* * *
Wednesday night, I’m backstage at the play again. I see Brice, but neither of us acknowledges each other. It seems like the performance drags on. Usually, I’m not bothered by the fact that I spend so much time backstage, but it seems interminable suddenly. I have no one to really talk to. Even Toby, the kid who plays Fleance, isn’t interested in playing cards.
Afterwards, I change out of my costume and head home. I see Brice talking to the actress he was with the night he found me beaten up by Vincent. I feel a funny little stab of something, especially when I watch the way she is smiling and laughing about everything he says to her. I know that Brice is right, that there are good reasons for us to stay away from each other. But for some reason, I don’t like the fact that he’s not staying away from other women.
I console myself by telling myself that Brice can’t get close to her either. He can’t be with her physically, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her. I stare at the two of them for far too long before I go to my car and drive home.
Nonna is on her way to bed. We don’t say much. I go back to my room and lay back on my bed. I hug my red blanket to my chest. My red blanket is a little blanket that my mother made for me when I was a little girl. It’s too small to cover my body now, but I always keep it on my bed because it reminds me of her.
My mother. I never thought my mother was beautiful, but then children never think of their parents that way. She was soft and cuddly and warm. She loved me. She had long dark hair. She always wore it a long braid that hung down her back.
Now that I know that my mother betrayed my father, I try to think back if there were any signs. I can’t remember any. My mother and father always seemed happy together. I remember them around the dinner table, mostly. My father would make jokes and tell stories about men he worked with like Tommy or Angelo. My mother would laugh so hard that tears would squeeze out of her eyes.
I remember that they always kissed when my father got home from work.
I remember that my father would pull my mother into a tight embrace and call her, “My sweet one.”
I don’t remember any discord at all. No muffled arguments behind closed doors after I went to sleep. No tense silences where they obviously weren’t speaking to each other. They seemed happy.
If there was ever a source of conflict between my parents, it was only that my father disapproved of my mother still doing benedetta magic. He wouldn’t let her put up an altar like the one Nonna has. I never saw them argue about it, but I know my dad didn’t like it, because my mother would sometimes do spells with me, and she’d always say, “Let’s keep this our little secret, Olivia. Daddy wouldn’t like knowing about it, okay?”
I always did keep her secrets. I never talked to my father about the little spells we would do. Often they were commonplace blessings for members of the church. Sometimes they were rituals for courage or humility or discipline. (My mother was fond of making me do spells to better myself.) But once...
I sit up on the bed and toss the blanket aside. Once my mother did a spell, and she told me that she’d be unresponsive for some period of time. She told me not to worry about her, and that I should play by myself. But I didn’t. I remember that I sat and watched her while she sat motionless for nearly two hours. It was a spell to uncover the origin or purpose of a magical object. I remember her sitting there, her head slumped forward, her fingers clutching a...charm. She must have used this spell to find out whatever it was that made her turn my father in to the police. I try to remember if she seemed different afterwards, if my parents’ relationship changed. I don’t think it did, but this must have been what my mother did. I want to know what she knew.
My mother left me her spell book, and I keep it in a drawer in my dresser, buried under my winter clothes. I go to my dresser and search through my clothes until I’m holding it. I search through the pages, all written in my mother’s flowing cursive handwriting until I find it. I scan the list of ingredients. All things Nonna has here.
I could do this spell. All I need is a charm. I could find out whatever my mother found out about my family’s magic charms.
I don’t hesitate or think about it much. I’m going to do the spell. I have to know. Unfortunately, I don’t have any charms in the house. Most jettatori don’t keep them close, in case our houses are raided. Furthermore, we don’t use them because of the risk of the berserker virus. So I have to go to the deli and get one. By the time I get back to the house, it’s after midnight.
I think about Brice for a moment as I’m gathering materials from Nonna’s altar. Right now, Brice is a berserker, clawing and growling. Is it my fault? Even if it’s not my fault, how many other people are doing the same thing because of charms my family has sold?
Back in my room, I sit cross-legged on the floor. I position candles in each of the four cardinal directions. I light a sage smudge. I make the sign of the cross in the air with the smoking smudge, whispering the words to bless and sanctify my spell.
