Annabelle slid stealthily into her apartment, soundlessly shot the locks and drew the chain across. Hanging up her coat, she stepped out of her shoes and then, and only then, ‘arrived’ home—and noticed Callie had once again made some adjustments.
Candles flickered on every possible surface, and a light and beautifully floral scent filled the flat. She saw a ring of incense cones burning on the floor around her altar, and a large chunk of pink rock sat on the top. The whole place felt… clean? Warm? Lovely. “Thanks,” smiled Annabelle.
“Took you long enough.” Callie floated down from the ceiling and dropped into the chair furthest from Annabelle’s sacred space. Of human size, and in the form of the cloaked figure, the Pooka leaned a weary elbow on the tabletop.
“Sorry.” Worried, Annabelle moved toward her. “You look rotten.”
“Your gentle concern is warmin’ me heart.” Callie waved her away. “I’m all right. Need a bit of a sit-down.” She clutched her cloak close to herself and sat back in the chair. “We’ve got some work to do this night.”
A chill ran down Annabelle’s arms. “Work? Like… magic?”
“Magic isn’t magic, missus, and the sooner you realize that, the better.” The Pooka shrunk down to about a foot in height, and repositioned herself on the edge of the table. “It’s time you let aul’ Wilson go.”
Annabelle plopped into the chair that Callie vacated. “I’ve let him go! I don’t expect him to call any longer, I don’t look for him on the streets, I don’t go past our ex-favorite restaurants —”
“Oh holy night, girl, are you as bad as that?”
“—I haven’t googled him in, like, six days! I don’t fantasize about a reunion, or even a one-night stand scenario, I don’t remember what he smelled like, or what his hands felt like, or the way that he used to twirl a bit of my hair around his index finger when we used to read the Sunday Times in bed, or how he used to like it when I went suit-shopping with him, or the way he used to chop carrots, kind of diagonally, not in strips or even little circles…” Annabelle winced. “Gotcha. What do I do?”
Callie smiled, the first genuine smile she’d produced in Annabelle’s presence—it made the Pooka look angelic, benign, and like a friend. Annabelle leaned forward and touched the edge of Callie’s cloak—it felt as cold as the pot did the day the hazelnut—or Callie-the-hazelnut—died. Oh no—was she—
“First things first.” Callie twitched her cloak out of Annabelle’s grasp. “I’ve set the warmth of fire about your working space, for protection and for illumination. The incense is jasmine for cleansing, and geranium for hope, and that rose quartz is there to remind you of how far you’ve come.
“Now. Gather up everything, every memento, every photo, every gift, large and small, anything that had to do with himself, and bring it here.”
Annabelle started collecting the bits and pieces she had strewn about the apartment, things that she hadn’t even noticed were still around. The framed photos were obvious, but sticking out from underneath a wodge of papers pinned up on the bulletin board above her desk were a few casual snapshots from picnics, boating trips, and parties gone by. A sift through her CD collection showed she had a pile of music she’d bought because Wilson liked it, She decided to keep The Cribs and Eels, but added The Best of Robbie Williams, among others, to the outgoing pile.
As she moved through the remnants and reminders, she realized she was easily able to decide what to keep, and what to get rid of. She didn’t feel the need to toss it all out the window, least of all the silver bangles he’d given her, which she liked very much—but why hang on to anything that didn’t really have value, like a bunch of ticket stubs and love notes. ‘Love notes’ with inverted commas, more like, as Annabelle shook out her journal and let myriad scraps of paper float down onto her satin bedspread. ‘Terse messages offset by a few X’s and O’s’ seemed like a more appropriate term, and Annabelle smiled at her own hopelessly romantic streak.
I am a hopeless romantic.
Wilson… was not.
Clutching a handful of handwritten notes, Annabelle paused in the door of her bedroom. Callie sat waiting, eyes closed, as still as a stone, and Annabelle tried to imagine what it would be like if the Pooka wasn’t around. The terrible regret came over her, and Annabelle took a deep breath to keep herself steady.
“No tears, now,” scolded Callie, as her eyes snapped open. “Let’s get down to business.”
“You know, maybe I should get rid of all of them.”
“All of what?” It wasn’t often that an omniscient, supernatural creature was nonplussed.
“All of whom. All the Exes. Yeah! Okay, wait.” Annabelle ducked back into her bedroom; a scrabbling sound accompanied by muffled swearing went on for a few minutes, until she emerged, triumphant, carrying a decoupaged cardboard shoebox. Sitting down in front of her altar, Annabelle shoved all the Wilson stuff to the side, and opened the box.
