Chapter 14
“What Ziploc bag?” I ask.
“You know there’s thirteen thousand dollars in my checking account, which means you went to the bank, which means Talky Tina probably gave you access to my entire life and you opened the safe-deposit box and poked through that bag full of goodies. So what called to you?”
My hand goes to the tiny leather dictionary in my pocket, and I pull it out and show it to her. “I wouldn’t say it called to me, but I love words. And books.”
“What do you think called to means, you ornery child?” Her eyes focus on the leather cover. “Lord, I want to bite that. This bird body is wired to destroy things.” She ruffles her feathers and steps away. “Has anything interesting happened with that little book, since you stuck it in your pocket?”
I hate how knowing she sounds, and I hate that she’s right. “I may have consulted it a few times when I was trying to make my decision.”
She shakes herself excitedly. “Yes! Good. And how’d that go?”
I sigh. “The dictionary is biased. It probably accepts bribes.”
“Ha!” she cackles. “Let me guess—every word you saw suggested you should stay here.”
“You think you know everything,” I grouse.
“Around here, maybe I do know everything. Ever think about that, smarty-pants?”
I hold up the dictionary and unsnap the cover. “Magic Webster in my palm, should I lock up Grammy and have some calm?”
I close my eyes, flip to a page, and put down my finger. And frown.
“What’s the word?”
I don’t want to say it.
“Well?”
“It says listen.”
“I could’ve told you something like that was gonna happen,” she gloats.
“So what does it mean—is this a magic book?”
“Only when you use it. Wouldn’t do a thing for me.
” She struts around, full of energy now.
“Okay, so I told you about knacks. Just like some normal folks are good at math and some are good with animals and some can sing like angels, most witches have a special skill. That’s your knack.
All the stuff in that bag—it was chosen for a reason.
It can help identify your area of expertise.
Been in the family pretty much forever.”
I think back to how random it all was and begin to make connections. A dog whistle. A lipstick. A teaspoon. So someone who’s good with animals, someone with charisma or acting ability or beauty skills, a baker or chef.
And I chose a book.
“So this dictionary is magic, or I have magic with all books?”
“Stop. Think back. Was there anything in your past life you couldn’t explain?”
I roll my eyes. “Mawmaw, my life is not past. I’m still living it. I haven’t decided if I’m going back or not.”
“Your life in Alabama, before you knew about witchcraft. Was there anything that you were drawn to, something that just brought you comfort and joy?”
When it dawns on me, it feels annoyingly obvious.
“Yes, yes, I’ve always loved books. But that’s not rare—”
“But when things were hard or you needed answers, you were drawn to books, right? And sometimes you found the answers you needed?”
I stand and stomp over to the nearest window, thinking about the five-hundred-dollar Georgia lottery scratcher in my library book.
“You don’t have to be smug just because you know more than I do.
” I pull on the cord to raise the blinds, but they don’t budge, so I yank hard until they rip free and fall to the ground like a dying accordion.
“I’m sick of everything here being pee-pee yellow. ”
“Does that mean you’re staying? You can decorate however you like.”
“I know I can do whatever I like, because a parrot can’t stop me. And that doesn’t mean I’m staying; it just means I’m tearing out all these ugly-ass blinds. Now, what makes you think my relationship with books is any different than your average bibliophile?”
I focus on the blinds, but I can hear her tiny little claws pattering around the room with the nervous energy expected of any excited bird.
“Because you don’t just love books—it’s like they love you,” she says.
“They want to help you. And when you’re in Arcadia Falls, that feeling will be magnified.
When you’re far away, it grows weak. Without water from the falls, you can’t do much.
But there’s a sort of…longing. A connection.
It may fade, but it’s always there. Pulling at you. Like being homesick.”
“There’s a word for that.” I look out into the alley, down at my car’s box-stuffed interior. “Hiraeth. It’s Welsh. Means ‘a longing for a place or time that’s lost or inaccessible.’ I used to feel it all the time, and I didn’t know why. Books came closest to scratching that itch.”
