Wish Club (18 page)

Her gait was syncopated as she walked toward him now, with her red nose and puffy eyes. She gave him a weak smile and John realized he couldn’t love her any more than he did right this minute.

He held the door open for her and Gail hobbled through without saying anything. No words necessary.

Chapter Seventeen

The
incongruous country smell of a wood fire filled the air on the tony city street. Chichi boutiques, restaurants, and galleries lined either side. Greta lingered on the front steps of her gallery instead of going back inside to lock up, which had been her intention before she’d stepped out here.

It was the first week of March and the streetlights glowed, haloed by a foggy mist that made it feel even colder than it was. She looked up at the loft condos topping the storefronts to see if she could determine from which fireplace the smoke was coming. Greta inhaled another deep breath of the smoky air and closed her eyes, the smell summoning up images of buffalo plaid and s’mores, not the cashmere and saffron-infused polenta that filled this street.

The rich smoke reminded her of her mother and her first circle gatherings, taking her back to the woods of southern Wisconsin and all those kind, mysterious women preparing for their rituals. She’d been so nervous before the first one. All of her mother’s comforting words had done nothing to stop the feeling that someone was jumping rope in her stomach. Her mother and her words of wisdom had, of course, been right. To Greta, going to circle had felt like coming home. At these gatherings of women with amazing gifts, no one thought anything of someone else hearing her thoughts, no one thought she was a weirdo for sensing things that other people, normal people, couldn’t sense.

Greta took another big sniff of the smoky night air and stepped back inside Eleventh House.

Facing her gallery with her hands on her hips, she refocused her mind from the ancient past to the not-so-distant future. What was it going to be like having an opening with so little art? She could joke that Trebelmeier was a minimalist. Or perhaps she could stand, straight-faced, staring at an exposed expanse of brick wall and pretend
that
was the art.
“Don’t you get it? It’s so powerful.”
Greta grinned, knowing for certain she would find someone that would agree with her, like those New York art critics who wrote rave reviews about a minimalist wood sculpture that was actually just the stand for a metallic piece of art that had been lost in transport.

Jill hadn’t returned her latest phone calls. Her opening was in two weeks and still Greta only had the original handful of finished paintings. She’d been prodding Jill for months, telling her she’d like to see a few more works, that the amount she had was a little too thin. Greta had never had to think about canceling an opening before, although she knew it happened. But she didn’t want it to happen to her next weekend. Everything was in place. Advertising was paid for, deposits on the catering were paid.

Advanced publicity had been good, too; Jill was generating quite a buzz and this could prove to be her breakout show. But when she’d mentioned that to Jill, Jill had responded with an unemotional, “Well, we’ll see.”

But that was Jill. In the years that Greta had known her, she’d never once been able to penetrate that exterior. The only things Greta could ascertain about Jill she’d had to learn the old-fashioned way, the way everybody else did—by observing her from the outside. Jill was so reserved and closed-off, as though she’d constructed a protective wall around herself. It made Greta sad. What was it that she was protecting herself from?

Greta locked the front door and took her nightly wander through her gallery, lingering in front of her favorite pieces, never knowing how much longer they would be in her care. When she got to the back she turned off the main lights and went down the hallway to her office. One of her mother’s paintings hung on the brick wall just outside, and she remembered watching her mother paint it, up in her attic studio. As a child she’d loved to watch her mother paint, the quiet, fluid-like way she worked.

“There’s beauty in just about everything,” her mother had told her when she was working on this one. “You just have to stop and look for it.” Greta remembered her putting a daub of paint on her brush, then pointing its newly rust-colored tip at her. “And usually,” her mother had said, turning back to the painting, “if you know how to see the beauty”—she had dabbed at the painting, concentrating—“you’ll know how to see the magic, too.”

Greta stood in front of the painting for a long while, watching the smoke rise from the factory chimneys and the stars begin to twinkle in the darkened sky.

“Good night, Mama,” she said, before turning out the light and heading back to her office to finish up the day’s work.

Mara
pulled the small paper bag out of her purse and set it on her kitchen table. Myrrh. If she’d known it was going to be that hard to find, she might have called off this whole project. She’d phoned every New Age store in the city trying to find some, but it seemed there recently had been a
run
on myrrh. Everyone was fresh out. She’d had to drive all the way out to a western suburb just to get it, fighting Friday-afternoon traffic and wasting the only half-day she got from Dr. Seeley each week.

She pulled a Hostess cupcake out of her purse too and took a bite. She’d had to stop for gas on the way back and she’d been kind of hungry, so she’d decided to pick up a snack as well.

Mara needed the myrrh for a cleansing spell, since she’d decided she would try to break that haywire abundance wish by herself. It shouldn’t be too hard, she thought. She’d read how to do it in her books, and now she finally had all the necessary ingredients.

And there was no time like the present, because the boys and Henry had baseball practice after school today, which on Fridays was usually followed by pizza at Ranalli’s. They wouldn’t be home until after seven.

She hadn’t told Henry about the wishing yet and she didn’t think, in light of his newly hirsute condition, it was something she should tell him about
now.
At least her wish for a singing career hadn’t begun to manifest. She couldn’t take any more insanity.

Mara licked the last bit of cupcake off her fingers, set out the piece of paper with the new, improved spell she had written, and began collecting the rest of the ingredients she would need: cinnamon, lemon peel, salt, and bay leaves. She would do the wish reversal right there in the kitchen, at the table.

Mara lit a short green candle and turned off the lights. After a few deep breaths to relax her mind and focus, she reached into the bag to remove the tiny vial of myrrh essential oil, which had cost a fortune. If she hadn’t chased all over town for it, she never would have bought it. Nineteen ninety-five for half of a fluid ounce!

