All I want to do is sleep, I think as Scottie stretches two paws across my shoulder and pummels me gently.

“It’s my day off,” I say aloud to her, gently pushing her away as I groan and pull the sheet up over my head. Actually, it’s Monday, Bea’s official day off…finally.

What this means is that this is the first morning I’ve slept in since a week ago last Sunday— the day I met Michael. Bea doesn’t seem to be interested in sticking to the limited schedule she set with Sally, at least since the incident with the fire and Magic and all that. So now she’s pretty much been here from 7 in the morning to 8 at night every single solitary day. I thought she’d take the weekend off, at least, but no. “Too much magic to learn,” she said when I suggested she might be working too hard. Read the rest of this entry

“Hey,” I hear a voice say from behind me, soft and low. My heart skips a beat, like it did when Michael first showed up. But this time it is because I thought he was beside me, not behind me. And I have no idea where Jake is.

Suddenly I’m feeling dizzy, like there’s a tornado in my head and another in my stomach, but they are not turning in sync.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Your dad got to talking. Guy stuff.”

“What?” I say, feeling a sense of de ja vu inside the tornado.

“Your dad,” Michael says. “He kept talking. Looks like I missed the fire.”

I look to the fire and see it has, indeed, gone down. Nearly out. When did that happen? Read the rest of this entry

I can’t get her out of my head. Anna’s ash colored face is superimposed over the fire I’m making out there. It’s spooky, being so far from the house, out and down past the pool yard, over the hill where a fire can’t be seen so late at night. But I can’t leave because I told Michael before dinner I’d be here waiting for him. Then Dad grabbed him for a talk, and who knows how long that could go?

So there is Anna’s face between me and the fire, a memory looming.

I don’t care what Bea says, seeing Anna like that today shook me. I mean, that’s what she is probably going to look like right before she dies. And the thought of it is just unbearable.

I try to shake it off, but I can’t. Even if it’s not this week, or even this year, Anna is going to die. And these last days of hers will be spent in a near coma, unless I do something about it. And unless Michael helps me. Read the rest of this entry

“That smells amazing,” I say to Bea, not ten minutes into her cooking. I sniff and sniff and sniff. The whole house is flooded with wonderful. “What is it?”

I hover over her, looking interested in what is in her pan, though cooking is not my thing. It’s a good distraction, because while I do want to tell her about my visit to see Anna a little while ago, I’m also not sure exactly how to go about it. She’s not going to like what I have to say. I don’t know her well enough yet to know what her good side is, or how to get on it, so easing in seems a fair tactic. 

“Fried onions,” she says, looking at me like I’m crazy not to know what fried onions smell like.

“Fried?” I ask, trying not to sound shocked. “Did you talk to Sally about that? We don’t do fried anything here. Like, ever.” Read the rest of this entry

“She said that it was one thing to be able to spin spoons when there is nothing working against you,” Michael repeats, try again to bob and spin the spoon, “but another when someone or something is in the way.”

It’s not working.

“Do you think she can cook?” I ask him, now that Bea is gone and Sally has gone back upstairs.

Michael doesn’t look up. “She said that the smart magician learns what is blocking him and how to dissipate the interruption. You know what that means?”

“What?” I ask.

“It means she’s going to teach me. She’s not going to do it directly, but she gave me a clue. Since it’s still not working, it’s not her presence that is the interruption.” Read the rest of this entry

“Michael,” I whisper as loudly as I can without drawing attention.  I tap on his window, right over the bed.

“Michael!” I insist.

If he doesn’t respond, I’m going in. I can’t have Bea and Mrs. Hamilton alone inour kitchen for long. It can’t be too pretty in there right now. And if it’s ugly, I surely don’t want to miss a thing. Okay, so I am bad, right along with Bea.

I hear stirring, then see the door to the guest house open.

“Yeah?” he says, groggy, standing there looking insanely awesome in white cotton pajama bottoms.

Read the rest of this entry

I don’t know if Michael is “good” like Anna says. But he sure is smooth. He hooked Dad with sports talk and an intelligent argument on the worth of an MBA if you already have a business of your own. There are now plans for the two of them to pal around with some of Dad’s colleagues to help Michael explore his options, which Michael could not be more grateful for.

He got Sally with the organic food thing, even promising he’d try to find a visiting chef for the next two weeks, since starting Monday Mrs. Hamilton will be on vacation. Apparently he’s on the lookout for an entirely new menu, and there are a few “brilliant” organic chefs who have been clamoring to help him create it. Why not have one of them cook for us for the two weeks as a trial run? He would be sure they keep Sally’s nutritional needs a priority in the planning, of course. It’s the least he could do, crashing in on our guesthouse for a whole month. I could almost hear Sally’s heart fluttering her adoration.

And then there’s me. I wasn’t going to be taken by him. No way, no how. Not going to happen. Read the rest of this entry

It’s like they are not here. Like they never were here.

But they have to be. First, because they were here just yesterday. And second, because I still don’t know what to do with Michael and dinner at the house is an hour away.

I pry my wet pants from my leg. It’s no easy feat: they are nearly suctioned to me. The water line is lower than yesterday, but the creek itself is thick and murky. It wouldn’t surprise me if there are leaches under my jeans. But I can’t think about that right now. I need to find Bea, or Jake, and they have simply vanished. Along with the shack and all the junk that litters the property.

“Bea? Jake?” I whisper, as loud as a whispering voice can project. I want to show my respect for their hiding out, but I also want to talk to them. Need to talk to them. Now. Read the rest of this entry

Helene & Team

 I check my watch. If we are going to get back in time, we need to leave now, if not three minutes ago. I know Anna said she’d shapeshift time, but what does that mean? I don’t want to be kept from seeing her.

“Jake is my great-grandson,” Anna says. “I’m afraid I married bad, and my daughter, Helene, is like her father. Bad, through and through. You hate to say that about a child, and you love her no matter what. But it does you no good to pretend things are other than what they are.”

I nod, though I don’t really get it. How do still you love a child that does something like what Helene has done to Anna? Read the rest of this entry

My heart feels permanently stuck in my gut. Anna looked even worse when I arrived to take her out after lunch and all she’s said since is “My bag, my bag, my bag, my bag” about a hundred thousand times. I’ve got it right here, but I can’t give it to her until we are out of sight.  I’m pushing this wheelchair as fast as is remotely safe and inconspicuous.

Finally, we are at a safe enough distance. I gladly offer it to her. She clutches it to her chest with both hands, like it is life itself.

“My bag, my bag, my bag, my bag…” she continues to repeat, only this time it comes out like a whispered chanting prayer of some kind. Read the rest of this entry