“And does it itch less, now that you’re here?”
I give her another sour glance; she sure is annoyingly pleased with herself when she’s right.
“Well, it was pretty itchy when I got duped into bathing in a waterfall and ended up wearing your remains as setting powder.” I yank down the next set of blinds, and sunlight pours into the room. It’s satisfying as hell.
“After that, though. Since you activated the magic and found the book.”
I stare at her, hands on my hips, as motes of dust dance in the light of the tall windows. The place already looks a thousand times better, just by letting in a little light that isn’t the color of old piano keys.
“I guess so. Are you saying being here is like calamine lotion for an itchy soul?”
She flutters up to the window and looks out.
“Some people go their whole lives never knowing their calling. They never develop a passion or find something they’re really great at.
They don’t have a purpose. But for me—for most of the witches I’ve known—magic gives us that feeling.
That satisfaction, bone deep. Especially using our knack.
The magic wants to be used. It’s been waiting for you.
And it sounds like maybe you were waiting for it. ”
I yank down the third and last set of yellow blinds in the room and can finally appreciate what a nice apartment it really is.
Twelve-foot ceilings with pressed tin, tall windows in front that look out on the idyllic square, wide wood floors the color of clover honey.
Compared to the house I grew up in—with its fake wood paneling, ragged shag carpet, and wet spots on the popcorn ceiling—this place feels like a dream, like I’m the main character in a romance book where a beautiful girl moves to Manhattan and lucks into a rent-controlled apartment overlooking Central Park.
“So here’s the real question,” Maggie continues, cocking her head at me.
“Why would you turn all that down? You got fate telling you that you’re supposed to stay here.
You got a dictionary giving you ten synonyms that all mean ‘stick around.’ You got me telling you, over and over.
What else is it going to take? How many times does destiny have to knock before you answer the damn door? ”
I stand in the middle of the room, trying to imagine a life here. I would move the furniture around for sure, get some new throw pillows and blankets, add some plants. I need less Stevie Nicks and more Dixie Chicks. And some candles to clear out all the incense. What exactly is holding me back?
My sisters, for one. I’ve never been this far away from them. They need me.
And I need a job, some way to bring in money. Maybe this place is almost free, but there would still be taxes to pay, utilities, food, upkeep on my car, tons of Epsom salts for all the bookish baths I’ll need to take.
And…
Well, those are the main things. On the other hand, I don’t have a job back home, either.
Or a home, considering the lease I signed way too quickly.
And I’m fairly certain Officer Jimmy Wayne wouldn’t stop tailgating me until he found a reason to arrest me for breaking his brother’s heart.
I don’t even want to think about all the nails Billy would toss in my carport.
“Well?” Maggie demands.
I still need confirmation.
I hold up a finger to shush her and pick up my phone.
Mr. Buckley’s office number is in my contacts because that man had a terrible habit of calling me every time I wasn’t within shouting distance.
It only rings once before someone picks up and a bright, bubbly voice says, “Buckley Insurance, this is Sylvie, can I help you?”
“Hi, Sylvie,” I say, realizing I didn’t think this through, either. “This is Rhea Wolfe. I used to work for Mr. Buckley.”
“Oh, Rhea, hi!” She sounds like talking to me is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. “You did such a nice job getting everything ready for me, I swear I haven’t had to think a bit. Your filing system is just beautiful.”
“Thanks?”
“Did you want to talk to Uncle Horace?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. I definitely don’t, but it seems rude to say so. “Um—”
“Because he’s in a meeting right now, but I can have him call you back. Is there a problem with Doris? You’re not giving her back, are you?”
I splutter a little. Yes, there is definitely a problem with Doris, and no, I am not giving her back.
“Nope, she’s doing great. Um, Sylvie, quick question. How are things going around there? You plan to stay awhile?”
