Girl's Guide To Witchcraft

by Mindy L. Klasky

  And it wasn't even the Hope itself that interested me. It was the myth that surrounded it—legend said that disaster would befall every one of the stone's owners. The Hope was the largest blue diamond in the world. A billion years old, it was the size of a baby's fist, and it glinted balefully on its velvet display. It was sheltered behind bulletproof glass, set inside vault doors. Rumor said that the treasure was lowered into the ground each night, stored in a secure safe dozens of feet below ground level. A line stretched around the viewing gallery as scores of museum visitors waited for their chance to ooh and aah over the cut stone.

  But Clara could not have been less interested. Instead of waiting to see the Hope, along with the Star of Asia, jade carvings and other valuable pieces of jewelry, Clara was im­mediately drawn to the minerals. Not the gemstones. The boring, ordinary, workaday minerals.

  She stopped in front of a display case and stood trans­fixed, as if she were reading all the secrets of the universe. I stepped up beside her and saw a bunch of rocks.

  "Pink kunzite," she breathed.

  "What?"

  "That one. The dark pink one. With the black streaks going through it."

  I saw the stone that she was talking about. It was pretty enough, but nothing special. I might have seen rocks like it in the cheap jewelry stores along Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown.

  "The pink of the stone reflects the heart. Unconditional love. Mother love."

  She hesitated for a moment before she looked at me, but I wouldn't meet her gaze. Instead, I looked behind us for Gran. She was sitting on one of the benches, across the gallery. She caught my concerned glance, but when I started to take a step toward her, she waved me back to the display. Her expression was clear: she did not want me drawing at­tention to her. She wanted me to stay with Clara.

  Who seemed not to have noticed my distraction. "But there's violet in there, too," she was saying. "Violet is the sign of the higher mind, Je—Jane. Of wisdom."

  I rolled my eyes. Runes, I was able to accept. They were a way of working human experience into the world around us, sort of like my spells. But crystals were just bizarre. They were a bad joke, and I was the butt of the story.

  Again, Clara was oblivious to my skepticism. She pointed at the rock. "And see those striations? They're a sign of rapid transmission of energy. When things change, after having stayed the same for years."

  Come on. Was she making all of this up? Would she have said the same thing about the chunk of fool's gold in the next case? Or the—I craned my neck to read the label— elongated tetrahexahedral copper crystals next to them?

  Clara could go from display to display and make every single thing we saw be about family and love and hope and renewal. That still didn't explain the fact that she'd ignored me for a quarter of a century.

  Yet, even as I started to work myself into my abandoned-by-my-mother rant, I realized that twenty-five years was not actually all that long. Sure, it was most of the time that I'd been alive. But it was nothing compared to the timeline of the rocks around us. Hell, it wasn't even all that much compared to Gran's life.

  My grandmother had been abandoned by Clara and still found room in her heart to love.

  Shouldn't I be able to do the same? Wouldn't Gran want me to show off the lessons that I'd learned from her?

  As if she knew that I was thinking about her, Gran began to cough again.

  I could tell that something was different this time. Some­thing was worse. The coughs sounded like they were coming from the bottom of her lungs, as if her entire body was seizing up each time her throat constricted, Staring across the gallery, I watched a handful of people look in Gran's direc­tion, then look away, as if they were embarrassed by her in­firmity.

  I ran toward her bench, falling to my knees in front of her. I grabbed her hands in mine, but then I tumbled backward. Her palms were burning. Her fingers were powdery and dry, and I knew that she had a dangerous fever.

  The coughing continued, soggy, threatening. It hurt my ears to hear her laboring so hard, and I scrambled in my purse for a Kleenex. Gran took my linty offering and pressed it to her lips. When she took it away, she wasn't quick enough to fold it over, and I saw that it was flecked with crimson.

  "Clara!" I cried. She looked up from her precious kunzite. "Call 911." She looked at me without understand­ing. "It's Gran," I screamed. "She needs a doctor now!"

