Chapter 20
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, I find my footing as a new mother.
Something I had once worried and fretted about was suddenly my reality, and though I hadn’t planned it, I’m able to establish a routine that works for Aven and me.
I’m still exhausted and sleep when he sleeps.
But lucky for me, witches have advantages we can take for granted.
When it comes to chores, the laundry can fold itself.
I can make my bed with a snap of my finger.
I have ointments that eliminate the pains of nursing.
Jade teaches me a spell that can turn my milk off and on whenever I want, so I don’t leak at the worst times.
I can take Aven for walks now that we know he can withstand the sun.
Chantal and I go to coffee downtown, and I pop in and out of a gem and herb store often, stockpiling what I need for the biggest spell of my life.
There’s slightly more confidence with the necromancy spell because it’s not one I’m creating from scratch, like the potion I created for Bastian. This spell has very specific steps to follow within the pages of my grimoire.
Winnie’s ready, practically crackling with the desire to create a spell. I haven’t been able to use her as much since we’ve been in California, but her pages are nearly roaring with excitement. The time nears.
Mother told the coven Aven has arrived, that he’s a girl, and I’m not ready to travel.
Because we told them I wasn’t as far along as I truly was, we bought ourselves some time.
She sends pictures to the elders of the child that doesn’t look like a boy nor girl.
Just a baby in my arms. And I don’t want to hide him; I can’t take it much longer.
The clock is ticking, and our future is in my hands.
I’ve never been lucky enough to have nothing to lose.
I was born with a laundry list of expectations, traditions to uphold, and a legacy to fulfill.
Even when I let go and fell in love with Bastian, there was always a pulse of fear in the back of my mind.
What if we got caught? What if Violetta and her evil sister Rosemary found out about the potion?
I never rested completely with ease. And now as I prepare for the biggest spell of my life, what I have to lose aches at the forefront of my mind.
I’m a mother with something I love more than myself.
But I must believe that it’s all a part of a bigger plan.
That the seeds were planted by my grandmother, even though she died with this secret.
Almost two months to create a spell is a long time, and though I’m anxious to get Bastian back, I’m also taking in this drastic transition to motherhood.
I was always told it came naturally to witches, which wasn’t the case for my mother.
She loved the fun parts, the good parts.
When it came to being a responsible adult, that was not her forte.
Thankfully, my grandmother stepped in as needed.
My sorrow and anxiety held me captive through so much of my pregnancy that I couldn’t truly enjoy it.
And I worried the grief would carry into the newborn stage of Aven’s life.
But I find myself navigating it naturally, and of course, witchcraft helps.
As for all the chores that make life feel more overwhelming, I have help—and of course, Chantal, who has taken to Aven like a moth to a flame.
“I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this child,” she says constantly, shaking her head as she kisses his feet. I can’t help but agree. He is perfect in every way. “I mean, just look at him. Look at him!”
When Chantal isn’t fawning over Aven or home with me, she’s hanging out with a guy she met at the beach named Edu.
“I’m not going to even show your ass the pictures he sent me for my Boy Toys album,” she says with that shimmy she does with her shoulders when she’s met a man she especially likes. “He is rocking my world, okay? California boys know what they are doing.”
I love hearing all the tea and telling her that living vicariously through her is the only action I will have for a very long time.
When her eyes flash deviously, when her mind goes to the memories of her nights with Edu, I can’t help but think of the nights I spent with Bastian, how tenderly he made love to me, how worshipped I felt underneath him.
And when she sees my eyes glass over, she grabs my hand and says, “If it doesn’t work, there’s a life after Bastian, you know? ”
She doesn’t say it to be cruel or hurt me, yet it still deflates me, like I’m an angel whose wings have been plucked one by one. I don’t want to know what life after Bastian is like.
On the days I feel like I’m doing something wrong, like when I can’t get Aven to burp or he has a suspicious rash, I Facetime Jade, because she’s been through it all recently with her two girls.
She has a way of making me feel like I’m doing a good job at this mothering thing, saying things like, “Oh, babe, that’s nothing.
Wait until he blows out a diaper in the car,” or “Honey, if there was a perfect way to do it, they would have come with instructions.” She’s the only person that knows about our secret boy, and I know the secret is safe with her.
I’ve had so many roadblocks in my life that I don’t take for granted how perfect Aven is and how easy being his mother has become.
Having this one thing go right makes me want to fall on my knees in gratitude because it could’ve gone so wrong.
I have a sidekick—a forever sidekick, and I resisted it for so long, but when something is meant to be, you just know. You just know.
We sleep in his bed, our bed, now. Aven’s and mine, and it feels good and right.
Every morning, I draw the shades open and look at the ocean.
