Chapter 7
December
Four Months Until The Wedding
If I ever get to heaven, I hope it smells like Babcia’s kitchen.
I won’t accept any version of the afterlife that doesn’t include lemon-yellow curtains hanging from a double window, the open air carrying in the sounds and smells of the city and mixing with the music and sweet tang of my grandmother’s cooking.
On the Upper East Side, tall buildings and double-paned glass keep most of the city noise out, giving the impression of a separate bubble, even in the busiest parts of the city.
Here in the Bronx, shouts permeate from outside, a variety of thick accents and competing blares from boom boxes.
The noise is strangely soothing. The soundtrack of my childhood.
Not to mention, this apartment’s ability to settle my mind’s constant replay of leaving Trip at the Plaza Hotel.
I didn’t even turn back as I left him there on the closet floor, making a rushed excuse to the Coldwells about stomach troubles before leaving the hotel.
But Trip’s final words are on loop in my mind, like a broken record.
Carter is in danger, and I might have the power to help him.
I’m in desperate need of clarity and comfort food.
Zuri must be having a similar train of thought. “Jesus, that smells divine.”
We’re wrist-deep in golumpki filling while Babcia stands at the stove, stirring the sauce.
“Like he had anything to do with it,” she mutters.
Zuri leans into me, voice low. “Did I take the Lord’s name in vain or something?”
“The opposite. Babcia doesn’t believe in organized religion. Spirituality, yes. But she’s skeptical of anything where men hold all the power.”
“Badass.” Zuri slams the heel of her hand into the meat mixture.
“Cooking is religion enough. The kitchen is my temple.” Babcia waves a hand.
I cluck my tongue. “What would Dziadek say?”
My grandfather insisted on hanging a cross in every room of their apartment when he was alive. There are still marks on the wall twenty years after Babcia removed them.
“I’ll have you know, we speak regularly and he has always accepted my beliefs.”
“Oh, is that so?” Crazy woman, claiming she can speak to the dead. My breath catches for a moment. Now you’re crazy too, Libby.
“You okay?” Zuri asks.
It pains me that she’s been asking me this so often lately.
I’ve never wanted to be anyone’s burden, but especially not Zuri’s.
As the only two scholarship students in our class at St. Miriam’s, we were naturally drawn to one another.
Like me, Zuri hasn’t had the privileged life of our classmates.
The last thing she needs is for our friendship to be taxing.
“Yeah, just a gas bubble.” I set my spoon on the wooden table. “Be right back.”
I tread down the hall, the old wooden floors creaky as ever, and shut myself inside the bathroom.
Carter may not want to acknowledge the curse, to talk through potential solutions, but I can’t sit by and do nothing while he tempts fate.
Especially after the scare during our run last month.
The music and chatter from the kitchen are muffled on the other side of the door.
Please let it be too loud for them to hear.
I climb up onto the toilet seat and unlatch the small window on the wall near the ceiling.
The space is smaller than my head, but I stick my face as far as I can through the opening, the chill instantly stinging my cheeks.
“Hey.” The first one is a whisper, tentative. Gaining confidence, I increase my volume. “Hey! Trip! Are you out there?”
A few pigeons flutter off a telephone wire, startled by the noise.
“I need to TALK TO YOU!”
“Start talkin’, sweetheart!” someone shouts below, followed by a whistle.
I sigh and shut the window. Just like the other five times I’ve tried today.
How are you supposed to summon a ghost anyway?
In a city this big, I can’t just go looking for him, but I was hoping he’d reappear at my apartment at some point.
Maybe my next move should be Carter’s mom’s house, since I found him in the library that first night.
I slide down to the bathroom floor, running my fingers along the cracks in the tile.
What will he say about my decision to help him?
My change of heart? I knew you’d do anything to save your precious Carter.
Wait, why do I care what he’ll think? If anything, he should be grateful since his ass is getting saved in the process.
I sit for as long as is reasonable before standing up and exiting the bathroom.
In the kitchen, Zuri cocks her eyebrow in a silent All good?
I nod, but my gut twists for reasons I can’t explain. In the movies, being haunted always means despair and horror. Why do I feel so miserable now that my ghost is gone? Astral projection, you mean. I smile, despite myself.
