Ha! What a coincidence. Believe it or not, I'm not reviewing this story due to your fine review of 'Glass Ceiling'. It was a boring Friday afternoon at work and I thought I'd grab something out of 'Please Review.' This story was at the top.
Okay, now that that's out of the way. I've put a few comments inside the story, marked in blue. There aren't very many and they are opinions only. So use what you will.
Other than that, I thought you did a great job. You've got an interesting plot going here and a good hook to lead us further into the next part of the story. I found the writing smooth and easy to follow and of a quality I'd expect to find in a published book. Cudos.
I like the use of 'non-typical' words inside the story. What a great way to expand your vocabulary. I'll have to figure a way to work that in to my regular writing.
Well, keep up the good work and Happy Halloween.
J
Leaning on the garden gate of number thirteen Thornfield Hall Avenue, Marigold Green surveyed Mom's latest catastrophe. Their new home was one of those “semis” the British loved so much, though Marigold couldn't see what was wonderful about sharing a wall with your neighbor. The surrounding jungle of grass suggested nobody had lived in the old stone house in years. A dark shadow appeared at an upstairs window—a blurry face with long tresses. Marigold sighed. Freaking fantastic; the place was haunted.
“Gee, isn't it wonderful,” said Mom in her usual ebullient tone, pushing past and entering the front yard. “We're going to be so happy here.”
Marigold scratched her stubbly scalp. Somehow she didn't share Mom's optimism. She followed her up the cracked tarmac path and inside. Mildew coated the living room walls, and the kitchen stank like moldy bread. The best she could say about the place was that the furniture abandoned by the previous tenants looked usable.
She imagined she was back in L.A.. Entering her senior year, she'd be planning for graduation and prom. Christina would criticize her boring lumberjack shirt and denim jeans, but not refuse when Marigold invited her to the diner after school. She checked her iPhone. No messages.
Mom bounced around the house with wild abandon, the skirts of her floral dress lifting as she spun, her fiery red hair mirroring the effect. One reason Marigold shaved her head every morning was to avoid that ginger scourge. She'd inherited enough curses from Mom's side of the family.
Mom threw windows open, those that weren't jammed, and enthused about original features. She didn't mention the ghost, though. Mom was blind to the supernatural. Good for her!
“Look,” she said, pointing at a lump of iron over the kitchen door. “A lucky horseshoe.” She wandered to the fireplace and pointed at a metal wedge sticking out of the brickwork. “Ooh, a vestigial bracket from the original cooking range.”
Marigold snapped. “Jeez, Mom. Get a grip.”
“Is there something wrong, sweetie?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Do you realize I start back at school next week, and”—she gestured to the surrounding, chaos—“we don't even have the basic necessities to live here.”
Mom's face dropped, and Marigold felt a twinge of guilt when she saw how woebegone she <needs ‘mother/mom’ to distinquish> looked, but she must remain firm. Mom was an artistic type who only <or always?> saw the mystical in the mundane. She was incapable of recognizing that the mundane pays the bills and puts food on the table.
She massaged Mom's shoulder. “We can make this place livable, but we have to start now.” She didn't mention the truce she'd have to make with the ghost. Mom had enough worries without concern over her daughter's mental health.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
Marigold jogged to the car and located the bag of cleaning materials. She decided she would also carry the suitcases and boxes inside before starting to clean. She brought in her special box first, the one containing her dark secret.
Three hours later, the kitchen smelled of pine disinfectant <this sentence begs an ‘and’>. She checked her iPhone again. Still nothing. Five here, so nine in the morning there. Since the school year hadn't started, perhaps Christina was still in bed.
Pushing aside her disappointment, she entered the living room. Mom had scrubbed off the worst of the mildew.
“You're doing a great job, Mom.”
“Why, thank you.”
She walked to the window and surveyed the street. A “To Let” sign outside another semi caught her eye.
“Mom, why did you choose this house?”
“Because of its history.”
She raised an eyebrow. This house was old, but not that old. A hundred years, tops.
Mom turned in a circle. “I see sumptuous oak-paneled walls, Chippendale furniture and tall, stained glass windows.”
“Mom, did you take your medication today?”
“Of course, sweetie.” She covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, I must sound cuckoo.”
Marigold nodded.
“When I was researching for my book, I came across plans of Thornfield Hall.”
