“Witches? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I think you know what I’m talking about,” Jocelyn said, and the woman standing next to her, whom Lindsay didn’t know, tittered.
“I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“We know all about your little book group.” Jocelyn shared a look with her friend. “We know you like to pretend to be witches.”
Lindsay tried to brush the tag or whatever it was away from the back of her neck, but it fell back into place, rubbing into the raw spot at her nape. When she’d reached her arm up, she’d felt one of the safety pins at the back of her skirt pop, poking into her hip. “My book group? Where did you hear such a preposterous thing?”
“Everyone’s talking about it.” Jocelyn smiled—a smile reminiscent of Molly Bonner from the Forest Woods High School cafeteria. “Everyone’s talking about how your book club has gone…supernatural.”
“Supernatural? That is so ridiculous. What would make people think something like that?”
Jocelyn shrugged. “You know what they say about a kernel of truth behind every rumor.” She grinned again, revealing two extremely white rows of impressive cosmetic dentistry.
Lindsay hesitated. What on earth am I going to say? She should deny it completely. No, too defensive. Throw them a bone to chew on with their perfect little teeth. “Well, we did read a book about witches last fall—in October. You know, for Halloween. And we did that finger-lifting thing—you know, like in junior high, ‘Light as a feather, stiff as a board.’” Why am I making stuff up? Because it sounds better than the truth. “But that’s all it was—a bunch of drunken silliness. Do you think that’s how such a silly rumor got started? I mean, witchcraft? Honestly.”
Jocelyn shrugged and gave Lindsay a mysterious look before she and her tittery friend walked away. Well, that would explain that look from Evelyn. Which means I’m ruined. Oh dear God no, I’m ruined. Lindsay felt nauseous.
The stage manager was waving her out. From the look on her face, and the fact that the other model was more than halfway up the aisle on her way back, Lindsay knew she had missed her first cue. She wiped the sweat from her upper lip, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the floodlights.
The lights added another ten degrees to the temperature on the stage and Lindsay was already covered in a light film of sweat. She walked the way they’d taught her to, one leg crossing in front of the other, and it took all of her concentration. The pin on her hip poked her with every step, and she wanted to look down to check that her skirt wasn’t crooked, or worse, about to fall off, but she resisted. Her whole being felt wobbly, her nerves on edge. She attempted to get her bearings. She looked at all the smiling faces staring up at her, watching her, judging her—wondering if she was a witch.
She tried instead to focus down at the tables, where the waitstaff was handing out the plates of dessert. Oh, this is too much. No! Lindsay quickly lifted her eyes, but there was nothing solid for them to grab on to, nothing but cloud-filled windows.
She made it to the end of the runway and was turning around when she heard a low-pitched grinding noise and felt the room begin to lurch out from under her. She took another wobbly step down the runway. The whole room felt like it was moving. Oh my God, I’m going to be sick.
Lindsay looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows and the tables inside the room. Wait. The whole room was moving. She tried to find something to focus on, to establish in her mind that this wasn’t a trick and that the room was really rotating, that the spinning wasn’t just in her head. Near the doors to the kitchen Jocelyn and her tittery friend stood grinning by the panel of light switches, the large red bulb in the center glowing like a one-eyed monster in a horror movie.
The runway platform no longer lined up with the exit. There was no way out. The outbound model had just passed her. They were, essentially, trapped out there. Trapped in the center of a room filled with women, all baring their teeth at her. A science-show factoid popped into Lindsay’s head: humans are the only animals that bare their teeth in greeting.
The heat and the stress and the fear of being outed as a witch welled up in her stomach like a noxious bubbling potion of newt-filled brew. She felt the bile rise in her throat. She tried to steady herself, but between the rotating tables and the horizonless windows her eyes found nothing stable to focus on. Every time she moved her gaze, she felt a wave of vertigo.