“Okay, that’s it,” Zuri says. “Who is he?”
“Who is who?” Babcia asks, not looking up from the stove.
“This woman looks like she’s going to vomit one minute and is smiling to herself the next. Looks like love, if you ask me!”
“Love? What love?” Babcia wipes her hands on her apron and walks toward me. “Why have you not brought this nice boy to meet me?”
“There’s no boy, Babunia.” He’s a man, technically. Disembodied. But still really hot?
“Well, when are you going to bring someone around, wnuczka? I’m beginning to think you are embarrassed of me! Tell me what he likes to eat, and I will cook for him—or her!” She grabs my hands in hers. “I just want love for you, my sweet one, like me and your dziadek had.”
“You butted heads like goats!”
“Ah!” She lifts her spoon in the air. “We challenged each other. Love is the stock, but passion, challenge, someone who pushes you to be your best—that is the seasoning.”
“Always a cooking analogy with her, isn’t it?” Zuri whispers.
—
Stomachs full of golumpki and hair stuck to our foreheads from the steam in the kitchen, I kiss Zuri goodbye. Babcia stuffs several Tupperware containers into her arms before shutting the apartment door.
I collapse on the threadbare navy sofa, letting my limbs dangle like limp pasta. Cooking from scratch is surprisingly draining. Outside, snowflakes stick to the windowpanes.
“Okay, now are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Babcia stands on the threshold, hands on her wide hips, looking formidable.
“I couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about.”
“You think you can fool your babcia? Your own flesh and blood? I promise you that what Zuri notices, I notice tenfold. Now spit it out.”
“Wow, you were really putting on the sweet old grandmother charm when Zuri was here, huh? Maybe I should call her back.” I rise from my seat, but Babcia presses two fingers into my shoulder and I sink back onto the cushion. Damn, she’s strong for a woman pushing eighty-five.
“You’re not yourself, kochanie.” She moves her left hand in circles around my head. “Your aura…it’s…dimmer.”
I swat her hand away. “Stop it with that nonsense.”
Babcia sits next to me, and I rest my head in her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes, like I’m seven years old all over again.
“Did I tell you Carter asked me to help with some of the wedding stuff?”
“Reckless boy. Treats his clothes like he’ll never worry about having more.”
I chuckle. “Well, he won’t.” In so many ways I admire Carter’s carefree spirit, his ability to let things roll off him.
But I see Babcia’s point. On the other hand, there’s Trip and his serious nature.
His misty eyes in a dark closet. Flickering lamplight at my near touch.
He’s carrying a burden I don’t yet fully understand.
“Earlier you said that Dziadek challenged you.”
“Mmm,” Babcia mumbles, wrapping one of my curls around her finger.
“Did you ever feel like you had to fight to keep him? Like he might slip through your fingers if you didn’t try?”
“Ahh.” Her hand rests on my cheek. “What you’re talking about is chasing, not challenging.
When I say your grandfather and I fought for each other, I don’t mean for each other in the sense of winning the other’s affections.
Your dziadek would have defended and advocated for my best interests even if I wouldn’t do it myself. That is a partner.”
It doesn’t suit you. You’re more formidable when armed.
Trip’s voice in my head raises goose bumps on my skin. I sit up and grab the nearest blanket, wrapping myself in a small cocoon. It doesn’t help the hole in my chest that only continues to grow, at the same time constricting and hollow.
I rub my eyes. Maybe if I press hard enough it will erase the image of Trip from my brain. “What did you mean earlier when you said you still talk to Dziadek?” I turn toward her.
“There are many ways to communicate with loved ones. Our hearts were one. Many times, I don’t even need him to be here to know what he would say. I can play out entire conversations in my mind.”
I tap her hand. “Best to keep those voices in your head to yourself.”
She laughs, and disappointment at being no closer to a solution sinks in my gut.
“What if someone did want to communicate with someone who had passed—or, almost passed?”
“What’s in that brain of yours, kochanie?”
“Do you still do the tarot cards? Is there a way for them to connect me with a spirit?” I wish I had paid more attention as a kid instead of being embarrassed by her interest in these things.