“huh-uh.” <I’m getting lost in who said what. Needs a ‘she said here’. Also is she agreeing or disagreeing? If agreeing then uh-huh …right?>
“Where we're standing is the site of the grand entrance hall where the Rochesters welcomed their guests.” Mom closed her eyes and waved her arms around. “The Rochesters remodeled the hall many times. From here, labyrinthine corridors took windy paths around the Gothic pile.” She opened her eyes. “I've got pictures.”
Marigold forced a smile. “Maybe later.” The irony was Marigold loved history. In fact, one of the A Levels she studied was history, along with English and French. But a manor house destroyed in a fire might mean a whole gaggle of ghosts.
She shook her head. She'd worry about that later. “I'm going to unpack.”
“Oh, okay. I'll order food. Chinese?”
“Not the Sichuan chicken. It gives you heartburn.”
Mom pouted, but nodded.
Marigold scooped up the most important box from the hallway. After climbing upstairs, she entered the smaller of the two bedrooms, the one where she'd seen a ghostly face. The bed wasn't too bad. She turned the mattress to hide the stains, praying there were no bed bugs, then dumped her box on top.
Inside, the first layer appeared innocent enough. She pulled out her letter pad and envelopes and placed them on the bedside table for later use. Next came an admissions prospectus for Newnham College, Cambridge. Though originally she'd been upset when Mom announced plans to relocate to England, Marigold had to admit it made her own dream more attainable.
She sat on the bed and flipped through the brochure. Imagine standing in the hall where Virginia Woolf spoke, reading in the library where Sylvia Plath wrote poems, or eating in the cafeteria where Germaine Greer shocked the principal with her talk of “bras” and “tits”. Marigold smiled and traced the coat of arms on the cover. Newnham was the mother ship.
A woman popped into existence beside the bed. Her face was grotesquely burned, flesh hanging off in strips, one eye missing. The stench of putrid flesh filled the room.
Marigold dropped the brochure. Her heart pounded. “Jeez, lady. Can't you knock.” She wrinkled her nose. “And bathe, for Christ's sake. You stink.” She looked at the ghost.
The ghost's surviving eye widened, and she glanced behind.
“Hey, lady! I'm talking to you.”
“Y-you can see me?”
“Wish I couldn't. I wanna eat some time today.”
The ghost popped out of existence.
“Hey, lady. Come back.”
Typical. First contact, and already Marigold had scared away her new client. She really ought to work on her people skills. Perhaps if she let her hair grow out a little then they might not find her so scary? Nah! If she had to accept their missing body parts, they'd have to take her warts and all. Besides, she'd be back. They always came back.
She recovered the brochure and placed it on the table with her letter pad, then returned her attention to the box and her secret.
Smiling, Marigold lifted out her copy of Silk is for Seduction, held it to her chest and inhaled its papery smell. Though she'd never admit it to her new friends here, she had an obsession with bodice-rippers—Regency romances that erred toward the naughty. Though Austen's novels were fantastic, they didn't cut it in the bedroom department.
She'd shared her dark secret with Christina, of course. See closed her eyes and relived a precious memory. Her last Halloween in L.A. when they went trick or treating. Christina dressed as a witch with the tightest bodice the costume store stocked. Afterward, they returned to Christina's place. Her parents were out. That's when Marigold ripped off Christina's bodice. The costume was ruined but, Jeez, it was worth ever cent of that eighty dollars. The stench of rotten meat brought her back to reality.
She turned. “You're back.”
The ghost stepped backward, toward the window, her translucent form disappearing where sunbeams passed through her body. She hesitated a moment, then whispered, “You really can see me.”
“I said so, didn't I.”
“Nobody ever saw me before.”
“That's just as well. Look at the state of you.”
“I do not understand.”
Marigold sighed. This was one of those ghosts; ones who somehow understood nothing about Limbo. She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. “Sit.”
The ghost cocked her head, and her jaw fell loose. She looked flustered as she wobbled it back into place, then sheepishly did as requested.
“What's your name?” asked Marigold.
“Bertha.” She straightened. “I am Mrs. Bertha Rochester. How do you do?” She smiled politely, which looked creepy with half her lip burned off.
Used to such formal introductions from ghosts, she said, “I'm Miss Marigold Green, and I'm pleased to meet you, Bertha.” She held out her hand.
Bertha raised a singed eyebrow and stared at the hand.
“Jeez, you really know nothing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. I'll start with the basics. Do you realize you can change form?”
“Form?”
“I mean, you don't have to spend eternity looking burnt. You can look how you did before… er… What did happen to you?”
