A Universe of Wishes

by A Universe of Wishes (epub)

  But when did a lie become a lie? Was wanting to love someone else wrong? Was wondering about it the same as not telling Grace the truth?

  What exactly would his heart show?

  Would it betray him?

  And her?

  His stomach fluttered as they stopped in front of a door marked number three. That was a lucky number, or so he’d always thought. Gram said important things came in threes. Birds of good fortune. Auspicious news. Storms. Nightmares.

  “You’ll be in here.”

  The door slid open.

  Was Grace nearby? Marcus gazed at the other rooms and sucked in a deep breath, searching for her scent, the pineapple of her lotion seeping from her skin as if she’d swallowed the fruit whole.

  He stepped inside.

  A female nurse entered through another door.

  “Have a seat,” she ordered.

  He sat without thinking.

  Always without thinking.

  “Is there a fan in here?” he asked.

  She didn’t turn around.

  “It’s the perfect temperature for the procedure. The heart enjoys a specific climate. We like to honor that.”

  “Have you had this done?”

  “Absolutely. All of us who work here undergo the procedure.”

  His hands quivered as she handed him a robe to change into.

  “You afraid?” she asked.

  Yes, he wanted to say.

  “No,” he replied.

  She glanced down at his chart. “If you love your partner, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  That had never been a problem for Marcus. The problem was what came after.

  * * *

  “I’m a heartician, and I’m here to complete your procedure,” the man said to Grace. “Are you ready for answers?”

  Grace turned her head in his direction. “I think so. But…like, how are the results presented?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “First-timer?”

  Grace smiled.

  “A virgin,” he added.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, the cold of the room suddenly hitting her.

  “You should wait and see. Plus, I don’t want to ruin any part of the experience.” He draped a blanket over her, tucking her in like the table was a bed.

  “I want to know. I like to know things.”

  “Don’t they say that good things come to those…oh, I’ve forgotten the saying. In any case, trust is what brought you here, so trust that you will enjoy the process. You’re here to find answers, and the truth is always best.”

  The truth was always complicated. Grace didn’t like the unknown. After her mom had died suddenly, she never wanted anything creeping up on her again. Her dad said she was scared of her own shadow now. But she chose to believe the world would be better if everything had its place and every question had its answer, like pairs of matching socks. So she could prepare.

  She was about to get her wish.

  The answers.

  What if she didn’t like what she found?

  This is a bad idea. Her best friend Coley’s warning grew louder and louder in her head, a wave about to crash into her.

  As the heartician worked in a corner, Grace gazed around. She had expected a doctor’s office—a sink, a chair, unmarked cabinets, the scent of alcohol, a few brochures. But the room’s wonders unfurled: cabinets full of viscera, drawers spilling over with odd metal instruments, and a golden sarcophagus waiting to receive her heart.

  “You’ll love this process, and you’ll come back,” the heartician said.

  “People do it more than once?”

  “If you’re lucky, you’ll experience many loves in a lifetime.”

  Grace pursed her lips with doubt. She was supposed to be with Marcus.

  Marcus & Grace

  Grace & Marcus

  She had never given herself room to think about having another love. Not really. He was the one.

  The heartician’s silver instruments hit the tray with a thud. “Some people don’t like entering new relationships without a good sense of what they’re getting into. To save themselves from heartbreak or have a starting place for couples therapy. I think it’s smart always to be prepared.”

  Grace agreed about that.

  “New relationship?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrow lifted as he pressed a button on the wall. “Did he cheat, sweetie?”

  The exam table rose beneath Grace. She flattened her hands against her sides. “No.”

  “Oh! Then why are you here?” The heartician gazed down at her.

  “To see if we should stay together.”

  He paused. “We’re not fortune-tellers.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Her pulse raced. The man’s questioning eyes scattered her thoughts, disturbing them like a kicked beehive. “I want to know if we love each other enough. Is it heavy enough to, like…”

  “I can’t tell you what’s on the road ahead. But I can tell you how much you love each other right now. Your heart will reveal its imprints. The deeper the imprint, the more love you have for a person. The fresher one is, the newer the love for a person. Scabbed imprints tell us about past loves that have gone away. And the weight of each will tell us the value of your love for one person in relation to your love for other people.”

  Grace filed that information away like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. She’d analyze it, study every word, to make sense of it later.

  The heartician patted her arm. “Ready?” He retrieved a glass thermometer. “Need to make sure you don’t have a temperature.”

  Grace opened her mouth like a baby bird to receive the cold instrument.

  His eyes remained fixed on the thin rod as the red line of mercury rose. He plucked it from her mouth and said, “No fever. We’re ready.”

  Grace gulped.

  She wasn’t so sure anymore.

  The heartician placed a mask over her face.

  It was too late.

  A sweet-flavored steam entered her mouth.

  * * *

  In adjacent rooms, two hearticians removed knives from their trays. The lights dimmed, leaving only golden circles over the deep brown chests of Grace and Marcus.