Some mornings, the fog is so thick you can hardly see the ocean through the mist. But every day I open those shades is one day closer to bringing Bastian home.
I awaken with him on my mind and go to sleep dreaming of him.
Aven lives in a baby carrier on my chest, bouncing around wherever I go, while I sing Queen songs to him and tell him about his daddy, New Orleans, Royal Street, Mercury (whom I miss dearly), and his grandmother.
Some nights, when he wakes crying, Chantal comes in and takes him, allowing me to sleep, and some mornings I have to fight to get him back. “He’s happy, don’t move him!” she’ll whine, but I miss him and can’t usually help myself, so I pull him into me.
In between the spell preparation, we take walks down to the boardwalk for funnel cake whenever we feel like it, and I remind Chantal about The Giant Dipper roller coaster, how that was the roller coaster Bastian and his brother Luc were riding the first time I went back into Bastian’s memory.
How it was the catalyst for successfully creating the daywalking potion.
We drink coffee on Pacific Avenue, where tourists and locals wander, where the sun kisses our cheeks. Watching a man make balloon animals most days, lighting up the children’s cherub faces as the skateboarders flip tricks along the street.
Cassius has visited a few times but still hasn’t held Aven. “When he has some damn coordination, that’s when it will be best.” He grinned, staring at the baby like he was the hope diamond. In a way, he is our hope diamond, I guess.
And when we aren’t out, I’m home, being a new mother and working on the spell.
Rose petals for love, bird bones for death, nettle for courage, comfrey for luck, saffron for success.
Everything soaks and boils and sits and soaks and boils and sits all over again.
This concoction simmers for six hours every single day.
And every night, Chantal takes Aven for an hour while I sit at the fireplace, its glow my beacon of hope.
That’s where I set the groundwork for the final night I bring Bastian back.
I create the energy. I meditate over Winnie and the tincture I’m creating, Bastian’s ashes, and Aven’s blood.
At first, it feels like two months is a millennium away.
But each day passes, as days tend to do, until one night two months have gone by, and I’m packing up my things while Chantal enters the kitchen.
“Are you ready for this?” She shakes an empty jar in the air. The last ingredient we need, and it must be collected the evening before the spell.
“I’m ready.”
We pack up Aven, placing him in his car seat where he’ll be knocked out for a few more hours.
“You okay?” she asks, watching my knee bounce up and down in the passenger seat.
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t bring him back?”
She blows out her cheeks, her beautiful curls plopped on top of her head in a messy bun. “We aren’t even thinking that way, okay? Not tonight.”
“You know that’s the only way I think most of the time. It drove Bastian nuts. Miss Logical. Miss Responsible.”
The corner of her mouth turns up. “It’s hard to believe that you two were so in love and I missed the whole thing.”
I grab her hand, bring it to my lips, and kiss it. “Since I can’t literally kiss your ass for what I did forever, I’ll just kiss your hand, okay?”
She smiles and nods.
“Do you think it’s irresponsible to take a baby to a graveyard at midnight?”
I ask.
She thinks about it for a moment. “I mean, we’re witches. Not bringing a baby to a graveyard at midnight is even more irresponsible, yes?”
“For sure,” I agree, and we laugh as she pulls into the cemetery parking lot. “This won’t take long,” I whisper as if anyone can hear us, grab the jar, and take off to collect dirt from a cemetery at midnight.
I wake the next morning feeling out of my body, my confidence draining like a bath that’s plug has been hastily pulled. In twelve hours, I will sit on the beach, and I will bring Bastian back. Once, I was so assured, but the worry has settled in, plaguing me.
I spend the day quiet as possible, pushing all my energy to the evening in front of me.
I lay Aven on his play mat next to the fireplace, noticing how much he’s already changed in the two short months he’s been here.
His eyes focus on me now as his legs stretch.
I swear he’s ready to start giggling. All things Bastian missed.
My hands start to shake from the reality of what the night could bring. I look over everything, the tincture, the blood and ash, the dirt collected from the graveyard.
Then my phone rings.
“If there’s anyone that can do this, it’s you,” her voice says, and I break into tears, my forehead resting in my hand.
“I don’t know if that’s true this time, Mother.”
“Oh, baby. When will you see yourself how we all see you? When will you finally see?”
I shake my head, suddenly wishing she were here. “I can’t see it. I just want it to work so much, but I’m so scared. And I’m worried that fear will block my magic.”
“Then don’t let it. Go in with the confidence I know is within you. You are Aster Wildes, the Royal Street Witch. You have fought vampires, invented potions never created before, birthed a son, and you can do this. I love you.”
My hand reaches my heart, her words grounding me, fueling me, inspiring me.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I love you too, Mom. I love you so much.”