“Definitely. I just graduated from Jefferson, and my folks live down the street and are letting me live in the suite over the garage, so this is perfect for me. I’m not going anywhere.
My only worry about taking this job was dealing with Doris, and you took care of that. You took care of everything!”
She sounds so sincere and happy to be there that I can’t really question her.
Plus, I’ve heard Horace talk about his favorite niece before, and I know that short of her dying in a freak accident, there’s no way I could get my job back while she’s settled into that chair. I thank her again, and hang up.
“You convinced yet?” Maggie says, sounding pleased.
Instead of answering, I call Leah Billings at my folks’ old place.
“What’s wrong?” Leah asks right away.
“Nothing, just calling to see how y’all are doing.”
She exhales. “Oh, thank God. I was afraid there was a problem.” I can hear the sporadic buzz of a saw in the background.
“I’m on bed rest now, so us renting your place was the best thing that could’ve ever happened.
Can you imagine me stuck in bed in Tommy’s mom’s house?
Lord, she’d be hollering at me day and night to stop being lazy and get up and dust her fans.
This is like a vacation, Rhea. And Tommy loves working on things.
He’s happy as a pig. Got the roof patched up, and now he’s fixing the soft spots in the ceilings.
Did you know you can scrape the popcorn off?
This place is a dream come true for us!”
Hearing that, I instantly know I can’t ask Leah and Tommy to move out so I can go home.
Tommy’s mom is the devil, which I’ve known since she was my third-grade teacher and plucked James and the Giant Peach out of my hands to keep me from becoming a communist. I honestly don’t think she knows what a communist is, but let’s just say that I was careful to read my Marxist literature in private after that.
Leah and I were in school together all twelve years, and she always gave me discounts at the grocery store, and I know how big and tired she is right now.
The house I grew up in, my parents’ house, my house—it has a new life, and that life does not involve me any further than a monthly rent check.
“I’m glad it’s going so well,” I tell her, meaning every word. “It’s nice to know y’all are looking after things.”
“Did you need something, Rhea? Did you forget something?”
The saw buzzes behind her, and I can imagine her in my big queen bed, cozied up in a nest of pillows while Tommy waits on her hand and foot and she doesn’t have to dread every waking moment.
“Nope. Just wanted to check in.”
“Well, the house is in great hands, and you’re an angel for letting us have it for the year. If things keep going like this, maybe we can stay here even longer? It’s a great place to raise a family, as I reckon you know.”
I all but fall onto the couch, feeling defeated by reality itself.
“Of course. Take care of yourself and that baby, Leah. I’m so happy for you guys.”
“You take care, too, Rhea. Hope you’re as happy where you are!”
We hang up, and Maggie does a triumphant little cockatoo jig.
“See? The world is conspiring to keep you here. This is exactly where you’re supposed to be, and as long as you’re here, things are gonna go real well for you, I promise.”
“What aren’t you telling me—”
I’m startled by a loud knock.
“Someone’s at the door,” Maggie observes.
“Is that normal?”
I can’t forget the weird warnings about folks with a grudge against my grandmother, and as far as I’m aware, only five people in town even know I’m here.
Most of the buildings around me are empty, and I doubt Abraham down in the video store would hear me screaming bloody murder if I was bisected with a chainsaw right over his head.
I am not sure I want to answer the door.
Maggie shakes herself and stands. “It was normal when Diana was alive. Now? I don’t know what’s been going on, or even how long I’ve been dead. I almost felt like I was drifting around up here, all restless, but I reckon that’s a problem for another day. Just answer the door.”
I offer my wrist to Maggie, and she steps up and settles down. I almost ask her where she kept the knives as I approach the kitchen door, but honestly, a scared parrot is probably just as lethal. I don’t even know what I’m worried about.
“Let me see out,” she says.
“Manners,” I whisper.
With a small snort, she mutters, “Please.”
I hold her up to the peephole, and she angles her head to get her bright little eye right up against the glass.
“Well, that is unexpected.”