The Call of Magic Read online

  I tell him, “They made a decision for you, Michael. One that hurt you, one that you’ll live with for the rest of your life. I can’t abide by that.” I pause, letting the words filter up from the bottom of my soul. “Nobody should ever be told how to live their lives.”

  3

  12:57 PM EDT

  June 18, 2020

  “Are you okay?” It’s the fourth time I’ve asked. Michael still snuffles, but most of his good mood has returned. We’re closer to town now, and by proxy, closer to the city. Passing strip malls and stand-alone restaurants line the roads, intermixed with industrial and commercial warehouses.

  “No, I’m not okay.” He huffs out a long-held breath. “Thank you, Emma. You’re so pretty, and so awesome at everything, and you worked so hard for all of your academic and extracurricular success, but you risked it all for me, and I’m only ever going to end up a painter for my dad.” He realizes he’s rambling. He slaps the steering wheel, annoyed with himself. “God, I’m an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not, Michael.”

  He returns to his brooding silence. I can tell he would blame himself if I had gotten into trouble for helping him.

  He sneaks a sad look at me from the corner of his eye. “Why did we stop being friends, Emma?”

  I should have expected him to ask for years, but I feel a jolt of tension in my chest when he asks it all the same. I work my mouth, looking for an answer while he continues talking.

  “You were my best friend, and within a month you weren’t yourself, and you were doing a lot of things you didn’t use to do. Your first priorities were fun and playing. We used to have dance-offs at recess, and everyone loved you. You were the popular girl. You had the biggest birthday party ever, and we all managed to be real choosey bastards with deciding whose party we went to.”

  That birthday party was one of my last happy memories as a child. A period of turmoil followed, and I made decisions I should not have at an early age. As a seven-year-old, I couldn’t understand them. Unlike most children lashing out in their emotional turmoil, even then I possessed the focus and stubborn persistence to reform my life around that. And I did. I hardened my soul and yoked it to greater purpose, at heavy cost. A hiccup of a laugh comes out of me. “Michael, that was in the second grade.”

  He speaks over me. “Better yet, you actually loved people, too, but you got ultra-serious. Nose-in-a-book, no time for anything else serious. Like Hercule Poirot serious. Evil Overlord’s Handbook serious. No, really, Em. You stopped talking to everyone, and when that happened, it seemed like you stopped caring about everything besides your academics and success and whatever the fuck it is that you’re planning on doing with your evil genius. I think anyone I still speak to from that time has already written you off, but after today, I for one want answers. Why did you stop talking to everyone?”

  I evade the question. “I still talk to Cindy.”

  He’s incredulity is accented by bright red blood spots on his split lip. “Cindy Myers? The girl you do all your group projects with? You don’t talk to her. You dictate brilliance and she is just organized enough to catch it all.”

  “I talk to people, Michael. How many clubs was I in? How many societies and charities?”

  He rejects the sentiment outright. “It’s not the same thing as having friends, Emma.”

  I pushed him away, but he wasn’t the only one. I pushed everyone away. Even my mom, for a while. I know how to answer the question, but I can’t. He’s looking at me to ease this matter between us, but I won’t. As much as I like Michael, I do not owe him that. Not after today. We’re still minutes out of the town borders. Rubbing the spot on my arm doesn’t make the pain better, so I force myself to stop.

  He moves to fill the gaping silence for me. “Was it your —”

  And he’s done it, taken this to a place where I will not tread. Threads of iron weave the words as I say, “Let’s talk about something else, Michael.” To my relief, we lapse back into silence.

  I realize, then, as Michael lets the conversation fold, that he holds me in higher esteem than he holds himself. Michael is broken in a way that I can’t fix. Had I remained his friend, kept him close, it might only be cracked and not shattered. The weight of it drags on my soul, filling me with a longing for a time when I was free of the heavy chains I’ve wrapped around myself. Yet we are far beyond that time, and second thoughts will not help him just as I know it will not help me. I could have lost a decade of all-consuming work today. All the other times when he needed a friend, a protector? I lean into that place deep in my heart, that void where I go to relearn the dread craft of isolationism from time to time. The guilt recedes more slowly today.

  After a few moments, Michael changes subjects and fills the rest of the car ride with one-sided conversation about the painting company and his prospects for the future. Given the details, it’s a smart move for him. His dad’s business is booming, but I know he won’t have time to pursue his love for oil paints. Little about paint rollers speaks to the soul.

  We hit the outskirts of town, passing by the small “Welcome” sign that serves as the city borders. The shopping centers and industrial complexes have given way to clusters of residential housing, apartment blocks set in new-growth thickets and manicured lawns. The Golden Bed and Breakfast, the only hotel in the township, stands as the turnoff for my street, a half-left fork that drives a line straight across town to City Hall and Main Street. It’s well-maintained, and the sweet smell of the rosebushes that line their property is strong enough to permeate into the car.

  Halfway through the third block, Michael pulls up on the curb in front of a small brick house with a wild garden, a huge red maple tree, and an old-style lamppost. I murmur thanks, pat him on the arm once more, and hop out, but he yells after me, “So are you going to do it?”