  Gran would have protested, but she couldn't get enough air. By that point, a crowd had gathered around us. A balding man, his brow creased with worry lines, was digging in his pocket, flipping open a cell phone. I saw him press three digits, and I nodded, turning back to Gran. "You're going to be okay," I said.

  Then, everything spiraled out of control.

  I was vaguely aware of the museum guards, appearing in their blue uniforms. They moved the curious onlookers away, redirected the crowd's attention to the glinting trea­sures in the display cases. My Cell Phone Samaritan hovered nearby, looking at his watch and then his phone and then his watch again. One of the guards spoke into her walkie-talkie, enunciating our location clearly and professionally.

  There was a gurney, and two uniformed paramedics. They helped Gran onto the platform and eased her back. They elevated her head, to help her breathe. They slipped plastic tubing over her head, issuing instructions loudly, firmly. Gran tried to explain that she was fine, that she didn't need their assistance, but they ignored her. They started the flow of oxygen, adjusted it, adjusted it again. They put a blanket over her, tucking it in beside her arms, her legs. She was smaller than I'd ever imagined she could be.

  The EMTs raised up the gurney and started rolling it toward the elevator. I trotted beside Gran, babbling words that I meant to be soothing. She looked at me over the oxygen mask, and her eyes—my eyes—were wild and frightened. As the elevator door closed, I saw that Cell Phone Samaritan was hovering outside. I called out thanks, and he nodded. The doors closed.

  I turned back to Gran, and I realized that Clara was beside me, closer to Gran's head. The paramedics were going about their business, checking the flow of oxygen, taking Gran's pulse, being professional.

  An ambulance waited in the half circle of driveway at the back of the museum. A crowd of tourists had gathered around, staring at us as if we were some sort of special his­torical reenactment designed for their viewing pleasure.

  The EMTs brought the gurney up to the back door of the ambulance. Like clockwork, the legs collapsed against the ambulance floor, and the crew eased the rolling surface into place. The nearest paramedic said, "Only one of you can come with us." I looked at Clara. She looked at me.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at Gran, whose eyes were shut.

  "Go," Clara said, and she put her hand in the small of my back. Tears exploded down my cheeks. Clara looked at the EMT. "Where are you taking her?"

  "George Washington. Twenty-third and I."

  "I'll meet you there." Clara stepped back, already turning toward the street to hail one of D.C.'s ubiquitous cabs.

  "Wait!" I cried, and the paramedic hesitated as he reached for the heavy ambulance door. "Do you have money?" I called out.

  She nodded. "I'm fine. Don't worry. I'll see you at the hospital."

  The door closed, and the ambulance started, and the siren sang out, and the EMTs chanted to my grandmother that she would be fine, that she shouldn't worry, that every­thing was going to be all right.

  By the time we reached the George Washington Hospital emergency room, I had a greater appreciation for Indy 500 drivers. I'd never thought about how much they accom­plished as they were enveloped by teeth-shattering sound, taking tight corners with g-forces that would make an ordinary human's face stretch like a cartoon character's. Or maybe it only seemed that way in the back of the ambulance.

  The EMTs handled the gurney professionally when we arrived at the hospital. They hopped down from the back of the ambulance as if they were performing some well-rehearsed ballet. I scrambled after with min
imal regard for how ridiculous I looked. I followed the EMTs through the rubberized doors into the confusion of the emergency room.

  One advantage of traveling by ambulance—we got priority treatment upon arrival. Gran was wheeled into an examining room, and a doctor called out the count as she was transferred to a bed. The EMTs folded the straps back onto their conveyance, snapped out some medical infor­mation to the treating physician and then they were gone.

  Before I could get their names. Before I could even thank them.

  Clara joined us quickly; her cabdriver had made excel­lent time getting across town. We both worked to stay out of the doctor's way as we craned our necks for a better view.

  The doctor slipped off the oxygen apparatus and listened to Gran's chest. She was already protesting that we were making a big deal out of nothing; she insisted that she was just a little tired, that she hadn't slept well the night before. She said that she always had a cough, that she had allergies, that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her and that she was ready to go home right now.

