“Let me just get my bag,” I say to Henry as I open my bedroom door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Even from the doorway, the stupid gold envelope perched on top of my pocketbook can’t be missed. The paternal side of my family is having too much fun toying with me. They can’t drop it for a single day. Not even for the day of a funeral.
“Bring it,” I say.
After everything I did the other night, there’s nothing I can’t do, there’s no wish I can’t grant, and, more importantly, there’s no wish I won’t grant. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep those I love safe.
I tear open the envelope. I curse and smile at the same time. You’ve really got to hand it to my family. They’ve got some couilles. That’s French for balls. Henry taught me that.
Megan Reese. Nate’s twelve-year-old little sister is my next assignment.
* * *
Henry takes my hand as we cross the threshold into the Reese home. We were both anxious to leave behind the cloud of gloom that hung over the funeral parlor. The years of sadness that oozed from every dusty curtain, every worn velvet chair, every piece of dark wood molding was to be expected. I was naïve enough to think this reception at Nate’s house would be different. But the only thing lighter here is the paint on the walls.
Maybe I’ve been sorting through some weighty topics of late, but it’s nothing compared to what’s going on for the people in this room.
The last time I was in Nate’s house, I didn’t have time to take a tour. This time, I don’t want to. The hand-knitted afghan draped over the back of the sofa, the model sailboat on the dining room buffet, the photographs on the mantel of a family of four reduced to three make me long for the funeral parlor. Where the cold is expected. Like the bright winter sun, all the things here that should exude warmth lure you in only to bite with the bitterness of a subzero New England day.
Just as Henry and I find Chelsea and the rest of the beach crowd, Nate’s grandmother glances our way. She lifts her chin and smiles warmly as she pats Nate’s forearm. He tugs on the collar of his white dress shirt and gestures for me to come over.
I leave Henry’s side and walk self-consciously across the room. Everyone’s eyes follow me as I approach the stars of the funeral, because that’s what Nate and Megan are, no doubt about it. They are the main players on this perverse stage.
Nate grasps my hand and draws me to him. Megan leans against him, holding his other hand with both of hers. I feel like a fraud standing with them, but each time I try to excuse myself, Nate assures me he wants me to stay. So I do.
People flood the room, floating in and out, asking about Nate’s mother, saying how sorry they are about Nate’s father. Variations of the same themes dominate: “He was so young.” “You are so young.” “You’re the man of the house now.” “God works in mysterious ways.”
It’s clear that everyone means well, but it’s not long before I’m numb. The words bounce right off; nothing sticks. After a while, nothing seems sincere. Maybe it’s different for Nate and Megan, but I doubt it. They look vaguely distracted, like they are present only in body, not in mind.
The stream of people slows, which makes me nervous. With all those people filling the silence, the odds of me inadvertently reading Nate or Megan’s minds were low. I don’t want to hear their thoughts, especially Megan’s. I don’t want to know what she’s going to wish for. Not now, not in the midst of this. It can wait. The 10 on the back of her candidate card means finding out what she wants can wait.
Nate’s grandparents call to him. He turns to me and asks, “Can you stay with Megan?”
“Of course,” I say, though every fiber of my being is telling me not to. I try to block Megan’s thoughts, but the instant Nate’s gone, Megan wobbles and I have to wrap my arms around her to keep her from falling. She buries her head in my chest, and her body deflates as it uses mine for support. Megan lets the tears that she’s been so bravely fighting all morning come.
I rub her back and brush her hair out of her face. She is young. Too young to be dealing with this. And then, that’s it, I’m in her head, I’m hearing every horrible, painful, tortured thought. Not since my first time with Mrs. Pucher has reading someone’s mind been accompanied by feeling their emotions. And this skill, like everything else, has progressed.
The intensity of Megan’s hurt overwhelms me. I clutch her hand, dragging her toward the stairs, which I practically carry her up. Her emotions are consuming her. And me. I have to stop it. I have to help her. Reaching for the nearest door, I pull us both inside what turns out to be Nate’s room.
I take in the slate blue on the walls, the lacrosse stick propped in the corner, the medical dictionary on the desk, and in an instant, it all happens: the incantations, the cloaking enchantment, Megan in a trance-like state, the wish-granting ritual under way. She’s in so much pain, and I’m so invested that I can’t hold back my own feelings, and the words spill from my lips. “I’ll make it better. I can take the pain away. Just wish for it. Just wish for it, and I can do it, I promise. You don’t have to feel this. Let me help you.”
And that’s when she makes her wish. It’s like a hammer has pounded a six-inch nail through my heart, in one side, out through the other. And it’s my fault. What she’s wishing for is my fault. My words encouraged her. Of course they did. How stupid, how very stupid I was. I shouldn’t have rushed into this. I should have known this is what she’d want, this is what she’d wish for. And she’s adamant that this is what she wants. That this is the only thing she will ever want. It is only when I envelop Megan in an embrace that I truly understand why.
After easing her out of the ritual and wiping away her tears, I force myself to bring her back downstairs, to bring her to her grandmother, explaining she was momentarily overcome. Her grandmother thanks me for helping and squeezes my hand. I’m dying inside. I manage to excuse myself, saying I need the restroom.
Halfway to the kitchen, I turn around. No one’s watching me but Henry. I run out the back door, knowing he will follow.