  “Do what?” He has the windows down now. I cross to the driver’s side and bend to lean my elbows on the car door. The metal is hot from the sun, but it feels good for the moment, taking my mind off the pain of my arm.

  “What you’ve been working so hard at.” I blink at him, nonplussed. “Conquer the world?” he asks. He is serious.

  I laugh then, an honest laugh. He really is a sweet guy. There’s an echoing twinge of guilt about our past, but I squash it. I answer with a smile. “More like save it.” Another round of goodbyes is said. I remind him that ice is his friend.

  I straighten and wave as Michael drives away. Turning to move into the house, I find a man in a charcoal suit behind me, tall, with Asian features framed by silver glasses. I didn’t see him as we pulled up. Odd.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. I don’t know him.

  “You’re blocking the way.” He points to the sidewalk, and I realize I’m standing in the middle of it. Annoyed at the necessity for him to force a confrontation, I move onto our property. As he walks past, he stares hard at me. Cold, calculating thought lies behind his gaze. It makes my skin crawl, which sets the place on my arm stinging anew, but he nods with a murmured “Thank you,” as he continues down the block. Strange.

  Already forgotten, my mind turns back to the questions Michael raised. It has occurred to me many times over the years. Still, I wonder how different my life would have been if my father hadn’t left.

  4

  1:13 PM EDT

  June 18, 2020

  The house looks cleaner than it was as I step inside, and the smell of fresh-baked cookies wafts in from the kitchen. I close the door and the conversation with Michael together. My knuckles ache as I latch the dragonhead doorknob. I love our home. Small, cozy, with colors that dance from the stained-glass windows during the day, and at night smells of jasmine permeate the house from the planters in the kitchen. Something always changing.

  My mom is a sensual artist. Her art, while esthetically pleasing, has a secondary role built in. Her pieces revolve around the female form and romance. Light fixtures, smells, a specific texture, a hidden puzzle or meaning. She loves being an artist, but it was a struggle at first. We are not strangers to tight times. Our meals were often canned soup growing up as it was all we had the money to eat. Mom has since found success and recognition, but her art process was difficult to perfect. It took years. Now, all completed pieces make a trial showing in our living room first. Those that withstand months of scrutiny are put out for sale.

  A living room full of art would make bringing friends over difficult, if I had any, but it also makes any sense of order scarce. The ever-changing furniture centers on awkward subjects. My mother tells me that I get my need for organization from my father. I don’t remember enough of him to wager an opinion.

  I hold the spot on my arm as I walk into the kitchen. My mother sits on the bench in the breakfast nook, reading a newspaper in the distorted light of the bubble glass behind her. A cup of coffee sits in front of her, and the Foo Fighters play on the small cellphone stereo next to her. A batch of pancake-size chocolate chip cookies cool on the oven top. It’s an old-fashioned gas number with cast-iron burners.

  My mother is a wisp of a woman, with long, curly golden hair and curious hazel eyes. She studies the paper every day, though I’ve never understood what she finds so fascinating.

  “Was that Michael?” She speaks without looking up.

  “Hey, Mom. I love you too.”

  She drops her paper enough to give me a bright smile. “Oh, hi sweetie. How are you today?”

  “I’m okay. We got our mural finished.”

  “And what else happened, in-a-way-that-got-you-to-ask-for-a-ride-from-anyone-else-but-me?”

  “I socked Jimmy Haynes in the eye.”

  She’s surprised for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Was there a particular reason?”

  “Michael,” I say, t
rying hard to keep a smile from my face. My mother’s laughter is infectious.

  “Good. Good! Good for you, honey. Let’s see your battle wounds.”

  I present my knuckles and she squeals with delight. “You really got him! And you didn’t get arrested! Congratulations baby!” A free spirit, my mother.

  I push her away gently. “It could have been terrible, Mom. I would have lost my scholarship.”

  “Even better! You can stay home. We’ll make art together.”

  “Mom.”

  “I know, I know. Where are you going? I’m not done harassing you.”

  I’m moving back toward the living room and the tiny stairway that occupies the back wall. “I need to pack up my room, Mom. Remember? I’m heading off to college in a month?”

  She laughs again. “Only if you’re not in jail, sweet pea.”

  I climb the steps, the familiar stairs creaking underneath me before opening onto the only room of the second floor. Once a crawlspace, it became a temporary fix when I grew old enough to need my own room. I have to duck through the low doorframe, and I can only stand in the very center, at the roof peak. As the years passed, though, I stayed, foregoing a remodel of the downstairs to accommodate me on the first floor. Years later, it is still my room, study, and refuge from the world. I strip off my overalls and the paint-covered shoes, now dry, and settle in to pack it all up.

  The posters on my walls have transformed over the years. Where once fantastical beasts and the places to find them stood, now lists of SAT prep words, photos of my top five college choices, and art sketches that I made hang between a smattering of art from my mother. If my poster collection has become more serious, my bookshelf has not. All the best literature has found a home there: Tolkien, Rowling, Rothfuss, Lewis.