Lindsay wiped more sweat from her upper lip—a big fashion-show no, no, which only brought on more panic. She felt the room spinning, her whole world spinning right out of control. She took a shaky step down off the runway and hobbled a few more paces toward a table. Then, in the middle of the Chicago Women’s Foundation Spring Fashion Show Extravaganza, Lindsay fainted on Evelyn Cantwell’s streusel.
A truck’s horn blared in her ear. Gail lurched, her heart racing, and slammed her foot on the brakes—before realizing she wasn’t driving at all, but sitting inside her parked minivan, outside of her sons’ school. She must have fallen asleep.
The truck was trying to get by all the SUVs and minivans parked and double-parked outside the school. It looked to Gail as if the Hummer in front of her was the sticking point.
She swallowed and tried to breathe. Stupid natural-birth breathing exercises. They’d failed her three times; she didn’t know why she thought they would calm her now. Emily was still sitting contentedly in the back seat, watching the moms parade by outside her window. “C’mon Em. Let’s go get the boys.”
A couple of kindergarten moms stood outside the gate, and Gail walked down to join them. When she got close, she saw them whisper to each other and close ranks. Two of them picked up their toddlers, who had been running around on the sidewalk.
That’s weird. What would they be upset with me for?
A voice called from behind her. “Gail Preskill! We haven’t seen you in ages.” Ugh. Susie Schaeffer. Craft mom. Probably wants me on another committee. “Have you been hiding?”
Hiding is the impossible dream. “No, I’ve just been busy. Andrew—”
“Well, we thought you might be hiding.” Susie ended most sentences with the same two tones. One high-pitched. One low. She alternated the pattern from low-high to high-low and it made her sound as if she were caught in some eternal playground-taunt hell.
“Why would I be hiding?” Gail tried to sound calm. She knows about the porn.
“Well, when I heard, I just couldn’t believe it. I said, ‘Not Gail Preskill. Our kids play together.’”
“Couldn’t believe what?” Gail’s pulse was racing and her mouth had gone dry. I’m holding my two-year-old’s hand. Would she say something about the porn in front of a two-year-old?
“About your book club. You know, the witchcraft.”
Gail didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated that she now had something else to worry about. “Witchcraft?”
“Just say it’s not true. Because no one wants to believe it—so just say the word, and we will back you up one hundred percent.” Susie smiled, waiting. “It’s not true, is it? Because,” she laughed nervously, “if it were, I of course couldn’t let Connor—”
“It’s not true,” Gail said.
When Claudia entered the reception area of Peterson’s office after classes, his secretary glanced up and then continued typing, not making eye contact, appearing to be very interested in her computer screen. Claudia thought this was a very bad sign. The woman leaned in a little closer to her computer and squinted without taking her eyes from it as she told Claudia, “Go ahead in. He’s expecting you.”
Claudia pushed open the door and found Peterson waiting behind his desk, his fingers intertwined, elbows resting on top of it.
Shouldn’t he, really, be busier?
Claudia had wondered if he would display any hint of embarrassment at what he certainly by now must know she’d seen evidence of this morning in Marion’s office. But no, he seemed to be in complete denial—or could he honestly think she hadn
’t seen anything? That she was so unobservant as to not notice his shoes, or Marion’s unusually ravaged condition? The ridiculous little nurse’s hat on her head? She would have liked to have seen him right then, seeing as how he always looked so pressed. Not in the pressed for time sense, but in the my clothes are perfectly pressed sense. What was that term Mara used for something like this? Precious. That was it. Peterson was like the male version of “precious.” Pressed.
“Claudia, hello. Sit down please.” Uh-oh. Pressed and professional. This was not good.
“Claudia, I’m afraid it’s come to our attention…Some very serious accusations have been made about you, and”—he cleared his throat—“and I wanted to discuss them with you, first.”
Accusations? First? Before what?
“Accusations?” Are they going to accuse me of planting babies in garbage cans? In teenage girls? Oh God, this is the last thing Dan and I need.