  Two perfect halos.

  The edges of the knives were swift. Blood beaded along the lines they left behind, bracelets of crimson pearls.

  The hearticians lifted the hearts of Marcus and Grace from their chests at the exact same moment.

  “Healthy. Full of love,” one remarked.

  The organs sat upright, beating and thudding and racing and humming.

  Two doors slid open to a viewing room.

  Both hearticians clutched the beating hearts and entered the shared space between Grace’s and Marcus’s rooms. Twin scales sat on a table. Beside them, two golden sarcophaguses waited eagerly to be filled.

  The hearticians nodded at one another. Their assistants removed the lids of the sarcophaguses. The hearts were placed inside. A latch unhooked to reveal a window into each vessel.

  Gently, they poured a liquid thick as cream over the hearts. It crept down the organs’ fibers, coating each muscle and chamber. “Prepare to note the imprints. Make sure to spell the names correctly. Aim for accuracy.”

  “Notation ready,” an assistant replied.

  The hearticians kneeled before the sarcophaguses, peering into the tiny glass windows.

  Letters revealed themselves in the hearts’ flesh like cursive burns.

  Names of beloveds.

  Fresh.

  Scabbed.

  Deep.

  Shallow.

  “The familial imprints are present on both hearts. I see the names from their pape
rwork,” one heartician replied. “Make a note. Female heart has one large scabbed imprint and a small fresh imprint. Seems like a new love is budding.”

  “Make a note. Male heart has one major imprint. Three-quarters of it is scabbed. Seems like a fading love.”

  “Take a photograph,” another ordered.

  One assistant used a light box to capture the hearts’ likenesses. He pressed it to the transparent side of one sarcophagus, then the other. The flashes made the thudding hearts illuminate like bloody stars.

  “Time to weigh.” The hearticians removed the hearts from their coffers and placed each on the left side of a scale.

  “Now to measure each imprint’s weight to determine its importance and hierarchy.”

  The assistants set velvet boxes beside the scales and flipped open the lids. A medley of small weights, tiny golden eggs, sat tucked into pockets.

  “Read each name. The liquid will react. I will watch the heart and add to the scale until it levels,” one heartician said to the assistants. “You write down the official weights.”

  The thudding hearts were gilded cherries, their secrets ready for plucking.

  * * *

  Grace and Marcus woke with a start. They gasped for breath. They touched their chests. They clamped their eyes closed and listened for the beating of their own hearts. Grace turned her head to the right to find Marcus staring back at her from an adjacent bed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Of course.”

  She reached out her hand. Marcus let his fingers graze hers. They twirled them. Twists of brown sugar and chocolate ganache.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Okay, I guess. I don’t remember anything.”

  “How long have you been awake?” she asked with a yawn. “Are the results in?”

  Marcus knew what she really wanted to ask: What do you think the results will say?

  “Only a few minutes. I don’t know,” he replied. “Do you think we need to know?” His question sizzled, almost like a lightning strike in the quiet room. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she replied.

  “Are you worried?” He squeezed her hand tighter.

  “Are you?” Her eyes stretched wide, so wide they could’ve taken him in completely.

  Neither of them answered.

  “Do you think love lasts forever?” he asked.

  Grace’s eyes watered, the hazel of them starting to lighten. “When my mama died, she told me that it did. She said, ‘Nothing real can be threatened. Not even by death. That is love’s greatest secret.’ Feels kind of silly. Ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. Even when I want to hate my pops, I can’t stop loving him. Even though I try.” Marcus watched as fat tears left her eyes, a tiny rainstorm spreading across her cheeks.

  One of his greatest fears.

  A silence stretched between them.

  “Do you think this will change anything?” he asked.

  The door swung open.

  “Yes and no,” she replied.

  The hearticians walked in holding sheets of paper. The vitalized ink skittered across the pages. “Results are in.”

  Marcus and Grace didn’t turn their heads.

  Instead they faced each other.

  Felix waits.

  He paces the room, his parents’ eyes searching his nervous frame, his hunched shoulders, his drooping face. He knows what they want: assurance. Papá clears his throat, and it is thundering in the silent living room.

  “Are you sure esto es lo que quieres, mijo?”

  Felix freezes. He knows that if he looks at his parents, he might lose his grip.

  “You’ve been saving for months,” his mamá adds. “I know you were saving it for…”

  She doesn’t finish. He squeezes his eyes shut, forces the lump deeper into his throat. He knows what she was going to say: that he was saving the money so he and Arturo could travel abroad together. Two weeks in Amsterdam, Paris, and London. Two weeks discovering new cities and each other. Together.

  Not anymore.

  He looks at them. Sees his mamá’s lip tremble, catches his papá averting his gaze, and he knows he has to do this. “It’ll help,” Felix says. “I know it.”