I light each of the four candles, one for God the Father, one for Christ his son, one of the Holy Spirit, and one for humanity.
I clutch my mother’s spell book and begin to read the spell she left. “Oh glorious St. Christopher, you have inherited a beautiful name, Christbearer. Protect me in my travels towards the origin and purpose of this object.” I lift up the charm. “Whether near or far, guard me as I follow the ethereal trails of magic to its true purpose. St. Christopher, holy patron of travelers, guide me safely to my destination, and petition Christ to be with me always.” Biting my lip, I slip the charm over my head.
I worry about exposing myself to the berserker virus in the charm, even though I have petitioned for protection and should be safe. At least it is after midnight, so this charm will be potent and full of magic until next midnight.
The charm flares as it’s activated against my body. It’s magic spills out over my body, and then...I see it.
Emanating from the charm are two bright shimmering paths. Two? Which do I follow?
It’s the oddest sensation ever as I stand up and leave my body. I look back and can see myself still sitting in the circle, my head slumped into my chest the way my mother’s was. My essence has no body. It is just a shimmer as well, but I can think and move. I don’t need to walk, I discover. I can float.
I pick the path on the right. It leads directly through the wall of my bedroom. I will myself to follow the path, and I float up over my bed and my red blanket. I pass through the wall as if it’s not there. The path goes straight through trees, other houses, stores, and restaurants. I soar along it. I feel strange because I’m disembodied. I have sight, and I can hear things, but I can’t feel cold or warmth. It’s the oddest sensation—precisely because I have no sensation at all. I don’t feel comfortable or uncomfortable. I feel the absence of the concept of comfort.
The path dead ends at the door to a large bank. At first, I’m confused, but then I remember that the charm I snatched from the deli was a wealth charm. This means that this is one of its purposes. The magic exists to bring wealth to the bearer. I’m a little annoyed. I already knew this.
But then I remember there was another path. As quickly as I can, I follow the path back to my bedroom. I take the second path this time.
It leads me along a low path, skimming against the ground over grass and through the foundation of houses. Then suddenly, it plunges into the earth. I plunge with it, sinking into the earth. I can see the layers of dirt, the burrowing insects and worms. Then I pop out, and I am in an underground tunnel. It is dark, but I can see.
The walls of the tunnel are constructed of gray stones, each fitted together tightly and caulked in the cracks. Above me the roof of the tunnel rises in an arch of neatly stacked bricks. It’s old, but it’s also well-made. The path shimmers into the distance of the tunnel, disappearing.
I spin my essence around, wondering what I’ve just stumbled onto.
It comes to me almost immediately.
The old subway tunnel. They planned to connect the island to the city by tunnel nearly a hundred years ago. However, they never finished the project, so there are tunnels like this one underneath the island. Why would the magic’s purpose be in the subway tunnel?
I just follow the tunnel anyway, floating at top speed along the path. As the walls rush by me, I almost feel as if I am on the subway. But it’s strange, because even though I’m moving quickly, I can’t feel the rush of wind on my face. I don’t have a face. I don’t have limbs. I hurtle down the tunnel, disembodied and confused. Why am I here?
I look ahead and am even more confused by what I see there. I assumed the path was disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel. But instead, I see the path break off. The edges of its shimmering lines look almost frayed. There is a funny sizzling sound, the way it sounds when something hot is plunged in cold water.
I’m heading right towards the place the path breaks off. I slow down and approach it carefully. As I get closer, the sizzling sound gets louder. I push myself to it, tentatively reaching part of my disembodied essence past the place the path breaks off.
I feel a jolt, like an electric shock.
Before I can stop it, I am sucked forward, like a whirlpool is pulling me under.
My body is jolted again. I see the edges of myself flicker in and out like a bad television signal.
And then I am back in my room, back in my body. The candles have all burnt out. The smudge is out. The charm around my neck is blackened and twisted, as if it’s been completely destroyed.
What happened?
I’m unable to make the spell work again, since the charm is apparently busted beyond repair. I consider going back to the deli for another one, but it’s very late, so I end up just crawling into bed. I fall asleep with more questions than answers. And I dream of flying down the old subway tunnel at the speed of light, the sounds of berserkers pursuing me and howling.