Chapter 36 Ouija
Ouija
Lydia Brown
“What’s this?”
On Sunday, Kate stays at the guesthouse and Gus and I are having a lay-low rainy day.
I’m on the sofa reading a compilation of Gloria Steinem’s latest essays called Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions.
She is my hero for embracing the vision of equality for everyone.
My favorite quote is We are the women our parents warned us against, and we are proud.
Gloria is the voice of my generation—both the vocal and quiet ones.
While I read, Gus and Uncle explore. I hear them rummaging in the bottom of closets and through the cavities of the armoire, except the one only I know how to access. I didn’t think I had anything to hide.
But I forgot about Ouija.
Gus found the dust-covered box under my bed. The box that always lives in dark chambers, hidden, waiting for an inquisitive girl. The box from Aunt Fanniebell that I last touched two years back when the cottage was finished and we brought our possessions here—then Jack died.
Aunt Fanniebelle was a tiny, complex, funny woman who always treated me like a grown-up.
When I was still single-digits old and the last of the Brown children, she let me sip brandy, then moonshine, me sitting on her portico in a wicker chair detesting the vile tastes but relishing the privilege.
Once she showed me a worn deck of cards with naked ladies on them that she’d found in Uncle Nigel’s liquor cabinet.
We took our time marveling at each pose and making fun of old men who liked to look.
I didn’t tell her that I tried some of those poses at home and nearly hurt myself.
It was harder than it looked. For a Southern Baptist, Aunt Fanniebelle was different in good ways, but Ouija was serious business.
“Lydia, it may look like a game,” my aunt began, “but it isn’t.
And with you being a bridge to the other side and all—well, you gotta be extra careful.
” As protection, Aunt Fanniebelle taught me two prayers.
To begin, I pray: In the name of God and the Sisterhood of Light, let us only communicate with the Powers of the Light.
And before the box is closed, I speak with reverence, Thank you for answering our questions through the Angels of Light.
I was thirteen when she gave me that black wooden board painted with golden moths, mushrooms, and coiled snakes ready to strike.
Thirteen is a dangerous age to get dangerous games.
When Ouija was moved for the last time from the bottom shelf of Aunt Fanniebelle’s secretary and became mine, no one would join me in the ritual.
Lucy and Bert had outgrown such nonsense.
Cora wouldn’t touch that planchette for any amount of bribery, and I trusted no one in my circle of friends because they already knew I was different.
At college, I used the power of Ouija three times with my timid roommates before they grew too cautious to play.
How many times have I used Ouija in thirty years?
Eight times? Nine? Does it grow tired of neglect and need to move on to someone else who is more curious?
“It’s my Ouija board.”
“How does it work?”
I set aside Gloria’s book and hold out my hand.