Bertha bit what was left of her lips.
“Promise I won't judge.”
“I burned down the house.”
“You mean Thornfield Hall? You caused that fire?”
“Yes.”
“That was eighteen sixteen, wasn't it?”
Bertha held her jaw and nodded.
“So you burned to death.”
“No. I threw myself from the roof.”
“Ah, that explains it. Suicide. That's why you're in Limbo.”
Bertha scratched her head. A clump of hair fell away, dropped to the floor, and popped out of existence. “Limbo?”
“You're no longer in the physical world, but not yet in the afterlife. You're between, and that's the problem.”
“I see.”
“Listen, Bertha. I'm going to teach you a neat trick.”
“A trick?”
“Yeah. Sort of magic to help you with your appearance.”
“Are you a witch?”
“I've been called worse, but this isn't witchcraft. It's to do with what's in your mind, with what holds you together in Limbo.”
“Very well then. What must I do?”
Marigold leaned toward Bertha. “Say after me: I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”
Bertha's forehead furrowed, but she whispered, “I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”
“That's it.” Marigold smiled in encouragement. “But also imagine yourself as you used to be while you say the words, and this time<comma?> really mean them.”
Bertha's one eye focused. “I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”
The foul odor dissipated to be replaced by a faint scent of roses. Two brown eyes appeared on Bertha's face. Her skin healed and took on a darker tone, and black tresses flowed down the back of her blue dress. A bodice materialized and squeezed her body into a more feminine shape.
Marigold gasped. “You're beautiful!”
Bertha's cheeks flushed, and she glanced away. “Please, don't mock me. I know how I look.”
“What are you talking about?” Images of aristocrats dancing at balls flashed through Marigold's mind. “You're perfect.”
Bertha examined her elegant, bejeweled fingers. “You are mistaken. Can you not see the unhealthy tinge to my skin, the evidence of my curse?”
“You mean your tan?”
“Can you not see I am Creole?”
“You're spicy food?”
“I mean I am impure. My grandmother was Carib.”
“Oh, you're mixed race. Me too.”
Bertha's eyes narrowed as she looked Marigold up and down.
“No, really. Dad's people were half Irish and half Scottish, but Mom's folks descended from the Iroquois.”
“Iroquois?”
“First Nations, what you'd call Indians.”
“Like the Carib.”
“Suppose.”
“Then why are you pale?”
“Lots of blending, I suppose.”
Bertha shuffled closer. “So, we are both Creole.”
Marigold couldn't help but glimpse Bertha's cleavage. She licked her lips, then glanced away, her cheeks heating. If she was getting turned on by dead people, she really needed to get out more.
A floorboard on the landing creaked. The door cracked open. Bertha popped out of existence, and Mom's face appeared. “Sorry to disturb. Were you talking with Christina?”
“No, I was reading aloud,” she lied. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to hiding her curse from Mom.
Mom entered and frowned. “How long is it since she last called?”
She looked down at her interlinked fingers. “Six days.”
Mom dropped into the space lately vacated by Bertha. “Brr… it's cold in here.” She glanced at the closed window. “I wonder where that icy draft is coming from.
“I don't feel cold.”
“Must be me,” mumbled Mom, then placed a hand on Marigold's shoulder. “I've been meaning to have a girl talk. I keep putting it off because it's difficult, but I don't want to see you hurt.”
Mom stroked Marigold's scalp, her soft fingers soothing where they touched. “Sweetie, it's five thousand miles from here to California. Next year, you want to go to Cambridge for another, what…?”
“Three years.”
“And you've been here a year already. What does Christina want to do next year?”
Her eye began to sting. “Engineering and physics at Caltech.”
“Four years?”
She gripped the edge of the mattress. “I don't want to talk about this right now.”
A banging at the front door drew Mom's attention. “Sounds like the food's here.” She squeezed Marigold's knee. “Come down when you're ready.”
She nodded. As soon as Mom left, she sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. Christina wouldn't dump her. She wouldn't!
A fragrance redolent of a flower park in springtime flooded the room, and Bertha reappeared. “I do beg your pardon, but I could not avoid hearing. I am sorry to hear about your friend. Believe me, I understand. When I departed from Spanish Town, I left behind all my friends. I wrote letters, but they took six weeks to reach Jamaica. My friends' replies took the same. We drifted out of touch.”
Marigold's throat tightened, but she refused to cry. “Thanks for your concern, but I'll be fine.”