“Tarot is for the future, and for the here and now. To look inside yourself and find what you need and know to be true. It’s not used for what you’re thinking.”
I sigh and let this reality settle in my mind.
If I can’t summon Trip, I’ll have to wait for him to appear again.
But how much time do I have? Carter’s panicked face and the blare of the taxi horn burn in my mind.
Trip has made it clear that Carter’s marriage will break the curse, so maybe I should continue business as usual and be a supportive friend to Carter, a companion to Sabrina.
Things hardly seem rocky, anyway. But Trip also admitted he’s only operating on a hunch.
If we want to truly know the solution to the curse, if I want to end this thing for Carter once and for all, we need to speak to the fortune teller.
There’s a surprising tightness in my chest at not knowing when I’ll see Trip again. If I’ll see him again. What if his spirit moves on before the wedding? I could still save Carter from the curse in that case, but I want to spare them both.
Babcia peers at me through narrowed, assessing eyes. “You know, there is one way to summon a spirit.”
I blink, my vision fuzzy from releasing the pressure on my eyes. “What?”
She clasps both my hands in hers and wrinkles her brow. I’ve never seen Babcia look worried before. It’s jarring.
“Wait right here.” She pats my knee, rises from the couch, and walks out of sight down the hallway.
When did I become such a mess? Even my grandmother—who doesn’t bat an eye at credit card debt or chronic illness—is worried about me.
Babcia’s feet patter back down the creaky hallway and she reappears, palms cupped together as though she’s holding a baby bird. I crane my neck, but the object in her hands is hidden.
“This belonged to my great-grandmother,” she says, still clutching whatever it is tight. “Hold out your hand.”
I do as she says, and she turns her wrist to let go of the object. The smooth oblong stone is cold in my hand, as though it’s sucking the very heat from my skin.
I meet my grandmother’s eyes. “How does it work?” I must be losing my damn mind to be asking for this.
“You hold the stone in one hand and an object of the deceased’s in the other. Clutch both tight, bring your palms together, and then wait.”
“How long does it take?”
She shrugs. “It depends. Spirits do have minds of their own.”
Great, so my ghost could still ghost me.
I drag a hand through my hair. “Have you ever?”
“Once. And I never will again. It’s not as easy as it sounds. First, the person must have the sight to begin with. A person who can’t see spirits may summon one and not know if they are successful. But I believe you may have already seen something—someone?”
I nod. Trip’s words play in my mind. My guess is this has something to do with you. “So you’re saying I have—the sight? What can you tell me about it? What do you know?”
Babcia shakes her head and looks away. “That’s outside of my realm of understanding.” Resolve stiffens her spine.
I know when it’s not worth pressing her, and this is one of those times.
There’s still the problem of needing something of Trip’s to use with the stone.
It would be so much easier if I could ask Carter for help.
But if anything might jeopardize this wedding, it would be him suffering a mental breakdown at the realization that his cousin is a ghost. Part of me also worries he wouldn’t believe me.
Would he laugh? Look at me like I was crazy, the same way he always looked at Babcia?
No, I’m on my own for now. I’ll find a way to collect something of Trip’s.
“Be careful, wnuczka. Spirits are lost souls for a reason. Playing their games can be dangerous, can mean losing your grasp on what is real. You’ve never asked about these things before, and I can only guess at who you’re trying to summon.”
My hand fidgets with my mother’s gold chain around my neck.
Babcia eyes the motion. “To be frank, I’m not sure I even want to know. Just please be careful. I couldn’t bear to lose another—”
She twists the bracelet on her wrist and I know she’s thinking of Mama. My heart pounds faster to see her this nervous.
“I’ll be fine, Babcia, I promise. When you used the stone—was it Dziadek?”
“No,” she answers before I can finish. “Once a soul moves on, this”—she points to the stone in my hand—“doesn’t work.”
My heart rate ratchets up higher but I need to spit out the words. Need her to answer. “Would you, though? If you could?”
She swallows and glances at the floor. “No.” She twists her wedding band. “Some doors are meant to stay closed.”