  There’s a chime behind him. He spins, draws a circle in the air with a finger, then uses both hands to widen it. His magic shows him the other side of the door. She’s tall. Lanky. Skin the same brown as his own, down to the red undertones. There’s a blond streak bleached into her hair, and her jewelry sparkles from the porch light. Otherwise, she wears dark colors. Her cloak is a deep red, perhaps purple. He isn’t sure and wishes he had cast a stronger sight spell, but he is lethargic lately. Unmotivated. Tired.

  She’s definitely Unmoor.

  He rushes to the door, then stops before it. Collects himself. Takes a deep breath. He runs his fingers down the lock and whispers the spell to open it. There is a buzz, the magic whirring like an electrical current, and then it clicks.

  The door opens, and he is face to face with the Unmoor rep. She smacks a piece of gum, and she’s staring at her phone, swiping through something by waving her hand upward.

  She looks up.

  Squints.

  “Felix Serna?”

  She flicks her wrist.

  Right next to him, there’s a projection of the photo he used in the app. He’s not wearing the thick black-framed glasses now, but all the rest is the same. Tight fade, a dust of facial hair above his lip and on his chin, the scar from falling off his bike cutting through his left eyebrow.

  He nods.

  “I’m Mirella,” she says. “Where do you want to get started?”

  He watches her wiggle two fingers on her right hand, then gesture downward, and the phone in her left hand gently floats to a pocket on the inside of her cloak. She doesn’t verbalize her spells, he realizes. Just moves her fingers. She isn’t even concentrating on what she’s doing.

  “I charge by the hour, you know,” she says, and her voice is husky, her tone clipped. She’s staring beyond him, and he clumsily moves out of the way, gesturing to invite her in. Her cloak—which he now sees is actually a midnight blue—flows behind her. She’s got matte black nails, too, and there are graceful tattoos creeping up the back of her neck. They must have sensed him staring, as the green tendrils and colorful petals scatter and hide under the collar of her shirt, away from his gaze.

  His parents are still there, still huddled together on the couch. She looks from them to him, then back again. She waves her hand, this time to the side, and Felix keeps his eyes on her lips, painted delicately in black, but they don’t part, don’t move. Yes, her spells are silent.

  She’s the coolest person Felix has ever seen.

  An image materializes in the air, crackling as it does so. It’s the contract Felix and his parents signed. She narrows her eyes as she reads over it. “Huh,” she says, more to herself than the others in the room. “They didn’t tell me I was doing a minor case tonight.”

  She turns to his parents. “You signed this, right?” Two of her fingers pinch together, then widen, and the contract focuses on their signatures. “He didn’t forge this?”

  Papá shakes his head. “No, that’s definitely us.”

  “We all signed it together,” Mamá adds. “Como una familia.”

  There’s a spark in the air, just beyond Mirella’s fingertips. Runes. She draws one in front of his parents, and he doesn’t recognize it. A curtain of light drops down, then sparkles. It’s a sheet of magic, one that helps determine if someone is telling the truth. Everyone learns basic runework in school, but this shit she’s doing…it’s way more complicated than anything he’s ever seen.

  Even his parents are impressed as the magic shimmers for a moment, the
n fades away. “That’s incredible, magiquita,” Papá says, using the respectful term for a younger mage. “Where did you go to college?”

  She barely looks at him. “Didn’t.”

  They all still, and Felix is thankful his parents do not lecture her about their belief in school-sanctioned magework.

  Mirella looks to him. “You ready, Felix?”

  Panic slips over his skin, like she has cast one of her rune curtains over his body.

  “Yes,” he says.

  This is what he wants.

  No.

  This is what he needs.

  “Just take me to the first place,” she says. “Wherever you want.”

  Felix leads her out of the living room and toward his bedroom.

  “Take your time.”

  Mirella’s voice is calmer. She does not seem as detached as she was just seconds ago. When he arrives at his room, he lets her enter first, then regrets it. Books are piled on his desk in a haphazard stack; his dirty laundry hangs out of the basket. He curses under his breath. “Sorry,” he says, then whispers one of the organizational spells his mamá drilled into his mind when he was younger.

  The books straighten. The clothes fly into the hamper, and the lid closes it off. The duvet on his bed stretches to cover the unmade sheets underneath it.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Mirella says, and she sits in the chair at his desk. “And it’s fine to leave it like it was; it might work better.”

  He slinks over to his bed and falls onto it. “I’ve seen the ads. And I had a friend use Unmoor last year. But…I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”

  She smiles, and it warms up the whole room in an instant. Felix relaxes as she takes off her cloak and hangs it over the back of the chair. Rubbing her hands together, she focuses briefly on Felix’s face, then blows on her cupped hands.

  The image before him is of Mirella and another stranger, someone who is sitting at a wooden table in…a kitchen. It’s definitely a kitchen. Mirella reaches out to hold the person’s hand, and she speaks. “Just think of the memory,” she says, and her voice is soft, just like it was once they were out of earshot of Felix’s parents. “Bring it to the front of your mind. My job is to ‘unmoor’ it from this location, from this physical space.”