Bertha sniffed and wiped her nose. “You are stronger than I. After my friends stopped writing, I hid in my room and refused to see anyone for months. I felt so wretched because there was nobody here I could speak with, nobody who truly understood me. Because of my skin, those of my station shunned me, and the servants could not follow the most simple discourse on Wordsworth's poetry or Wollstonecraft's pamphlet.”
“Pamphlet? You don't mean Mary Wollstonecraft's Vindication of the Rights of Woman?”
“Why, yes. You are familiar with Miss Wollstonecraft's writings?”
“Yeah. She's awesome.”
Bertha beamed.
“But, let's get back to you,” suggested Marigold. “How did you deal with your isolation?”
“Not very well, I am afraid. My husband sent for the doctor, who was frightfully concerned by my megrims.”
“Megrims?”
“I was melancholy.”
“Oh, depression. Mom's bipolar, too. She has meds for it, but I guess they didn't have those in your days.”
“The physician prescribed opium.”
“Wow! What was that like?”
“I do not remember. In fact, I recall little of the following years except seeing things that were not there and drinking large quantities of gin.”
“Gin?”
“I think it was to keep me… sedate. My husband locked me in an attic room. For my own safety, of course.”
Marigold stood and walked to the window. Here she was feeling sorry for herself because her girlfriend hadn't called in a week, but Bertha had all her friends and relations ripped from her and then was force fed drugs and imprisoned. No wonder she killed herself.
A chill on her scalp drew her attention, and she turned. Bertha snatched back her hand, feigning innocence.
She grinned. “Did you just try to stroke my head?”
Bertha avoided Marigold's gaze. “I am sure I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Okay, have it your way.”
“I do not wish to sound rude, but may I inquire what illness caused you to lose your hair?”
She laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. After recovering, she said, “I'm not ill. I shaved it off.”
“You mean you shaved your scalp as men shave their chins?”
“Yeah.”
“But, why?”
She shrugged. “Dunno, really. Some people say it's because I want to look like a boy, but actually I just feel happier this way.”
Bertha colored and glanced away.
“Out with it.”
“Please, do not take offense. When I first saw you, I mistook you for a boy.”
“Happens all the time.”
“Really? I would be most stricken.”
She took in the ghost's hourglass figure. “Somehow I doubt you had that problem.”
“Marigold!” shouted Mom. “Are you coming, or do I have to eat all this myself?”
“I'd better go down before she blows her top.”
“Her head explodes?”
Marigold smiled. “I won't be long. Read a book or something.”
She bounced down the stairs and into the kitchen where Mom was sitting at the table surrounded by foil containers.
“Sichuan chicken! I told you not to get that.”
“Itsh my favorite,” said Mom with her mouth ful.<full>
“Ugh, gross, Mom. And you'll get indigestion.” She took a seat opposite. “Well, don't eat too much.”
“Okay, Mother. I'll be good.”
Marigold grinned and helped herself to rice. The chicken smelled wonderful. She popped a prawn cracker into her mouth, and groaned in pleasure as the savory snack melted on her tongue.
Mom glanced around the room. “Can you hear that?”
“What?”
“Sounds like Katy Perry.”
Marigold stopped chewing and listened. Dark Horse drifted from her jeans pocket. “It's my cell.” She dragged out her iPhone. “Christina.”
“Aren't you going to answer?”
She stood and walked into the living room. “Hi.”
“Hiya, Goldie. How you doin'?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Didn't you say you were moving this week?”
“Today, actually.”
“How's the new place?”
“Basic, but I think I'll be happy here.”
“Good.”
Marigold perched on the edge of the sofa and bit her lip.
“You still there?” asked Christina.
“Yeah.” She paused a second. “Say, Chris. I've been thinking.”
“What?”
“Five thousand miles is a long way, and I'm not returning to the States anytime soon…”
She heard Christina catch her breath. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Was she really going to do this? “Yeah, Chris, I am.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. It's the situation. I'm happy here, and you don't want to leave California. I can't see this working.”
“Have you met another girl?”
An image of Bertha flashed through Marigold's head, but she shook it off. It wasn't as if she could have a physical relationship with a ghost. “No.”
“A boy? That Jordan you mentioned?”
That ridiculous notion tickled Marigold so much she had to giggle.
“It is him!”
“God, no.”
“I knew this was coming. That's why I haven't called much recently. Whenever you talked about your life over there, it was obvious you wanted to stay.”
“Hey, Chris, I'm really sorry.”