“I did the collage myself, of course—it’s held up pretty well. I’ve had this since I was 14.” She grinned up at the Pooka, whose eyebrows risen so high they’d disappeared under its hood. “Oh my God! Look!” Annabelle held up a packet of papers tied up with a faded pink ribbon. “These are all my clippings from the local paper, of this guy that I had a crush on in high school. He was on the football team, and he didn’t know I was alive.”
She laughed as she thumbed through the cuttings. Laying them aside, she brought out a handful of photos. “Ohhhhh, man, I forgot about these!” Annabelle held up several for Callie to have a look, and the Pooka, impatient, nodded briskly. “I went down the shore with my best friend Pauline Hegarty and we met these guys and hung out with them for three weeks. It was the summer before I went to college, and…”
She trailed off, distracted by another memory that she’d kept in this box at the bottom of her closet. “These are some of the drink tickets that Mike Phillips and I stole from the student council office. He was the president and the biggest criminal going. He broke my heart.” And yet she smiled, the pain so far in the past that she couldn’t be hurt by it. “Oh my God! I don’t believe it, look!”
“C’mere, chicken, you needn’t dispose of anything you have a fondness for. And I—we haven’t time to purge every single man ye’ve ever met in yer entire life!”
“Okay, okay.” Annabelle reorganized the box and decided not to replace the lid. Putting the open box before her, she chose a few things from her outgoing Wilson pile and put them aside. She crossed her legs, and in concert, both she and Callie began to breathe.
“I’m ready.”
The sound of bells rung in time lightly with Annabelle’s breathing, and as she struggled with her wandering mind—I’m out of milk, I need quarters for the laundry, I should post on my blog, I should post, I should post—the gentle sound of the ringing bells, that seemed to float on a wind that was flowing through the apartment, soon replaced all that hectic thinking and Annabelle became conscious only of her breath, of Callie’s breathing, and the soothing smell of the burning incense.
“This is only simple, petal, and up to you.” Callie’s voice, usually exasperating and abrasive, was a tender whisper in her ear. “You are the owner of the memories that are arranged before you, and you are the only one that can choose to keep them or to let them go. You are the only one with the power to reduce them to ashes, and as ashes, let the winds of change spirit them away.”
In her mind, Annabelle saw herself raise up the reminders of her old life with Wilson, saw them lift up from her upturned palms, saw them burn as gently as the incense burned, saw the ashes of the memories swirl about her, multi-colored, on the light and gentle breeze that filled her apartment, and saw them disappear out of the room, out of the window, out of her life.
She became conscious, once again, of her breath, of Callie’s breathing, of the dying smell of the floral incense, and of the light of the candles playing against her lids. The tears running down her cheeks were silent and cleansing, and she added the keepsakes she’d set aside to the other, older, no longer volatile memories that she was fond of and wanted to hold onto. She replaced the lid, and running a hand over the top of the box, looked over at Callie.
“Thanks.” She smiled, and wiped away a lingering tear. “That was perfect. I really appreciate all your help.”
Pookas blushed. Who knew? “Sure, a little appreciation goes a long way. You could do with having some manners put on ya.”
Annabelle noticed the Pooka seemed unnaturally agitated. The brilliant hazel eyes were clouded with anxiety, and while the rest of her was still a shadowy gray color, she was looking even more dense than when in her earlier avian incarnation.
“Putting on weight?” Annabelle cracked. The alarm in Callie’s eye’s multiplied, and Annabelle rose to comfortingly put her hand on the Pooka’s little head. “Come on, Cal, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on—and we have to have a conversation about the Queen of the Ban—”
“Sssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Callie hissed, as she flew up into the air and around the room, searching in corners, peeking around doors, peering out the window; her whole body vibrated with nerves.
“I know we have a deal and everything, and I am still not interested in being forced to go on some wild Pooka chase to Ireland, but… what’s going on?” Annabelle resisted the urge to double check the door was locked. “You look kind of terrified, and I. Well, I wouldn’t mind helping you as long as it doesn’t entail leaving the country.”
Callie hissed. “Ah sure, what could ever shift you from yer wee little flat and yer wee little articles and yer wee little friends and yer wee little—”
That peace treaty hadn’t lasted. “I mean it, Callie. I’m tired of fighting with you. We’re getting nowhere. You’re in trouble, and I, by the way, am not a stick in the mud, or set in my ways!” Hmmm. She’d get back to that later. “Okay. So maybe I take you back to Ireland. Where in Ireland? How long do I have to stay? What exactly do I have to do?”