  The doctor agreed with everything she said, but he did not stop his exam. He shone a light onto the back of her throat, and he peered into her nose and ears. He spent a lot of time applying the bell of his stethoscope to her back, and he repeatedly urged her to take deep breaths. Only the slightest of frowns told us that he was not pleased with what he heard.

  He took Gran's temperature, tested her reflexes, checked her blood pressure and asked her any number of personal questions about her diet, elimination and daily life in general.

  Gran got increasingly snippy with the doctor, insisting that she was well. When he started to feel the glands under her neck, she announced that that was the last straw, and she started to jump down from the examining table. The half breath that she took prior to jumping triggered something inside her lungs, though, and she was off and running on another coughing jag.

  This one was every bit as bad as the last she'd suffered at the museum; however, the doctor did not seem surprised. He passed Gran a Kleenex and only nodded when it came away from her lips splotched with red. He made some cryptic scribbles on his clipboard and waited for the coughing spasm to pass before he told Gran that she would get to stay at the hospital for a few days.

  Double pneumonia. Likely viral in origin. Given the tenderness on her left side, she had probably cracked a rib with her coughing. She needed Tylenol for her fever and an IV to combat her severe dehydration. X-rays would tell us more and confirm that she had nothing more dire—like the terrible word cancer that my mind kept spinning away from.

  Actually, dehydration was causing the medical staff their greatest concern. A phlebotomist fussed over Gran's birdlike arms, telling her that he could scarcely find a place to stick his needle. He hovered as he started administering fluids, chiding her as she explained that she just hadn't been thirsty.

  A nurse watched as Gran swallowed her Tylenol. Per­sonally, I felt like crying with relief when I heard the drug of choice. Tylenol. Just like I could buy at the CVS. There was something tremendously comforting about that, about the fact that I could pronounce the name of the treatment Gran was given. It wasn't mysterious or terrible or threat­ening.

  The doctor convinced Gran to lean back and relax, and Clara and I stepped out to complete the admissions paper­work. That's when things got a little, um, interesting.

  The admissions nurse was a large African-American woman. She wore brightly colored hospital greens, those shapeless clothes that were designed for maximum comfort and easy cleaning. Around her neck hung an amber pendant; I could just make out flecks of Jurassic life sus­pended in the orange stone.

  Clara gasped when she saw the jewelry "When was the last time that you had that thing cleansed?"

  The nurse blinked at her. "We're allowed to wear jewelry, ma'am. Studies have shown that necklaces pose no threat to patient health. Now, if you could just complete these forms, indicating the patient's name—"

  "No!" Clara said. She was loud enough that several people in the waiting room looked up from their zombie states. "I don't mean germs. Any idiot can take care of germs." I winced. Surely under the circumstances, it wasn't a good idea to call health-care providers idiots. Clara bulled forward. "I mean the negative energies that you've col­lected."

  Negative energies. I could see the nurse parsing the words. Her eyes narrowed, and I knew that she must wonder if Clara was some sort of raving loon. The nurse—R. N. Lampet, I saw from her nametag—started to vocalize three different retorts to Clara, but then she seemed to decide that she was better off addressing her comments to me. "If your grandmother has insurance other than Medicare, we'll need that information here—"

  Clara was not willing to be put off that easily. "Your amber is exposed to some major negative energy here. All of the pain in this hospital. All of the fear. Listen to me— I am a trained vibrational consultant, and I'm telling you that you need to cleanse that thing, before it affects your entire body."

  "Trained vibrational consultant?" The disbelief in Nurse Lampet's voice echoed across the waiting room. I heard two different people snicker. So wonderful that we were able to brighten the morning for other people here in the emer­gency room. How nice that we were able to ease their own fears and concerns, give them a moment of amusement.

  "I'm sorry," I said to the nurse, mortally embarrassed. "If you just give me the clipboard, I'll see what I can do."