“Nah, don't be. Like I said, this is expected.”
Marigold settled back on the sofa. “Well, you were always a lipstick lesbian.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You always liked boys more than you liked girls, and it won't be long before you're knocked up by some jock at Caltech.”
Christina laughed. “Hey, give me some credit. He won't be 'some jock'. He'll be a jock with an SAT of one thousand six hundred.”
Marigold scratched her head. “You want to get knocked up by a moron?”
“God, you're so out of touch. The SAT changed. That's the new maximum.”
She chatted with Christina another fifteen minutes, then the battery icon flashed. “Hey, Chris. My cell's gonna die.”
“No problem. Gotta go, anyway. Keep in touch.”
“Course. You'll always be the first girl whose bodice I ripped.”
“And you'll be the only girl I ever let do that…though it might be interesting to see how it goes with a guy.”
Marigold faked a gasp. “You wanton wench!”
“Don't you know it.”
Marigold smiled, ended the call and walked into the kitchen.
“What did Christina say?”
“She's going straight.”
Mom's eyes widened. “Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie.”
“Nah, don't be. I dumped her.”
“You what?”
“I split up with her.”
Mom sprang from her seat and placed a hand on Marigold's forehead. “Well, you're not running a temperature.”
“Relax! I thought over what you said, and you were right.”
“Now I'm definitely calling the doctor.”
Marigold turned to the table, which was bare.
“I stowed the leftovers in the ice box,” said Mom. “Want me to heat some up?”
“Nah. I'm not hungry. I'm going upstairs to chill.”
When she entered her room, Bertha was standing by the shelves, examining the book edges. She turned and smiled. She'd lost about five years in age, gained some fat around her cheeks, and her tight bodice was now under considerable strain.
Marigold swallowed. “Er, hey. You're getting the hang of the 'me' thing.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Green.”
As she connected her iPhone to the socket and placed it on the table, she asked, “Did you find anything good to read?”
Bertha pouted. “The titles sound so interesting, but…” She swept her hand across the bookshelf and through every book.”
Marigold covered her forehead with her palm. “My bad. I meant to show you another trick.”
Bertha's face lit up. “You know more magic?”
“It's not magic. You're as much part of God's creation as a tree; you simply need to accept it.”
“I do not follow.”
“Let me show you.” She gestured to the prospectus on the table. “Open that.”
Bertha looked from her to the prospectus and back again. “But I cannot.”
“You only think you can't.”
Bertha eyed the prospectus doubtfully.
“Place your finger on the cover and say, 'I am Bertha, I am me. What I want, you will agree.' Then turn it.”
She sighed, but did as Marigold asked. The cover lifted an inch, then dropped. Bertha jumped back and squealed, “It moved!”
“Of course it did.”
“I can really move things.”
“I know.”
“This is a miracle.”
“All life's a miracle, but most people are blind to it. If you practice you'll be able to open and read any book. I've known ghosts who gained enough confidence to move furniture before they moved on.”
Bertha smiled in wonder, but then her lips dropped into a frown. “What do you mean, 'before they moved on'?”
“It's what ghosts do.”
“But, what does it mean?”
She shrugged and gestured to the sky. “They go up to the next level.”
Bertha covered her heart with one hand. “But I took my own life. I shall descend into the bowels of Hell.”
“Well, no. That's exactly your problem. You're not bad enough for Hell, but you won't allow yourself be raised to Heaven.” She took a deep breath. “Theology isn't my strong point, but it's something to do with God's grace. God, or the Great Spirit, or Allah. Whatever you call Him, He wants you to join Him, but first you have to abnegate your guilt.”
“Abnegate. What does that even mean?”
“It means I've read Divergent too many times, and I really should think of a better way to explain this.”
She sat on the bed. “Basically, it's like your appearance and how you can move things. You can't go to Heaven because you don't think you can go. Once you accept it's God's decision, not yours, it's like, 'Beam me up, Scotty.'”
“How is it you know so much about… Limbo?”
“Because I'm a harbinger.”
“Like a magician?”
“I wish! The only magical thing I can do is see ghosts.”
“What does a harbinger do?”
“It's my job to show lost spirits the way, to help my clients pass on.”
Bertha casually flicked the pages of prospectus. “How did you become a harbinger?”
“Not everyone can do it. You have to be born with the ability and be initiated by a spirit guide.”
Bertha sat beside her. “Please, tell me about it.”