“Sure we’ll just, what do ye Yanks say, ‘play it by ear’?’” Callie wheedled.
“No. Feckin’. Way.” Annabelle faced the Pooka, who was now hiding in the sink. “Minnehan told me about Her. Okay? So I know that you’re not out to get me, that you’ve been forced into helping me. But hey, everything’s cool now, right? You got me all this work, I’ve been doing a lot of healing and thinking and stuff. I’m, um, meeting new people…” She trailed off. “Can’t you just make contact, give the thumbs up, and… um.”
They looked at each other, and Callie was the first to look away. She was back to wringing her hands, and worrying a pendant that Annabelle hadn’t noticed before. It was made of stone, stone that looked as if it had been broken. The Pooka’s voice was a whisper as she showed Annabelle the necklace.
“When we were punished by Herself, we were all given these—Ha! She only forced them about our necks. They are shards of the marriage stone, Her marriage stone, the one due to our harmless fooling about, em, we managed to blow to smithereens.” Callie shoved the pendant beneath her cloak. “The more time that goes by, the tighter the band around me neck. Only when every last scrap of stone is back in place will the geis be lifted and we’ll all be free.” Her head bowed, she mumbled. “It’s down to me.”
“What?” Annabelle cried, appalled. “What do you mean?”
Callie’s raised eyes go dark green to bore into Annabelle. “It’s down to me. I’m the last one.”
Annabelle slapped her hands to her face and stood, frozen, in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” She scraped her fingers down her face and linked her fingers around the back of her neck. “Please tell me you’re joking. You’ve got to be joking! It can’t be all down to you! Why is this happening to me?
“All I wanted was to get over a relationship. That’s all! A few chants, and incantation or two. Some herbs, some candlelight! Incense! And what do I get? The world’s last remaining cursed Pooka on my conscience!”
Callie expanded to fill the opposite end of the room, but Annabelle could see the strain in her face, the effort it was costing her to achieve intimidating proportions. Against her better judgment, Annabelle crossed over to Callie, and laid a hand on the Pooka’s arm. Looking into hazel eyes full of anger and fear, Annabelle apologized. “Sorry. I am, I’m sorry and I’m kind of scared, okay? I don’t want you to be stuck in limbo for eternity, but I don’t want to head off into something that probably has consequences for me, and so far away from home.”
“Home.” Oh, shit, was Callie going to cry? “Home, for some, is a more fluid concept than it is for others.”
“And this whole husband thing.” Annabelle gulped. “So I lied, I do want to get married, but to have a marriage, not just a big party and a big dress—and not just to bail you out of a jam! I mean,” Annabelle hesitated, and took a chance. “Maybe I could have some kind of idea, you know, who? Who it was? Maybe I’d be less nervous?”
Callie had gotten her emotions under control and shrunk back down to look Annabelle in the eye. “I can’t say.”
“You could, but you won’t?”
“I can’t and I mustn’t.”
“You might if you wanted?”
“I could if you…”
“If I…?”
“If you asked.”
“I did ask!”
“Specifically.”
Annabelle gulped. “Oh. So if I put a name to him, if I said, uh, ‘Is So-and-So my future, um, husband’, then you could say?”
“Yea or nay.”
In the thickening, fateful silence, Annabelle remembered being a little girl, tearing the petals off of poor innocent daises, playing with Ouija boards, begging to pull the wishbone… and as she got older, investing divinatory power into the quizzes in monthly issues of Cosmopolitan, always, always with a variation of the same question in mind: Will Joey be my boyfriend? Will Bobby ask me out? Will Wilson marry me? Everything else—college, writing, career—was within her grasp, within her power. But this, this world of her heart, always seemed cloaked with mystery, shrouded with uncertainty, a source of bafflement and secrecy, and the only thing she felt she didn’t have the notion of a clue about.
And now here she was, countless dead daisies later, standing in front of her very own Pooka, with an invitation to inquire, with a guarantee of an answer… and she was stalling, she was exhilarated, she was frightened, it was too much, it wasn’t enough, the moment was now, the moment was upon her—
The moment passed. An explosion of activity in the hallway, a noisy gang of girls giggling and shrieking as they charged down the staircase and rushed out of the building and into the open-ended possibilities of a Friday night in town, caused Callie to snuff out like a candle, leaving Annabelle alone, with a seriously missed opportunity.