“It’s come to our attention that you’ve become involved in some sort of a—a witchcraft cult. A coven.”
“A coven?” Claudia was stunned. She’d thought for sure Peterson had called her in here to talk about Elliot and the whole baby-in-the-bathroom incident. “Witchcraft?” Claudia repeated. “Who’s making these accusations?”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss—”
“Not at liberty? Of all the ridiculous…a coven? Is this about my Book Club?”
“The information we were given suggests that your book club is more than just a book club—that your group has become involved in more unseemly activities. I wanted to give you the opportunity to explain yourself, here. These are very serious allegations to be raised against one of our teachers. If something like this were to get out into the community, why it could—”
If something like this were to get back to the DCFS social worker…Shit. Who did this? Damn. Think, Claudia, think. Pull yourself together, just this once. Don’t panic. Don’t get defensive.
“Mr. Peterson,” Claudia paused, then changed her tack. “Charles.” She smiled at him. “I’ve been teaching here for how many years now? Almost eight? I’d have to say by now that you must know me pretty well—”
“I was pretty shocked when I heard the allegations were against you.”
Claudia gave him another smile, thank you. “I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories, Oliver Stone and all that, but do you think that maybe someone could be…out to get me? I hate to sound paranoid, but with all that’s been going on, the baby and everything, maybe someone is trying to muck it up for me.”
“So you’re saying you’re not involved in any sort of witchcraft-type, coven thing?”
“No. Of course not. I mean, my book club read a novel about witchcraft a while back—but that’s about as close as we’ve come to witches of any type.” Who is his source? How much does he know? “We also sometimes do group…meditations, to send positive, healing energy to each other. It’s a good-karma thing.” Claudia saw a look of concern appear on Peterson’s face. Ooh, “karma” bad choice of word. He’s one of those people that fears stuff like this, thinks yoga is a religion. “It’s just about channeling”—shit—“happy thoughts for each other. Giving ourselves a little positive energy boost.”
Peterson nodded as if he understood, but Claudia was pretty sure her New Age jargon had stumped him as much as quantum physics theory would have.
“Well, I hope you appreciate my position here,” he said, “the necessity for me to investigate these types of things. I have to make sure all my teachers are on the up and up—no Satan worship or animal sacrifices.” He smiled at Claudia, but his eyebrows asked her, none of that, right?
“Mr. Peterson, I assure you, the only crime my Book Club is guilty of is picking a few bad books.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The juice machine raged in the background, and the milk steamer seethed in the foreground, but Claudia was oblivious to the noise. She wasn’t trying to read the book she’d brought, a first edition of a John Irving novel, A Son of the Circus. She’d read it last year; now it was a prop. She looked over the top of it, scanning the store, looking for her mystery woman, the woman whom she hoped would help the members of Wish Club find their way out of their respective messes. The woman whom Claudia presumed was an Irving fan, since she’d been reading him the last time Claudia had seen her here.
Claudia had also tried to find her crystal, with no luck. It would be a way to break the ice. She’d looked everywhere for it—in her desk at school, in drawers and pockets, at home—but it had never turned up. Just like this woman.
This was the sixth or seventh time since the Emergency Meeting that Claudia had been in the Wild Prairie Market Café. She’d also been going to the Barnes & Noble on Clybourn after school. In both places she sat and drank coffee and kept a lookout. After so many espresso drinks a day, she was experiencing the alert exhaustion that only too much caffeine can bring on: her lungs felt close to hyperventilating, her jaw was tense, and her eyes felt too wide open. The combination would make her appear insane, she thought, should she ever actually find this woman she was looking for.
Her Internet search was proving fruitless, too. There were so many Web pages under witches and covens, tons of sites, and only a few of them had pictures of actual witches—and so far none of them matched. What were the odds she’d ever find her online? (Then again, what had been the odds that Gail would find herself?) But with the wishes going haywire and the allegations of witchcraft springing up, Claudia simply had to find her—or another witch, or someone that could help them.