“Picture this. I was six years old, dressed in my Super Girl outfit, playing with my G. I. Joes.”
“G. I. Joes?”
“Dolls.”
“Ah, I owned a beautiful collection, with silk ballgowns and parasols.”
“Yeah, these were pretty similar. <lol>Anyways, there I was, enjoying being a regular kid. Then Grandma Mackenzie walks into my bedroom and shouts at me for making a mess. I literally wet myself.”
“I become upset when Mama chastised me, but I do not recall… wetting myself.”
“We'd buried Grandma Mackenzie two weeks before.”
“Oh. That casts a different light on the situation.”
“You can say that again. So, once I'd stopped screaming, Grandma Mackenzie had me sit cross-legged while she explained what I had become because she'd passed.”
“You inherited your skill from your grandmother?”
“Exactly. My ancestors were clan mothers among the Iroquois with powers that passed down the female line.”
“What about your mother?”
“Have you met Mom? The ancestors' spirits decided to skip a generation.”
“So your grandmother taught you these wonderful tricks.”
“And much more. She was a whole mine of information, not to mention a hoot, until she decided it was time to move on.”
Bertha smiled. “I can see you miss her.”
“You betcha. She helped me cheat in class tests.”
Bertha covered her mouth with one hand. “Miss Marigold Green, you shock me.”
“Hey, I never said I was an angel.”
Bertha turned to the table and put her hand on the letter pad. “You are planning to write a letter? To your friend Christina, perhaps?”
“I've already talked with her today.”
Bertha glanced at the doorway. “She is here?”
“Nah, she's in L.A..”
“I don't understand. How could you talk to her if she is in California?” <Would the ghost know about los angelos…much less the abbreviated slang?>
“How stupid of me. You won't know about cell phones.” She scooped up her iPhone and showed it to Bertha.
Bertha examined the iPhone skeptically. “Your friend is inside a small glass and metal box?”
“Let me demonstrate. I'll call this guy who crushes on me.”
Bertha reached over to grab her arm, and this time Marigold actually felt her icy fingers. “Is that safe, calling on a man who wishes to squash you?”
“That's not what I meant.” She shook her head and grinned. “Just watch.”
She selected the Facetime icon and waited. Within seconds, Jordan's freckled face appeared on the screen.
“Hey, Marigold!” He smiled, and swept back his blond hair. “Great to see you.”
“Hi, Jordan. You all ready for school?”
“Yeah. Can't wait. Hey, how about we get together sometime and talk through that history project?”
“Er… we've just moved house, and there's lots of tidying up to do. Don't think I'll have time.”
“Oh.” Jordan's smiled dropped. “Well, maybe we could catch a movie the following weekend?”
Marigold bit her lip. “I kinda promised Mom I'd go to Haworth with her on a museum trip. You know, the Brontë Parsonage.”
“That's too bad. I'll still see you in history, right?”
“I'll save you a seat.”
He beamed out of the screen. “Great!”
“Gotta go now.”
“See ya!”
She ended the call and turned to Bertha.
Bertha took a step back, staring at the iPhone. “You are a witch. You bewitched a boy and imprisoned him inside your box.”
Marigold laughed. “He's at home. My cell enables me to speak with him over a distance.”
“Oh. That is magic.”
“It's a machine. Everybody has one.”
“So, you can talk to your friend Christina any time you wish.”
Marigold shrugged. “If I wanted.”
Bertha turned to the shelves and touched the end book. It toppled to the floor with a bang.
“Great! Now I've got a poltergeist.”
“Sorry. I shall have to work on that.” Her face clouded, and she glanced away. “Though I suppose I shall not have much time.”
Marigold walked over. “What do you mean?”
A tear rolled down Bertha's cheek. “You have friends you can talk to at any time using your magic box. Now you have explained your role as a harbinger, and that I am your client, you want me to… move on.”
“Hey, no. It's not that I want you to go. It's just that the other place is better.”
“What if I don't want to move on? What if I want to stay and learn more about your world and the magic you have? What if I want to get to know you better?”
Marigold felt an unexpected warm glow in her chest. “I guess I'd kinda like that.”
“You would?”
“Yes. There are questions I'd love to ask about your life and times, and I'd like to get to know you better, Bertha.”
“And I you, Miss Green… Marigold.”
Bertha reached across and ran her finger over Marigold's scalp, which tickled.
“You're getting better at the touching thing.”
Bertha smiled shyly.
Perhaps Mom
|
| (4.5)
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