me. “Willow, I said we aren’t meant to remember our previous lives, because how would the soul learn anything new if burdened with the baggage of our pasts? Yet sometimes, aberrations can occur. I believe that’s what’s been going on with you.
“Sometimes,” her voice drops, and my heart thumps, “an event can be so traumatic, it bleeds into our future lives, causing all sorts of issues. Including phobias.”
I know exactly what she’s thinking. Because I’m thinking it too. I’ve been thinking it since the other evening when Mom walked out of my room, mumbling: “Not in this lifetime, anyway.”
My mind flashes to the video Greg recorded, which I still haven’t re-watched, of my body adrift on the sofa, a soft southern twang that wasn’t Willow Solomon’s, yet was still somehow mine, emerging from my mouth.
“Mom wanted to do a reading about it too.”
Seph looks interested. “What did her cards say?”
“Nothing. I wouldn’t let her.”
“And it’s just as well, since your mother insists on using those fluffy angel decks.” Seph rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone. “You have to use the real tarot for something like this. Luckily, I have the app.”
My amusement isn’t shy. “A tarot app?”
“What, you think I want to carry around a whole deck of cards in my purse?” she tuts. Seph swipes her phone’s home screen. She turns it to face me, showing off a virtual deck of cards electronically shuffling themselves. A banner alert appears at the top, announcing the current moon phase.
My grin widens.
“When you feel guided, just say when.”
I sigh, already dreading whatever the reading would say. “When.”
Seph makes me select three cards. She touches them to turn them around, and I slump back in my chair. I’d laugh if I hadn’t seen it coming a mile away.
Her eyebrows pinch together as she examines the cards I drew. “Oh, my. All swords.”
The Ten, Seven, and Three of Swords, to be exact. The first depicts a dead man lying flat on his stomach, stabbed in the back by ten swords. Pleasant. The middle card is the classic card of deception, someone stealing an armful of swords and sneakily making a getaway. The last is a heart with three swords piercing it. This is why I usually reject Mom’s offers for readings.
“I think I prefer the fuzzy angel cards,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I asked about your past life, not your present one,” Seph assures me. “It appears the worst is behind you. Betrayal, deception, heartbreak…” She pa
uses, playing with her screen some more. Her lips tighten into a line. “Huh,” she hums curiously.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She’s about to pocket the phone, but I reach for it.
“Let me see.”
She allows me to take it, but clearly reluctantly. I stare down at a picture of a man and a woman toasting golden goblets, a winged lion’s head emerging above them.
“It’s just the Two of Cups,” she says.
I don’t consider myself a tarot expert, but I’m more familiar with the seventy-eight cards than the average novice. And I know the Two of Cups is a card of partnerships, unions, and sometimes even romance.
“What were you asking about?”
“Nothing.” Seph shoves her phone back into her leather-free purse.
“Persephone.” I quirk an eyebrow. “It’s my life you’re reading into, so it’s my right to know, isn’t it?”
At the guilt trip, she relents. “I was only asking what, if any, role Mason has to play in this.”
The silence that ensues is definitely my cue that it’s time to get going.
#
Green fields sail past the windshield. An old red barn disappears in the rear-view mirror. I’m in a hurry, going faster than I should be. But it’s a warm summer morning and no one is about. I’ve got to get away before…
Up ahead is a body of water I recognize. The road leading up to the bridge is torn up and becoming bumpier. Road signs warn of the land’s descent, urging me to slow down. I gently tap the brake. Nothing happens.
The car accelerates downhill, gaining speed with each jostle and bump. I press down on the brake, but the car isn’t responding.
I’m not panicking, but I’m close. Why can’t I stop this thing? The tires are rolling fast, much too fast for all of the rocks and potholes on this dirt road carrying me ever downhill. The road’s in need of repair—I’ve been warned many times. They’ve posted signs and directed drivers to other routes. But it would’ve taken longer to use the detours, and I need to get out now, today. I know I shouldn’t have been speeding, but why can’t I slow down?