And now Dan was starting to complain, voicing his disapproval with her for having been gone almost every night for the past week and a half. After she’d made her rounds at the café or the bookstore, or some days both, she would stop by the hospital to cuddle Elliot for a while. Most nights, when she got home, she continued searching on the computer for an hour or two, before getting into bed late.
Sleep eluded her, and all her switching from side to side was disturbing Dan—but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Am I just wasting my time on the stupidest quest in the world? Who is this woman? Where is she? What if I actually find her and then she doesn’t want to help—or worse, can’t? What then? The coffee only made it worse, but she’d fallen into the vicious caffeine cycle—not falling asleep at night because of it, then needing it twice as much the next day.
The previous night she had been so exhausted and had gotten to bed so late that she’d been certain she would fall asleep right away. She had tossed and turned a couple of times, then opened her eyes, immediately realizing she was so charged up that it had been foolish to try to force them closed. How come I can’t capture this feeling at three in the afternoon?
During her next eyes-wide-open toss, she was surprised to see that Dan’s eyes were wide open, too.
“Hmm, you look familiar,” he said. “Didn’t you used to live here?” He reached an arm out and pulled her closer. “Am I going to have to hang out at the Wild Prairie Café if I want to see you in the daylight?”
“It’s not going to be for too much longer,” Claudia said. “At least I don’t think so. I’m starting to feel a little ridiculous about this whole searching for the mystery woman thing. I’m either going to find her soon or give it up.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Dan gave her a squeeze, “because I miss my wife.” He kissed her on her forehead before rolling back onto his other side, mumbling a comment about preferring a different type of tossing and turning in bed.
Claudia wondered if the other women were going through the same thing as she was—struggling unsuccessfully to find a witch during the day and then getting the third degree at night. She doubted it. Mara still hadn’t told Henry anything about the witchcraft stuff and Lindsay had just started really trying to help them search. Claudia was pretty sure she wouldn’t tell James anything about spell reversals, it being tantamount to admitting failure. Gail wanted to help, but didn’t have the
time. Would she have mentioned it to John? Probably not. He was so skeptical about the wishing causing any of their troubles in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t be sympathetic to their trying to find a witch now. As for Jill, who knew what was up with her anymore? She’d practically disappeared.
Now at the Wild Prairie Café, Claudia lowered her book and rested her face in her hands. This was all so silly. She couldn’t spend all her time sitting in coffee shops and bookstores hoping some stranger would show up.
All the muscles in her face and neck were tight. She relaxed them into her hands, and the artificial alertness she’d been feeling evaporated instantly. She felt she could just fall asleep right there. All she had to do was lower her head onto the table and she would doze right off, like a baby. Like Elliot.
Watching Elliot sleep; that’s what she should be doing now. Holding that little baby, watching his face, had convinced her that babies are the real angels, or at least the inspiration from which the idea for angels had come—straight from heaven, precious gifts. How could anyone have done what his mother had?
The search for her had focused mostly on a few students at Strawn, but it was still ongoing. For Claudia and Dan, the fostering process had been proceeding pretty smoothly. The DCFS home-study interviews had gone well, she thought. Claudia was torn between not wanting to find his mother (perhaps bettering her chances of keeping Elliot) and wanting the opportunity to smack her squarely in her jaw. It was a strange sensation, this mama-bear feeling. She’d never known anything like it before.
Claudia lifted her head out of her hands and scanned for the witch-woman again out of habit. She should go home—or to the hospital. All she’d wanted was a baby and now it was starting to look more and more like that might actually happen. And not just any baby, but Elliot. What was going to happen if she found this witch? What if they undid the wishing and then Elliot’s mother or father turned up and wanted him back?
The realization that maybe she shouldn’t be doing this crept over her slowly. If I really want to get Elliot, why am I trying to undo my wish? Oh, stop being so selfish. She needed to do this; she had to. Their wishes needed fixing.
Wish Club Page 24