  A well-worn art-project-turned-desk is in the corner, composed of bright yellows and greens, an old birthday present from my mom. Once stacked deep with prep books, AP pre-tests, and homework assignments, it only holds my small, white laptop now. It’s a testament to my goals and an acknowledgement of my steps towards them that the books are gone.

  I take a few minutes to pack. Part of my heart tells me, as I dismantle the heart of my cosmos, that I should feel something about it. That I will miss it, and that it violates an inherent rightness to take apart. This is the altar to my sacrifice. Everything, from the small window that opens onto the front of the street, to the threadbare carpet underneath my feet, is sacrosanct. The other tells me that it was meant to be dismantled. That this crucible in which I’ve shaped my soul has served its purpose. The voluntary and solitary confinement that I’ve condemned myself to for a greater purpose is over, and the next stage will need its own tools. I leave the battle in my heart out of the decision, as I always have. My mother could use the extra space for her artwork, and so my decision falls to simple logic and kind consideration, as it often does.

  The robins outside play their cheerful chirping games on the tree branches as I work. Midday light slants bloody through the leaves of the red maple outside, shifting with the motion of the branches. My books are stripped out of the shelf and boxed, and the small Ikea bookshelf is disassembled, the parts wrapped and bagged. My desk and the chair that occupy the corner stay where they are for the moment, but the mirror is unscrewed from the wall and set next to it. The bed frame has been apart since summer began. My mattress lies on the ground, ready to be stripped of bed clothes and put into storage at the end of the month. I leave enough of my clothes to last me the month, most of them for work. The rest go into the duffel bags. Everything that I own, fitting in three small duffel bags. There’s a large plastic case with the necessities of college living in the corner already, organized, compartmentalized. It’s been there for months.

  As the last step, I begin taking the posters down. I’m about halfway through when my mother comes up the stairs. She looks more serious than she was in the kitchen.

  “Heya kiddo. I know I wasn’t being very sensitive, but I’m proud of you. You did a brave thing, standing up for Michael. Especially since it came at a pretty big risk for everything you’ve put together. I just hope you’re not too shaken up.” She looks to me for a response before adding, “All okay?”

  I love Mom to death. That she can put away her wild spirit to be a good mother still astounds me. She loves me, and besides my dreams, she’s been all that I’ve had for a very long time. I take her hand and squeeze it to reassure her. A small smile lets her know that I mean it when I say, “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Good. Cause you’ve never been one to cry where people could see you. It’s always hard to tell.” Brows furrow, eyes focused anywhere but mine, there’s something else on her mind. “Are you sure this Ivy League education is what you want? It’s an awful ambitious plan.”

  By the nervous look on her face, she’s been waiting to have this conversation. Beyond the wild spirit, my mother has always dealt with my father leaving differently than I have, blaming herself in part, which I cannot and will not accept. Where she has become looser and more carefree, I have become more responsible, more driven. I can’t say whose coping method is better, but it has worked for our family unit. I’m well on my way to the success I’ve been fighting for since he skipped town in our family car and never came back.

  I soften my reply. “I’m not afraid of hard work, Mom. I have goals. This is the best way.” She nods along at the words, but a tightness remains around her eyes that speaks of deeper doubts.

  “It’s just, you haven’t been yourself since your dad left.”

  It’s the second time someone has approached this conversation with me today. My patience, never the best in emotional situations, has run out. I phase through fifteen iterations of venomous responses before calming. Instead, I draw her into a hug. We stand there for a long moment. She knows I will not talk about this, not even to her. I know she would not forgive herself if she didn’t give it another try before I set my feet on this path, though. “Raising you was like raising Mother Teresa. You are a saint, but you did only what you thought was best, and nobody could persuade you otherwise. Ah, well. I guess we’ll have this conversation again when you find a husband.”

  I scoff at that. “Maybe in twenty years then, Mom. Few guys I’ve seen are worth the effort.”

  “Speak of hard work, and it shall appear.” A drawn breath in the closeness of our embrace. She pulls her arm free and checks her watch, an eclectic number in neon. “Or is that the devil? You need to leave my house this instant. You’re on shift at the coffee shop.” With a start, I realize she’s right. Since the summer started, I’ve been working full time. I check my cell phone and find I have just enough time.

  I squeeze her once more and give her a small kiss on the cheek. “That’s very true, but I have to change first. If you can first exit my space, I will exit yours.” She grins, broad and loving, attempting to mask the worry that remains in her eyes, and within steps she is gone down the stairs.

  I have bare minutes to take a quick shower, and so I strip out of my underwear, sweaty from painting in warm school hallways, wrap myself in a towel, and head to the shared bathroom. It’s a quick rinse, but the moment the water hits me, I flinch away with a hiss. I press the polka-dotted shower curtain between me and the water and crane my neck to see in the mirror. There, on the skin of my right arm, halfway through the bicep, is a raised and irritated pink pattern. It looks like a stylized six, or a curl of flame. I’m mystified. The spot has plagued me all morning, but the raised skin is new. It hurts to the touch. What is it? I run through a litany of mental diagnoses, but it doesn’t look like any rash I’ve seen.