The paper bag crinkled in the otherwise silent room when Mara tossed it down to the floor next to the table to get it out of the way. She dabbed some of the pricey oil on her index finger, then started drawing a circle around the candle with it, rewetting her finger with the oil several times to complete the circle. Mara sprinkled the cinnamon and salt on the oil, then rested the lemon peel in the concoction, chanting:

Oh Great Goddess hear me pray,

Please cleanse my abundance wish today.

Eliminate extra hair from Henry,

The weight from me, and do not tarry.

I ask you with deep sincerity,

To replace “Abundance” with “Prosperity.”

Mara repeated the chant several times, as they had at Book Club, although during her third time through she’d had to pause to scold Tippy, because he’d started playing with the paper bag on the floor, climbing inside and making a racket.

When she finished, she sat at the table and watched the candle burn for a long while, listening to Tippy push the paper bag around the kitchen floor.

“I hope that does the trick,” Mara said out loud, patting her hand on her poochy belly, which rumbled its request for the other cupcake.

Through
the nursery window Claudia could see little baby Elliot in his incubator, sound asleep, an angel. Elliot Doe—that was his name now. She watched him through the shatterproof glass, absently tracing the wire design inside the glass with her fingers, her fingertips so close to the encased diamonds yet unable to touch them. He made an especially expressive exhale, his perfect bow-tie lips fluttering with it. He was every bit as beautiful as she remembered him.

It was almost noon on a Saturday, the first week in March, nearly one and a half weeks since she had found him. The day she’d brought him in, Claudia had asked if she could come back to visit. The supervisor, Nurse Galt, a gruff and serious African-American woman, had told her it might be possible, but she didn’t think so. Their “cuddlers” went through extensive background checks that the hospital only ran twice a year. Claudia had left her information with them anyway.

Elliot would have to stay in the hospital for a while longer because he’d been, the doctors guessed, about a month premature, and he needed to gain some weight. His lungs were also slightly underdeveloped. Claudia couldn’t have imagined she’d be pleased to hear he wasn’t perfect, that there
might be something wrong with him,
but since he wasn’t in any pain, she’d allowed herself to be happy that he was still at the hospital, having to stay longer than usual before being turned over to foster care.

Yesterday, Claudia had received the call from Nurse Galt, who had said, in her gruff manner, that since Claudia had found Elliot and possibly saved his life, they’d allow her special dispensation to come in and cuddle.

Pushing her luck, Claudia had asked if Dan could come, too. With an irritated sigh, Nurse Galt had told her she absolutely didn’t think so, but she’d check.

She’d called Claudia back two hours later to say, just this once, if they remained accompanied by a nurse, the hospital would allow it, which seemed to make her even more irritable.

“May I help you?” A nurse had come up alongside Claudia.

“Oh, I…” Claudia brought her hand down from the glass. “I’m Claudia Dubois. I found…I was the one who found baby Elliot.” She pushed her glasses up her nose, shrugged, and smiled. “I just wanted to see how he was doing, you know? They said—Nurse Galt, I mean—said it would be okay…that I could come in and see him. I called this morning and they said—He’s going to be okay, right?”

The nurse’s face softened. Apparently she knew the story. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

She guided Claudia to a small room outside the nursery and instructed her to wait there, then returned several minutes later with a blanketed bundle. “Would you like to hold him for a while?”

Claudia nodded.

“Well, wash your hands then.” The nurse pointed at the sink, then continued talking while Claudia walked over to wash her hands. “Our little babies need so much holding—sometimes it gets so crazy around here, we just can’t get to them all. It’s nice you came in.”

“Just be sure to support his head,” she said, handing Elliot over to Claudia, adjusting his blanket a little in Claudia’s arms, making sure she was leaving him in capable hands. “Go ahead, sit down. Take some time.” She took a seat across from Claudia. “We heard you’re going to try to adopt him—is that right?”

Claudia nodded again, not taking her eyes off of Elliot. “We’re trying the foster route, first. I started the paperwork a few days ago. It’s kind of a long shot and my school is—well, they’re not being terribly supportive. But when I scheduled the interview with the social worker, she was encouraging. She said since I was the one who rescued him, I had a
vested interest
in him. She said it might help our case.”

Claudia rubbed the downy hair that peeked from under his cap and ran the back of her hand over his cheek. The nurse watched her caresses and smiled, then checked her watch. “It’s just about his feeding time. How about I get a bottle and you can give him his lunch?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she started for the door. “He’s finally beginning to get the hang of sucking,” she said as she stepped into the next room.

Elliot felt a little thicker than he had the last time Claudia had held him, the day she found him in the bathroom. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Are they taking good care of you here? Are they giving you lots of tender care?” Her words got caught in her throat.

“You are so precious.” Claudia fought back tears. She should have come here sooner.

But she’d been too afraid. Afraid of how it would feel if she kept visiting him, became attached, and then had to watch him get torn away. Now, after talking to the social worker, she had some hope.
A vested interest.
Although the amount of paperwork and interviews and background checks she and Dan were going to have to endure seemed insurmountable. They needed to get physicals, to make a fire-escape plan, give fingerprints, and even prove their pets had been vaccinated. At least, since their feng shui goldfish had died, they didn’t have to vaccinate any fish.

Now that Claudia had set the gears in motion, Dan was starting to balk at the process, making it all seem so much more insurmountable. His
just-going-along-with-your-nutty-idea
attitude had given way to barely concealed surliness. Monosyllabic answers to her questions as she filled out forms. Moody silences that were out of character for him. And of course, she was sure he knew what she was really up to, suggesting the foster parenting route as a way to ease him into the adoption route.