  R. N. Lampet nodded. "Just make sure you take her with you."

  Miserably, I dragged Clara to a pair of plastic chairs. "I'm not making this up, Jeanette. Jane!" She corrected herself as I uncapped the ballpoint pen. "That woman needs to place her amber in the open air. Keep it free from human contact for at least a fortnight. Burying it in the earth would actually be best, especially if she can find some undyed, virgin wool to wrap it in. I've got some at home. I should bring it when we come back."

  "You do that, Clara."

  Something about my tone silenced her. I'm not quite sure what it was—the way I had to force my words through my clenched teeth? The way I barely restrained rolling my eyes?

  Clara sat silently while I filled out sheet after sheet of in­formation. Any known allergies. Any prior hospitalizations. Any prior surgeries. Any current medications. I knew all of the answers.

  When I had reached the fourth page of the admission forms, Clara said, "You do know that I love her, don't you?" Reflexively, I looked toward Nurse Lampet. "Not her! Your grandmother."

  I took my time signing my name at the bottom of the form, taking care to print my relationship to the patient in large, accusing letters. Granddaughter. There, in black and white. A concise declaration of Clara's failure. Only then did I look up at my biological mother. "I know that you think that you do."

  Clara's lips narrowed. "I fully admit that I made mis­takes, Jeanette."

  "Jane."

  She ignored me. "I lost years, which I'll never be able to get back again. I didn't expect you to come running into my arms. I knew that you were an adult, that you've found your own way in the world. You make your own decisions. But I'd always believed that your grandmother would have taught you her greatest lesson—to keep an open mind."

  Low blow.

  I pictured Gran in the examining room, surrounded by ominous medical paraphernalia. What would she think if she heard us squabbling out here? She certainly had not intended any of this to be the result of our morning visit to the Smithsonian.

  Gran had forgiven Clara. Couldn't I?

  I sniffed and ran a hand down my face, as if I could scrape away the confusing mixture of emotions sparked by Clara's words."I need to give these forms back. And I have to make a phone call."

  "Tell that nurse that I'll bring her my black tourmaline solution when I come back tomorrow. That won't be a perfect fix, but it will extend the life of her amber by at least a few months."

  I shuffled across the room and dropped off the forms. Nurse Lampet looked at me with pity, shaking her head
as she reviewed the paperwork. When everything was pro­nounced to be in order, I dug into my purse and found my cell phone.

  I stepped outside the hospital doors to make my call, forcing myself to take a trio of calming breaths. I punched in Melissa's number from speed dial. I could only hope that she had baked a batch of Triple-Chocolate Madness that morning. Nothing else was going to get me through the rest of the day.

  Melissa didn't have any Triple-Chocolate Madness, but she brought along the next best thing—an entire pan of Butterscotch Blessings. The creamy flavor of the butter­scotch blended into the oatmeal base, and the chocolate drizzle over the top provided a perfect bittersweet balance.

  I ate half a dozen of the things.

  But anything eaten in a hospital doesn't count, we all decided, as we kept Gran company in her room. Personally, I was just pleased that I had set aside the temptation to chew my fingernails to the quick. That Sephora nail polish really did work wonders.

  Melissa passed around the pan of Blessings one more time before she leaned back in her chair. "So, ladies," she said. "This whole hospital thing is not the worst thing that has happened this weekend."

  Clara's eyes widened. "What could be worse?" she asked. She and I had fallen into a respectful, mutual silence. I needed to think about what she'd said. Not the part about the black tourmaline cleansing—that was total hogwash. But the rest of it would take some time for me to process.

  Melissa grinned. "My date last night."

  I laughed out loud. For years, I had been regaled with Melissa's tales of dating woe, but Gran and Clara were in for a treat. My best friend spread her hands out in front of her, as if she were presenting a tray of perfect drop cookies. "Last night was one for the record books."

  "He was a FranticDate?" I asked, but then I laughed at the confusion on Gran's face.

  Melissa nodded, taking a moment to clarify: "It's a Web site, Mrs. Smythe. I filled out a questionnaire, and a bunch of guys filled out the same questionnaire, and a computer matches us up with our soul mate."